The Common Lawyer

by Mark Gimenez

  "Then what services of mine do you require, Andy?"

  Andy explained the efforts to find Frankie Doyle. After listening thoughtfully and stroking his goatee, Lorenzo said, "McCloskey's a good man. Knows what he's doing."

  "He goes by the book."

  Lorenzo gave Andy a bemused expression. "And you want something more than what's in the book from me, is that it?"

  "I want you to find her and I don't care how you do it."

  "Woman don't want to be found, Andy, that's gonna cost more."

  "I'll pay whatever it takes."

  "Why do you want to find this woman so bad?"

  "I don't. My client does."

  "Who's your client?"

  "That's confidential."

  "Why does your client want to find this woman?"

  "Also confidential."

  "Then my fee will be nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars. Cash."

  "Why?"

  "Risk management, Andy."

  "No, why not ten thousand even?"

  "Oh. You move ten grand in cash, you gotta fill out forms and answer questions at the bank, so the Feds can track your money. Which limits my tax-planning opportunities, if you know what I mean."

  Andy knew what he meant.

  The money laundering law was purportedly to prevent criminals from using the banking system to launder their illegal profits-as if drug lords were stupid enough to move cash through their local savings and loan. Only politicians paying for high-priced call girls were that stupid, which is how the Feds nabbed the former New York governor.

  "Okay. But you can't breathe a word of this, understand?"

  Lorenzo laughed. "Who am I gonna tell?"

  "I guess you're right."

  "You know I'm right. Now, you said her last known address was Hysham, Treasure County, Montana, then she split. Any idea where she might've gone?"

  Andy was about to say no, but he thought of the black-and-white drawings by F. Doyle at Colleen O'Hara's house. One had been of the Montana landscape. The others had reminded Andy of "New Mexico or West Texas."

  Lorenzo nodded. "Gives me something to work with. Come back in a few hours, I'll have something for you. And bring the cash."

  Andy rode down to Cissi's Market and had a roast beef sandwich and a Brown Cow vanilla bean yogurt for lunch. Then he went to the bank and withdrew $9,999. Two hours later, he walked back into Lorenzo's storefront. He was waiting.

  "Did you find her?"

  "Did you bring the cash?"

  Andy handed the bank envelope to Lorenzo. He thumbed the cash like a card shark thumbing a deck of cards. He smiled.

  "I found her."

  "How? Did you get her social security number? Her credit report? How'd you do it?"

  "Now, Andy, you're asking me to share my trade secrets, to reveal my proprietary information, to disclose my-"

  "I don't want to know."

  "Correct answer. You don't want to know how, you just want results. And I got 'em right here."

  Lorenzo placed a piece of paper in front of Andy. Two years ago, Frankie Doyle had changed her name to Rachel Holcombe in Hysham, Treasure County, Montana. One year ago, she had changed her name to Irma Bustamante "Irma Bustamante?"

  Lorenzo smiled. "Irish girl got a sense of humor."

  — in Mosquero, Harding County, New Mexico. Four months ago, she had changed her name to Karen James in Mentone, Loving County, Texas.

  "She likes small towns," Lorenzo said. "Only a hundred twenty folks live in Mosquero, fifty-six in Mentone."

  "Why would she change her name so many times?"

  "She doesn't want to leave a paper trail, but she doesn't want to live off the grid. She's not using credit cards, but she wants a bank account. She wants to be legit, live a normal life, but she doesn't want someone to find her."

  "Her ex-husband hit her."

  "Good enough reason."

  "He said he wasn't trying to find her."

  "Asshole hits a woman, I'm not sure, Andy, could be he's a liar, too."

  "I guess you're right."

  "You know I'm right."

  Lorenzo now placed a printout of a Texas driver's license with a photo of Karen James in front of Andy. He studied her image. It was the same face he had seen in the photo at Colleen O'Hara's house.

  "That's her. That's Frankie Doyle."

  "Check out the address."

  Andy looked down the license then up at Lorenzo.

  "Buda, Texas? All this and she's living fifteen miles down the road?"

