by Mark Gimenez
"Shit!" Cecil said. "They went airborne!"
"Pull over!"
Cecil skidded to a stop. Harmon jumped out and ran to the other side of the road. Cecil followed. They stood on a steep cliff above the lake. The motorcycle lay crashed on the rocks a hundred feet below. Harmon didn't see Prescott or the girl.
Cecil pointed. "There!"
Prescott and the girl were floating face down in the water.
"She's dead," Cecil said.
"I'll make sure."
Harmon ejected the spent clip then loaded another into the Glock. He fired thirteen rounds at the girl. The bullets splashed into the water around her body, but several made direct impact into her black jacket.
"Now Baby X is dead."
"What about Prescott?"
"Looks dead to me," Harmon said. "But I wasn't paid to kill Prescott. Only the girl." Harmon spotted a car coming. "Let's get out of here. We hurry, we can make the noon flight back to Jersey. I'm sick of Texas."
"Are we going back to kill the Mexican that took your gun?"
"Cecil, we're professionals, just like lawyers and accountants. We don't kill out of revenge or passion or personal enjoyment. We kill because we're paid to kill. We're not being paid to kill that Mexican either, so we're not going to kill him. And as a professional, I have to consider the potential downside. What if the Mexican gets off a lucky shot, hits one of us? Then we're at a hospital answering questions from the police. That could end our careers. So killing the Mexican wouldn't be a smart move. Or professional."
Cecil nodded. "You're right. You're always right, Harmon. Still, I'd really like to shoot that Mexican son of a bitch, you know, on a purely personal, non-professional level."
"Yeah, me, too."
"Can we at least eat first? I'm starving."
"Sure. But not Mexican again."
"Barbecue?"
"Barbecue's good."
Harmon Payne and Cecil Durant got into the Crown Vic, turned around, and headed back to Austin. But they stopped at Hippie Hollow for a quick look. As Harmon Payne always said, "You only live once."
Tres jumped from rock to rock and splashed through the shallow water. He found Andy lying face down on the bank. He dropped to his knees next to his buddy.
"Andy!"
He rolled Andy over. His eyes were closed, and he was bleeding from his nose.
"Jesus!"
Tres slapped Andy's face.
"Andy! Andy!"
Nothing.
"Shit."
Frankie arrived in a rush and knelt next to them. She leaned over Andy and put her ear to his chest. She bent over him, pinched his nose, and blew into his mouth. She straightened up, put her hands together, and pushed on his chest.
"One, two, three… one, two, three… one, two, three… Come on, Andy!"
She bent over and put her mouth over his and blew… and blew again
… and again.
"Come on!"
Tres sat back and looked at his buddy lying there lifeless. He felt tears come into his eyes.
"Andy… why'd you cut your hair?"
Frankie knelt up and pushed on his chest again.
"One, two, three… one, two, three… one, two, three… Come on, Andy!"
She bent over again and blew into his mouth-once, twice, three times.
"Please, Andy. Please."
Andy coughed. Then he spit up water. Another cough and more water came out. He opened his eyes.
"Do that again."
"What?" Frankie said.
"The mouth thing."
Frankie cupped Andy's face and kissed him.
Andy pushed himself up on his elbows, which hurt. He was experiencing a full-body hurt. Water was harder than it looked.
"Is she dead?"
Frankie nodded. "Yes."
She pointed at the body floating in the water. Tres waded out and grabbed the girl's red hair; he pulled her onto the bank. Her hair came off in his hands, revealing a head as bald as a billiard ball. The mannequin's head.
"At least they think she's dead."
"Are you okay, Andy?"
Andy turned to Jessie standing there.
"I'm good."
"Your plan worked, Andy," Frankie said.
After losing the black sedan at the FM 2222 red light, Andy and Jessie had raced ahead and pulled into the 3M parking lot, where Tres and Frankie were waiting. Jessie had jumped off the Slammer, and Tres had secured the mannequin behind Andy with a belt under the black jacket. The day before, Andy had gone into SoCo and bought matching black jackets and pants and the mannequin with the red wig from the front display window at Lucy in Disguise with Diamonds. Frankie had dressed Jessie and the mannequin in the identical clothes and secured the red wig to the mannequin's head. From behind, you wouldn't know the mannequin wasn't Jessie. Tres helped Andy to his feet.
"Dude, you flew right off the freaking cliff!"
Andy had picked that exact spot-a sheer fall to a deepwater cove below-to ride off the cliff.
"Did get the adrenaline pumping, I'll give it that. How's the Slammer?"
"It's toast."
"Figured."
They stared at each other a long moment, then Tres shook his head. He held an open hand up; they clasped hands and bumped shoulders, as close as two heterosexual males could comfortably come to a full-body hug.
"I'm glad you're not dead."
"Me, too."
Jessie hugged him. "Thanks, Andy."
Frankie stepped to Andy and embraced him tightly. When she released him, he said, "Stay here. In Austin. With me."
