Kill All the Lawyers

by Paul Levine

  "How you feeling, Solomon?"

  Kreeger's voice. The eye opened just enough to see his face, rain soaking his bare chest. The boat on autopilot, Steve figured. With any luck, maybe they'd hit an iceberg. If not, maybe run aground on Bimini.

  "Where's Maria?"

  "Warm and toasty in the master stateroom. She'll serve her purpose after I dispose of you."

  "Bastard."

  "That the best you can do, Solomon?"

  Steve managed to get both eyes open a crack. "Ugly bastard."

  "You don't look so good yourself."

  Steve felt like he'd been hit in the face with a baseball bat. Now he saw it was a shovel. Kreeger was leaning on the garden spade Steve had seen in the storage compartment.

  "You'd have two black eyes if you'd live long enough for the bruises to show," Kreeger said. "But as you've no doubt ascertained, this is your last boat trip."

  Steve's vision cleared a bit, and he saw that Kreeger was wearing surfer's trunks and was shirtless and barefoot. He looked powerful, with wide shoulders and a deep chest. A dive knife was strapped to a sheath on one ankle.

  My feet feel funny. I can't wiggle my toes. What's that all about?

  Steve looked down. His feet were in one of the aluminum pails he'd seen earlier, his legs sunk up to his calves in cold mud.

  No. Not mud. Wet cement.

  "You've got to be kidding, Kreeger."

  "We wouldn't want your head popping up on the Fifth Street beach, scaring the tourists, would we, Solomon?"

  "You've been watching too much Sopranos."

  Steve wriggled his feet, just enough to lift them off the bottom of the pail, but not enough for cracks to show on the surface. The cement was hardening fast.

  "Maybe we can work this out, Kreeger."

  "The shyster wants to settle the case. What's your offer, Counselor?"

  "I get you help. Not guilty by reason of insanity."

  Kreeger barked a laugh. "Got a better deal right here. Not guilty by reason of not being caught."

  "The cops know I came after you. You'll be the only suspect."

  "Suspect in what? There'll be no body, Solomon. They'll figure you either fled to South America to escape your legal problems or committed suicide." He shook his head, almost sadly. "This isn't the way I planned it. You were supposed to be safe and sound. How else to suffer the torment of watching your nephew go through hell?"

  Steve focused on keeping his feet moving. A small crack appeared in the wet cement around each calf. The pouring rain was helping, too. If only he could keep the cement from setting around his feet, he would have a chance.

  "I blame myself for your predicament," Kreeger continued. "I've never been so late leaving the dock."

  "Because you had to go to the store to buy cement, that it? Run out after you killed that girl from the Redlands?"

  "Always start with a new bag." Kreeger dabbed at the pail with the blade of the shovel. "Leave no evidence."

  "Let Maria go. Like you said, I won't be around to be tormented. Why torture Bobby?"

  "I'm afraid that ship has sailed. The girl can identify me. Or do you think that she'll so enjoy our forthcoming encounter that she'd never testify? Maybe start sneaking over to my house instead of yours?"

  "Ugly, sick bastard."

  Kreeger laughed again. Took the dive knife from its sheath, crouched, and stuck the blade into the pail, testing the cement. Steve kept his feet still a moment.

  "Quick-dry," Kreeger said, sounding pleased, "even in this fucking downpour. Be ready in a couple minutes. Now, don't go anywhere, Counselor."

  Kreeger scrambled up the ladder to the fly bridge, picked up his binoculars, and scanned the horizon in every direction. Not wanting a passing freighter to see him toss a man overboard, Steve supposed.

  He wriggled harder now. The cement was firming up, the tops of his feet encased in a solid block. But he had kept it from hardening along the sides and underneath. If he was stuck to the pail, there would be nothing he could do. But if he could lift his feet out, he had a chance.

  Steve tried working on a plan, but his subconscious interfered. The dead weight of guilt bore down on him, heavier than the cement. He'd let Maria down. But not just her.

  I screwed up everything.

  Foam spritzed over the gunwales and stung his face.

  I let you all down.

  Bobby would grow up without him. Victoria would move on to another man. Even his father would take it hard. Steve's throat clenched.

  Jeez, am I crying?

