The Common Lawyer

TWENTY-TWO

Andy woke early the next morning without the alarm. It was Friday, and he wanted to get to Wimberley. He needed to talk to Frankie. He showered and dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt. He was starving, and there was no food or coffee in the loft; and coffee and a muffin at Jo's was out of the question.

But he needed carbs.

He decided to pick up breakfast tacos and a coffee at Whole Foods then hit the road. He grabbed his cell phone, the bike lock, and the Stumpjumper then stepped outside. He put on his helmet and saddled up. He looked around; no dirt bikes or black sedans were in sight.

The coast was clear.

He pedaled west on Fifth the two blocks to Whole Foods. He turned north on Bowie Street and entered the underground parking garage-just to be on the safe side. He parked and locked the bike outside the escalators. He went in through the automatic doors and stepped onto the up escalator.

The down escalator to Andy's left was crowded with shoppers heading to their cars in the garage with grocery carts piled high. The down escalator at Whole Foods was the kind that flattened out into one long ramp; the grocery carts didn't roll down the ramp because rings connected to the wheels locked the carts into the escalator grooves. So shoppers could take their carts down the escalator to the parking garage.

At store level, both sides of the escalator were protected by waist-high glass panels to prevent a customer from inadvertently falling down the escalator bay. As he rose into the store, Andy ducked slightly and peered through the glass panels for anyone who looked out of place. To his right was a dining area; to his left were the checkout lines. At the mouth of the escalator were the outdoor market and the floral department; beyond were shoppers gathered at the nut roaster. He saw tattoos and body piercings, shaved heads and unshaven legs, hippies and yuppies, and fit females in Spandex.

Just the normal Whole Foods crowd.

He got off the escalator and came around the checkout counters. He wanted to run straight down the gluten-free aisle and into "Beer Alley" and hide out in the walk-in beer cooler for the day with a case of Coronas; instead, he walked toward the food court with his head ducked down. He went past the Organic Clothes and Whole Body and Health amp; Beauty section selling environmentally friendly jewelry and was passing the juice bar when Team Member Charlene sang out, "Hi, Andy!"

He cringed.

For Christ's sake, Charlene, why don't you just announce over the store's public-address system that I'm here?

He stopped at the breakfast taco bar. Team Member Brad said, "The regular?" Andy nodded then scanned the food court crowd. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"Hi, Andy."

Except Suzie.

"Oh, uh, hi, Suzie."

"You haven't called me."

Still searching the crowd.

"I've been busy."

"With Bobbi?"

"Work."

"Do you like my new gym outfit?"

"What?"

Andy now turned his attention to Suzie and her gym outfit. She twirled around for him to see. Sweet Jesus. Now that was a gym outfit: a skin-tight white tube top that revealed much about her anatomy and white Spandex short-shorts that stretched the few inches from well below her navel to just below her cheeks. Body parts were snugly encased, ripped abs were exposed, and Andy's body was enthused. Spandex.

"That's a, uh, really nice outfit, Suzie."

When Andy finally looked up at her face, his peripheral vision caught two black figures standing at the sliding glass entrance doors to the food court; two Darrell-wannabes had just entered from the outdoor patio. They wore black pants and black knit shirts stretched tight around their muscular bodies; they looked like they had cornered the steroids market. Andy had the urge to cut and run, but (a) Suzie was standing between him and the men in black, so they didn't have a direct line of sight to him, and (b) he was starving. He needed those carbs.

"Hi, Andy."

Bobbi glided past Andy and Suzie and gave him a coy smile. Andy turned and stared at her Spandex. Wow.

"Andy!"

Back to Suzie.

"You're looking at Bobbi instead of me?"

Suzie was gorgeous, but Andy could never resist looking at other girls who walked by-why was that? Suzie put on her pouty face and stormed off. Andy turned his back to the front door then ducked behind a tall display for Electrolyte Enhanced Water. He peeked around at the brutes in black.

Christ, they were talking to Suzie.

Figure her to find the two fittest men in Whole Foods. And they were fit. But not fit in the Austin way. They were fit in the military way. Their muscles weren't carefully constructed by a high-priced personal trainer for the express purpose of attracting the opposite sex at Whole Foods-although they were sure as hell attracting Suzie. Their muscles were made for fighting. He could read their lips: "Have you seen Andy Prescott?"

Suzie turned and pointed at the breakfast taco bar.

Thanks a lot, Suzie.

"Andy, your tacos."

Team Member Brad was holding out two hot delicious breakfast tacos wrapped in aluminum foil. Andy pulled a $10 bill from his pocket, stood with his back to the men, and handed the bill across the counter.

"Keep the change."

