THREE

At exactly seven-thirty the next morning, loud rock music woke Andy Prescott from his coma-like state of sleep with all the subtlety of a SWAT raid. He reached over and smacked the radio across the room, but it was just a symbolic gesture. He was awake. He tried to sit up, but the movement sent a sharp pain ricocheting around his skull like a pinball.

A dozen Coronas sure packed a wallop.

His head ached from the beers and his body from the fall down the ravine, and he was as stiff as a two-by-four from sleeping in one position all night. His right arm was numb. He must have slept on it-or he had suffered permanent nerve damage in the fall.

Heck of a start to a new week.

He rolled out of bed and realized he was still wearing the same clothes from the night before. There was a sizable salsa stain splashed across the front of his T-shirt; Willie looked as if he had been blasted in the face with a double-barreled shotgun. Andy tried to recall the last hours of the evening, but all his mind could retrieve was a vague image of falling over a table… and not his table.

He dropped his clothes on the floor and limped to the bathroom. The anesthetic properties of the Coronas had worn off; his left knee burned with each step. He turned on the hot water in the shower then relieved himself of the beer and brushed his teeth. He stared at his reflection in the mirror.

He looked every bit as bad as he felt.

He walked into the living room and found Max stretched out on the couch. The Keeshond bolted to the front door and barked an I need to pee! Andy opened the door and recoiled from another bright, sunny day. His front porch looked out onto the Texas School for the Deaf campus across the street, which made for a quiet neighborhood. His neighbor was walking her little white Lhasa Apso past the house; while the dogs sniffed each other's butts, Liz called over to him.

"Nice look you've got going there, Andy."

He had forgotten he was naked.

He waved lamely to Liz and returned to the bathroom. The hot shower brought most of his brain cells back to life, but there would be no quick fix for his body. The red scratch marks across his face made him look like Geronimo with his war paint on. Nasty scabs had already begun to form on his elbows and knees. His left knee was swollen. The feeling had returned to his right arm, but he couldn't raise that arm above his shoulder. He would hurt for a week, but all in all, it wasn't that bad. If you can't take the pain, don't go extreme. Stay at home and play pretend bowling on your Wii.

His home was a one-bedroom, one-bath rent house on Newton Street just across the river from downtown in the part of Austin known as "SoCo" because it straddled South Congress Avenue. Newton paralleled Congress two blocks west. The other houses on the street had been renovated by urban frontiersmen and women like Liz and her husband, young professionals who drove Vespas and Mini-Coopers and had braved the neighborhood back when SoCo's leading citizens were hookers and addicts.

Now SoCo was a hip and happening place to be, a highly-desired and highly-priced in-town location. The houses on either side, nothing more than cottages, were valued on the tax rolls at over $300,000, and the one a few doors down was on the market for $600,000; his place was still awaiting renovation and so was valued at only $87,500. Andy's landlord had been transferred to California six years ago by his high-tech employer; he hoped to return to Austin one day. Andy hoped he wouldn't because he was charging only $600 in monthly rent, way below market for SoCo.

Andy dug through clothes piled on furniture until he found a pair of jeans and a clean shirt with a collar. He tried to shake the wrinkles out of the shirt-he didn't own an iron-then got dressed, grabbed his electric razor, and went outside. The remains of his trail bike lay on the front porch like the aftermath of a tornado. Andy Prescott felt like a man without a reason to live: he had no mountain bike.

He was a gutter bunny-he commuted to work by bike-but he had always commuted on a mountain bike. His only mode of transportation that day was an old Huffy BMX that Tres had lent him until he could replace the Schwinn-but who knew when that would happen. He sat on the Huffy and sank; it had a flat tire.

Figured.

He went back inside and found a pump. He inflated the tire then climbed aboard again. He strapped on the helmet, inserted his sunglasses, and rode down the porch steps and the front sidewalk to the street. He stopped and looked both ways. He could turn south and take James Street, which was more direct, or he could turn north and take Nellie Street, which held the promise of an early morning adrenaline rush.

He turned north.

No doubt he looked like a dork riding a boy's candy-apple-red twenty-inch Huffy, but it was that or walk to work. He clicked the razor on and ran the rotating blades over his face. He whistled to Max, who bounded after him. Two houses down, he saw Liz out front tending her Xeriscape landscaping; he gave her a sheepish "Sorry about that." She just smiled. Of course, it wasn't the first time she had seen him naked.

