The Common Lawyer by Mark Gimenez

Author:Mark Gimenez [Gimenez, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Thriller
ISBN: 9780751541304
Google: 6sNNPwAACAAJ
Amazon: 0751541303
Goodreads: 5544969
Publisher: Sphere
Published: 2009-03-05T06:00:00+00:00

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 José 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.

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