  He couldn't tell. Tears taste the same as the sea.

  * * *

  Moments later, the sky darkened even more as they rode through a squall. Gusts pushed the big boat sideways. On the bridge, Kreeger pulled back on the throttles. Steve felt them slowing down. In seconds, they were at idle speed. The boat was at the mercy of the waves now, sliding up one face, rocking down the other.

  Kreeger slid down the ladder, facing the cockpit, nimble as a sailor hurrying to his battle station.

  "There's a thick patch of sargasso weed just ahead," Kreeger told him. "Bet there are some fine sharks looking for lunch down there."

  "Let's just get this over with."

  "Whatever you say."

  Kreeger bent down, dipped the knife into the drying cement. Steve studied the knife. Ridged handle, easy to grip. Titanium blade, maybe five inches long, serrated on one edge, sharp as a razor on the other. You could saw through bone with it.

  Kreeger stood, looked down at Steve. "Time to say good-bye, Solomon." There was a tinge of regret in his voice, as if he were going to miss his old buddy.

  Steve focused on his own quadriceps. They were the lifters. He didn't know how much weight the cement added to his feet. It didn't matter. He had strong quads and glutes, and an abundance of quick-twitch muscle fibers.

  Kreeger looked down, sliding the dive knife into its sheath. As he did, Steve swung his legs up, high and hard. His feet came out of the bucket with astonishing speed. The bucket stayed on the deck. The jagged clump of cement on Steve's ankles caught Kreeger on the forehead. Steve heard the impact, saw Kreeger spin backwards and bounce off the deck. The knife skittered toward the stern.

  Steve pushed himself up and tried hopping toward the knife, but he was like a man in a sack race, and with the boat pitching, he fell, then skidded across the slippery deck.

  Kreeger got to one knee and wagged his head, as if trying to stir himself awake. Another second and he was on both feet. Shaky but standing. A flap of skin six inches wide hung loose on Kreeger's forehead, and blood poured into his eyes. Rain slashed down. He used both hands to try to clear his vision. The bastard should have a concussion, Steve thought, but look at him. A wounded bull, fixing to charge. "Kill you, Solomon," the shrink muttered. "Kill all the lawyers."

  He staggered toward the stern. Woozy, knees seeming to buckle with each step. Where was he going?

  The knife!

  Steve saw it, propped on the edge of a scupper at the stern. He couldn't stand. No way to get there.

  Spitting blood, Kreeger leaned over, picked up the knife, and wheeled around. He tried using his forearm to wipe the river of blood from his eyes. First one arm, then the other. It wasn't working.

  He can't see and I can't stand.

  But Kreeger must have seen enough, because he stumbled in Steve's general direction, flailing away with the knife. Wild swings that started above his head and came straight down, like a man using an ice pick. Blood sprayed everywhere from his forehead.

  Steve scooted backward on his butt, great white waves sloshing over the gunwales, soaking and chilling him. Kreeger braced himself against the onslaught, then kept coming, swinging the knife sideways now, like a scythe. "Cut your balls off. Your balls off." His voice droning, devoid of emotion.

  Steve spotted a graphite tarpon gaff, maybe six feet long, bracketed to the bulkhead. Pushing off with his hands, moving backward on the deck, he slid that way.

  Kreeg
er changed the knife to his other hand. Came at Steve, slashed left, slashed right, edged between him and the gaff, cutting him off. The boat climbed to the top of a wave, seemed to come to rest, then slid back down again.

  Steve had run out of room. Inching backward, he'd come to rest against the bulkhead. Nowhere to run, nowhere to crawl. He brought his knees up to his chest, protecting himself from the deadly blows that would come.

  Gasping for breath, spouting blood, Kreeger shambled closer.

  Steve made one last desperate effort to grab at the gaff, but it was out of reach.

  Kreeger stopped three feet away. Wiped the blood off one hand to get a better grip on the knife. The boat slid sideways up a wave, and Kreeger skidded slightly, widened his stance to keep his balance.

  Steve felt the boat crest the wave. Would it go over or come back down? After a second it slid down the trough, and Steve straightened both legs, his cemented feet thrust between Kreeger's braced legs. Steve kicked straight up. At the same moment, the boat pitched wildly at the bottom of the wave, the port rail dipping to the waterline. Steve rocked backward hard, felt both knees pop with a searing pain. Kreeger teetered on Steve's ankles like a kid on a seesaw, then sailed over the gunwale headfirst and into the deep blue sea.

