"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.
"He's still singing around town."
"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.
"Curtis," Tres said, "you'd do better looking for a date on Mensa-dot-com."
"Dave's wearing cowboy boots," Andy said, "to look taller. Still doesn't look six-two."
"He'd have to stand on a chair to look six-two."
Curtis turned to the next ad. "This girl says 'I strive to find justice and equality in life.' "
"And she's seeking casual sex?"
"How'd you know?"
Tres turned to Andy. "You've been gone a lot. Reeves?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"All over the country."
"What for?"
"Confidential. He swore me to secrecy."
"You're not in over your head, are you, Andy?"
"Nothing like that. Actually, I'm playing Robin Hood."
"She's here," Curtis said.
They all turned to the front door. A very attractive blonde-she wasn't Suzie or Bobbi, but then Dave wasn't Russell Reeves' lawyer-had just walked up to Dave. They exchanged a few words, then she kissed him on the cheek.
"Wow," Curtis said.
Curtis Baxter had never been kissed by a female unrelated by blood.
Dave and the blonde went inside and were seated at one of the tables in the first room where the bar was located. From their position on the front porch, they had a clear view of Dave and his date through the window. Ronda took their orders then returned with margaritas. They talked and laughed and ate Mexican food. Dave paid the mariachis to sing at their table.