by Mark Gimenez
"How old?"
"Thirty-five."
"Her boy?"
"Nine."
"What's wrong with him?"
An expectation now.
"Optic nerve hypoplasia. He's blind."
Andy flew to Dallas and found Pam Ward, who had moved there from L.A. He took photos and met with Russell.
"She's thirty-two."
"The girl?"
"Eleven."
"What's wrong with her?"
"Batten disease."
Andy flew to Miami and found Sylvia Gutierrez. Then he met with Russell.
"She's thirty-eight and her son is fifteen."
"What's wrong with him?"
"Seizures, from a head injury playing football."
Andy flew first class, he rented luxury vehicles, he stayed in five-star hotels and ordered room service; he found more women with sick children; he delivered a cashier's check to each woman for $1 million. They cried; he cried. Andy Prescott was being paid well to do good. He felt like Robin Hood, except he wasn't having to steal from the rich. The rich guy was just giving it away.
But the expense-account lifestyle had grown less exciting with each passing day; Andy had come to dread meeting another desperate woman with another sick child. Six old girlfriends… six sick children. What were the odds? When his rich client had called that morning about the delay in finding the seventh woman, Andy had decided it was time to find out what the hell was going on. Russell Reeves had sent the limo.
Darrell did not say a word on the ride over. He did not jump out of the driver's seat and run around to open the back door for Andy. He just stopped under the porte-cochere at Russell Reeves' lakefront mansion and waited for Andy to get out. Then he drove off.
Jerk.
Andy walked to the door and rang the doorbell. A middle-aged Latino woman opened the door. It was just after noon.
"Mr. Prescott?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Please come in."
Andy stepped into a magnificent marble foyer.
"Mr. Reeves, he is on a conference call. He said he will be with you shortly. Would you like a refreshment?"
"I'm good."
"You here to see my dad?"
A skinny, bald-headed boy wearing a blue New York Yankees cap on backwards and a green Boston Celtics sweat suit had walked into the foyer. Another sick child.
"Uh, yeah. I'm Andy Prescott."
"Zach."
The boy stuck out a closed hand. They fist-punched.
"You play Guitar Hero?" Zach asked.
"Zach, I am the Guitar Hero."
"Please. Don't embarrass yourself."
Andy grinned.
"Bring it on, dude."
"Dude, you're killing me."
The kid was good. Real good. Too good for Andy.
"I give," Andy said.
They leaned back in the gaming chairs. Zach's bedroom suite was bigger than the little cottage on Newton and housed every electronic gadget and game money could buy. The boy must have noticed Andy's envious eyes.
"I've spent most of my life in here. Thanks for playing, Andy. My dad's not very good."
"Don't you play with your friends from school?"
"I've never been to school. My dad hires tutors. TAs at UT. Grad students teach me English, Science, Spanish-?Le gustaria una revancha? "
"You like that?"
"Spanish?"
"Tutors."
"They're okay. But I'd rather go to school like normal kids."
"So what do you want to be when you grow up, Zach, a professional Guitar Hero player?"
"You mean, if I grow up."
"When."
"Either centerfielder for the Yankees, point guard for the Celtics, or quarterback for the Cowboys."
Andy looked at the boy. He was staring off, as if contemplating the odds of becoming a star athlete… or of growing up. After a moment, he turned to Andy.
"What about you, Andy? What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"I haven't decided yet."
"Who are you?"
A stern female voice. Andy turned and recognized Kathryn Reeves standing there. He jumped up. She came and stood next to Zach, like a mother standing between her child and a strange dog.
"Hi, Mrs. Reeves. I'm Andy Prescott. I work for Russell."
"In what capacity?"
"Uh, legal."
"Are you a courier at his law firm?"
Andy was wearing jeans, sneakers, and an "Austin Sucks-Don't Move Here" T-shirt. It wasn't a travel or traffic court day.
"Uh, no, ma'am. I'm a lawyer. At my own firm."
