The Common Lawyer (33 page)

So why couldn't Andy sleep last night?

They ducked down in their seats when the Toyota pulled up and Frankie and the red-haired girl got out. Frankie was smoking a cigarette. Lorenzo reached over to the glove compartment and retrieved a pair of binoculars. He put them to his eyes and whistled softly.

"Good looking lady. She wears underwear."

"What, you got X-ray binoculars?"

"A trained eye. So your client really wants this woman?"

Andy nodded.

"She really doesn't want him."

They watched Frankie and the girl climb the stairs and enter the apartment.

"Can we go home now?" Lorenzo said.

When they pulled out of the parking lot, Andy took one last glance back and saw Frankie standing in the window looking out.

"Harmon, can we go over to Sixth Street tonight? They've got live music."

"Turn up the radio."

They were sitting in the Crown Vic parked outside Andy Prescott's office. Harmon's cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID and answered.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Harmon, we got his home address. Prescott."

"What took so long?"

"It's a rental."

"Must be a real successful lawyer."

Harmon wrote down the address then hung up.

"Let's go."

Cecil started the engine and backed out.

Lorenzo waited for the two white dudes in the black Crown Vic to back out of the parking space in front of Andy's office; when they drove off, he pulled in.

"Thanks," Andy said.

"What about your bike?"

"I'll pick it up later."

Andy got out and went upstairs to his office. He had called Russell from San Marcos. A few minutes later, his client arrived. Russell Reeves didn't sit.

"You found her?"

Andy nodded. "In San Marcos."

"What's the address?"

Andy wrote Frankie Doyle's address on a notepad and tore the page out. Russell reached out for it. Andy hesitated a moment—he wasn't sure why—then handed it to his client.

"Good work, Andy. I'll take it from here. How's Floyd T.?"

"He's good. What are you going to do?"

"Pay his bills."

"No. With Frankie?"

"Try to save my daughter's life."

"If she has the gene?"

"Yes."

"If the DNA was right?"

"DNA doesn't lie, Andy."

Russell reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope. He dropped it on the card table in front of Andy and walked out. Andy opened the envelope and removed a cashier's check for $25,000 made out to "Andrew Paul Prescott." As if he had just sold out Frankie Doyle.

He turned and looked out the window; Russell was getting into his limo. He glanced up at Andy and gave him a little wave. Andy watched the black limousine drive off. Then he ran downstairs to the tattoo parlor. Ramon was engrossed in something at his desk.

"Ramon, I need to borrow your car."

Ramon held up a Big Chief notebook.

"Andy, you ever read Floyd T.'s stuff? He's good. This story's about Vietnam when he—"

"Ramon, your car."

"No way, dude."

"It's an emergency."

Ramon stood. "I'll drive."

Four blocks north, Harmon knocked on the door of a little house on Newton Street. There was no answer.

"Are you looking for Andy?"

A cute little broad walking her mutt was standing on the sidewalk. Harmon gave her a smile.

"Yes, ma'am, we are."

"He doesn't live here anymore."

"Do you know his current address?"

She shook her head. "Some loft downtown, but I don't know the address. Sorry."

Harmon and Cecil walked toward the Crown Vic, but Harmon stopped short and looked down. He sighed.

"Cecil, what are you wearing?"

"Cowboy boots. You like them?"

"No."

"I got them at the secondhand store down from Prescott's office. Good price."

"Those boots belonged to someone else?"

"Yeah. They're already broken in."

"Because some other guy's feet were in them."

Cecil shrugged. "So?"

"So they could have diseases."

"The boots? Like what?"

"Athlete's foot, for one."

"My feet do itch."

"There you go."

Thirty minutes later, Ramon parked the yellow Corvette in front of Apartment 621 in San Marcos. Andy didn't see the Toyota, so he got out and climbed the stairs. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He peeked in the windows, but saw no one. He went back to Ramon.

"Let's go to the manager's office."

When Andy walked into the office, the manager was watching a game show on a small TV behind a waist-high partition.

"I'm looking for Frankie Doyle."

"Popular girl. She left."

"She moved out?"

"Paid a month's rent for two days."

"Where'd she go?"

"Didn't leave a forwarding address."

Cecil parked the Crown Vic directly in front of 1514½ South Congress Avenue. The bum was gone, the lights were off, and even the tattoo parlor was closed.

"People here work for a living?" Cecil said. "And we wonder why our economy's in the crapper. No one wants to work anymore."

"Except the Mexicans."

"And us."

"We're lucky, Cecil. Most men have to work at jobs they hate. My dad worked in that stinking factory till the day he died. But you and me, we're not stuck in a factory or an office. We get to be outside, do what we love to do. And make a hell of a nice living doing it. Not many men can say that."

"You're right, Harmon. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in the moment that we don't step back and realize how blessed we are. Smell the roses and all that shit."

"Amen to that, Cecil." He paused a moment, then said, "Now let's kill this target so we can get home to our families."

Ramon dropped Andy off at Lorenzo's office. Andy got his bike and rode straight to the hospital in downtown where he found Floyd T. resting comfortably and watching the television perched high on the wall of his private room. His hair had been cut, and he was clean shaven. Floyd T. was a handsome man.

