The Common Lawyer (28 page)

"Benny said you wanted to get as far away as possible—"

"You saw Benny, too?"

"At the bar."

"How is he?"

"He misses you."

"I miss him."

"Anyway, I knew the Montana photo was after you'd left, so I flew out there, figured you'd settle in the smallest county near Billings, until you could change your name. Then you went to New Mexico and West Texas. Changed your name each time."

"How'd you know where to look?"

"Your sketches, at your mother's. I recognized the landscapes."

"Montana and New Mexico, we liked it there. West Texas, that was hard. The wind was relentless, like Mickey's mother."

"You're very good—at sketching and hiding."

"Not good enough, apparently. So that's
how
you found me. Now
why
did you find me?"

"My client wants to help you."

"How?"

"He wants to give you money."

"How much?"

"A million dollars."

"He wants to give a million dollars to a complete stranger?"

"He knows you."

"What's his name?"

"I can't say."

"Where would I meet a rich guy?"

"At the hotel bar."

"What, I serve him a few drinks in the bar three years ago, now he wants to give me a million dollars?"

"Apparently."

"Why?"

"Guilt. For not treating you well."

"At the bar?"

"When y'all dated."

She shook her head. "Wrong girl, Andy. I never dated anyone I met in the bar. I was married to Mickey." She sighed. "One mistake can last a lifetime."

"Mickey said y'all got married right out of high school."

She nodded. "To get away from my father, even if away was three doors down. So I married Mickey and found out I had married my dad. God, he was always so jealous, Mickey. Some guy on the street even looked at me, he'd want to beat him up."

"I bet that happened a lot."

A little smile; a crack in the ice.

"He hit you?"

She just stared off.

"Did he hit your girl?"

"You wouldn't have talked to him if he had."

"Why?"

"Because he'd be dead."

She seemed sincere.

"Frankie, I know you're running from him."

She started walking toward the house again.

"Right now I'm running from you."

"My client's just trying to help his old girlfriends."

She stopped again.

"Your rich client is giving a million dollars to his old girlfriends?"

Andy nodded. "Seventeen."

"Your client had seventeen girlfriends? What, does he look like Robert Redford?"

"Redford? He's old."

"Don't you watch old movies, like
The Way We Were?
"

"Is that an action-thriller?"

"It's a love story."

"Oh. Well, Frankie, you're number seven on my client's old love list."

"It's a mistake. I don't belong on that list."

They arrived at the front door. She turned to him.

"Andy, look, just tell your client you couldn't find me, okay?"

"I can't lie to my client."

"You're a lawyer."

"Frankie, he's given six million dollars to six former girlfriends. And he wants to give you a million, too."

She held her hand out.

"Okay. Give it to me."

He shook his head. "It doesn't work that way. I get all the information and take photos first. Then I meet with him, show him the photos, and he gives me the money. Then I bring you a cashier's check for a million dollars."

"What kind of information?"

"Your age."

Like it was a joke: "Twenty-eight."

"Your daughter's age."

"Eight."

"Your debts."

"None."

"Your economic condition. You know, do you have any money?"

She waved her hand at the old rent house.

"Yes, this is my estate."

"Do you have a job?"

"No."

"How do you pay your bills?"

"I manage."

"Any other problems in your life?"

"You."

"Now, see, that wasn't hard. You're twenty-eight and broke, but otherwise all right, other than the fact that you're trying to quit smoking and you're hiding from your abusive ex-husband. You have an eight-year-old daughter who's … Oh, is she sick?"

Her expression changed. The joke was over.

"No."

"She doesn't have a medical condition?"

A bit suspicious now.

"What kind of medical condition?"

"A disease."

"No."

"She's perfectly healthy?"

"Yes."

Finally, a healthy child. The odds had turned.

"Well, that's different."

"From what?"

"The others."

"The other girlfriends?"

Andy nodded.

"They have sick kids?"

"Yeah. Well, one of them died."

"But all six of them had sick kids?"

"Yeah."

"How sick?"

"Cancer, cerebral palsy, paralysis …"

"Does your client have a sick child?"

Andy nodded again. "His son's dying. A rare form of leukemia."

Her complexion was no longer creamy; it was pale. As if she were now sick, too. She stepped inside and shut the door in his face.

The elevator door opened on a clown.

Andy stepped out; the clown slapped a party hat on Andy's head and shoved a blowout in his mouth like a new father passing out cigars. A HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ZACH banner hung on the opposite wall, and colorful balloons and crepe-paper streamers hung from the ceiling. Two hours after leaving Frankie Doyle in Buda, Andy walked into the cancer ward on the seventh floor of the Austin General Hospital.

More clowns passed out party favors, face painters made the kids look like lions and tigers and bears, and magicians and jugglers entertained the kids. Balloon artists fashioned animals out of long balloons. Pretty nurses ate cake and ice cream with their patients. Bald boys and girls wore smiles bigger than their faces. They were sick kids yesterday and would be again tomorrow, but today they were just kids.

