The Common Lawyer (36 page)

"I do miss the rush."

Guillermo stuck his fist out; Andy gave him a fist-punch.

"Keep the faith, bro."

He sat down at a table and ate the muffin. The Jo's regulars were all present and accounted for, but Andy felt like a stranger in SoCo. His life had irrevocably changed the moment Russell Reeves walked into his office ten weeks before. He had been Andy Prescott, traffic ticket lawyer; now he was Andy Prescott, Russell Reeves' lawyer. He had been happy; now he had money. He had had a simple life; now he had a complicated life. None of this made sense. The DNA was Frankie's, not Jessie's. So why did Russell think she was his daughter? Andy felt a sense of impending doom, the same sensation he experienced when he was about to crash on the trails. Nothing psychic, just a feeling. A bad feeling.

He glanced around.

Ray, Darla, Oscar, George, Dwight … no one he didn't recognize. No one without a tattoo; only members of the tribe. He grabbed the coffee and saddled up on the Stumpjumper. He rode down the avenue to his office. It was only nine, but Ramon was already at work. Andy went inside the tattoo parlor.

"What are you doing here so early?" he said.

Ramon gestured at his table where the coed with the "Yellow Rose of Texas" on her left buttock was lying face down, iPod buds in her ears, eyes closed, and bare butt exposed.

"Appointment. She's got an afternoon class. Wants a matching rose on her right butt."

"Try not to enjoy yourself too much."

"I think she's sleeping. Oh, he was here looking for you."

"Reeves?"

"That ape that drives him."

"Darrell? He was here without Russell?"

Ramon nodded. "Said, 'I'll be back,' like that
Terminator
dude."

Russell Reeves had left three messages for Andy that morning on his cell phone. Andy needed to call his client, but he wasn't a very good liar.

"Tickets on the counter," Ramon said.

Four tickets with four $100 bills sat on the counter. Which reminded Andy: his mother had tickets for him, too.

"And two other guys were looking for you yesterday," Ramon said. "Not locals."

"How do you know?"

"Shiny suits and accents. I lied, said I didn't know you."

"Thanks."

"You want me to tell the ape I seen you?"

"No. Or those other guys."

Harmon and Cecil pulled into a parking spot in front of the tattoo parlor just as a kid wearing jeans, sneakers, and T-shirt came out the door, jumped on a bike, and rode off.

"He's about five-ten," Cecil said.

"Cecil, you ever know a lawyer who rode a bike?"

"Good point."

They got out and walked into the parlor. The Mexican named Ramon was hunched over a girl's bare butt with a tattoo needle in his right hand. Without looking up, he said, "Help you?"

"Ramon," Harmon said, "you lied to me."

The Mexican looked up at Harmon and Cecil standing in his doorway; his expression changed.

"You know Prescott. You're his landlord. And he's not six-four, he's five-ten."

Harmon stepped closer.

The Mexican said, "Hey, I'm working here! Stay out of my sterile field!"

"Where's Prescott?"

"Man, I look like a secretary?"

"You're gonna look like a dead Mexican, you don't tell me where he's at."

The Mexican stood up and stared directly down the barrel of Harmon's brand new Glock.

"Hey, dude—"

"
Dude?
I look like a dude, Cecil?"

Lorenzo Escobar was cruising south on Congress, the windows down, sipping his Jo's coffee and enjoying the fine November morning, when he came to the tattoo parlor. He slowed. He saw a black Crown Vic parked outside Ramon's shop—the same Crown Vic he had seen there two days before—and two white dudes inside the shop. They didn't look like locals. Lorenzo got a bad feeling so he pulled the Escalade into a slot out front of Allen's Boots a couple of doors down.

Lorenzo cut the engine and got out. The street was quiet that early. He walked along the side of the building until he arrived at Ramon's door. He heard Ramon's nervous voice: "Hey, dude, put the gun down."

Lorenzo peeked inside and saw a tall white male pointing a gun at Ramon; the other man was standing to the side. Lorenzo pulled out his Beretta and chambered a round. He stepped inside with his gun extended.

"
Hombre
… put the gun down."

The man holding the gun froze. He turned slowly toward Lorenzo and saw the gun pointed at his chest.

"Easy, bro," Lorenzo said. "On the counter."

The white man set his gun on the counter. Lorenzo motioned both men against the wall. Without taking his eyes off them, he said, "What's going on, Ramon?"

"They're looking for Andy."

"That so? What do you want with Andy?"

The tall white man said, "It's a personal matter."

"Is it worth dying for?"

"Perhaps not."

"Good." Lorenzo stood away from the door. "You may leave now. And don't come back."

"Can I have my gun?"

"I don't think so."

The men stepped to the door. The tall man said, "Maybe we'll meet again, Pancho."

Lorenzo smiled. "Bring friends."

The tall man chuckled. "You hear that, Cecil? 'Bring friends,' he says. I like that."

The men walked over to the Crown Vic, got in, and drove off. Lorenzo turned to Ramon, who was wiping sweat from his brow. The girl on the table hadn't budged. She had a nice ass.

Lorenzo said, "Where the hell is Andy?"

Andy rode north on Congress until it dead-ended at Eleventh Street in front of the state capitol. Normally the seven-lane intersection would be crowded with cars and buses and pedestrians trying to cross without getting nailed by a road warrior talking on his cell phone while running a red light; but that day the wide stretch of asphalt was crowded with workers erecting big white circus-like tents for the Texas Book Festival.