  "Rent house. But she's moving up: five thousand people live in Buda."

  "Why would she live in unpopulated places in Montana and New Mexico and West Texas, then move just fifteen miles from Austin?"

  "She wants to hide in plain sight. Figures she's covered her tracks, now she can live near a city, put her kid in a good school, enjoy things. She's ready to start her life over now, as Karen James."

  Andy pedaled back to his office. He poked his head into the tattoo parlor and found Ramon at his computer.

  "Ramon, can I borrow your car?"

  Without turning from the screen, Ramon said, "Hey, Andy, listen to this email I got: 'Hello, I am pretty Russian girl, bored tonight. Would you like to chat and see my pics?' You think she's for real?"

  "What's her name?"

  "Candi. With an 'i.' "

  "A Russian girl named Candi with an 'i'? I don't think so, Ramon. Can I borrow your car?"

  "I don't think so, Andy."

  Ramon Cabrera drove a metallic yellow 1978 Corvette convertible with mag wheels and wide white walls. It was in pristine condition with red leather seats, a stereo system with a subwoofer that shook the car with each beat, and a plastic Jesus magnetically attached to the dash. It was his prized possession-the Corvette, not the plastic Jesus-since his wife had left him. He would not allow Andy behind the wheel. But he wasn't inking anyone's body that afternoon, so he was now driving Andy down Interstate 35 to Buda, Texas. The top was down, the wind was whipping Andy's hair, and the volume on the Latino radio station was blaring. Sitting next to Ramon Cabrera in the low-slung hot rod, Andy felt like he was co-starring in a Cheech and Chong movie.

  Buda, Texas, had long been a small farming town situated between Austin and San Antonio, nothing but cotton and cows and a cement plant. But over the last decade, developers had bought the farmland and subdivided the pastures and built homes for Austinites who could no longer afford the city. Buda-from the Spanish viuda — was now a bedroom community, home to five thousand residents who slept in Buda but worked in Austin. But tens of thousands of people regularly made the journey down I-35 to Buda these days, and not just for the "World Famous Wiener Dog Races." They came to shop at Cabela's, a 185,000-square-foot hunters' paradise, a place selling enough guns and ammo to satisfy any Rambo-wannabe. The chamber of commerce's slogan was "Have a Budaful time in Buda."

  Or at least buy a gun.

  Andy had printed out a map on Ramon's computer. The address on the driver's license was on Old Black Colony Road outside town where there was still some country left. A Toyota Corolla sat in the driveway. But they couldn't just park a yellow Corvette at the end of the driveway and takes photos. They would be easily spotted. So they parked down the road where they could see if she left.

  Fifteen minutes after they had arrived, Frankie Doyle left.

  Andy wrote down the Toyota's license plate number; no doubt the car was registered under her latest alias. They followed her to the Buda Elementary School where a cute girl with flaming red hair ran to the car and got in. She didn't appear sick. Andy took photos of the girl, but he couldn't get a clear shot of Frankie.

  They followed Frankie and her daughter around town and then back to their house and again parked down the road. Ramon decided to take a nap. Andy leaned over to check the digital images on the camera in the dark under the dash and "Are you following me?"

  Andy jumped and banged his head on the underside of the dash. He turned. Frankie D
oyle was standing there. In real life.

  "Jesus, you scared me."

  Ramon opened his eyes and lowered his sunglasses. He gave Frankie a long admiring look. Her hands were now clamped on the window sill, and her face was no more than a foot from Andy's. She didn't have red hair. She had jet black hair, a smooth creamy complexion, and green glaring eyes whose dark pupils made him feel as if he were staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

  In his oily Latin accent, Ramon said, "I am Ramon Cabrera. Your skin is magnificent. Have you considered body art?"

  Her eyes moved to Ramon; she looked him over then said, "No." Back to Andy: "Did you really think I wouldn't notice a yellow Corvette?"

  No sense in lying.

  "I had a heck of a time finding you."

  "I'm calling the cops."

  Andy held his cell phone out to her.

  "You don't think I'll call?"

