'Yeah, bro?'
'You got your phone?'
'Yep.'
Louis pointed east. 'You go looking down the beach that way.' Louis then pointed west. 'I'm going looking this way.'
'What are we looking for?'
'Mr. Fenney.'
Carlos's face got sharp. He tossed the bowl over the railing and ran down the stairs. Louis was right behind him. Carlos cut left and Louis right. Boo had not budged from her place at the railing.
Louis Wright weighed three hundred thirty pounds, but he often surprised folks by how fast he could run and for how long. When he was sixteen and weighed only two-thirty, he had run track in high school. Two hundred and four hundred meters. He could move it for a big boy.
Still, he had to slow down after a mile.
Another mile, he saw a big white house gleaming in the sun and down on the beach, the tide lapping over a clump of something. Looked like a big brown dog curled up on the sand like road kill… or maybe some kind of brown sack full of something… or maybe…
Mr. Fenney. Oh, sweet Jesus. He did have a heart attack.
Louis ran full-out until he got to him. Louis pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial for Carlos. When he answered, Louis said, 'I found him. Come my way. And Carlos… run.'
Louis pushed the phone back into his pocket then dropped to his knees. Mr. Fenney's skin felt wet and cold to the touch. A sand crab crawled across his back. Louis flicked the crab away, then rolled him over to see if he was still breathing but he saw… blood. Shit. He didn't have no heart attack. He got beat up. Bad. Louis leaned over and put his ear to Mr. Fenney's bare chest. His heart was beating. Slowly. He was still alive.
Most folks figured Louis was older because black men look older when they're young and younger when they're old. In fact, Louis Wright was only thirty years old. But he had already seen a lifetime of violent crime down in the projects of South Dallas. Folks shot point-blank with handguns and short-barreled shotguns, stabbed with screwdrivers, ice picks, and knives of all sizes, makes, and models, beaten to death with baseball bats, tire irons, crowbars, bricks, and even a carburetor from a 357-cubic-inch Chevy engine. Mr. Fenney's face was cut and bruised and bloody, but Louis could find no mortal wound. Someone had beaten him mercilessly, but with fists.
A tear dropped from Louis Wright's eye onto Mr. Fenney's tanned skin.
He slipped his arms under Mr. Fenney like a forklift and stood with this man in his arms. This man who had opened his arms and his Highland Park home to him, just as if Louis Wright's skin wasn't black and he wasn't from South Dallas. This man who had given him books and a second chance at life. This man who Louis loved like the father he never had. Carlos came running up.
' Shit. What happened?'
'Someone beat him bad.'
'Is he alive?'
'He is.'
'Here, Louis, I'll help you.'
'No. Run ahead and get the car ready.'
Carlos ran ahead to the house. Louis carried Mr. Fenney, his arms and legs hanging limp and bouncing with each step Louis took. When the house came into sight, Boo was still standing at the railing. She spotted them, screamed a shrill 'A. Scott!' and came running.
'Did he have a heart attack? Is he dead?'
'He ain't dead and he didn't have a heart attack. Someone tried to kill him.'
Boo touched his bloody face and cried into his bloody hands. Mr. Herrin and Miss Fenney and Pajamae now ran up to them.
'Jesus,' Mr. Herrin said.
'Found him 'bout two miles down the beach, by the big white house.'
'Who did this to him?' Miss Fenney said.
'Folks that done this gonna pay,' Louis said.
'No, Louis,' Mr. Herrin said. 'He wouldn't want that. Let's get him to the hospital.'
Scott's face hurt. He opened his eyes to blurry visions of Boo and Pajamae.
Boo touched his face gently and said, 'Oh, A. Scott-I thought you'd died on us.'
Pajamae stroked his hair and said, 'Whereas, Daddy.'
Scott wrapped his arms around his daughters and pulled them close.
'Who's your daddy now?'
They put their heads on his chest. He blinked to clear his vision. He was in a hospital room. Which was good because he hurt like he had never hurt before, not even on a football field. And he remembered. They had beaten him on the beach.
'How'd I get here?'
Surrounding his bed were Bobby, Karen, Carlos, and Louis. The D.A. Hank Kowalski. A uniformed cop at the door. Rebecca.
'Louis found you,' Bobby said.
Scott looked to Louis. 'Thank you, Louis.'
'Hell, Scott,' the D.A. said, 'if you wanted a continuance, all you had to do was ask. No need to go to all this trouble.'
Scott tried to smile but it hurt. 'I'll be there Monday morning.'
The D.A. stepped to the bed; he wasn't smiling now. 'Who did this, Scott?'
Scott shook his head. 'I was running the beach, stopped at Trey's house. I was standing there thinking, all of a sudden I got cold-cocked. Two, maybe three guys, hit me until I went down. Then I passed out.'
The D.A. nodded. 'Well, if this is the work of Benito or Gabe or their people, we're gonna find them and prosecute them, I promise you.'
Scott and the D.A.'s eyes met, and they both knew it was an empty promise. Some people would never be brought to justice, not by the law.
'Doctor said they were pros,' the D.A. said. 'Didn't damage any internal organs. They weren't trying to kill you, just send a message.'
'They could've called.'
The D.A. smiled again. 'Least you still got a sense of humor. Easier to survive in this world with a sense of humor.'
'I prefer a nine-millimeter Glock,' Hank said.
The D.A. turned to leave but stopped and pointed a finger at Scott. 'Until this trial is over, you don't need to be alone.'
'He won't be,' Louis said.
From that moment until they left the Island seven days later, Louis Wright never let A. Scott Fenney out of his sight.
FORTY-ONE
'Deja vu all over again,' Bobby said.
Another media circus. Another mob outside a courthouse. Once again A. Scott Fenney found himself pushing his way through a crowd of cameras and reporters shoving microphones and shouting questions at his client-
'Rebecca, did you kill Trey Rawlins?'
'Why are your fingerprints on the murder weapon?'
'Did you love him?'
— only this time his client wasn't a heroin-addicted prostitute. She was his ex-wife.
It was Monday morning, and satellite dishes rose high above the TV trucks that lined Ball Street in front of
