Twenty-six days without alcohol in his system. Frank Tucker had undergone a complete physical detoxification. But not a mental one. He still wanted to drink. Desperately. He stopped and puked after three and a half miles.
"You okay?"
He nodded and waved Billie Jean on. They were running the beach. Well, she was running; he was jogging. Rusty barked at Billie Jean racing down the sand.
"Yep, that girl can run. Go ahead, I'll catch up."
The dog ran after the girl.
"Have you lost weight?"
"Yeah. Can't sleep. Can't eat. Can't think. Except about the death penalty."
"Dad will save you."
"How? He can't save himself."
"He stopped drinking. For you."
"He'll start again. For himself."
Becky Tucker sat on the visitor's side of the glass partition and held the phone to her ear; her little brother sat on the other side with a phone to his ear. He was an inmate in the county jail accused of rape and murder. They had once been so close, brother and sister. Now he seemed so distant. So different.
"What motivates you, William?"
He groaned. "Don't start that creative writing bullshit with me, Becky. I'm not a character in your book."
"Of course you are. You're the protagonist."
"Really? Am I the action-hero?"
"You're the tragic hero."
"That doesn't sound good."
"The protagonist is blessed with all the athletic talent required to become a star football player in America and to live a life few people can even dream of—"
"Are you writing my life story?"
"No. I'm writing mine. Anyway, he loses it all because of his fatal flaw."
"Which is?"
"He doesn't understand the difference between being special and being lucky."
"Bullshit, Becky. I understand the difference."
"Which is?"
"I'm special. All the fans who get to watch me play are lucky."
He seemed serious.
"Oh, and he's got an ego bigger than Montana."
"Try winning a football game with low self-esteem. The game's all about the quarterback, Becky. It's all on me. I have to make the decisions on the field that mean winning or losing. I have to make the correct reads and the perfect passes. I have to scramble when the protection breaks down. I have to make it happen out there. I have to lead the team to victory. It's all about me."
"And he likes himself a lot, as evidenced by his repetitive use of 'I' and 'me' and 'my' and 'mine.' "
"Can I sue you if you say something bad about me?"
"A good character has to be bigger than life but brought down to life because of his flaws. That's why you're such a great character, William."
"Because I'm so much bigger than life?"
"Because you have so many flaws."
"Funny."
"The truth. But you're still my little … very big brother, and I still love you."
"No one else does. Nobody comes to see me."
"Not your coaches?"
"No."
"Teammates?"
"No."
"Girls?"
"Hell, no."
"So who else comes to see you?"
"Frank."
"Frank? You don't call him 'Dad'?"
"Dads don't show up drunk at your game."
"But they show up when you're in jail. What does that tell you?"
Her little-big brother pondered that a moment then said, "I didn't pay a lot of attention in my English Lit class, but doesn't the tragic hero always die at the end?"
He could kill these little punks.
Dwayne Gentry stomped on the accelerator and steered after the perps. He had the vehicle running all out, lights flashing, racing over the pavement; but these boys were runners, even packing the backpacks stuffed with the stolen contraband. They were making for the line where his jurisdiction ended; once across they were home free. So he decided to cut them off at the pass. He veered hard to his left and took a side alley; the vehicle scraped the exterior walls of the structures, but Dwayne had trashed his share of official vehicles in his career. He cleared the alley and cut the wheel hard to the right, too hard, and—
"Oh, shit!"
—the vehicle's right two tires left the ground. He leaned his big body to the right, and the vehicle came back to earth and bounced hard—which cost him valuable seconds. He punched the gas and headed directly to their escape route. One more corner—he veered left—and he'd be right on them—
"Damn!"
He slammed on the brakes and skidded to stop. The perps flung the backpacks over the perimeter fence then scurried up and over like squirrels up a tree. They dropped to the other side. Outside his jurisdiction. They grabbed the backpacks and ran a safe distance then turned back. Dwayne could no longer point a gun, so he pointed his cigar.
"I know who you are! You punks better stay the hell out of my mini-storage park!"
The teenage boys held up middle fingers.
"Hey, fuck you, Dwayne!"
