Andy almost felt guilty for having Suzie and Bobbi while they had no one. Almost. He didn't because he knew he was just a surfer riding a monster wave, always knowing it would end but wondering when it would end. And how. He read the rest of the forty-year-old woman's ad and immediately spotted the problem.
'Curtis, she wants a man with Christian Bale's body.'
'Forty years old, you'd think she'd lower her standards.'
'She wants Christian Bale, she'll still be waiting when she's fifty.'
Curtis shook his head and huddled with Dave over the personals. Andy drank from his beer then turned to Tres.
'How many girlfriends you figure you've had?'
'Since when?'
'Since you started having girlfriends.'
Tres thought a moment. 'Ten. Not counting relationships that lasted a night, you know, at frat parties.'
'And you've been rich all that time?'
Tres shrugged. 'Yeah.'
'How many girlfriends you figure a guy like Russell Reeves would have had in his life?'
'Before or after he was a billionaire?'
'Before.'
'Zero. Without the money, he's got less to offer a girl than Curtis.'
'Those ten girlfriends… you ever wonder how they're doing now?'
'Sure. I hope the two that dumped me are miserable and alone. The others, I hope they're doing great.'
'Seriously.'
'Seriously? No, I don't think about them.'
'You ever feel guilty?'
'About what?'
'Having sex with them then leaving.'
'Why should I feel guilty?'
'You shouldn't, but do you?'
'No.'
'Would you give them money?'
'For what?'
'To make yourself feel better about leaving them.'
'I feel fine about that.'
Andy drank from his beer.
'Lorenzo,' Tres said, 'the PI? He followed Bruce.'
'Bruce who?'
'The weekend sports anchor.'
'Thought you wanted him to follow Natalie?'
'I did, and he did. For a month. Then he followed Bruce… to Oilcan Harry's.'
'He's gay?' Andy said.
'Apparently.'
Oilcan Harry's was a popular gay bar in downtown Austin.
'Wasn't he a UT linebacker, All-American?'
'I guess being in locker rooms with naked guys all those years got to him.'
'So Natalie's not cheating with him?'
'Nope.'
'Then who's she cheating with?'
'No one.'
'Maybe you should trust her, Tres, underwear or no underwear, if you're going to marry her.'
'Maybe I will. Trust her.'
'So what's the latest on your Indian surrogate?'
'Name's Prisha. Eighteen years old, never been married, no drug use, no criminal record, no diseases… she's a virgin.'
'That'll be a rude awakening, birthing your baby.'
'She'll probably never have sex after that. Speaking of which, you going to Qua later?'
'Might as well.'
'Suzie?'
'Bobbi.'
'Bobbi's nice.'
'Very nice.'
Tres chucked Andy on the shoulder.
'Russell Reeves' lawyer, changed things for you. Before, you were looking for love in the personals, couldn't get into Pangaea or Qua… or Suzie or Bobbi. Now look at you.'
'I'm still the same guy.'
Tres drained his beer.
'No, Andy, you'll never be the same guy. Once you get a taste of money, what it can do for you, how it changes the way people look at you… value you… you can never go back. You won't want to go back. You'll do whatever you have to do so you don't go back. And you'll never be the same.'
THIRTEEN
The next morning, Andy Prescott arrived at his office to find a young man with a Marine haircut, military tattoos, and a package in his lap sitting on Ramon's stoop next to Floyd T., who was hefting his left leg like a log. War stories. The man looked up at Andy.
'Mr. McCloskey said to leave this package in the tattoo parlor if you weren't here, but the place isn't open yet.'
'Ramon works late so he sleeps late.'
'I told him,' Floyd T. said.
Andy handed Floyd T. his breakfast then signed for the package and went upstairs. He sat down and removed a binder detailing the life of Sue Todd. Tabs divided the dossier into personal history, work history, and criminal history.
She had no criminal history. Her work history was short. Her personal history was sad. Sue Todd was thirty- six years old, unmarried, and unemployed. She lived in a rent house in Pasadena, a working-class suburb of Houston. She drove a twelve-year-old Honda and had a twelve-year-old son named Ricky.
Andy checked the time: 9:15. He put the camera with the zoom lens he had bought the day before inside his backpack then called a cab.
Andy flew Southwest to Hobby Airport on the south side of Houston; it was only a forty-five-minute flight. Southwest's Austin-to-Houston flights departed every other hour, as convenient as taking the bus and almost as glamorous.
He arrived in Houston at eleven-thirty and rented a Cadillac CTS with a navigation system-which was useless without Curtis there to operate it. So he navigated by the Houston area map he found in the glove compartment. It wasn't hard. The City of Pasadena lies just a few miles due east of the airport across Interstate 45; its northern boundary butts up against the Houston Ship Channel, which serves the Port of Houston.
The Port of Houston is the second busiest port in the U.S., no minor feat given that Houston is situated fifty- two miles from the nearest navigable deep-water body, Galveston Bay. But after the Great Storm of 1900, a category four hurricane that leveled Galveston, killed six thousand residents, and destroyed the thriving Port of Galveston, Houston's civic boosters saw a golden opportunity. They went to Washington and convinced the Feds that the country needed a more secure inland port, at say, Houston. So they dredged Buffalo Bayou from just east
