The Common Lawyer (31 page)

"We could catch a massage later," Cecil said. "Might make your ribs feel better."

"If things go right, we could catch a plane home later."

"If we stay the night, let's get some hookers."

"What, you're the governor of New York now?"

They walked past a little motel, a coffee shop called Jo's, a bum playing a guitar, a Mexican food place called Güero's, and the weirdest looking people Harmon had seen outside a circus.

"Now we know what happened to all the hippies and Beatniks from the sixties." He gestured at a young tattooed female loitering outside a store called Lucy in Disguise with Diamonds. "That broad, she looks like a side-show freak, the tattooed lady." Harmon shook his head in utter disgust at America's young people. "Jesus."

Cecil nodded. "And the Beatles."

"What?"

Cecil pointed up at the façade of painted faces. "Jesus, the Beatles, Marilyn Monroe … you think she really slept with Kennedy?"

"I don't think either one of them slept."

They arrived at 1514½. Harmon tried the door, but it was locked. A bum was sitting on the steps of the tattoo parlor next door and writing in a notebook like Harmon's youngest daughter used.

"You know Andy Prescott?"

The bum didn't look up.

"Nope."

They stepped away from the bum to get a breath of fresh air.

"He must not work on Saturday," Harmon said.

"The bum?"

"Prescott."

"Oh." Cecil stretched and said, "I'm hungry. Let's go back to that Mexican joint, get something to eat."

"Yeah, okay. Then we'll find a hotel."

"And hookers?"

"No hookers, Cecil."

They walked back down the block to the place called Güero's. College kids crowded the porch fronting Congress Avenue. Harmon and Cecil could barely squeeze past the sidewalk tables. Three guys at one table were drinking Coronas—one wore a T-shirt that read "Keep Honking - I'm Reloading"; Harmon liked that—and making fools of themselves with passing females.

"Dave, put your tongue back in your mouth, dude!"

Another guy carrying four beers joined them.

"McConaughey's inside. Ronda's trying to get his autograph, so I bought the beers at the bar. This round's on me."

"You the man, Tres!"

They punched fists across the table like the Yankees players do after someone hits a home run. A scrawny little guy with black glasses and hair that looked like it had been cut with a weed-whacker said, "What does McConaughey have on us?"

"Looks, money, fame …"

"Other than that?"

They all laughed like he was Letterman or something.

The scrawny guy said, "Listen to this girl's ad: 'I'm just a girl looking to share my heart with someone who doesn't mind my dog sharing the bed.' "

The guy with Elvis hair said, "Her dog? Man, that's too kinky even for me."

The scrawny guy said, "And the fleas."

They laughed again.

Harmon shook his head. Spoiled college kids getting drunk on their daddies' hard-earned money. Harmon had not gone to college. His father had died when he was only ten, and he had a mother and two sisters to support. So he had gone to work for the mob right out of high school. He had wanted to be an engineer; he became an enforcer.

"Let's go inside. Maybe it'll be quieter."

It wasn't. The Texas football team had beaten Ohio State, so the college kids were celebrating by getting drunk and being loud. Their waitress said a movie star was in the back room, which only added to the commotion. Harmon sighed; it wasn't going to be a nice quiet dinner.

Just inside the front door was the bar with a fountain in the wood floor and a stuffed wild turkey on the wall. Obviously a real classy joint. And the customers dressed to fit the decor. Their hostess—a cute little broad in a miniskirt and a Güero's T-shirt tight around her chest—led them into the main dining room and past the open kitchen and an attractive Mexican woman making tortillas on an open grill. Harmon caught her eye and winked at her; she responded with a demure smile. On a job in Cancún—staged to look like a drug buy gone bad—he had scored with a Mexican waitress at their hotel, his first bilingual experience.