  "Nope."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don't think you want the cops or anyone else to know who you really are… Frankie Doyle."

  She stared at him, but showed no emotion. Then she abruptly turned and walked fast toward the house.

  "Nice looking lady," Ramon said. "I wonder what bar she goes to?"

  Andy jumped out and ran to catch her. She was wearing a white long-sleeve T-shirt and blue jeans; from behind, she had a nice behind. Not like Suzie's, of course, but nice.

  "Frankie, I know why you're running."

  She kept walking. Over her shoulder: "How'd you find me?"

  "Your mother."

  She stopped and spun around. "You saw my mother?"

  "At her house."

  Hands on her hips. "Who are you?"

  "Andy Prescott. I'm a lawyer in Austin."

  She looked him up and down-the sneakers, the jeans, and the Kinky T-shirt.

  "You're a lawyer? Wearing that and"-she pointed at the yellow Corvette-"riding in that?"

  "Oh, that's Ramon's car. He's my landlord… and a tattoo artist."

  "Your landlord drives you around?"

  "I don't own a car. I ride a bike."

  "You're a lawyer, you ride a bike, and you've got a tattoo artist for a chauffeur? Is this some kind of joke?"

  "Uh… no."

  "You went to see my mother in Boston, trying to find me?"

  "I went to Boston to see Mickey, trying to find you."

  "You met Mickey?"

  "At his shop."

  "How is he?"

  "Probably the same as when you were married to him."

  "God, I need a cigarette. See, you mention Mickey, and now I want to smoke again. How's my mother?"

  "In and out."

  She nodded. "It was hard to leave her."

  "She showed me the photo, in Montana."

  "How'd you find us here?"

  "Benny said you wanted to get as far away as possible-"

  "You saw Benny, too?"

  "At the bar."

  "How is he?"

  "He misses you."

  "I miss him."

  "Anyway, I knew the Montana photo was after you'd left, so I flew out there, figured you'd settle in the smallest county near Billings, until you could change your name. Then you went to New Mexico and West Texas. Changed your name each time."

  "How'd you know where to look?"

  "Your sketches, at your mother's. I recognized the landscapes."

  "Montana and New Mexico, we liked it there. West Texas, that was hard. The wind was relentless, like Mickey's mother."

  "You're very good-at sketching and hiding."

  "Not good enough, apparently. So that's how you found me. Now why did you find me?"

  "My client wants to help you."

  "How?"

  "He wants to give you money."

  "How much?"

  "A million dollars."

  "He wants to give a million dollars to a complete stranger?"

  "He knows you."

  "What's his name?"

  "I can't say."

  "Where would I meet a rich guy?"

  "At the hotel bar."

  "What, I serve him a few drinks in the bar three years ago, now he wants to give me a million dollars?"

  "Apparently."

  "Why?"

  "Guilt. For not treating you well."

  "At the bar?"

  "When y'all dated."

  She shook her head. "Wrong girl, Andy. I never dated anyone I met in the bar. I was married to Mickey." She sighed. "One mistake can last a lifetime."

  "Mickey said y'all got married right out of high school."

  She nodded. "To get away from my father, even if away was three doors down. So I married Mickey and found out I had married my dad. God, he was always so jealous, Mickey. Some guy on the street even looked at me, he'd want to beat him up."

  "I bet that happened a lot."

  A little smile; a crack in the ice.

  "He hit you?"

  She just stared off.

  "Did he hit your girl?"

  "You wouldn't have talked to him if he had."

  "Why?"

  "Because he'd be dead."

  She seemed sincere.

  "Frankie, I know you're running from him."

  She started walking toward the house again.

  "Right now I'm running from you."

  "My client's just trying to help his old girlfriends."

  She stopped again.

  "Your rich client is giving a million dollars to his old girlfriends?"

  Andy nodded. "Seventeen."

  "Your client had seventeen girlfriends? What, does he look like Robert Redford?"

  "Redford? He's old."

  "Don't you watch old movies, like The Way We Were? "

  "Is that an action-thriller?"

  "It's a love story."

