Dick deletes Steve’s text then goes for his run. Freedom. The word Steve intentionally used pulses with his steps, and he thinks of the great irony that, somehow, he has ended up on the wrong side of the law when one of the things he has always been criticized for is his intransigence when it comes to bending rules or doing what’s right.
He gets back to the apartment, showers, then faces the mess. His couch and bed are unsalvageable, so he calls a hauling company for a pickup. The rest he is able to put back in order in under an hour, the sum of his belongings so little that he’s almost embarrassed by what 001 and the linebacker must have thought as they ransacked the place.
Dick sets the last chair in place and leaves the apartment to head back to Huntington Beach. It’s Tuesday, his last day to figure out if Frankie is in danger. His plan is to scope out the nearest middle school in the hope of spotting Frankie or one of his friends. It’s a long shot, but other than trying to find Frankie and warn him, he is entirely out of ideas.
He’s almost to the car when his phone rings. It’s Katz’s secretary calling to let him know the papers are ready and that they need to be signed today. He hangs up, stunned how quickly they managed it, then realizes Katz planned for this. His lawyers probably started drafting the agreement the moment Dick left the meeting yesterday morning in case the formulas weren’t found. All they needed to do this morning was change the value from two million to three million.
He stands for a moment looking at the phone, a tightening in his chest that takes a second to recognize as the long-ago feeling of pride. He did it. Freeway has been saved, and compound four is his.
He calls Greg Larson.
“Score one for the little guy,” Greg says when Dick tells him the story.
“Don’t break out the champagne just yet. I need a lawyer to make sure the deal’s on the up-and-up.”
“Jeb Cobb in Fresno,” Greg says without hesitation. “Most honest, ball-busting lawyer you’ll find.”
The name alone makes Dick like the man.
As he climbs into his car, he thinks of Frankie but pushes the thought away. He will deal with Hamilton tomorrow. Today, he has a lawyer to see.
* * *
Jeb Cobb is a thick, squat man with no hair on his head, a copper walrus mustache, and a bone-crushing handshake. His office is pine-paneled with an enormous, mounted large-mouth bass on one wall and a pair of bull horns on the other.
“Ready to have some fun,” he says, the words slightly muffled by the mustache.
Dick feels a rush to his bloodstream. The words might have been different, but to Dick they sounded like, “Giddy up. Let’s ride.”
Jeb frowns as he reads the agreement, scratches notes in the margins and draws lines through entire paragraphs. Ten minutes later, he picks up the phone on his desk and dials the number at the top of the letterhead.
His voice never gets loud, yet his argument thunders as he talks to Katz’s attorney, and Dick knows Greg Larson was right to recommend him. Jeb goes through the contract line by line, and though he can’t hear the attorney on the other end, Dick can tell he’s getting frustrated by how much more he talks than Jeb.
Finally, Jeb says, “Fine. If that’s how you feel. We understand.” He hangs up, lifts his head, and smiles.
“What happened?”
“They disagreed with everything I said.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means we need to wait for them to finish having their tantrum.” He glances at the clock on the wall. It’s almost five. “Drink?” he asks.
“Sure,” Dick says, the place and the man making him want to sip whisky, polish his gun, and shine his spurs.
Jeb pulls a bottle and a couple glasses from his desk.
As they drink, they talk about Fresno and Independence and Greg Larson and their families. They’re halfway through their second bourbon when the secretary pokes her head in to say Mr. Nelson, Katz’s attorney, is on the line.
“Here we go,” Jeb says, straightening in his chair.
Dick’s pulse ticks up a notch.
Jeb rolls out his neck, then picks up the phone. He grunts a few times, says he understands, then, “I’m glad we were able to come to an understanding. I’ll have my secretary draw it up.” He hangs up. “Lorraine!” he hollers.
The receptionist bounds in.
“Type this up.” He hands her the bowdlerized contract, which looks like it has hardly any original text left. He turns to Dick and toasts him, “You’re about to become a very wealthy man.”
* * *
The entire drive back to Irvine all Dick can think about is Frankie; tomorrow is Wednesday, the day Ray Hamilton is supposed to give him a lesson.