Okay, "firm" was a serious stretch, but what was he supposed to say, the truth? And no doubt Russell hadn't mentioned to his wife their search for his seventeen former girlfriends.
"I've never heard him mention your name. And what exactly do you do for Russell?"
"Special projects, Kathryn."
Saved by Russell Reeves. Andy exhaled with relief.
"Andy," his client said with a big smile, "is my secret weapon." He gestured at the video screen and said to Zach: "You win?"
"Of course."
"I want a rematch, dude," Andy said.
" Revancha. At my birthday party. Friday. Okay?"
"Yeah, sure, I'll be there. Here. Wherever."
Zach gave Andy a grin and another fist-punch.
"Let's go back to my office, Andy," Russell said.
"Later, dude." To Kathryn Reeves, he said, "Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Reeves."
"Nice to meet you, Andy."
She didn't sound convincing.
Andy followed his client out of Zach's room. Once in the hallway, the smile dropped off Russell's face.
"Kathryn doesn't know what you're doing for me."
"I figured."
They walked down the hallway in awkward silence.
"Zach's a neat kid," Andy finally said.
"The chemo knocks the cancer down, so once he recovers from the treatments, he has a good period. But the remissions are shorter each time."
"He said he wants to go to school, be a normal kid."
"I wish he could. He's always been too sick to go to school. So I hire tutors. Matter of fact, I need a new math tutor. You think your buddy Curtis would want the job?"
Was there anything Russell Reeves didn't know about Andy Prescott?
"Russell, Curtis Baxter is like a math genius. He'll have his Ph. D. in seven months. Don't you think he's overkill for a seven-year-old kid?"
"Zach's IQ is one-sixty-five."
"I'll give you Curtis' number."
They entered an expansive office, exactly the kind of office Andy would have expected of a billionaire. He went over to the back wall of windows that offered an incredible view of Lake Austin. Russell sat behind a desk and slumped in the chair. Three weeks and he had given six million dollars to six different women. Russell Reeves was making amends big time. But it wasn't making him happy.
"They're not exactly living happily ever after," Andy said. "Your old girlfriends."
"No."
"What's going on, Russell?"
"With what?"
"These women. You have a sick kid, they have sick kids. Why is that?"
"Like I said, Andy. Bad luck."
"Six out of six… what are the odds?"
"One in a million. Those are the odds of Zach getting Ph-positive ALL, his type of leukemia. When it comes to disease, Andy, odds don't matter. And it's six out of seventeen women, not six out of six. We haven't found them all yet."
That was true.
"Actually, it's six out of all their children-sixteen so far, maybe thirty or forty when we find all the women."
That was also true.
"But still, Russell, why do I think there's something you're not telling me?"
"Why would I hide something from you? You're my lawyer. You have to keep my secrets."
He paused.
"Look, Andy, I know this is a tough job, seeing those
sick children. You're not around a sick kid every day like I am. But we're helping them, and that's what's important. Still, if this job is too tough for you, I'll find someone else."
Andy stared out the window and thought of all those women and sick kids whose lives had been made better by Russell Reeves. No matter what his rich client wasn't telling him-and he was pretty sure his rich client wasn't telling him something-the bottom line was that they were helping those women and those kids. That was important. That was a good thing. Andy Prescott couldn't help his father, but he could help these kids.
"I'll do it."
"Thanks, Andy. Who's next?"
"Hollis said he's having trouble with the seventh woman."
"What kind of trouble?"
"Finding her."
"He can't find her?"
"Apparently not."
"Go see him. McCloskey. Pay him whatever it takes, Andy, but I want these women found."
Russell walked Andy to the front door where Darrell was waiting in the limo. Andy got in, and Darrell drove through the gates and toward town. Andy looked down the list at the seventh woman's name, the woman Hollis could not find.
"Where are you, Frankie Doyle?"
Karen James craved a cigarette, but she was determined to quit.