The dining room's decor looked like something out of Cancún with Mexican calendars, curios, and art. They were seated in a booth along a brick wall covered with black-and-white prints of old Mexican bandits and graffiti like Harmon had written on the bathroom stalls at his school when he was a kid:
JK luvs RL
. A mariachi wearing a bolo tie and playing a guitar strolled by singing a Mexican ballad. He was good. The music and noise of the crowd reverberated off the concrete floor and brick walls and pounded into Harmon's head.

Maybe a beer would relieve his headache.

They ordered Mexican food and Dos Equis beer from a waitress tattooed and pierced from head to foot. She had to be a Democrat. The entire place was filled with Democrats.

"What a friggin' zoo," Harmon said. "Any normal people live in Austin?"

"Haven't seen any yet."

But the beer was cold and the food was good. His spirits were starting to lift until he spotted a family man with his family. Harmon's own wife and kids were at his son's soccer game at that moment. Two soccer games in a row he had missed. He was feeling like a lousy father. Cecil must have read his mind.

"Harmon, let's get some hookers. That'll improve your mood. And make your ribs feel better."

EIGHTEEN

Harmon Payne found Andy Prescott's office door locked all day Sunday as well because Andy had flown first class that morning to San Diego to find the eighth woman on Russell Reeves' list. So while Harmon and Cecil spent the day in the hotel bar resting Harmon's ribs and watching the pro football games on the big-screen TV—

"Harmon, says here one-point-five million Mexican free-tailed bats nest under the Congress Avenue bridge and come out every day at dusk? Can we go watch? They say it's really neat."

"No."

"Can we go to the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center?"

"No."

"The capitol?"

"No."

"But it's the biggest one in the country."

"No."

"We can take a tour of downtown on those Segways. That'd be fun."

"No."

"Can we at least get hookers?"

"No."

—Andy spent the day following Sally Armstrong around La Jolla in a rented Audi.

Sally was thirty-eight, attractive, married, and wealthy; she lived in a large house with a view of the Pacific Ocean. She had two children, a fifteen-year-old daughter who was perfectly healthy and a nineteen-year-old son who was a quadriplegic. When he was sixteen, Jimmy Armstrong had lost control of his brand new Mustang and wrapped it around a telephone pole. He would be in a wheelchair for life. But he already had the best care money could buy.

He didn't need Russell Reeves' money.

Andy drove along the boardwalk and saw blonde California girls skating in bikinis—in November. He stayed overnight at the Del Coronado Hotel and ate crab enchiladas. He walked along the beach and watched the sun set into the Pacific Ocean. He thought about sick kids. Seven out of eight. It made no sense.

The next morning, Andy put on jeans and sneakers and took a cab to the airport. He called the Municipal Court back in Austin and told Judge Judith's clerk that he was out of town on business for Russell Reeves. The clerk readily agreed to postpone his six traffic ticket cases set for trial that Monday. Then he boarded a flight to Austin.

While Andy Prescott's plane was over the Grand Canyon, Dr. Glenn Hall, Ph.D., walked into Russell Reeves' office in the Reeves Research Institute.

"DNA matches," he said. "It's her."

Andy's flight arrived at the Austin airport at three. He immediately called Russell Reeves; they agreed to meet at Andy's office. The black limo was already there when Andy arrived; but so was a crowd on the sidewalk in front of Ramon's shop. Andy paid the cabby and got out. He hurried over and pushed his way through the crowd and saw Floyd T. lying on the sidewalk.

"Floyd T.!"

Russell Reeves was kneeling next to him; Darrell was standing over him. Andy pushed Darrell.

"What'd you do to him?"

"Nothing. I swear. He was sitting right there, then he just fell over."

"He had a heart attack, Andy," Russell said.

"Is he breathing?"

Russell checked Floyd T.'s pulse.

"No."

Ramon made the sign of the cross.

"Shit." Andy turned in a fast circle. "Anyone know CPR?"

"I do."

Russell tilted Floyd T.'s chin back to straighten his airway then pinched his nose. He put his mouth on Floyd T.'s. He blew slowly—once, twice—

"Mr. Reeves," Darrell said, "you don't know where his mouth has been."