He rode on and gazed upon the downtown skyline.

Austin sat at the edge of the Texas Hill Country where the flat prairie land first began to rise and wrinkle up like Andy's shirt, so the town's topography was full of ups and downs and twists and turns; the roadways followed the lay of the land. Newton Street was a narrow residential lane that ran north-south on one of the "ups." From that vantage point, Andy could see the skyscrapers of downtown rising in sharp relief against the blue sky and the construction cranes towering over new condos and hotels going up, all of which now blocked the view of the state capitol unless you were standing in the middle of Congress Avenue-a crime committed by developers and sanctioned by the city. Austin was a hot market, and there was money to be made, so city hall and developers, once lethal adversaries in Austin, had joined forces to pillage the place for profit.

His mother often said, "Money makes good men do bad things."

Newton followed the perimeter fence line of the School for the Deaf then made a sharp turn to the east-which turn Andy now made-and became Nellie Street. Nellie abruptly pitched downward at a sharp angle on its short journey to Congress Avenue, which ran north-south in one of the "downs."

Andy picked up speed.

By the time you hit Congress, you could build up a pretty good head of steam flying down Nellie. Andy had once hit Congress at full speed only to have his brakes fail; he flew right through the intersection and crashed into the patio at Doc's Motorworks Bar amp; Grill. He tapped the Huffy's coaster brakes; they were in working order.

He pushed the razor into his pants pocket. He sat up, adjusted his helmet and sunglasses, and watched the traffic light at the bottom of the hill where Nellie intersected Congress to form a T. The white pedestrian WALK signal to cross Congress changed to a flashing red DON'T WALK; he had exactly twenty-four seconds.

Congress was a broad five-lane avenue that served as a major north-south commuting route. It was morning rush hour, and traffic was backed up at the light. Impatient drivers revved their SUV's big engines, in no mood to wait for pedestrians to cross Congress or share the crowded lanes with cyclists. Austin was officially a bicycle-friendly town, but the memo had never gotten to motorists; you get in their way and they'll run you down like a vindictive mother-in-law. Add in the fact that they were probably hung over and late for work, and a cyclist cutting in front of them made for a volatile mix on a Monday morning. Consequently, any gutter bunny foolish enough to challenge automobile traffic on Congress Avenue during rush hour was well-advised to have his last will and testament up to date.

On the other hand, if Andy timed it perfectly, he could hit the intersection just as the north-south light changed from red to green and beat the cars heading south on Congress; he'd be leading the pack instead of merging into the pack. Of course, less-than-perfect timing and he'd broadside a southbound car, be ejected from the bike, and hurtle through the air until his body collided with a northbound car, resulting in death or serious bodily injury.

He hadn't had a shot of caffeine yet, so it seemed like a reasonable risk. Max, though, wasn't so sure; he was keeping pace from a safe distance on the sidewalk.

Andy steered to the far left of the road. He picked up speed fast now; he tapped the brakes to time the light.

Forty yards from the intersection, he had ten seconds.

Thirty yards and seven seconds.

Twenty yards and five seconds.

Ten yards and three seconds… two… one…

He hit Congress just as the north-south light turned green, leaned hard to the right, and swerved into the southbound lanes in a wide arc. Angry horns honked behind him, and Andy heard the roar of massive engines as drivers put their pedals to the metal, but he was a block out front before the SUVs cleared the intersection. They were just losers eating his dust. He straightened his course, sat up, and tried to raise both arms into the air like Lance Armstrong crossing the finish line at the Tour de France-but he winced with pain. His right arm still wouldn't go past half-mast, so he settled for one raised fist.

"Yee-hah!"

He had won that morning, for what it was worth. He glided past the 1200 block of funky SoCo shops-Vivid and Blackmail and Pink Hair Salon amp; Gallery-and the Austin Motel, a favorite stop of Julia Roberts and your other celebrity types, then skidded to a stop at Jo's Hot Coffee. He leaned the Huffy against the newspaper racks lined up along the curb and removed his helmet. He passed on the Texas papers and the New York Times and grabbed a free Austin Chronicle, the bible of SoCo. Just then one of the SUVers blew past, yelled "Asshole!" and gave Andy the finger.

"Drink decaf!" Andy yelled back.

Okay, that was lame, but it was the best retort he could come up with before his morning coffee. Max barked to show his solidarity-or he wanted a muffin. Smart dog that he was, Max had stayed on the sidewalk all the way to Jo's.