She steered the old Toyota into the carpool lane at the elementary school and stopped. When the car ahead inched forward, she inched forward. Kids were emerging from the school, running down the walkway-their oversized backpacks made them look like little mountain climbers-and jumping into their parents' cars.
She didn't see Jessie.
Karen glanced around at the other drivers: mothers, grandmothers, a few fathers, and a handful of Mexican nannies, even in this small town. They were driving cars and SUVs and pickups; high-end, low-end, and barely running. The public school took all comers regardless of class, race, ethnicity, citizenship, or length of residency in the school district. Which was good; they had moved into town only two months ago, right before school had started.
Where was Jessie?
Karen had arrived at the pickup point, but her daughter had not yet appeared. The carpool traffic monitor-the P.E. teacher who looked like she could bench press the Toyota-stuck her head in the open passenger window and told her to pull around to the side parking lot. Karen steered out of the drive-through lane in front of the school and turned into the parking lot, but she had to wait for a black van with darkened windows to exit. She glanced at the driver, and he glanced at her. She felt a sudden chill.
Where was Jessie?
Her mind began conjuring up possibilities and dark images soon followed; she got out of the car. She watched the black van drive off, then she went into the school. Her pace increased without conscious thought as she walked down the corridor to Jessie's third-grade room. Ms. Nash, her teacher, was marking papers at her desk. She was alone.
"Excuse me."
Ms. Nash looked up. "Oh, hi, Karen."
"Where's Jessie?"
"Why, she's gone."
"She didn't come outside to carpool."
"She didn't?"
"No."
"Well, then-"
Karen was already hurrying down the hall and checking each room. Ms. Nash caught up with her at the principal's office.
"Karen, I'm sure she's here somewhere."
The principal walked out of her office.
"Is there a problem?"
"We can't find Jessie," Ms. Nash said.
"I'll call the police."
"No!" Karen said.
"Jessie left with the other kids," Ms. Nash said. "Karen says she didn't come out for carpool."
"Let's check the rooms."
They searched every room on the west corridor. No Jessie. They went down to the gym; kids were playing volleyball and basketball. But not Jessie. They walked into the locker rooms.
"Jessie! Jessie!"
Principal Stephens' expression showed her fear: a child lost on her watch.
"I'd better call the police."
"Let's check the east corridor," Karen said.
They hurried out of the gym and down the east corridor. Jessie wasn't in the science lab or the library or the art room. Karen's mind was on the verge of full-scale panic when she spotted a head of red hair in the music room.
"Jessie!"
Her eight-year-old daughter swiveled around on the bench in front of the piano. She smiled.
"Hi, Mom."
Jessie eyes moved to her teacher and the principal standing behind Karen; the smiled dropped off her face.
"Uh-oh. I didn't tell anyone where I'd be. I'm sorry."
"We've been looking all over school for you."
"I just wanted to practice a little."
Karen took a deep breath and turned to the others.
"I'm sorry."
They nodded and patted her shoulder. They were mothers, too. After they had left, Jessie said, "Am I in trouble?"
"No, honey. Let's go home."
God, she needed a cigarette.
Texas Custom Boots on South Lamar Boulevard in Austin shares a small space with a taxidermy shop; in one stop, you can get your custom boots fitted and your dead buck stuffed. Paul Prescott was standing in his white socks on a sheet of thick paper while the boot maker wrote down his exact desires-toe, heel, puller, collar bands, cross-stitch design, leather, and color-and then traced his feet and took meticulous measurements.
"Black elk," Andy said. "They'll be soft but sturdy."
"Like your mother."
Jean Prescott, Ph. D., smiled like a smitten teenager. His father was good, Andy had to give him that. Paul Prescott had that twinkle in his blue eyes that appealed to women of all ages; perhaps that was why his wife and son had accompanied him to so many honky-tonks. One day eight or nine years back when they were down at the creek, Andy had joked about the groupies who had hung out at the bars; his father had said, "Andy, you're old enough to know the truth about your old man. I'm a drunk, but I'm a faithful drunk. To Jose Cuervo and your mother. I never betrayed her love."