Boys got no home training. Dwayne Gentry plopped down onto the vinyl seat of the golf cart with the little yellow flashing light and watched the perps running off with the contraband. Now he would have to explain to the boss how they managed to break into another storage unit in broad daylight. He checked his watch. Straight-up noon. Oh, lunchtime. Maybe pizza.
Chico Duran held his cell phone with his left hand, texted with his right hand, and drove with his knees. Sure, it was a bit dangerous for his fellow drivers and pedestrians, but he was not worried: he had no insurance. Or assets. His net worth consisted entirely of his next tip and his next disability payment. Which didn't technically belong to Chico Duran.
He screeched the 4x4 with the portable neon sign atop that read "Pizza Man" to a stop in front of a big house in the nice part of Rockport. Where rich folks in Houston had bought weekend homes on the canals cut into the shore to allow boat access to the bay. Big-ass homes. He got out and grabbed the heat pack with the pizza boxes inside. Two extra large pepperonis. The twenty-two inch monsters, extra cheese, extra pepperoni, comes to $28.50 plus a $5.00 delivery charge. Plus a tip.
He walked up the sidewalk and rang the doorbell. A teenage girl wearing a T-shirt, a short blue jean skirt, and an iPhone answered.
"Pizza's here," she said into the phone.
"Thirty-three fifty," he said.
"You're a bad boy."
"I am?"
She frowned at Chico and gestured at her phone.
"You want me to do what? Ooh, you really are a bad boy."
Like she liked him being a bad boy.
"Right now? I gotta pay the pizza man. Well, okay." To Chico, she said, "Just a sec."
She held the phone out as if she was giving it to him, but she wasn't. She put a real sexy look on her face then clicked a button on the phone. She took her own photo. The look disappeared, and she checked the phone. She frowned and turned the screen to Chico.
"You think this is a sexy pic?"
It was.
"Yeah. That's sexy."
"It's for my boyfriend."
The bad boy.
"Pizza's getting cold."
She turned back to the house and screamed, "Jacy, bring money for the pizza!"
Girl's got some lungs.
Then she bent over a little and stuck the phone up her short skirt. Chico heard the same click and saw a flash of light under her skirt. The girl took a picture of her privates. Damn. She was sexting. She stood straight and looked at the phone's screen. She frowned again.
"Uh, you want me to check out that pic, too?" Chico said.
Without looking up, she said, "As if."
Must mean no.
"Pizza's getting cold."
"Jacy!"
"What?"
Another teenage girl appeared in the doorway. She gave Chico two twenties and grabbed the pizza. The sexter slammed the door in his face. Six-fifty tip, not bad.
Chuck Miller blew his whistle and halted the game.
"We got a facemask on White. Ten yards. Touchdown is called back."
"You're full of shit!" a parent from the sideline yelled.
Peewee football. Kindergartners in pads and cleats trying to make their daddies proud. Hell, the pads were bigger than the boys, and the boys could barely keep from peeing in their pants, but their parents went apeshit over every call he made. He stepped off ten yards against the White team. Chuck wore a black-and-white striped referee's shirt and a black cap. And sunglasses to hide his bloodshot eyes. A player tugged on his shirtsleeve.
"Georgie's bleeding."
"What?"
"He's bleeding. Georgie."
Chuck followed the player to the White huddle. Another player was holding his arm and staring at his elbow. Blood seeped out of a cut. Chuck blew his whistle again.
"Bodily fluid timeout," he called out to the coaches. One time he had to call a bodily fluid timeout when a kid crapped his uniform. It happens. Chuck grabbed his sports bottle he carried in a waist pack and sucked on the pop-top. He loved orange-flavored Gatorade, especially when he mixed in a little vodka. Okay, a lot of vodka. He swiped his sleeve across his mouth and said to the bleeder, "You gotta go to the sideline and get that cut bandaged."
The boy waddled over to the sideline where his mommy greeted him in full-blown hysterics, as if he had suffered a punctured artery and blood was spurting out. Hell, it was just a little cut. As he watched the mother tending to the boy, a thought tried to take shape in Chuck's mind but try though he did, he could not connect the dots in order to fashion a complete sentence. He felt the familiar beginning of a panic attack coming on—oh, shit, it's the brain damage—but a sudden realization calmed him just before he dropped to the turf and curled up in the fetal position: it wasn't the brain damage preventing a complete thought; it was the vodka. A sense of relief washed over him. I'm just drunk! He took another long swig of his sports drink.