"You doing okay, Floyd T.?"

Floyd T. shrugged. "For a homeless person just out of heart surgery."

Andy pulled Floyd T.'s notebook out of his backpack and handed it to him.

"Thought you might want this."

"Thanks, Andy. I need to catch up on my memoirs. Oh, did I tell you two men came looking for you Saturday?"

"No. What'd they want?"

"You. They weren't from here."

"How do you know?"

"Shiny suits, and they talked funny, with accents."

"Foreign?"

"Yeah. Maybe New York." Floyd T. gestured at the TV. "They just had a story about Reeves giving away money. He's quite a guy. Shame about his son."

Andy nodded. "He's a good kid."

"You know, Andy, being homeless is like being invisible. People talk like I'm not even there."

"And?"

"And I heard you and Russell talking, up in your office. You leave your window open. Andy, I don't buy it."

"What?"

"Seventeen girlfriends. Sending you all over the country to find them, give them a million bucks. Men don't work that way."

"You heard all that?"

"I'm only sitting ten feet below your window."

"So?"

"So Russell is a good man, Andy. But good men sometimes lose their way. I saw it during the war—buddies getting sniped every patrol, can't even find the enemy to shoot at, the pressure builds every day—the mind can snap. I saw it in soldiers' eyes, Andy, when they were about to snap. And when they did, good men did bad things."

"Russell's not like that."

"Every man's like that … under enough pressure. When we're desperate enough, we can all snap. On the TV, when he talked about his son, I saw it in his eyes." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I saw it in my own eyes, Andy, before I snapped."

"Russell saved your life, Floyd T."

Floyd T. nodded.

"And now I'm trying to save yours."

Andy walked to the elevator and pushed the button. He was thinking about what Floyd T. had said when the doors opened on Russell Reeves.

"Russell."

"Andy."

"I was here visiting Floyd T. What are you … Zach?"

Russell nodded. "He took a turn for the worse."

"Can I see him?"

"Sure. Come on up."

They went upstairs to the cancer ward and walked down the corridor. Andy followed Russell into a room. Zach Reeves was lying in the bed connected to oxygen and an IV and various monitors that beeped.

Shit.

The boy opened his eyes and smiled.

"Hi, Dad. Hey, Andy."

His voice sounded weak.

"Hey, buddy," Russell said then stepped over and checked his chart.

"Hi, dude," Andy said.

Zach slowly extended his hand to Andy and closed his fist. Andy gave him a fist-punch.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Zach?"

"Can Andy and I talk? Alone? Just for a minute."

Russell glanced from his son to Andy and back.

"Sure, buddy." He walked to the door but stopped. "Andy, you want something to eat?"

"Thanks. I'm good."

After Russell left, Andy said, "Dude, what happened?"

"My blood counts went wacko again."

"Man, you gotta get well soon so I can have another shot at you on Guitar Hero."

Zach nodded.

"What's it like, Andy?"

"What's what like?"

"Kissing a girl."

"Kissing a girl? Where'd that come from?"

Zach pointed a finger at the TV on the wall. It was tuned to a preteen show on the Disney channel.

"I don't think I'm ever going to kiss a girl," Zach said.

"Dude, you'll have to beat 'em off with a stick."

Zach shook his head.

"My parents won't talk to me about it."

"Kissing girls?"

"Dying."

Andy sat down next to the bed.

"I'm not stupid, Andy. I hear the doctors talking. I understand cancer. I need to talk about it with someone."

"I'll talk with you about it."

"Does it hurt?"

"No. The doctors don't let it hurt."

"I heard my dad say your father is dying."

Andy nodded. "He needs a liver transplant."

"I hope he gets it."

"Me, too."

"Do you think dead people hang around, you know, where they lived? So their family still feels them around?"

"I hope so."

"Me, too."

They talked about life and about death for a while longer. When Andy walked out of Zach's room, Russell Reeves was sitting in a plastic chair outside the door with his face in his hands. He looked up.

"Thanks, Andy."

Andy wiped tears from his face. Russell walked him to the elevator. He punched the down button. When the elevator car arrived, Andy stepped in. The doors began to shut, but Russell stuck his hand in. The doors opened.

"She's gone, Andy. Frankie Doyle."

"I know."

"Find her, Andy. So my daughter doesn't end up like my son."

TWENTY

Andy walked into his PI's storefront the next morning and found Lorenzo Escobar leaning back in his chair with his black cowboy boots propped up on his desk and his hands clasped behind his head. He was watching TV. He pointed at the screen.

"That's the most beautiful pregnant woman I've ever seen."

Natalie Riggs was reporting live from the maternity ward at the public hospital. She stood outside the glass window of the nursery; behind her, dozens of little cribs were occupied by babies wrapped like papooses. She wasn't showing yet; her abs still looked awesome in the tight knit dress. Lorenzo stood and pointed at the screen.

"See? No underwear."

One last look and he clicked off the TV and turned to Andy.

"You lost her again?"

Andy nodded. "I've got to find her."

"For your client or yourself?"

"My client's paying."

"Same fee?"

"Yeah, but you've got to drive me to wherever she is."