And Jean Prescott had stood by her man.
She had driven him into town that afternoon for his monthly transplant evaluation. He met with doctors (hepatologist, hematologist, cardiologist, gastroenterologist, and psychiatrist), a social worker (to ensure a reliable post-transplant caregiver was still available), and the financial representative (to confirm he still had insurance and could pay for the surgery and the expensive post-transplant drug regimen), and underwent the regular battery of tests to continue his place on the waiting list. And the team verified that he remained stone sober; one drop of alcohol, and Paul Prescott would be kicked off the list and left to die like road kill.
The boot maker finished his measurements, Andy paid half of the $1,500 price of the boots as a down payment pending delivery in seven or eight months, and they went outside. It was after six.
"How about dinner at Threadgill's?" Andy said. "I'm buying."
Andy expected his father to decline; he no longer liked to be seen in public because his skin was now a shade of orange. But his father surprised him.
"Hell, don't see how I can turn down a chicken-fried steak at Threadgill's. Only way I'm gonna get meat."
Andy stowed the bike in the back of his mother's 1989 Volvo station wagon (she was terribly proud of the odometer that registered over 300,000 miles) and got into the back seat. They drove the short distance over to the restaurant on Riverside, located just down from where the Armadillo had stood.
"Breaks my heart," his father said, "every time I see that office building where the Armadillo used to be. Those were good times. Best times were opening for Willie."
"How old is Willie now? Ninety?"
His father chuckled, a sound Andy enjoyed.
"He's damn sure lived ninety years, but he just turned seventy-five back in April."
Willie Nelson was a poet, a singer, a songwriter, and a Texas icon who lived on a ranch just outside of Austin.
"Willie will sing and write his songs till the day he dies. That's what he is. That's what we all are-Willie, Billy Joe, Jerry Jeff, Kris-singers and songwriters." He paused and pulled out his little notebook and pen. "Singers and songwriters. Might be able to use that."
The Prescott men ordered the world-famous chicken-fried steak, Threadgill's specialty. Andy's mother ordered a salad.
"How's the loft?" she asked.
"Sweet."
"And your girlfriend?"
"The blonde or the brunette?"
His father leaned back and laughed. "Listen to him now. Two months ago he's dating Curtis and Dave, now he's got to beat the gals off with a stick."
"The blonde."
"Where'd you see us?"
"Whole Foods. She doesn't wear a lot of clothes."
"Would you cover up that body?"
"Hell, son," his father said, "you'd better eat two of those steaks. You need the protein." He drank his iced tea and said, "Reeves, he changed your life."
"For the better."
"Andy…"
"Yeah?"
"Don't get too comfortable with that new life."
"Are you still working on those SoCo developments?" his mother said.
"Renovations. I got three approved by the residents. Construction's already started on those. I've been traveling, so the others are on hold."
"Whereabouts?" his father said.
"Houston, Dallas, New Orleans, Seattle, Miami, Chicago."
"For Reeves?"
Andy nodded.
"Real-estate deals?"
"Not exactly."
"What exactly?"
"Dad, I can't say. It's confidential. But it's all good."
"If you say so." He grunted. "Damn, I'd love a cold beer with this steak."
" 'I'm looking for a friend. You cannot be a liar and must have a job.' "
Curtis looked up from the personal ad.
"That seems a little harsh."
Andy paid Ronda for another round of Coronas for the table. His folks had dropped him off at Guero's on their way back to Wimberley, Natalie had paroled Tres for the night, Curtis was reading personal ads aloud, and Dave was standing by the front door of Guero's waiting for his date to arrive. He appeared as nervous as a lawyer taking a polygraph.
"I can't believe someone answered his ad," Tres said.
"Gives me hope," Curtis said.