"You want a muffin, big boy?"

Max bounced up and down and barked a Yes! Yes, I do!

A Great Dane the size of a small horse stood at the sidewalk tables next to its guardian-in dog-friendly Austin, you were not a "dog owner"; you were a "dog guardian." The Dane gave Max a guttural growl. Max ducked behind Andy's legs.

They stepped to the back of the line that looped down the sidewalk. There was no walk-in lobby or drive-through lane at Jo's. It was a walk-up place, a small green structure stationed curbside on Congress in the parking lot of the hip Hotel San Jose. Jo's catered to those Austinites who loved good coffee but hated corporate conglomerates and so could not in good liberal conscience drink Starbucks. Jo's cost almost as much, but Andy preferred the place because (a) it was locally-owned, (b) the coffee was stronger than Starbucks, and (c) you didn't have to say "venti." You could just say large.

Andy said, "Large."

"Like I don't know, three thousand straight days I've made your coffee."

Guillermo Garza. Every morning since Andy had first moved into SoCo ten years before, he had stopped at Jo's and bought a large coffee and a muffin, two since his dad had transferred guardianship of Max to him.

"Banana nut muffin for me and a…"

Max was fixated on the freshly-baked muffins behind the low glass display; the intoxicating smell had him salivating only slightly more than Andy.

"Max, you want banana nut or blueberry?" Max barked. "Blueberry?" Another bark. Back to Guillermo: "Max is going for a blueberry this morning."

Guillermo bagged the muffins and nodded at the Huffy.

"You steal a kid's bike?"

"Crashed the Schwinn."

"You land on your face?"

"Several times."

Guillermo pointed down the street.

"I saw that stunt you just pulled coming off Nellie. One of those SUVs hits you, dude, you're a piece of history… and Congress Avenue."

Andy shrugged. "Nothing like a little adrenaline rush to get your day going."

"First step to recovery, Andy, is to admit you're a junkie."

"Never denied it."

"Brother, you got more guts than brains." Guillermo Garza knew of what he spoke; he had an M.A. in political science. "Any progress on the Slammer?"

Andy threw a thumb at the Huffy.

"You're looking at it."

They fist-punched through the open window.

"Keep the faith, bro."

Andy paid, grabbed the coffee and muffins, and walked over to the tree-shaded patio. Max slinked by the Great Dane as inconspicuously as possible. Andy sat at a table and placed Max's blueberry muffin and the coffee lid on a napkin on the ground; he poured coffee into the lid. Max tasted the coffee and barked.

"It is good."

Andy leaned back, took a long sip, and felt his body come alive when the caffeine hit his system; Jo's brew was double-strong. He bit into the muffin and glanced around at the other regulars.

"Keep Austin Weird" was the official slogan of the City of Austin. North of the river in downtown, it was just a marketing tool; but south of the river in SoCo it was a daily reality-and weird you would find at Jo's. Young men and "womyn"-you spell it "women" in SoCo and they'll castrate you like a stray dog-were savoring a morning java at Jo's: Ray, tapping on his laptop, a Ph. D. in anthropology who was writing the Great American Novel when he wasn't driving a cab… Darla, Masters in psychology, with her tattoos and wild rainbow hair and Pippi Longstocking leggings and red high-topped retro sneakers; she dished out ice cream at Amy's across the street… Oscar, B.A. in art, grabbing a large Jo's before he started his shift at Guero's two blocks away… George, strumming his guitar and enjoying a latte before commencing his twelve-hour work day playing for tips on the curb… Dwight, blogging his life on his laptop, recording every thought that crossed his mind for all the world to enjoy; he averaged two hits per day… and an assortment of other tattooed-and-pierced oddballs.

SoCo was like a can of mixed nuts. Fortunately, the cashew of the neighborhood, Queen Leslie, wasn't present that morning. The sight of a middle-aged man wearing a black bra and a pink thong first thing in the morning always made Andy nauseous. The Queen was a harmless homeless transvestite and a SoCo fixture. He was also a serial mayoral candidate; he had once gotten three thousand votes despite campaigning in women's lingerie. His mere presence assured that SoCo would retain its perfect ten rating on the Weird-Shit-O-Meter-of-Life.

