Kill All the Lawyers by Paul Levine Page A

talk to him. I want him off my back."
    "Okay, go tell him that. But what if he won't let up?"
    "Then I'll bring him down. I don't know how, but I will."
    "You best be careful about that."
    "You saying I should do nothing, let him smear me?"
    "Ah'm saying, you call me if you plan to take him on. That sumbitch ain't a one-mule load."
     
     
    * * *
     
     
    Bobby sliced the mangoes, taking care to cut around the pit so it would pop out, the way Uncle Steve had taught him. He could hear the two men talking in the yard. On the farm, when Bobby had been locked in the shed in the dark, his sense of hearing had sharpened. At night, he'd listened to the coyotes until he could tell one from another as they sang their songs. He could hear the horses shuffling in the barn, their rumps smacking the wall. Could almost feel the hot breath of their snorts and whinnies. During the days, he'd heard the trucks, their doors slamming, men cursing. When he was let out to work in the fields, he would listen to the birds chirping and the bees buzzing.
    He'd liked it outside, even if the men would sometimes hit him for not working hard enough. The men smelled funny, and their beards were tangled and yucky. The women worked in the vegetable garden, bent over, greasy hair falling in their eyes.
    Mom said they were organic farmers, but Bobby saw drums of insecticide and bags of artificial fertilizer. And he knew the leafy green plants were marijuana. On moonless nights, he heard the trucks pull in, heard the men grunting as they hoisted bales, heard them yelling at the moon, whooping after their women, guns blasting empty liquor bottles to smithereens.
    Now Bobby listened as Uncle Steve told Grandpop about the psychiatrist named Kreeger. Uncle Steve sounded worried, which was weird. He was always getting into trouble but it never seemed to bother him. But this was different. Was Uncle Steve scared?
    Bobby tossed the mango slices into the blender with a sliced banana, a handful of ice, and two scoops of protein powder. He wanted to gain weight so he didn't look like such a weenie, but it wasn't working. Despite the smoothies and ham paninis and all the pistachio ice cream he could eat, his body still was all wires and bones. With the blender whirring, he could no longer hear the men. Were they talking about his mother?
    Uncle Steve doesn't understand. He thinks just because Mom messed me up, I don't want to see her. But she's still my mom.
    There was something he needed to tell Uncle Steve, but didn't know how. His mother had called him yesterday. She cried on the phone, and he did, too. Said she loved him and was sorry about everything and she had completely changed.
    "I'm a new woman, Bobby. I'm clean and sober."
    "That's great, Mom."
    "I'm never going back to those old ways. I have a new purpose. A guiding light."
    "What's that, Mom?"
    "I found Jesus. I let Jesus Christ into my heart."
    Wait till Grandpop hears, Bobby thought.
    But that wasn't what Bobby needed to tell Uncle Steve. What he needed to tell him was the last thing Mom had said.
    "I'm coming to get you, Bobby, honey. I'm coming back to be your mother again."
     
     

Eight
     
     
    WAXING NOSTALGIC
     
     
    Without really intending to, Victoria Lord was staring straight into The Queen's crotch. "Maybe this should wait, Mother."
    "Nonsense. It's your duty to relieve my insufferable boredom." Naked from the waist down, Irene Lord lay on her back, her hands under her butt, her legs raised and spread. "Benedita, you will be quick about it, won't you, darling?"
    "I will be queek so your lover can be slow," Benedita vowed in a thick Brazilian accent. A young woman with cinnamon skin and flaming red lipstick, Benedita wore pink nylon shorts, a crimson sequined wrestler's singlet, and knee-high suede boots.
    They were in a private booth at the Salon Rio in Bal Harbour for The Queen's monthly bikini wax. Already, Victoria regretted coming here, but she was desperate for personal advice.
    Should I