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 placed 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.