The book festival was the biggest cultural event held in Austin each year. The streets had been blocked off in both directions and traffic was being re-routed down side streets. Over the next three days, forty thousand people would pack the festival to enjoy musical performances, learn parenting skills, be entertained by magicians and puppeteers, attend cooking exhibitions, and listen to authors discuss their books. And, of course, Kinky Friedman would make his annual appearance, smoking long cigars and stumping for the governorship or promoting his latest book. Kinky alone was worth the price of admission, which was free.

Andy steered around the yellow barricades and cut through the capitol grounds. The wide checkerboard-patterned sidewalk—known as the "Great Walk"—inclined steadily for five hundred feet to the south entrance of the capitol. He pedaled past grand monuments honoring the Confederate Dead, Terry's Texas Rangers, and Hood's Texas Brigade (all for soldiers who had fought for the Confederacy), two twenty-four-pound cannons (used by the Confederacy), and the Ten Commandments (which said nothing about slavery). He rode around the massive pink granite capitol and gazed up at the Goddess of Liberty hoisting a lone gold star atop the dome.

It always gave him hope.

Four blocks later, Andy entered the UT campus at San Jacinto Street. He pedaled past the Santa Rita No. 1 pump jack and the football stadium. He turned east on Twenty-third Street then north on Trinity Street. He rode across a concrete footbridge leading to the second-floor entrance to the Fine Arts Building, a shortcut to his mother's office. He parked the bike, removed his helmet, and went inside. He jogged down the hall to his mother's office. She was between classes. She stood and hugged him, then gave him the traffic tickets.

"Are you okay, Andy?"

"Not really."

"You don't know whom to believe—your client or Frankie."

"You're smart."

"I have a Ph.D… . and Jessie has red hair. Russell Reeves doesn't."

"It's recessive."

"What is?"

"Red hair. Russell says Jessie got it from his mother."

"Why not from Frankie and her ex-husband?"

"Mickey had red hair but Frankie's hair is black. Both parents have to have red hair for their child to have red hair."

"Did you ask her?"

"Ask who what?"

"Frankie, the color of her hair."

"Mom, her hair is black. You saw her yourself."

She smiled. "Andy, we color our hair. Women."

Andy walked out of his mother's office and pulled out his cell phone. He called information for the Boston Grand Hotel. When he was connected, he asked for the bar. Benny the bartender answered.

"Benny, this is Andy Prescott, from Texas."

"The lawyer. Did you find her? Frankie?"

"Yes, I did."

"Is she okay?"

"For now. Benny, when she worked at the bar, what color was her hair?"

"Frankie's? Like I said, she was a good Irish girl. She has flaming red hair."

Russell Reeves had lied.

Andy hung up and hurried down the hall. His phone rang. He stopped and answered. It was Lorenzo.

"Andy, two white dudes pulled a gun on Ramon in his shop, looking for you."

"Jesus. Reeves has gone over the edge."

"Russell Reeves? He's your secret client? That's why you had me check out his mother?"

"Yeah."

"Andy, he's serious. Those two goons, they're professionals, if you know what I mean."

Andy knew what he meant.

"Be careful, bro. I don't want to lose a paying client."

Andy hung up. He put on the helmet and sunglasses and ran to the exit door and outside and right into a brick wall. Darrell's meaty hand clamped down on his arm like an iron vice.

"Mr. Reeves wants to talk to you. In the limo."

The long black limo sat at the curb on Trinity Street. The back window lowered, and Russell's face appeared. Darrell yanked Andy across the footbridge and over to the limo. Darrell released him, but stood within arm's reach. Russell pushed the door open.

"Get in."

Andy held his ground. His client looked as if he hadn't slept in a week.

"You didn't come to see Zach."

"I was coming over there right now."

Another lie. And about Zach.

"Andy … Zach's in a coma."

Andy slumped against the limo.

"Shit. Is he gonna be okay?"

"I don't know. Where's Frankie?"

"Russell, your son's in a coma."

"And my daughter might be next."

"The girl's not yours, Russell. You lied."

"Why would I lie to you?"

"That's what I don't know. But you lied—about the red hair. Frankie has red hair. She dyed it black. The girl got her red hair from her parents, not from your mother. And the blood on that Band-Aid wasn't the girl's—it was Frankie's."

"
What?
No, that can't be. The DNA was a match."

"You're after Frankie. Did you have Mickey killed to get to her?"

"Who's Mickey?"

"Mickey Doyle. Her ex-husband."

"He's dead?"

"He was murdered in Boston."

"And you think I'm involved?"

"Are you?"

"No."

Andy pointed at Darrell. "Is he?"

"No."

"What about those two goons you sent to Ramon's?"

"What goons?"

"The ones looking for me."

"I found you."

"What about Laurence Smith? He's dead, too."

"Yes, he is."

"Was he trying to find Frankie?"

"Yes, but his death had nothing to do with her. Someone tried to rob him. Look, Andy, you're over-thinking again." He pointed up Trinity Street at the law school sitting on a low rise. "Remember, you were a C student over there."

"I don't test well."

Russell Reeves stared at Andy, and Andy saw in his client's eyes something he had not seen before: desperation.

"Tell me the truth, Russell."

"Andy, the truth is, there's a million dollars in your trust account, for Sally Armstrong in San Diego. You can keep it. Just tell me where Frankie is and you can go on with your life … but with a lot more money."

Andy stared up at the UT clock tower, the white sandstone highlighted against the blue November sky. It was a magnificent sight. At the base of the tower, carved into the south façade of the Main Building, were the words
Ye Shall Know The Truth and The Truth Shall Make You Free.
What was the truth? The legal truth was simple: Andy Prescott was a lawyer; Russell Reeves was his client. Andy owed a legal duty to Russell to tell him where Frankie was; he had paid for that information. The client was legally entitled to know what his lawyer knew.