She cupped his face with both hands, then kissed him-on the cheek. A "dear friend" kiss. Not an "I love you" kiss.
"Andy, what you did, that was manly. I was wrong, you're not like Mickey. You're a grownup."
"But?"
"But we can't be Karen and Jessie James anymore. We have to leave."
EPILOGUE
At exactly seven-thirty on the first day of June, loud rock music woke Andy Prescott. He reached over and turned off the radio.
Another Monday morning.
He was back in the little house on Newton Street in SoCo. He was back riding a bike to the office and traffic court. He was back to his old life.
He felt like Cinderella after the ball.
But he wasn't hung over. He had not gotten drunk the night before at Guero's. In fact, he hadn't been drunk since the day Frankie and Jessie had left. He had gotten stupid drunk that night, but not since. He had lost interest.
They had been gone two hundred and three days now.
He let Max out the front door and waved to Liz walking her dog, then showered and dressed. He brushed his hair back; it was long again, almost to his shoulders. He went outside and saddled up on the Stumpjumper, the last remnant of that life, and rode down the porch steps and then the front sidewalk to the street. He didn't turn north to Nellie for a morning adrenaline rush. Instead, he turned south and glided down James Street to Jo's. He noticed a familiar Cadillac Escalade parked at the curb. Lorenzo Escobar was standing in line.
"Lorenzo."
The PI gave him a big smile.
"Andy, my man." They fist-punched. "How you doing, brother?"
"I'm good. How's business?"
"Wives are still cheating, so business is good."
Lorenzo filled his coffee with sugar then walked over to his Escalade. He turned back.
"Andy… you call me anytime you need someone to watch your back. No charge."
"Thanks, Lorenzo."
Andy watched the Escalade cruise south on Congress then grabbed a Chronicle off the rack and walked up to the window.
"Large."
"Like I don't know."
Guillermo Garza handed him the coffee and two banana nut muffins. Andy had told Guillermo only that he no longer worked for Russell Reeves and that he had wrecked the Slammer. Guillermo knew not to ask questions.
"Keep the faith, bro."
Andy sat at a table and plac
ed Max's muffin on a napkin on the ground. He poured the dog some coffee then acknowledged the other regulars: Ray, still working on that novel; Darla, still dishing ice cream across the street; Oscar, still working at Guero's; George, still playing for tips; and Dwight, still blogging his life away.
Andy Prescott's life had changed and changed back again, but SoCo had remained unchanged-except for the new low-income housing. Russell Reeves had completed the three projects in SoCo: eight hundred town houses for low-income residents. But Russell had not come to SoCo for the grand openings; and they had never again spoken. Russell Reeves was seldom seen in public these days. Word was, Kathryn Reeves had been in and out of psychiatric hospitals around the country. It made Andy sad. He had never been able to work up any anger at Russell because he had never walked in Russell's shoes.
What would Andy have done to save his son?
Andy ate the muffin then bought Floyd T.'s breakfast and rode down Congress Avenue to his office. He found Floyd T. sitting on the stoop of the tattoo parlor with his grocery cart parked next to him. The parlor was closed, so Andy couldn't check his email. He had hoped every day for an email from Frankie, but none had ever come. He handed Floyd T. his breakfast and put a $5 bill in Floyd T.'s cigar box. Then he went upstairs to his office. He got that day's traffic tickets, his backpack, coat, and clip-on tie, folded the Chronicle lengthwise and stuck it in his back waistband for some courtroom reading. Max decided to visit with Floyd T., so Andy rode the bike to traffic court.
Judge Judith now looked upon him as one would a tragic fallen figure, the same way people with homes viewed Floyd T.: "He was once somebody-now look at him." The municipal prosecutor, Ms. Manning, ignored him. They had never banged out a plea bargain in her office. Andy could barely work up the interest to hand out his business cards on the way out.
He rode over to Whole Foods for lunch. Team Members Brad and Charlene still treated him the same, but (a) Suzie was dating Rich Olson (he still drove a Porsche, the bastard), (b) Bobbi no longer even acknowledged his existence, and (c) Spandex did not seem like the most incredibly marvelous invention in history anymore. Okay, it was still in the top ten.
He still had $20,000 of the fees Russell had paid him, which could have kept him in the life and Suzie and Bobbi for a few more glorious months, but he had lost interest in all that, too. If he wasn't just thirty years old, he'd be worried that he might be suffering some kind of midlife crisis.
He stopped in at REI just to say hello to Wayne then rode south down Lamar Boulevard across the lake to Texas Custom Boots. His father's handmade black elk cowboy boots were ready. He paid the final installment then rode back over to Congress Avenue with the boot box under one arm. He called out to Ronda sweeping the front porch at Guero's; Andy and the guys still met there for their Sunday night beer bash. Dave and Curtis remained without female companionship, and Andy had rejoined them in their misery. Curtis was now Dr. Baxter and would be teaching at MIT in the fall. Dave had gotten out of real estate and now sold women's lingerie at Victoria's Secret. He offered the employee discount to potential dates.