Andy took the tacos from Brad, stuffed them in his pocket, and slowly turned. The men were ten feet away and closing. They had ear buds and were talking into their shirt collars. Andy walked the opposite way.

They followed.

Whole Foods employed an off-duty state trooper for store security. He was standing directly in front of Andy in his olive uniform, tan cowboy boots, and cream cowboy hat; he had a big gun in his leather holster and a bigger belly above it. He would be worthless in a foot chase. Andy walked up to the trooper and pointed back at the two men.

"Those guys are harassing the girls."

The trooper stepped in front of the men, and Andy broke and ran down the main aisle past the checkout counters and toward the escalators. He was almost there when two more brutes in black emerged from the outdoor market; they were blocking his path to the down escalator.

Shit.

He glanced back and saw that the first two men had evaded the trooper and were now running toward him. Andy ran down the Whole Body System Support aisle, ducked around a display for Complete Body Cleanse (who would do that voluntarily?), and flattened his body against the shelves. When the thugs rounded the corner, Andy stuck his foot out; they tripped and went tumbling into a chlorine-free diaper display.

Andy ran back up the aisle to the checkout lines. He had to draw the other men away from the escalators, so he ran directly toward them until they spotted him and gave chase. Andy cut left at the nut roaster and ran down the bulk aisle lined with large dispensers holding nuts, beans, seeds, and granola. Without slowing, Andy stuck his hand out and slapped open several dispensers, flooding the concrete floor behind him with raw filberts, garbanzo beans, flax seeds, soy nuts, and yogurt maltballs the size of marbles. The first man stepped on the spilled bulk items and slipped and slid like a kid on roller skates then hit the floor hard; the second man stepped on his fallen comrade and vaulted over the organic debris.

He was gaining on Andy.

Andy turned right into produce, grabbed a yellow squash and a purple eggplant, and hurled them at the man; the vegetables did not slow him. Andy came to cantaloupes displayed like a tall teepee; he pulled one from the bottom. The teepee came tumbling down; cantaloupes rolled across the floor in front of his pursuer. He fell.

Andy ran on past the raw foods counter to the rear of the store. He swung left through dairy and past fresh meat and poultry and skidded to avoid an elderly customer at the bread counter. He made a hard left at the chocolate fountain and ran past the olive bar. If he could make it out the food court exit he could run around the parking lot to the garage entrance.

But another thug was blocking the exit.

Damn.

That guy now ran toward him. Andy retreated and ran down the center aisle. He grabbed an empty shopping cart and rolled it at the guy, flung a few cans of organic refried beans at him-which he blocked with his arms as if they were sponges-then knocked over displays stacked high with cans of whey protein and energy drinks. Which slowed the dude down long enough for Andy to cut down the pet aisle offering socially conscious dog toys, through the wine cellar, and into Beer Alley.

Cases of beer were stacked high against the glass walls, so the view from outside the cooler was blocked. He hid behind a stack of Corona Extras. Dang, six-packs were on sale for only $7.99. He hated to pass up a sale, but there was no way he could get out of there carrying a six-pack. So he grabbed a cold bottle, placed the edge of the cap against the shelf, and slapped the top with the butt of his open hand. The cap popped off. He drained half the beer in one long drink.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and peeked out the glass enclosure; two of the men were arguing with the trooper over by the Bowie BBQ counter. Now was his chance. It was a straight shot up the chips and salsa aisle to the escalators. He stayed low to the ground until he got to the door of the beer cooler then- damn- one of the thugs spotted him.

Andy darted up frozen vegetables and ran full out to the checkout counters; the escalators were just beyond the counters. But the lines were packed with shoppers and grocery carts. So he dodged a cart, stepped on a stack of bottled waters, and leaped onto the moving belt at a checkout counter.

"Pardon me! Coming through!"

He jumped over the price scanner and then the recyclable brown paper shopping bags and hit the ground again; two big steps and he grabbed the metal railing, vaulted the glass panel, and dropped onto the down escalator. He squeezed past customers and their carts and ran out the doors.

He was in the garage.

The bike was right outside the door, but he fumbled for the combination to the lock; he checked back for the men. He finally got the lock opened and hopped on the Stumpjumper just as the brutes blew out the door to the escalators. He stood on the pedals and raced around the garage; they ran around cars and climbed over cars and tried to cut him off. But he beat them to the Bowie Street exit, flew out onto the street, and turned south. He turned east on Fifth Street, cut through two alleys, and arrived at the loft. He opened the front door and pulled the bike inside.

He had made it.

He stood there a moment to catch his breath. Then he smiled. He had two breakfast tacos. And they were still warm. He went to the fridge, grabbed a Corona, and popped the top. He sat down and ate his breakfast. Protein, carbs, and beer-the breakfast of champions. He had just finished the second taco when he heard noises outside. He went to the window and peeked out.