  "Oh. Well, Frankie, you're number seven on my client's old love list."

  "It's a mistake. I don't belong on that list."

  They arrived at the front door. She turned to him.

  "Andy, look, just tell your client you couldn't find me, okay?"

  "I can't lie to my client."

  "You're a lawyer."

  "Frankie, he's given six million dollars to six former girlfriends. And he wants to give you a million, too."

  She held her hand out.

  "Okay. Give it to me."

  He shook his head. "It doesn't work that way. I get all the information and take photos first. Then I meet with him, show him the photos, and he gives me the money. Then I bring you a cashier's check for a million dollars."

  "What kind of information?"

  "Your age."

  Like it was a joke: "Twenty-eight."

  "Your daughter's age."

  "Eight."

  "Your debts."

  "None."

  "Your economic condition. You know, do you have any money?"

  She waved her hand at the old rent house.

  "Yes, this is my estate."

  "Do you have a job?"

  "No."

  "How do you pay your bills?"

  "I manage."

  "Any other problems in your life?"

  "You."

  "Now, see, that wasn't hard. You're twenty-eight and broke, but otherwise all right, other than the fact that you're trying to quit smoking and you're hiding from your abusive ex-husband. You have an eight-year-old daughter who's… Oh, is she sick?"

  Her expression changed. The joke was over.

  "No."

  "She doesn't have a medical condition?"

  A bit suspicious now.

  "What kind of medical condition?"

  "A disease."

  "No."

  "She's perfectly healthy?"

  "Yes."

  Finally, a healthy child. The odds had turned.

  "Well, that's different."

  "From what?"

  "The others."

  "The other girlfriends?"

  Andy nodded.

  "They have sick kids?"

  "Yeah.
Well, one of them died."

  "But all six of them had sick kids?"

  "Yeah."

  "How sick?"

  "Cancer, cerebral palsy, paralysis…"

  "Does your client have a sick child?"

  Andy nodded again. "His son's dying. A rare form of leukemia."

  Her complexion was no longer creamy; it was pale. As if she were now sick, too. She stepped inside and shut the door in his face.

  The elevator door opened on a clown.

  Andy stepped out; the clown slapped a party hat on Andy's head and shoved a blowout in his mouth like a new father passing out cigars. A HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ZACH banner hung on the opposite wall, and colorful balloons and crepe-paper streamers hung from the ceiling. Two hours after leaving Frankie Doyle in Buda, Andy walked into the cancer ward on the seventh floor of the Austin General Hospital.

  More clowns passed out party favors, face painters made the kids look like lions and tigers and bears, and magicians and jugglers entertained the kids. Balloon artists fashioned animals out of long balloons. Pretty nurses ate cake and ice cream with their patients. Bald boys and girls wore smiles bigger than their faces. They were sick kids yesterday and would be again tomorrow, but today they were just kids.

  Andy heard cheers and spotted Zach Reeves perched atop a hospital bed being pushed down the corridor by a clown. He threw his arms into the air and screamed when his bed beat another kid's bed at the finish line.

  Bed races.

  Surveying it all was Andy's client. He walked over to Russell Reeves.

  "Thanks for coming, Andy. Zach was looking for you."

  "Wouldn't miss it."

  "I told Zach he could have his birthday party anywhere he wanted it-Yankee stadium, Madison Square Garden, Disney World. Said he wanted it here, with his friends."

  "He's a good kid."

  And he was standing there. His face was painted like a zebra, and he was wearing a baseball cap on backwards.

  "Andy, did you see the bed race? I won!"

  "Awesome, dude."

  They fist-punched. Zach pulled the cap off his head.

  "Look-my dad got it signed by the whole team."

  The whole New York Yankees team.

  "That's way cool. Oh, here."

  Andy took his backpack off his shoulder and removed a small gift-wrapped box. The boy took it and ripped the paper off and opened the box. He pulled out Andy's gift: a black leather doo-rag.

  "Aw, man, this is cool!"

  "I didn't get anyone to sign it."

  Zach put on the doo-rag. Andy adjusted the fit.