He shoved the card back into his shirt pocket.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. His life was in the crapper. No wife, no kid, no future. Thirty-five years old, and he had hit the end of the line. He ordered another boilermaker.
He downed the whiskey shot and chased it with the beer. The warmth quickly followed by the cold. His body gave a little shudder. A few more and he would be able to sleep.
Of course, he had no one to blame but himself. His temper. His fists. He had slapped Frankie a few times, but that last time, he had actually hit her. And the way he hit, he could have killed her, the only woman he had ever loved.
He had loved her since she was ten years old. He watched her grow up three doors down. When she turned sixteen, he asked her out. They married two years later, when she graduated high school. She had been a virgin. And Catholic. And guilt-ridden. So sex had not exactly been adventurous. Mickey had strayed, early and often, like South Boston residents casting votes for a Kennedy. Back then, it had seemed like innocent fun; but on Sunday when they had gone to Mass, he had felt guilty. He no longer went to Mass, but he still felt the guilt.
And he missed them both.
He ordered another boilermaker. He had had only two loves in his life: fighting and Frankie. Fighting had gotten him to semi-pro, weekend fights after a week at the garage. But his raw skills could take him only so far. So he had given up on the ring.
But he had never given up on Frankie. She would always be the love of his life. Sure, there had been other women in the last three years, but they were just distractions. When he was with them, he was thinking of her. His one true love, and he had screwed it up. He would give anything for a second chance. The judge had given him a second chance-and a third-but Frankie would not. Because of Abby.
He should have protected her.
He paid his tab and walked out the front door and down the sidewalk; it was three blocks to the house. One block down, a fist hammered him in the mouth and knocked him against a building. Some asshole's mugging Mickey Doyle? Hell, he fought best when he was staggering drunk, like now. He turned to a tall man leaning into him.
'Where's Frankie?' the man said.
'What?'
'Your ex-wife, Mickey, where is she?'
'You working for the lawyer?'
'What lawyer?'
'I told him-I don't know where she's at.'
'You don't tell me, Mickey, I'm gonna kill you. And then I'm gonna find Frankie and kill her, too.'
All the guilt Mickey had suffered over the last three years, all the times he had cussed himself for hitting his wife, all the love he had felt for Frankie the last eighteen years, now seemed to build in his fists. He gave a little shoulder feint-the guy went for it-and popped him with a quick left jab to the nose. Then he came up with a right uppercut into his chin and a combo to his midsection. He heard the air come out of the man. A few more blows and Mickey had him on the ropes-or at least the side of an SUV.
'You ain't gonna hurt Frankie!'
Mickey pounded the guy's body-he felt ribs cracking under his fists-and he was determined to beat this guy to death to save Frankie, when he suddenly felt something else cracking: his skull. Mickey collapsed to the pavement, and his mind went as black as the night sky. And Mickey Doyle's last thought before he died was, I'm sorry, Frankie.
Harmon Payne stood straight and spit blood.
'Thanks, Cecil.'
Cecil Durant, his driver, had clocked Mickey with the tire iron. Harmon rubbed his sore ribs. The boss said no unauthorized killing, now his ribs were going to hurt for a week. A bullet in Mickey Doyle's head would have been considerably less painful for both of them.
'Shit, this guy can punch.'
Harmon knelt and checked Mickey's pulse. He was dead.
'Or could.'
He then checked the body. In his shirt pocket, he found a business card: Andy Prescott. Lawyer. Traffic Tickets. Austin, Texas. With a cell phone number. Harmon stood.
'Cecil, we're going to Texas.'
SEVENTEEN
Andy paid Ramon $500 to get up early the next morning and another $500 to drive him to Frankie Doyle's house in Buda. Andy had to get the girl's DNA-although he had no idea how he would actually do that-get it to Russell, and get to the UT stadium in time for the 2:00 P.M. kickoff. And he wanted to see Frankie Doyle again. But when Ramon turned the yellow Corvette into the driveway of Frankie's house, he said, 'They're gone, bro.'
Andy knocked on the front door. There was no answer. He looked in the windows. The furniture was still in place, but Frankie and the girl had disappeared. The place was neat, as if it had just been cleaned. He went around back. Nothing. Ramon was right. They were gone. Andy walked around to the front of the house and got back in the car. He just sat there.
'Aw, man,' Ramon said.
Andy turned to him. 'What?'
'You wanted to see her.'
'So?'
'So you should never mix business with pleasure.'
'You do.'
'I never charged my ex-wife… until she cheated on me.'
'Why would they leave in the middle of the night?'
'Because you found her… and she don't want to be found.'
Ramon backed the car out of the driveway 'Stop!'
Ramon hit the brakes. 'What?'
'That.'
A black rubber trash can stood by the road waiting for the next pickup. Andy got out and removed the top of the can. He pulled out a large plastic trash bag. He loosened the tie and opened the bag.
'Man, you going through her trash?' Ramon said. 'That's like Floyd T. dumpster diving.'
'She cleaned the place before they left.'
'So?'
'So there might be something in here.'
Andy didn't want to rummage through the trash with his bare hands, so he looked around and found a long stick. Then he dumped the contents of the trash bag onto the ground. He squatted and poked through the refuse with the stick-discarded food and food containers, dirty paper towels, banana peels, cigarette butts and an empty pack-she started smoking again-yogurt cartons, potato chip bags, feminine products, egg shells, Band-Aid… He froze. It was one of those big square Band-Aids he often used when he got serious road rash. He flipped the Band- Aid over with the stick. It was stained with blood.
But with whose blood?
Andy had delivered the Band-Aid to Russell, and Russell had handed him a check for $10,000. Andy also had four football tickets worth $20,000 in his hands. He had considered scalping the tickets, but what's $20,000 compared to watching the college football game of the year on the fifty-yard line with your buddies? UT versus Ohio State. Longhorns versus Buckeyes. The number one and two teams in the nation. And, of course, there were 'Cheerleaders!'
Dave was pointing like a kid at the circus. The Longhorn cheerleaders dressed in their orange tights and black leather chaps and short white fringed vests that revealed their tight torsos bounced past. They were cute and perky and fit. Andy, Tres, and Dave stood transfixed. They heard Curtis' voice.