But weird was normal in the thirteen-block stretch of South Congress that constituted SoCo. The people, the shops, the music, the tattoos. Especially the tattoos. Getting a tattoo inked into your skin was a tribal ritual in SoCo, like Mayan Indians who had scarred their bodies to declare their tribal identity. No tattoo and you were marked as an outlander in SoCo, a tourist, a pale-skinned spectator in this multicolored extravaganza called life. Andy Prescott was a member of the tribe. The tattoo on his upper arm was a steel-gray horse head, the American IronHorse motorcycle emblem. He had gotten stupid drunk one night and let Ramon ink it in.

And most of all, SoCo was about slacking off. Austin had always been a city of slackers; difference was, SoCo's slackers were credentialed, boasting B.A.'s and M.A.'s and J.D.'s and Ph. D.'s from the University of Texas. But UT graduated ten thousand such students every year, and none of them wanted to leave Austin. Consequently, the Austin job market was tighter than Queen Leslie's thong. So they drove cabs and waited tables and served coffee and wrote novels that would never be published.

And they all hung out at Jo's.

Andy stood, grabbed the Chronicle, and walked over to the pickup window. He paid again, and Guillermo handed him a small paper bag.

"Later, dude."

He saddled up, folded the Chronicle lengthwise and tucked it inside his back waistband, put the helmet on, and whistled to Max. He steered and held the bag with his left hand and the coffee with his right hand. He rode up a gentle slope for two blocks past the San Jose with the tall agave plants lining the sidewalk and Guero's where Ronda was sweeping the front porch. He crossed over Elizabeth Street and pedaled down the sidewalk past Lucy in Disguise with Diamonds with its facade of faces from Jesus to the Beatles and Uncommon Objects with a metal sculpture of a cowboy riding a jackrabbit above the marquee.

Andy braked to a stop in front of a storefront at 1514 South Congress with BODY ART BY RAMON in neon script across the plate-glass window. The door was locked; Ramon didn't open until noon. Intoxication was a prerequisite to obtaining a tattoo; consequently, most of his clientele stumbled in between the hours of 10:00 P.M. and 2:00 A.M., closing time. Hence, Ramon Cabrera did not work mornings, except by appointment. Floyd T. was manning the stoop and writing in his Big Chief notebook.

"Morning, Floyd T."

Andy got off the bike and removed the Chronicle from his waistband.

"Hello, Andy. How's the world treating you today?"

"A few too many Coronas last night."

"I feel your pain."

"You doing okay?"

Floyd T. shrugged. "For a homeless person."

Floyd T. was the 1500 block's resident homeless person. The business owners had adopted him. They watched out for him, they paid for his heart medicine, and once a week someone drove him over to the downtown homeless shelter for a shower. Andy hoped today would be that day because the August heat had ripened Floyd T. His hair was wild, his beard thick, and his eyes blue. He looked up at Andy over the red reading glasses he had recovered from a dumpster.

"You need a haircut, soldier."

"You need a bath."

Floyd T. frowned then sniffed himself.

"Has it been a week already?"

Andy handed him the paper bag. Floyd T. shut his notebook and tossed it into his grocery cart stationed next to him. He opened the bag and removed the coffee and muffin.

"Banana nut. My favorite. Thanks, Andy."

Floyd T.-no one knew what the T stood for-was one of five thousand people who called the streets of Austin home. He was sixty-two years old and a Vietnam vet, like Andy's father. But while his father had come home intact, Floyd T. had come home without his left leg below the knee and addicted to heroin. He had been clean and sober for several years now, but his world did not extend beyond those few blocks of South Congress Avenue. He still wore his green Army jacket, ratty after forty years, and his Army boots.

Through a mouthful of muffin, Floyd T. said, "You crashed again?"

"Yep."

"See a medic?"

"Just flesh wounds."

Floyd T. pointed the muffin at the Chronicle in Andy's hand.

"Still looking for your one true love in the personals?"

"Or one night's love."

"I had many of those nights, Andy, over in Nam. But I never had a woman lay with me for love. A man needs that. Love." Floyd T. paused as if pondering his own words then said, "I gotta pee. If Ramon doesn't get here soon, I'll have to walk around back. Hand me my leg, will you?"

Andy reached into the grocery cart and grabbed Floyd T.'s artificial leg and foot encased in an old Army boot. He handed it to Floyd T., who secured it to his left knee.

"A whole man again."

Andy put a $5 bill inside the cigar box in Floyd T.'s grocery cart, where he kept his Purple Heart and a photo of his parents.