—then he knelt up, put his hands together, and pushed on Floyd T.'s chest—"one, two, three"—and again and again. Then he gave Floyd T. mouth-to-mouth again.

Russell came up and said, "Darrell, let's get him in the limo."

"But Mr. Reeves, I just had it cleaned."

"Pick him up!"

Darrell squatted, slid his arms under Floyd T., and lifted him off the ground as easily as if he were an infant. He carried Floyd T. over to the limo, where Russell was holding the back door open. Darrell hunched over and disappeared into the limo with Floyd T. in his arms. He lay Floyd T. down then backed out and ran around to the driver's seat. Andy yelled to Ramon, "Put his grocery cart in your shop!" Then he followed Russell into the limo and shut the door.

Harmon and Cecil watched the scene from the front seat of the Crown Vic parked down the street.

"One less homeless person in the world," Harmon said.

"I've never ridden in a limo," Cecil said. "Bet it's neat."

"Not so much for the bum."

They had staked out Andy Prescott's office most of the day, but so far no one had gone in or out of the door to 1514½.

Where was this guy?

"We don't even know what Prescott looks like," Cecil said.

"Like a lawyer. You see anyone over there looks like a lawyer?"

"I haven't seen anyone in this whole town looks normal, except the rich guy in the limo. You think that's Prescott?"

"A traffic ticket lawyer with a limo and a bodyguard? I don't think so, Cecil."

"Good point."

Inside the limo, Russell told Darrell to drive to Austin General Hospital in downtown. Andy dug his cell phone out of his backpack and called ahead while Russell performed CPR all the way to the emergency entrance where a team of nurses and doctors had gathered outside. Andy opened the door and jumped out. He and Darrell lifted Floyd T. out and placed him on the waiting gurney. The doctors and nurses stood frozen in place, staring at Floyd T. like he was an illegal Mexican immigrant walking in the front door.

"Come on, get him inside!" Andy said.

"Is he homeless?" a nurse asked.

"Yeah. So?"

"So we're a private hospital. If he doesn't have insurance, you have to take him to the public hospital."

"He's a war hero!"

"Then take him to the VA hospital," a doctor said.

"Where's it at?"

"San Antonio."

"That's eighty miles from here!"

Russell climbed out of the limo.

"He has insurance. Me."

The nurses' and doctors' expressions changed.

"Mr. Reeves," the nurse said.

"Take care of this man."

"Get him into the ER!" the doctor said. "Stat!"

The entire medical team sprang into action. One jumped up onto the gurney and straddled Floyd T. and started CPR. The others pushed the gurney inside through the automatic doors. They disappeared around a corner.

Thirty minutes later, Andy had registered Floyd T., Russell Reeves had signed a financial responsibility form, and they were sitting in the waiting room. Waiting. And drinking a Jo's coffee. Russell had sent Darrell on a coffee run. Floyd T. was in emergency bypass surgery.

"Thanks, Russell."

"Good coffee."

"Not for the coffee. For Floyd T."

"I know." Russell shook his head. "Hospitals. This is a private non-profit hospital—they pay no state or federal taxes in exchange for providing free care to indigents. But they don't. They send poor people to the public hospital. And when they do treat the uninsured, they charge them double what they charge insured patients."

"Why?"

"Because they can. And because the insurance companies demand discounts normal people can't get."

"Different prices for different people for the same treatment? That's not fair."

"No, Andy, it's not. They should have their tax exemptions revoked. But the government doesn't enforce the law. Politics. I've been against national health care, but now I know it's the only fair way to go. Otherwise, it won't be long before only people like me will have health care. At least then we could operate the health care industry like a business instead of politics. The U.S. government is the biggest single purchaser of drugs in the world—Medicaid, Medicare, the VA—but it doesn't negotiate discounts from the pharmaceuticals. It pays list price. How stupid is that? But the drug companies bribe politicians with campaign contributions, so Congress makes it illegal for a U.S. citizen to go to Canada and buy the same drugs cheaper."