"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.
"Happy birthday, Zach."
"Thanks, Andy."
The boy gave him a quick hug then rejoined the party.
"He likes you, Andy."
"I like him."
"I try to be a big brother, too, but it's not the same."
"He looks good today."
Russell nodded. "Today. Chemo tomorrow."
They didn't speak for several minutes. Andy watched Zach playing with the other sick kids, then he watched Russell watching Zach. He knew exactly what was going through his client's mind.
"We found her," Andy finally said. "Frankie Doyle."
"Let's go upstairs."
They walked to the elevators. Russell used a special key to access the penthouse. The place looked like a fancy hotel suite. Russell led Andy into an office. They sat across a table from each other. Andy removed the dossier and photos of Frankie Doyle and her daughter from his backpack and spread them across the table.
"She wasn't easy to find, Russell."
"That why you went to this Lorenzo Escobar?"
"How'd you know?"
"I keep tabs, Andy."
"Hollis goes by the book."
"Doing whatever it takes to get the job done. I like that, Andy."
Russell studied the dossier and photos under a small fluorescent desk lamp.
"She moved from Boston to Montana to New Mexico to West Texas. Changed her name every time. She now lives in Buda."
Russell looked up. "You went to Boston and Montana and found her fifteen miles from here?"
"Yeah."
Russell returned to the photos.
"So what's her story?"
"Frankie Doyle is twenty-eight, divorced, one daughter. She's eight."
"Finances?"
"None to speak of. She drives an old Toyota and lives in a rent house. Unemployed."
"Problems?"
"Cigarettes and her ex-husband up in Boston. He hit her. She's running from him."
Russell shook his head slowly.
"These poor women. They all have a burden to bear."
"I met hers. Ex-boxer, owns a garage. He's a jerk."
"What's wrong with the girl?"
"Nothing."
Russell's eyes came up again.
"Her child's not sick?"
"No."
"You're sure?"
Andy shrugged. "Frankie said she was in perfect health."
"You saw her? The girl?"
"Yeah. Cute redhead. She seemed fine."
"See, Andy. Just odds."
Russell went back to the photos.
"And she's eight years old?"
Andy nodded. "And Frankie is twenty-eight. Which means, Russell, she couldn't have been your girlfriend."
Russell didn't react. He didn't even look up from the photos.