"Have a good day, Floyd T."

Floyd T. gave him a little salute.

"You too, Andy."

The next door over had a small window that was marked 1514? South Congress. Painted in black script at the top of the window was 1514?-A VIOLIN STUDIO and painted in red script at the bottom was 1514?-B TRAFFIC TICKETS. Andy removed the helmet, unlocked the door, and entered. He did not teach the violin.

He was a lawyer.

Andy Prescott did not practice in state trial or appellate courts and certainly not in federal court. He did not represent major corporations making deals or rich people getting divorced or even personal injury plaintiffs suing over automobile accidents. He practiced in the municipal court of Austin, Texas. He represented irate drivers fighting traffic tickets issued by the Austin Police Department.

He oversaw his legal empire from a tiny office above the tattoo parlor. He sublet half of the upstairs from Ramon; the other half was sublet by the violin teacher. Fortunately, most of her students were advanced.

He leaned the bike against the wall just inside the door. Max bounded up the stairs. Andy followed and entered his office, which measured only ten feet by ten feet but had a nice view overlooking Congress Avenue. And he had a good landlord: Ramon charged him only $200 a month including utilities and allowed him use of the tattoo parlor's restroom and computer.

He propped open the window; the place had no air conditioning, but Andy enjoyed the sounds of SoCo. He sat in a swivel chair behind the folding card table that served as his desk. He had graduated four years before from UT law school with straight Cs, the same grades he had earned in college at UT. He had been admitted to the law school only because he was a faculty kid. But faculty kid status could not guarantee a job. Upon graduation, his classmates had gotten six-figure jobs with big law firms in Houston and Dallas or five-figure jobs with the state and federal government in Austin.

He had gotten a diploma.

Which was hanging on his wall. The University of Texas School of Law. Andrew Paul Prescott. Juris Doctor. Lawyer. He had somehow passed the bar on his third try; as his father always said, "Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and then."

So far this year, Andy had earned just over $13,000. George the guitar man was in a higher tax bracket than Andy. His clients paid him in cash, but Andy reported every penny of his income and paid his taxes, which was only the 15.9 percent social security tax. But this was a major bite out of his disposable income, especially since he didn't expect to live long enough to collect social security-not with his trail biking practices.

He drank his coffee then opened the Chronicle and turned to the personals. Women seeking men. Men seeking women. Women seeking women. Men seeking men. A million people in Austin, all hoping to love and to be loved; one half-million looking for the other half-million. Young people, old people, lonely people. People without someone to wake up to, go home to, or belong to.

Like Andy.

Sure, he had had a few dates along the way, but nothing that would qualify as a relationship under any definition of the word. Floyd T. was right: men needed love. But Natalie was also right: women wanted men with ambition. Someone who could give them the life they dreamed of. Andy could not. He couldn't even give Max the life he dreamed of. But he had good buddies and a good dog. He had both his parents, at least for now. He had his trail biking, if not a trail bike. And he had his work.

Such as it was.

But traffic court supported his passion-trail biking-and his dream-a Slammer. He glanced at the American IronHorse motorcycle poster tacked to the wall. He could feel the massive engine beneath him and the wind on his face as he took that monster ride out west on 290 and opened the throttle and let the big dog run, leaning into the lazy curves as he climbed the escarpment, the machine just eating up the highway. Now that would be the mother of all adrenaline rushes, that would be the life…

"An-dy, you're gonna be late."

Floyd T.'s voice from outside. Andy checked his watch: 8:56. Traffic court convened at nine sharp. Damn, daydreaming again. He jumped up, stuffed that day's tickets into his backpack, then grabbed the old blue sports coat hanging on a nail and put it on. He strapped on the helmet, inserted the sunglasses, and exited the office. He hurried down the stairs, grabbed the bike, and went outside. Max followed.

"Judge won't like you being late," Floyd T. said.

Max ran alongside Andy as he rode back down the sidewalk. When they approached Guero's, Max bolted ahead and bounded up onto the front porch where Oscar was smoking a cigarette.

"Oh, what? You'd rather eat a burrito than come to court with me?"

Max barked back.

"Some loyalty. What about 'man's best friend'?"

"I'll watch him," Oscar said. He pointed his cigarette at the Huffy. "You steal a kid's bike?"

"Long story. When you get tired of Max, send him down to Ramon. And no bean burritos-they give him gas."

Andy pedaled fast toward downtown.

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