Gus: "Only difference is, he's got billions. We don't."
Ramon Cabrera banged a beer bottle against a tin chip bowl.
"Yo, people! This ain't rocket science. It's an easy decision: Do you trust Andy? I do. I vote in favor of Russell Reeves' development."
"Renovation," Andy said.
"Whatever."
Floyd T. said, "And tell him thanks for the food."
An hour later, the crowd voted unanimously in favor of Russell Reeves' plans for SoCo.
"Dude, these are good. You want one?"
The downtown lawyer sitting across the table lifted his eyes and gave Andy Prescott a "God bless the children" smile, then shook his head and returned to the stack of documents in front of him. Andy shrugged and thought, More for me.
He was getting down on the fresh chocolate-chip cookies the title company had set out in a little bowl in the center of the conference room table. They were free. His only regret was that he didn't have a glass of milk to dip them in.
A week to the day after the neighborhood meeting at Guero's, Andy Prescott was sitting in a cushy leather chair at a long wood table in the fancy offices of a title company in downtown Austin; the place smelled like a new luxury car, leathery and rich. He was eating cookies and about to close the first real-estate transaction of his legal career.
Russell Reeves' downtown lawyers had drafted the documents, reviewed title and survey, and obtained city approval for the low-income housing. His in-house accountant had wired $4 million to Andy's new trust account; he had never had a trust account before because he had never received a retainer in excess of $100. Russell's lawyers had done all the legal work, but Andy was the front man. The face of SoCo. He was Russell Reeves' lawyer south of the river.
Even though he was now sitting north of the river.
The title company agent sat at the end of the table and the seller's lawyer across the table. He was a partner in a downtown firm; he was wearing a slick suit and a confident expression as he flipped through the documents. Andy was wearing his traffic court outfit: blue sports coat, jeans, wrinkled shirt, clip-on tie, and Converse sneakers.
Reeves and the seller had already signed; the closing was about the lawyers dotting i's and crossing t's and swapping legal documents for legal tender. Andy felt like he should be doing something, so he started flipping through his stack of documents, too. The documents looked professional with indemnities and representations and warranties. Andy had taken a real-estate course in law school, but he had never once drafted a deed.
Damn.
Some of the chocolate on his fingers had rubbed off on the bright white paper of the top document. Andy glanced around for a napkin, but he didn't see one. So he licked his finger and tried to rub the chocolate off, but only succeeded in smearing it across the page. Just as he was going back down with a rewetted finger, the title agent said, "Andy, are you okay with the form of the Affidavit as to Debts, Liens and Possession?"
Andy vaguely remembered seeing a document with that title.
"Uh, yeah, sure."
He had no idea what he had just agreed to. He knew it, and she knew it. But neither of them cared. She cared about the $22,777 title insurance premium her company would pocket; he cared about the $800 he would pocket for this two-hour closing spent eating cookies. Ka-ching! God, is this how it worked for downtown lawyers? It was a freaking cash register, this billable-hour scheme. Only a lawyer could have dreamed it up.
He could get used to this, the life of a big-time lawyer.
An hour later, when he walked out of the title company with a half dozen cookies in his coat pocket for Floyd T. and Ramon, Andy stood a moment on the sidewalk and basked in the warmth of the September sun. He had wired the $4 million from his trust account to the title company's bank account; he had taken the deed to the land; he had closed his first major legal transaction.
For the first time in his life, Andy Prescott felt like a success.
TEN
Kelly Fitzgerald always felt a bit stupid, a nurse smoking on the job. She had tried to quit, but she could not beat her addiction. Still, she was down to two cigarettes per shift. And she never allowed her craving to interfere with her patient care. It was 3:00 A.M. and all the patients on Three West were asleep. Five minutes off the floor wouldn't harm anyone. She had ducked out the back door of the hospital to grab a quick smoke and was almost finished when the door behind her opened, and a man in a suit walked outside.
"Ms. Fitzgerald?"
"Yes."
The man flashed a badge. "I'm Agent Smith, FBI."
She laughed. "And I'm the president."
"What?"
"Take your store-bought badge and your game somewhere else."
"Pardon me?"
"Try another line."
"What are you talking about?"
"What I'm talking about is, I'm an Irish girl married to a cop, my two brothers are New York City cops, and my father was a cop. You're not a cop. You're a lawyer."
The man seemed disappointed.
"How'd you know?"
"Cops don't say 'pardon me.' "
"I knew that wasn't good as soon as I said it." The man sighed. "Okay. I'm a lawyer."
"And use a better name-I mean, Smith? "
"That is my real name."
"Oh. Well, Lawyer Smith, what do you want?"
"You were the night-shift charge nurse on Third Floor West three years ago?"
"Yes."
"You attended Dr. Falco's patients?"
"Why are you asking?"
"We're looking for one of his patients."
"Who?"
"Patient X."
Kelly took a slow drag on the cigarette and exhaled. The smoke hung like a gray cloud in the cool night air.
"I guess you would be looking for her. Kind of surprised it took this long."
"She's in hiding."
"She would be."
"So she just walked out of here three years ago? What kind of security do you have here?"
"You got in easy enough."
"And she's never been seen since?"
Kelly had been on duty that night. Falco had not been pleased to find his prized patient missing the next morning.
"No."
"We don't want to harm her."
"You want to use her, like Falco."
"All I need is the woman's name."
Kelly turned to the lawyer. "The woman's name?"
"Yes."
Kelly's mind raced. She bought time with another long drag on the cigarette. She exhaled again.
"I never knew her real name. Falco was paranoid."
"Ms. Fitzgerald, she won't be harmed in any way. We just need to find her and talk to her. We will pay her well. And we will pay you well for her name. One million dollars, Ms. Fitzgerald. For her name."
"I don't know her name."
"Two million."
"Goodbye."
Kelly dashed the cigarette on the iron railing, flicked the butt into the garden, and walked back inside; but she thought, What is his game?
The next morning, Dennis Lott sat behind his desk. He would soon be fired as administrator of the hospital. He was sure of that. He had been hired two years ago, just six months before Tony Falco had jumped ship for that Chinese research institute. It was like getting the last berth on the Titanic.
Falco had left, and the research grants had followed. Dennis was now the administrator of a research hospital without funds to conduct research. The money followed the name scientists like groupies followed rock stars. Falco was a star.
Dennis Lott was not.
He had been completely unsuccessful in attracting new scientists and funding to the hospital. So the board of trustees would soon find another administrator who might prove more successful. Dennis figured he had two months, at the longest. This was his fifth hospital. There would not be a sixth.