Billie Jean arrived at the beach bungalow early Sunday morning. She had called the day before to let him know she was coming, but she had come early. So Frank was still bathing in the sea when she parked on the road above. Which left him in a bit of a dilemma: he could make a run for the house or he could hope she had a sense of humor. The water was cold in late November.
But she chose door number three. Once she had appraised the situation, she had wisely decided to take a walk down the beach with Rusty. When she returned, Frank was dressed and ready to leave. They were driving back to Austin to see his son. To beg William Tucker not to plead out.
"You drive," Billie Jean said. "I just drove three hours down."
Frank got behind the wheel of the red Mustang. The seats were black leather buckets with a six-speed stick shift. He felt as if he were back in high school watching Steve McQueen in Bullitt at the drive-in movie theater with Mary Katherine Parker, his sweetheart. It didn't seem like thirty-seven years. Last he had heard, Mary Katherine had seven children.
Frank had the Mustang cruising the highway, the top down and a beautiful woman sitting next to him. He liked Billie Jean Crawford next to him. But he was fifty-five and a drunk; she was forty and not a drunk. She was a ten; he was a five. He glanced at her; her hair blew back in the breeze, and the sun on her face made her glow. She looked so much younger than he felt. He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror—the beach cap, the sunglasses, the wrinkle lines; the sun on his face highlighted his weathered skin. An old man with a younger woman.
"I feel like I'm in a Viagra commercial," he said.
The younger woman laughed. "You're not that old."
She reached to the back seat and retrieved a CD case.
"I've got Imagine Dragons, One Direction, Lorde …"
"You got any Marshall Tucker?"
"Who?"
"Bachman-Turner Overdrive?"
"Who?"
"Golden Earrings?"
She stared at him.
"How old are you?"
"Fifty-five."
"Shit, you are old." She laughed again. "But not too old."
"I feel too old."
She frowned. "Do you need Viagra?"
"I honestly don't know."
"It's been that long?"
"And then some."
"When I was stripping, old guys would sit alone at the stage. They weren't creeps—the young guys, they were the creeps. The old guys, they were just lonely. Like my dad after my mom died, only he didn't go to strip joints. At least I don't think so. Anyway, the old guys, they never tried to touch me. They tipped me just so I'd smile at them—is that sad or what, tipping a stripper for a smile? They weren't hoping for intercourse, just interaction. I always wondered how they got there, to that point in life, sitting alone and watching a woman strip. I don't want you to end up there, Frank."
"I won't. I can't afford to tip strippers."
"You shouldn't be alone, Frank."
"Not many women banging on my door these days."
"Do you still think about having a woman in your life?"
"Not anymore. When a man marries the wrong woman—a woman who doesn't love him—he can never recover."
"Why not?"
"Because when you have kids, their lives become more important than yours."
"I married the wrong man, but I recovered."
"But you got your girl. Men don't get the kids. So a man who loves his kids, he sacrifices his love life to love them. To be with them."
"You stayed with your wife to be with your children?"
Frank nodded.
"I didn't know men did that."
"I did."
"Your children are grown now, Frank. You don't have to sacrifice anymore."
"I'm too old for love."
"You're fifty-five, Frank. You're not dead yet."
"I feel dead."
"Maybe you just need a jumpstart. You know, Frank, I haven't had sex in so long I can't remember what it's like. But I still think about it. I still want it. Do you still want sex, Frank?"
"No."
"You want to go the rest of your life without sex?"
"No."
"I don't understand."
"I don't want sex. I do want to make love. Once before I die, I want to have sex with a woman I love and who loves me. That's what I want."
He felt her staring at him from the passenger's seat.
"Maybe I can help with that," she said.
"I'm too old for you, Billie Jean."
"If I was thirty and wanted children, maybe. But we've both had our children. They're grown. The rest of our lives belong to us, Frank. We decide how to live our lives. And with whom. I don't want a young man. I want a man who's old enough for life to have kicked all the bullshit out of him. Who's wise enough to appreciate life and old enough to appreciate love. And me. I'm a good woman, Frank, and I need a good man."
"Most women your age are still waiting for Prince Charming to come along and sweep them off their feet and make their lives perfect."
"I'm not that teenager anymore, in love with a fictional character. I'm not looking for Prince Charming, and I especially don't want a man who thinks he is Prince Charming. I want a real man. A really good man. That would be you."
"You're a beautiful woman, Billie Jean. Is a good man good enough for you?"
"He is. You are. I've got what you need, Frank, and you've got what I need."
"What's that?"
"Love."
"Billie Jean—"
"I'm banging on your door, Frank."
"You're my only son. I love you. I would trade places with you if I could. I would stand trial for you, I would go to prison for you, I'd take that needle for you. I would do that for you. But I can't. Son, once you stand up in open court and tell the world that you killed Dee Dee Dunston—"
"I have to do that?"
"Yes. You do. Pleading guilty means just that—standing up in court and confessing guilt. You have to say, 'Yes, I killed Dee Dee Dunston.' And once you say those words, William, your life will never be the same. You will always be a confessed killer. You can never recover from that. No one will believe that you pleaded guilty to avoid the death penalty."
"You said so yourself, prisons are full of innocent people. I don't want to be one of them."
"You're innocent, William. I know that. I believe you. Fight. Don't quit."
"But Scotty says I'll be out in two years at the most. I'll be free."
"Son, if you confess to killing Dee Dee, you'll never be free. You will always be in that prison."
"But Scotty believes—"
"Does he believe you're innocent?"
"No."
"I do."
"Why?"
"Because you're my son. Because you're part of me. Because I raised you from the day you were born. Because I know you don't have it in you to hurt someone."
"But my agent says I can still play ball when I get out."
"William, this isn't about playing football."
"That's my life."
"No. Proving your innocence is your life."
"How? How do I prove I'm innocent? All the evidence says I'm guilty. Hell, I can't even remember that day. Maybe I am guilty."
"No, you're not. You could never hurt someone. You're big and you're strong, but your heart is soft and gentle. That hasn't changed, William."
"I don't know."
"William, please believe in justice. Believe in yourself. Believe in me."
"Have you been drinking again?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you fired me."
"I'm sorry."
"I can stop again. Just don't plead."
His son slumped in his chair. His jaws clenched. He was fighting his emotions. He lost. And then Frank lost. He wanted to embrace his son. Hold him. Make things right. He wanted to wrap his arms around his boy again. William put his massive palm against the glass on his side. Frank matched his hand to his son's.
"Save me, Dad."
Billie Jean wiped her eyes. Maybe there was hope for William Tucker after all.
"We're back on the case," his father said.
"Not until he fires Scotty Raines."
"He will. We've just got to find the killer before next Monday."
"Not much time."
They exited the jail and drove to her townhouse in north Austin. They ate dinner and drank iced tea. After dinner they sat on her back balcony with the lights of the downtown skyline sparkling in the distance and the three-hundred-foot tall UT clock tower bathed in orange light. They talked about their children and their mistaken marriages, the choices they had made in life and the choices they wished they had made. Billie Jean got up for a tea refill but stopped. She bent down and kissed Frank.
"Open the door, Frank."
Come to find out, he didn't need Viagra.