Tres and Natalie had married and their baby boy-Arthur Thorndike IV (apparently there was a naming rights stipulation in the trust fund)-was due any day now. They had already reserved personalized license plates for his sixteenth-birthday Beemer: CUATRO. Tres had quit the IRS and hired on with a big downtown law firm, Natalie was banking that her morning show series- Baby Watch with Natalie — would be her ticket to the networks, and their nanny-to-be was a sensuous nineteen-year-old Mexican girl.
Andy was a half-block down from his office when he noticed a crowd gathered in front of the tattoo parlor. And he knew: Floyd T. had suffered another heart attack. He rode fast then jumped off the bike and pushed his way through the crowd.
"Floyd T.!"
"What?"
Andy turned. Floyd T. was sitting there on the tattoo parlor's stoop.
"You okay?"
Floyd T. shrugged. "For a homeless person."
"What's going on?"
"I like her."
"Who?"
Ramon turned from the crowd.
"Andy."
He was grinning. But he grinned often these days. He had a new love interest who had granted him free artistic expression with her flesh canvas. Ramon Cabrera was a happy man.
"What's going on, Ramon?"
Ramon stood aside to reveal a shiny black American IronHorse Slammer. A cute red-haired girl sat on the seat; her pretty red-haired mother stood next to it. Andy Prescott always had a thing for redheads.
Ramon slapped Andy on the back. "Got some tickets for you, bro." He went inside his shop where a customer was waiting. Andy turned to the red-haired woman.
"I'm Connie Cantrell," she said. "And this is my daughter, Cassie."
"Connie and Cassie. Nice names."
"We thought so."
"So what brings you to my part of the world?"
"I need a lawyer."
"Are you in trouble?"
The woman named Connie nodded. "I got a traffic ticket. A big one. I heard you were the best traffic ticket lawyer in Austin."
"Well, I don't like to brag, but…"
"Will you be my lawyer?"
"Are you guilty?"
"Completely."
"Well, see, the thing is, I'll have to appeal it. And that'll take a year and a half, maybe two, before it comes to trial."
Connie shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere."
"You sure about that?"
"I'm sure. Cassie is enrolled at St. Ignatius in the fall-"
"Fourth grade," Cassie said.
— "And I'm enrolled at UT. Art department."
"Really?"
"Yep. I know people."
"So you're an artist?"
"Yes, I am."
"I'm a trail biker myself."
"I'd like to try that."
"I could teach you."
"Okay, then. But one question: If you're my lawyer… our lawyer, anything you know about us, that's our secret, right? You can't tell anyone?"
Andy nodded. "It's called the 'privilege.' Your secrets are safe with me."
"Good."
The girl named Cassie said, "Can we go see Paul?"
"Yes, you can. And he can see you." He turned to Connie. "My dad-"
"Got his liver."
His father would wear the black elk boots. But who had died so Paul Prescott could live? Who had not been saved so he could be? Had Russell Reeves pulled some strings to move Paul Prescott to the top of the list? Had he bought a longer life for Andy's father? Andy didn't want to know the answers. All he knew was that he still had his father-and that Paul Prescott had finally gotten his big break.
"How'd you know?"
"Your mother."
"You called her?"
Connie nodded. "At her office."
"She never told me."
"She said she could keep a secret… and that you could, too."
"How's your mother?"
She pointed inside Ramon's shop. Andy looked closely and saw that the customer was Colleen O'Hara. She was thumbing through Ramon's flash.
"She's living with us now. When we left here, Marty O'Connor sold her house, put her on a plane to Phoenix. I figured she couldn't wander off a seven-fifty-seven."
"That's where you've been living, Phoenix?"
"Sedona."
"Good art there."
"I quit smoking there."
Ramon poked his head out. "Connie, your mother says she wants a heart on her butt-you okay with that?"
Connie shrugged. "She's one of the tribe now."
"Andy," Cassie said, "give me a ride."
Her mother said, "Put the helmet on," then held the key out to Andy. He removed the Chronicle from his back waistband and tossed it into the trash can then handed the boot box to Connie. He took the key. He threw a leg over the Slammer and started the engine. He stood the bike straight, kicked the stand back, and revved the engine. He felt the b
ig S amp;S Sidewinder rumbling beneath him. He looked over at Connie; her lips moved, but he couldn't hear her words over the engine.
"What?"
She stepped closer. "I said, I like your hair long."
"The Samson theory."
And she kissed him. On the lips.
Cassie wrapped her arms around him and held on tightly. He shifted into gear and drove down the sidewalk and onto South Congress. He accelerated and felt the wind on his face, and he heard the girl scream with delight. And Andy Prescott thought, I might not be much of a lawyer, but I'm her lawyer. And her secrets will always be safe with me.
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