The thugs were there.

The two black Mercedes-Benz sedans were there. How had they found him in this loft? He watched them through the blinds. They were pointing at the other lofts; there were twenty in this building. They were splitting up and going door to door. Which meant… they knew he lived in one of these twenty lofts, but they didn't know which loft. They had tracked him to this building, but not to this loft. How?

There was a knock on the door.

Andy finished off the Corona, grabbed his sunglasses, and went down a flight of stairs to the one-car garage that sat slightly below ground level. A short driveway ramped up to the street out front where the Mercedes-Benzes were parked.

He hit the light.

The garage was stark white and immaculate; there wasn't a broom, shovel, lawn mower, tool, or grease spot in sight. But parked in the center of the garage was a glossy black American IronHorse Slammer. Seven hundred forty-two pounds and one hundred ten horsepower of pure adrenaline rush. The biggest, baddest, most ass-kicking motorcycle on the planet.

Andy saddled up and ran his hands over the dual gas tanks as if they were Suzie's smooth thighs. The front tire measured one hundred twenty millimeters in width, the back tire three hundred, the better to hold the road. The wheels were chrome Streetfighters and featured disc brakes front and rear. The S amp;S Sidewinder engine beneath him filled one hundred eleven cubic inches of space. The transmission was six-speed with overdrive. The price tag was $42,500.

He had ordered the Slammer a month before, right after Russell Reeves had hired him to find his old girlfriends at $500 an hour. He had taken delivery of the motorcycle only the day before, after Russell's men had chased him from UT to the Hike-and-Bike Trail. He had bought his dream with Russell Reeves' money-money Andy had earned finding Frankie Doyle.

Now he needed the Slammer to make things right.

Andy secured the black bowl-type crash helmet on his head and inserted the sunglasses. He took a deep breath then fired up the Slammer. He revved the engine just to hear the distinctive IronHorse roar. No other sound on Mother Earth could compare.

Adrenaline coursed through his body.

He stood the Slammer straight and kicked the stand back. The bike was pointed directly at the garage door. He hit the automatic opener clipped to the handlebars. The door rose. Andy shifted the Slammer into gear, but held the clutch in tight. When the door was high enough, he ducked down, popped the clutch, and gave it the gas. The Slammer shot under the door and up the driveway ramp past the startled thugs and between the Mercedes-Benz sedans and out onto Fifth Street. He leaned hard right and accelerated; he saw in the side mirrors the men scrambling into the sedans. He heard tires squealing.

He would lose them out on the big road where the IronHorse could do what it did best: go fast.

He turned south on Guadalupe Street and hit South First then accelerated across the bridge over Lady Bird Lake. He veered east onto Riverside past Threadgill's then south onto Congress Avenue. The sedans were six car lengths behind him. He accelerated up the hill past the School for the Deaf then slowed and yelled at Guillermo Garza hanging his head out the window at Jo's.

"Keep the faith, bro!"

Guillermo ran outside with his fists in the air.

"Andy, my man! You are the man!"

Andy gave Guillermo a fist-punch in the air then gave the Slammer the gas. He hit the center turn lane and blew past a line of slow-moving cars. He spotted Oscar sweeping the front porch at Guero's and shouted "Dude!" as he drove past. In the side mirror he saw Oscar drop his broom… and the black sedans gaining on him.

He juiced the Slammer.

He passed his little office above Ramon's tattoo parlor and wondered if he'd ever contest another traffic ticket. When he had run from Russell Reeves the day before, he had crossed the line. He had chosen Frankie over his client. Right over wrong. Morality over money. Love over law. All the wrong choices for a lawyer. He would be disbarred.

If he wasn't killed first.

He hit the brakes hard. Traffic was backed up at Oltorf Street.

But he couldn't stop now.

So he veered across the northbound lanes, cut through a parking lot, turned back west on Oltorf, made it through the intersection and turned south on Congress before the light turned green. Fortunately, no Austin cop was around; the fines from those moving violations would top $1,000. But now he was ahead of the traffic and the sedans. He slowed when he came to the new low-income town homes his client was building for SoCo.

Russell Reeves was a complicated man.

Andy arrived at Highway 290 West. The road that climbed three hundred feet to the top of the Balcones Escarpment. A road that required a powerful engine. Like the Slammer's S amp;S Sidewinder.

Andy cut through a gas station to the access road then accelerated down onto the entrance ramp to 290. He poured on the power and had the Slammer doing seventy before he entered the highway. He had it running eighty through the split at the Capital of Texas Highway and past MoPac Expressway located just south of the Barton Creek Greenbelt. He checked the side mirrors; the black sedans were nowhere in sight.

