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 1514? 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.'