"Any ideas on the blood?" Billie Jean asked. "Only three weeks till trial."
Frank had found her waiting for him at the point of the jetty. With man's best friend. Running the five miles from the bungalow to the jetty was his goal. When he could do that, he would be back. He would again be the man he used to be. But would he ever be the lawyer he used to be? That was the question. They were walking the beach back to the bungalow.
"No."
"His blood, her phone number and photo, the surveillance tape, the fact that they met that night, Cissy Dupre testifying that they groped … it doesn't look good, Frank."
"There's an answer out there somewhere, we've just got to find it."
"How can I help? I don't feel I'm doing enough."
"You will. Before this trial is over, you'll play a big role. Everyone on the team will."
The tide was out, and the beach filled with an assortment of sea matter and dead fish. He tossed a stick for Rusty, and the dog raced ahead. It was nice to have someone to walk with who could talk.
"So why'd you come down?"
"I like the beach. I like being on the beach with you. And I like you, Frank."
Frank felt awkward. A beautiful woman saying, "I like you," had not been on his day planner for that Sunday.
"I'm not sure what to say."
"Well, you could say, 'I like you, too, Billie Jean.' If you do."
"I like you, too, Billie Jean. But it won't work. Us."
"Why not?"
"You're a ten."
"I'm a four."
"Not your dress size. Your ranking."
"My ranking? You mean, like one to ten in beauty?"
"Yeah. You're a ten, and I'm a five. At best."
"I'm less than a ten, and you're more than a five. Maybe a six. Six and a half."
She smiled. By the time Frank had explained his human food chain theory, how men and women date according to their respective positions on the wealth and beauty ranking, she was not smiling.
"You're not serious?"
"I am."
"So you've developed this goofy little theory about love and life—were you drinking when you came up with this?—because your ex-wife was too stuck up and stupid to see what a good man she had, and now you're going to push me away because of this bullshit theory, to use the West Texas vernacular."
"Does George Clooney date girls who are fives?"
"No."
"Does Amy Adams date guys who are fives?"
"No."
"Ergo."
"Ergo what?" She shook her head. "I can't believe you're telling me I'm too good looking for you. What if I make myself look like a three?"
"Not possible."
"You've never seen me in the morning."
"True."
"Your theory's stupid, Frank. Now shut up and hold my hand."
He held her hand. It felt good. They strolled hand in hand down the sand and watched the seagulls searching the sea for their breakfast.
"I always wanted to live on a beach."
"Why?"
"I grew up in Dalhart."
"That would do it."
"Did you always want to live on the beach?"
"Yes. But by choice, not by whiskey."
"Sometimes the best choices are the ones made for us."
"Try being a drunk."
The beach seemed brighter sober.
"How's he holding up? William."
"He's not. Facing a death sentence, sitting in that cell … he's panicking."
"That's understandable."
"We're coming up Sunday, for his birthday."
"Can I come?"
"Well, I guess so. We're holding hands."
"You're a good father, Frank."
"I was, until I started drinking. But I never had to strip to pay the bills. Does your daughter appreciate what you did for her?"
"I think so."
"Is she like you?"
"She's better."
"I'd like to meet her."
"You will."
They walked in silence and breathed in the sea air.
"Frank, I hope William appreciates you."
He shook his head. "Doesn't work that way. I didn't appreciate my father until I became a father. But it was too late to tell him—he had already died. That's how things work with fathers and sons. You don't appreciate your old man until you are an old man."
"William Tucker, you ever meet you daddy?"
The gangbanger next door.
"Uh … yeah."
"I never did. Seen him one time, think it was him anyway. Last I heard, he in prison up north somewhere. Chicago, maybe. Crack dealing. Your daddy in prison?"
"No. He's in the bottle."
"Alcoholic?"
"Yeah."
"My mama, she a wino. Love that grape juice. My daddy a crack head. Ain't exactly what you call 'Leave It to Beaver.' "
The gangbanger next door laughed, but not as if it were funny.