'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.'