  Knees flaring as if on fire, Steve hoisted himself up and grabbed the gaff from its bracket. He spotted Kreeger splashing in the water, dangerously close to the props that churned slowly at idle speed.

  "Help! Help me!"

  A wave washed over him. He vanished, then bobbed up again, kicking and whaling away at the water, trying to close the distance to the dive platform.

  Steve hobbled toward the stern, using the gaff as a cane.

  Some things you plan, he thought. Some things you do by instinct, by notions of decency and humanity. A man goes overboard, you rescue him. No matter who he is, no matter what he's done. You haul the man aboard, take him in, let the system deal with him.

  Steve leaned over the rail, holding the graphite gaff.

  Kreeger reached for it, missed, went under again. He came back up, and Steve dangled the gaff in his direction.

  But sometimes, all notions of decency and humanity give way to something else. Call it revenge or justice or maybe just certainty. The certainty that Bill Kreeger would never ever again hurt anyone. Or was that overly complicated? Was the explanation simply hard-wired into our DNA by millions of years of evolution? Maybe all of us carry the fingerprints of the homicidal animals who came before us.

  Threaten me or mine, I will kill you. Yes, I will. Even a normally mild-mannered, semi-law-abiding officer of the court like me will kill you dead.

  Kreeger would appreciate that explanation, Steve thought. Proving his thesis right after all these years.

  A powerful swell lifted Kreeger, nearly catapulting him out of the water. Down he came, his head slipping underwater. Then, another lift, another slide, this one bringing him closer to the boat. Again, Kreeger grabbed for the gaff. Again, he missed. He shouted something drowned out by the wind's roar. Another wave carried him closer to the stern. Steve held the gaff; Kreeger reached for it; and suddenly, Steve pulled it away. He hadn't planned on doing it. The motion was involuntary, his body not willing to follow his brain's instructions, not willing to save the bastard.

  Kreeger swam toward the boat, yelling something. Steve could only make out a single word.

  "Just . . ."

  The rest was lost in the wind.

  Kreeger came closer, reached for the dive platform, shouted again.

  "Just like . . ."

  What was he saying?

  Bracing himself on the slippery deck, Steve drew the gaff back with two hands until it was poised over one shoulder. A batter with his Louisville Slugger.

  "Just like me!" Kreeger yelled over the wind. "You're just like me!"

  Steve swung the gaff as hard as he could, rotating his hips for power. The flat side of the steel hook hit Kreeger squarely across the temple with a shock Steve felt in both arms. A shuddering impact, like driving the ball up the middle.

  Kreeger's head snapped to the side and stayed there, his neck at an unnatural angle. A wave hit, swirling him in white foam, spinning him around, and dragging him beneath the cold, gray sea.

  SOLOMON'S LAWS

  12. When you cut through all the bullshit of career, status, and money, at the end of the day all that matters is love and family.

  Forty-One

  THE TEMPLE OF SOLOMON

  Steve lay on his back on a rickety raft that rose and fell with the waves. In the distance, lightning illuminated a shroud of fat silvery clouds, and a thunderclap smacked the water. Steve felt the raft pitch and roll, even as he realized he was home in bed. Painkillers will do that.

  "God bless codeine."

  He had said that to Bobby. Just a few hours ago. Or was it a few years? He didn't know how long he'd been in bed.

  "God bless codeine," Bobby had repeated. "BEDSIDE NOSE CLOG."

  Steve had laughed, stinging his lip where the stitches pulled at the skin.

  "Everyone at school says you're a total mad dawg," Bobby had said.

  "If that's a good thing, tell them thanks."

  "You're the best, Uncle Steve."

  The boy had smiled. They'd pounded knuckles. Bobby doing all the pounding. Steve couldn't lift his arm from the bedsheet. Still, when he saw the boy's grin, he felt he'd won the Nobel Prize for parenting.

  A doctor who had once been a client stopped by. Or was he a client who had once been a doctor? Steve's brain was fuzzy. The doc said something about a hairline fracture of the zygomatic bone.