Which was a good thing because he was approaching Oak Hill, where the freeway portion of Highway 290 ended and stop lights interrupted the traffic flow. The road through Oak Hill was four tight lanes that squeezed past a fifty-foot-high limestone wall, one of the first terraces of the escarpment. There was no way around the traffic. The sedans would catch up in Oak Hill. Two red lights in they did; Andy was sitting between two massive pickups; he figured they couldn't see him from a dozen cars back.

He was heading due west at the Y where Highway 71 turned northwest and Highway 290 turned southwest. He could take 71 then turn back against traffic onto the 290 ramp; he might lose one of the sedans. The light turned green, and the traffic surged forward. Andy was in the left lane that stayed 290. Just before the road split, he gunned the Slammer and swerved into the right lane and took Highway 71. He accelerated as if making his move.

In the side mirror, he saw one black sedan follow. The sedan accelerated hard, so Andy slowed a bit. Just before the sedan was on him, he cut in front of the oncoming traffic and turned south onto the ramp leading back to 290. The sedan got caught by the traffic; horns honked. Those dudes were history.

But where was the other sedan?

Andy veered back onto 290 and headed west. He came around the first bend and spotted the other black sedan waiting at Convict Hill Road. He had open road until Dripping Springs fourteen miles away. The speed limit was sixty, but this was Texas; no one drove sixty. Andy blew past the sedan, weaved in and out of traffic, and took the bike through the gears. But he knew they were behind him.

He also knew Highway 290.

The highway inclined as the road began the long, winding climb up the escarpment. He would lose them on the climb.

He poured on the power and had the Slammer doing seventy-five past Rim Rock Trail and the Polo Club. He leaned into each curve and felt the wind on his face and the engine beneath him. Ten minutes later, he crested a steep climb and checked the mirror; he could see back for miles and the road was empty.

That was easy.

He relaxed now and considered Frankie and Jessie. Could he make things right for them? Would they have to go back into hiding? Move to another state and change their names again? Was that their future? And would Frankie let him share that future with them? These questions were running through Andy's thoughts when he glanced in the side mirror and damn near fell off the Slammer: the black Mercedes-Benz sedan was coming up behind him-fast.

Goddamn German-made cars.

That German engine could power the sedan up the escarpment as well as the S amp;S Sidewinder engine could the Slammer. He wouldn't lose them with speed and power alone. So he had to test their stability on sharp curves. And if you wanted curves, there was only one road to ride.

He entered Dripping Springs and slowed to the prescribed forty-five. He turned south on Ranch Road 12 and accelerated to sixty. Passing was prohibited on the narrow two-lane road, so the sedan stayed two cars back. Fifteen minutes later, he glided down into the Wimberley valley and over Cypress Creek. He cruised through the town square and then accelerated across the Blanco River and up the hill on the south side of the valley. Four miles south of town he made a hard turn west onto Ranch Road 32.

The Devil's Backbone.

The backbone was a ridgeline that ran high and hard with nasty curves and sudden drops. If you're going to drive the backbone fast, you'd better know the road. Andy knew the road.

The first four miles were pure straightaway. The backbone set novices up for the kill with the easy drive and the beautiful vistas of distant hills and valleys. Andy had the Slammer running seventy.

The sedan stayed with him.

They passed Purgatory Road, and Andy accelerated to eighty. The sedan stayed on his tail. He ducked down low and pushed the Slammer to ninety. They flew past the Devil's Backbone Tavern, and they were suddenly in the curves-sharp swings right and left and right then climbing hard and curving left and right and left and then descending fast and curving right and left and right. Andy leaned into each curve, and the wide tires hugged the black asphalt like they were running down rails. He checked the rearview for the sedan; with each curve it veered farther out of his vision in the mirror-wider into the oncoming lane. The driver was overcompensating.

And suddenly the sedan was gone from his mirror.

Andy slowed and glanced back. They had gone off the road.

He turned north and circled back to town. As he entered the town square from the west, emergency vehicles headed south. He cut through town and turned into the Prescott homestead. He parked the Slammer out front of the house, cut the engine, and removed the helmet. His hair was soaked with sweat. He blew out a breath.

Hell of a morning.

"Sounded like a damn tornado."

Andy's father unloaded the shotgun, stuck the shells in his pocket, and leaned the gun against the porch rail. He stepped down off the porch.

"Damn thing's bigger than you are."

"Russell's guys found me in Austin, chased me out 290. So I took them out on the Devil's Backbone. Good thing those big Mercedes have airbags all around."

"Can't you find this guy?" Harmon said.

"We're working our contact," the boss said.

"Well, work him harder!"

"You got a number?"

Harmon read the phone number and said, "Now find Andy Prescott!"