Kill All the Lawyers

brrring, heard her whisper, 'What do you want?'

'Dance for me!' His voice cracking, but he got it out.

A light flicked on in the second-story window. Maria's bedroom. Bobby could make out a lamp near the window, probably on Maria's desk. A moment later, the light took on a reddish glow as Maria draped a red cloth over the lampshade. Ooh. This was gonna be good.

She stood in front of the window, her silhouette tinged reddish-black from the lamp, and she started dancing, moving her thin arms overhead in a motion that made Bobby think of someone drowning. If there was music on, he couldn't hear it. She slipped out of her top and turned sideways, her boobies the size of eggs.

Bobby heard his breathing grow deeper, and suddenly he wasn't cold anymore. He shifted his position between the trunk and the limb because of the tightness in his pants. But then new thoughts emerged, intruding thoughts, flowing like a river, breeching the dike his mind had erected.

That cloth over the lampshade. Is it cotton or polyester? What is its flammable rating?

And the lightbulb. He hoped it wasn't a halogen. Those babies throw off 250 degrees Celsius, which he calculated in about three seconds to be 482 degrees Fahrenheit.

Maria slithered out of her shorts, and judging from the angle of her elbow, her hand seemed to be in her crotch, but Bobby couldn't concentrate. He was certain that, any moment, the cloth would burst into flame. The curtains, the bedcovers, the wallpaper- everything would be ablaze. Would Maria even have time to run from the room? Was their A/C hooked up to natural gas? If so, he was sure it was leaking. The house was about to become a fiery inferno, and it was all his fault. In the window, Maria writhed from side to side and swiveled her hips. But in Bobby's mind, all he could see was an orange fireball exploding, tearing the house apart at the beams, incinerating Maria, her mother, and her father.

And that was when he screamed as loud as he could, 'Fire! Fire! Fire!'

Twenty-Five

MOTHER LODE

Steve ran full speed along Kumquat Avenue, took the bend to the left, then another left on Loquat. The only sounds were his Nikes hitting the pavement and his own breathing.

The phone call had come just after midnight, waking him from a dream that involved stealing home in the College World Series-instead of being picked off third base-and getting carried off the field on his teammates' shoulders.

'This is Eva Munoz-Goldberg. My husband is Dr. Myron J. Goldberg. .'

Doctor. As if I might confuse him with Myron J. Goldberg, garbage collector.

'Get over here and pick up your sicko nephew before I call the police.'

Oh, shit.

Steve had grabbed the closest T-shirt-'I'm Not Fluent in Idiot, So Please Speak Clearly'-pulled on a pair of orange Hurricanes shorts, and took off down the street.

What now, Bobby?

As he ran, Steve envisioned his nephew being caught in Maria's bedroom. What was it Herbert had called her? A harlot-in-training. But maybe they were doing homework and just fell asleep on Maria's bed. Thinking like a defense lawyer.

The yard lights were blazing when Steve huffed to a stop. Spots embedded in planters illuminating the sabal palms, floodlights under the eaves of the barrel-tile roof, Malibu lights lining both sides of a flagstone path, and matching lanterns on bronze posts at the front door. All in all, as bright as the Orange Bowl for a Saturday night game.

Swaying from side to side, Bobby stood with his shoulders hunched and his arms hugging himself. Steve wrapped an arm around the boy and whispered in his ear. 'It'll be all right, kiddo. Uncle Steve's here.'

Myron Goldberg, a small man in his forties, wore a bathrobe and bedroom slippers and a look of consternation. His wife, Eva, her long black hair asunder, wore a white silk robe that stopped at midthigh. She was a petite but large-bosomed woman around her husband's age, and even without X-ray vision, Steve could tell she wore nothing under the robe. Cradled in the crook of her right arm was a short-barreled automatic weapon.

'Mrs. Goldberg, tell me that's not an Uzi,' Steve said.

'This is America. I've got the right.'

Maria appeared in the doorway behind them. 'Bobby didn't do anything!'

'Back in the house!' Eva ordered. 'Ahora mismo!'

The girl muttered something Steve couldn't hear, then disappeared behind the front door.

'The thing is,' Myron began hesitantly, 'your nephew is a peeper. We caught him in the tree outside Maria's bedroom.'

His head pressed against Steve's side, Bobby whimpered.

'Doesn't sound like my Bobby,' Steve said, giving the boy a squeeze.

'Ask him!' Eva insisted with a wave of her arm and the Uzi.

'Would you mind putting that gun down?' Steve said.

She gave a dismissive little snort. 'Second Amendment. You're a lawyer. Look it up.'

'I'm gonna take Bobby home and talk to him there,' Steve said evenly. 'I'll call you in the morning and we'll sort everything out.'

'Not good enough,' Eva said. 'I want a police report.'

'Let's not overreact,' Myron said, so softly he could barely be heard over the neighborhood crickets.

'Overreact!' She swung around to face her husband, and for a second, Steve thought she might unleash a quick burst with the Uzi and cut him in half. 'You want this little pervert to do it again?'

'Hey,' Steve said. 'Everybody's a little excited. Maybe we should all just go to sleep and-'

Screeching tires interrupted him. Steve turned toward the driveway, expecting to see a police cruiser, figuring Bobby's future had just turned to a pile of crud. His nephew was about to become his client. A date in Juvenile Court. Psychiatric testing followed by sex-offender registration.

But it wasn't a cop. It was a muddy green Dodge pickup truck, at least ten years old. A woman got out and headed their way. She wore a granny dress that came to her ankles and two-strap Birkenstock sandals. She was tall and stout, with a round face and hair pulled straight back and tied with a band. Even before she got into the light, Steve recognized her and immediately wished it had been the police.

'What the hell are you doing here?' Steve said.

'Bobby called me on his cell. What the fuck's going on?'

Bobby peeked out from behind Steve. 'Hi, Mom,' he said.

It was all happening too fast, Steve decided.

First, Bobby tangled in a mess that could toss him into the maw of the justice system. Next, Janice showing up, allegedly to help Bobby, the child she'd neglected and abused and abandoned.

'Bobby called me on his cell.'

Meaning they'd been in touch, and the kid had never said a word.

Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. How could you?

'If I was you, I'd put that gun down,' Janice said to Eva Munoz-Goldberg.

'And if I were you, I'd wash my hair and lose some weight,' Eva fired back.

'Gonna ask you nice one more time. Put the fucking gun down before I jam it up your tight ass.'

'Now see here-' Myron attempted.

'Janice, let me handle this,' Steve said.

'You ain't doing so hot, baby bro.' She turned to the Goldbergs. 'The way I hear it, little Miss Hot Pants invited my boy to a peep show, so what's the big deal?'

'How dare you!' Myron said.