  "The zygomatic?" Steve asked. "The machine that chops vegetables?"

  "The cheekbone," the doctor explained.

  Steve remembered now. He had defended the doctor in a couple of malpractice cases. Lost them both.

  There was some sinus damage, too, the sawbones told him. Steve could expect his eyes to tear up unexpectedly. No big deal. That should go away.

  "And if it doesn't?" Steve asked.

  "Sue me," the doc said.

  Crying wasn't so bad, Steve thought. Might be able to use it in closing argument sometime. Then there were the dozen stitches in his fat lip. Plus torn cartilage in both knees. Ice, anti-inflammatories, and rest.

  "Don't worry, Steve. You'll be playing eighteen holes in no time."

  "Great, Doc, because I've never played one hole my entire life."

  Now he was cold. Both knees were wrapped in ice. On the bedside table were a variety of pill bottles, a pitcher of water, and the local section of the Miami Herald. A headline blared: "Lawyer Rescues Kidnapped Girl." He would check out the story later. Steve was reasonably certain that it would be more favorable than his last brush with celebrity, an item in Joan Fleischman's column headlined: "Lawyer Jailed Again."

  He heard a pounding. Was it in his head? A dull thud, then a crack, like wood splintering.

  Myron Goldberg and Eva Munoz-Goldberg came by. Myron had Steve open his mouth. Complimented his flossing and advised him to get that chipped tooth crowned. Eva gave Steve a deep dish of caramel flan she had baked. He ate it through a straw. Myron said they were dropping the assault-and-battery case, and Steve thanked him as he slurped up the sweet dessert. Eva patted his arm and said he was as brave as Máximo Gómez and Jose Marti.

  Apparently, Maria had told her parents how Steve saved her life. How after Dr. Bill went overboard, Steve came to get her, even though he could barely walk and his face was swollen and bleeding. How he climbed the ladder to the bridge, dragging the chunk of concrete on his feet, moaning in pain. How he brought the boat back, banging into the seawall at the Coast Guard station on Miami Beach, then passing out. Steve was glad Maria told her parents all these things, because he couldn't remember any of it.

  "Maria says you're a superhero," Eva told him.

  "How's she doing?" Steve asked.

  "Better than we could have hoped," Myron said.

  "Bien," Eva said
. "She's with Bobby right now. Studying."

  "I'll bet," Steve said.

  "He's a fine young man," Myron allowed.

  "Of course he is," Eva added. "He's had good training." Then she reached down and stroked Steve's cheek. "Eres un melocotón en almíbar."

  Steve wasn't sure, but he thought she'd just called him a peach in syrup. Sweet. Suddenly, he felt a tear tracking down his cheek, then another. Then a torrent.

  "You wonderful man," Eva said, her own eyes welling.

  Steve decided not to mention his sinus problem.

  Cece Santiago came by as the Goldbergs were leaving. The office phones had been ringing all day, she reported, people calling to congratulate him. No new clients yet. There probably wouldn't be. The newspaper story made it sound as if he were on his deathbed. Cece could only stay a minute. She had a meeting with her probation officer. Translation: another wrestling match with Arnold Freskin. And by the way, Arnie already asked Pincher to drop the charges. With both assault-and-battery cases dismissed, Steve wondered if he had any legal work to do.

  He dozed for a while and dreamed his raft was sinking. He awoke to find his sister sitting on the edge of his bed, the soft mattress listing to starboard.

  "Hey, Stevie. How you feeling?"

  "Terrific. I'm starting to understand what you like about narcotics."

  "Reminds me, bro. I got a job. Drug counselor over in Tampa."

  "Great."

  "As for the other stuff, filing for custody of Bobby, my lawyer says I'd be a fool to do it now. You're like a celebrity or something. Plus, I need the job so I can look good in front of the judge when I come back."

  "No hurry, Jan."

  She studied him a second. "Are you crying, bro?"

  "Sinuses," he said.

  He dozed off again to the sound of an electrical band saw. Either that, or a million bees were buzzing away in the living room. He awoke and found Irene Lord in the bedroom, running an index finger over the nightstand.

  "You need a maid," she said, lifting a fingertip covered with dust.