Andy heard cheers and spotted Zach Reeves perched atop a hospital bed being pushed down the corridor by a clown. He threw his arms into the air and screamed when his bed beat another kid's bed at the finish line.

Bed races.

Surveying it all was Andy's client. He walked over to Russell Reeves.

"Thanks for coming, Andy. Zach was looking for you."

"Wouldn't miss it."

"I told Zach he could have his birthday party anywhere he wanted it—Yankee stadium, Madison Square Garden, Disney World. Said he wanted it here, with his friends."

"He's a good kid."

And he was standing there. His face was painted like a zebra, and he was wearing a baseball cap on backwards.

"Andy, did you see the bed race? I won!"

"Awesome, dude."

They fist-punched. Zach pulled the cap off his head.

"Look—my dad got it signed by the whole team."

The whole New York Yankees team.

"That's way cool. Oh, here."

Andy took his backpack off his shoulder and removed a small gift-wrapped box. The boy took it and ripped the paper off and opened the box. He pulled out Andy's gift: a black leather doo-rag.

"Aw, man, this is cool!"

"I didn't get anyone to sign it."

Zach put on the doo-rag. Andy adjusted the fit.

"Happy birthday, Zach."

"Thanks, Andy."

The boy gave him a quick hug then rejoined the party.

"He likes you, Andy."

"I like him."

"I try to be a big brother, too, but it's not the same."

"He looks good today."

Russell nodded. "Today. Chemo tomorrow."

They didn't speak for several minutes. Andy watched Zach playing with the other sick kids, then he watched Russell watching Zach. He knew exactly what was going through his client's mind.

"We found her," Andy finally said. "Frankie Doyle."

"Let's go upstairs."

They walked to the elevators. Russell used a special key to access the penthouse. The place looked like a fancy hotel suite. Russell led Andy into an office. They sat across a table from each other. Andy removed the dossier and photos of Frankie Doyle and her daughter from his backpack and spread them across the table.

"She wasn't easy to find, Russell."

"That why you went to this Lorenzo Escobar?"

"How'd you know?"

"I keep tabs, Andy."

"Hollis goes by the book."

"Doing whatever it takes to get the job done. I like that, Andy."

Russell studied the dossier and photos under a small fluorescent desk lamp.

"She moved from Boston to Montana to New Mexico to West Texas. Changed her name every time. She now lives in Buda."

Russell looked up. "You went to Boston and Montana and found her fifteen miles from here?"

"Yeah."

Russell returned to the photos.

"So what's her story?"

"Frankie Doyle is twenty-eight, divorced, one daughter. She's eight."

"Finances?"

"None to speak of. She drives an old Toyota and lives in a rent house. Unemployed."

"Problems?"

"Cigarettes and her ex-husband up in Boston. He hit her. She's running from him."

Russell shook his head slowly.

"These poor women. They all have a burden to bear."

"I met hers. Ex-boxer, owns a garage. He's a jerk."

"What's wrong with the girl?"

"Nothing."

Russell's eyes came up again.

"Her child's not sick?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

Andy shrugged. "Frankie said she was in perfect health."

"You saw her? The girl?"

"Yeah. Cute redhead. She seemed fine."

"See, Andy. Just odds."

Russell went back to the photos.

"And she's eight years old?"

Andy nodded. "And Frankie is twenty-eight. Which means, Russell, she couldn't have been your girlfriend."

Russell didn't react. He didn't even look up from the photos.

"Why do you say that, Andy?"

"I did the math. You've been married fourteen years, so she was fourteen when you got married. And she got married four years later."

Russell slowly raised his eyes from the photos.

"I never said she was my girlfriend before I was married … or that she wasn't married."

Now Andy tried not to react.

"You were married … and she was too … when you and her … ?"

"It's called an affair, Andy."

"Russell, Kathryn is gorgeous."

"Infidelity is a complicated thing."

"I wouldn't know."

"No one can know. The privilege, Andy."

"That's why she denied it—she was a married woman having an affair."

Russell again dropped his eyes to the photos of Frankie and her daughter. He examined them so intently that another thought crossed Andy's mind—a thought that made sense of a billionaire searching for seventeen former girlfriends.

"Is the girl yours?"

Russell Reeves looked up at Andy. His face was stern. Andy braced himself to get fired on the spot. Instead, his client sat back and blew out a resigned breath. As if it were finally time to come clean with his lawyer.

"Maybe."

He stared into space, as if remembering.

"Frankie and I had an affair nine years ago when I taught a course at MIT one semester. Guest high-tech billionaire, that sort of thing. We met at the hotel bar. We were both married at the time."

For some reason, Andy felt a little jealous at the thought of Russell Reeves having had an affair with Frankie Doyle.

"What bar?"

"I don't remember the name of the bar, Andy. It was in the Boston Grand Hotel."

That was the hotel. It was mentioned in the dossier in front of Russell. Frankie had worked there nine years ago, when she was nineteen years old. A nine-month pregnancy and she'd have an eight-year-old child now. Which she had.