had begun on her body. Once he got started, Ramon could go on about his ex-wife like Andy's mother could about football.
"The PI's name?"
"Lorenzo Escobar, down Congress a few blocks."
Andy logged off, took one final glance at the coed's bottom, and headed to the door.
"Wake up, Max."
But he stopped short when Ramon said, "Oh, dude was here looking for you. In a limo."
Andy turned back.
"A limo? Down here? Looking for me? "
"What'd I say?"
"Who?"
"White dude. In a suit. Checked out my flash"—his standard tattoo designs displayed on a flip rack like art stores used for prints—"asked did I know where you were at. I said, 'I look like a secretary?' "
"These tickets his?"
"Didn't leave a ticket."
"Who was he?"
Ramon wiped blood from the girl's butt then pointed the needle end of the tattoo machine at a newspaper on the counter.
"Him."
Andy picked up the paper. On the front page was a photograph of three middle-aged white men wearing suits and a younger white woman: the mayor of Austin, the governor of Texas, a famous billionaire, and his beautiful blonde wife, all faces well known in Austin.
"The mayor was here?"
Ramon laughed. "What the hell would the mayor want with you?"
"The governor?"
A bigger laugh. "What've you been smoking?"
That left only one, the least likely of all.
"Russell Reeves was here?"
Ramon nodded without looking up from the girl's butt.
"When?"
"Couple hours ago."
"What'd he want?"
"You."
"Why?"
"Didn't say. I didn't ask. I mind my own business."
"Since when?"
Ramon gave him a look over his glasses and a half-smile.
"Okay if I borrow the paper?"
A nod. "Later, bro."
Andy and Max climbed the stairs to his office. Max turned around three times and curled up on his pad in the corner. Andy sat and read the newspaper article. Russell Reeves had just donated $100 million to a scholarship fund so low-income students could attend college. He was being hailed as a visionary philanthropist by the governor and the mayor, the latest in a long line of politicians to honor Russell Reeves.
Russell Reeves was an Austin legend, like Michael Dell. When Reeves was only twenty-two, he invented a computer gizmo that had revolutionized the Internet; he sold it for billions in stock during the high-tech boom years on Wall Street. He then invested in other high-tech companies and made billions more as the NASDAQ climbed to 5000. But he saw the technology boom about to bust, so he sold everything right before the stock market crash of 2000. He walked away from the nineties with over $20 billion in cash. Everything he touched had turned to gold.
Then he gave the gold away.
He gave money to liberal politicians and poor people, environmental causes and alternate energy research, the arts and AIDS; he gave money to build low-income housing and health clinics in East Austin and to buy computers for the public schools and parkland for the people; he gave money to fight global warming and defeat Republicans. Russell Reeves was a devout do-gooder with a heart of gold and a bank account to match. To date, the Russell and Kathryn Reeves Foundation had donated over $2 billion to make Austin a better place.
Reeves was forty now and married to a former Miss UT. Seeing him standing there next to his beauty queen wife in the photo while the governor called him a Texas hero and the mayor said he was Austin's favorite son, and knowing he was worth $15 billion according to the latest Forbes ranking, you'd probably think Russell Reeves was the luckiest man on the face of the Earth … unless you knew about his son.
His seven-year-old son was dying.
Zachary Reeves had a rare, incurable form of cancer. All known medical therapies—chemo, radiation, bone marrow transplant—had failed. So his father had established the Reeves Research Institute on the UT campus, a state-of-the-art cancer research laboratory dedicated to finding a cure for his disease. Russell Reeves had hired renowned scientists from around the
"The PI's name?"
"Lorenzo Escobar, down Congress a few blocks."
Andy logged off, took one final glance at the coed's bottom, and headed to the door.
"Wake up, Max."
But he stopped short when Ramon said, "Oh, dude was here looking for you. In a limo."
Andy turned back.
"A limo? Down here? Looking for me? "
"What'd I say?"
"Who?"
"White dude. In a suit. Checked out my flash"—his standard tattoo designs displayed on a flip rack like art stores used for prints—"asked did I know where you were at. I said, 'I look like a secretary?' "
"These tickets his?"
"Didn't leave a ticket."
"Who was he?"
Ramon wiped blood from the girl's butt then pointed the needle end of the tattoo machine at a newspaper on the counter.
"Him."
Andy picked up the paper. On the front page was a photograph of three middle-aged white men wearing suits and a younger white woman: the mayor of Austin, the governor of Texas, a famous billionaire, and his beautiful blonde wife, all faces well known in Austin.
"The mayor was here?"
Ramon laughed. "What the hell would the mayor want with you?"
"The governor?"
A bigger laugh. "What've you been smoking?"
That left only one, the least likely of all.
"Russell Reeves was here?"
Ramon nodded without looking up from the girl's butt.
"When?"
"Couple hours ago."
"What'd he want?"
"You."
"Why?"
"Didn't say. I didn't ask. I mind my own business."
"Since when?"
Ramon gave him a look over his glasses and a half-smile.
"Okay if I borrow the paper?"
A nod. "Later, bro."
Andy and Max climbed the stairs to his office. Max turned around three times and curled up on his pad in the corner. Andy sat and read the newspaper article. Russell Reeves had just donated $100 million to a scholarship fund so low-income students could attend college. He was being hailed as a visionary philanthropist by the governor and the mayor, the latest in a long line of politicians to honor Russell Reeves.
Russell Reeves was an Austin legend, like Michael Dell. When Reeves was only twenty-two, he invented a computer gizmo that had revolutionized the Internet; he sold it for billions in stock during the high-tech boom years on Wall Street. He then invested in other high-tech companies and made billions more as the NASDAQ climbed to 5000. But he saw the technology boom about to bust, so he sold everything right before the stock market crash of 2000. He walked away from the nineties with over $20 billion in cash. Everything he touched had turned to gold.
Then he gave the gold away.
He gave money to liberal politicians and poor people, environmental causes and alternate energy research, the arts and AIDS; he gave money to build low-income housing and health clinics in East Austin and to buy computers for the public schools and parkland for the people; he gave money to fight global warming and defeat Republicans. Russell Reeves was a devout do-gooder with a heart of gold and a bank account to match. To date, the Russell and Kathryn Reeves Foundation had donated over $2 billion to make Austin a better place.
Reeves was forty now and married to a former Miss UT. Seeing him standing there next to his beauty queen wife in the photo while the governor called him a Texas hero and the mayor said he was Austin's favorite son, and knowing he was worth $15 billion according to the latest Forbes ranking, you'd probably think Russell Reeves was the luckiest man on the face of the Earth … unless you knew about his son.
His seven-year-old son was dying.
Zachary Reeves had a rare, incurable form of cancer. All known medical therapies—chemo, radiation, bone marrow transplant—had failed. So his father had established the Reeves Research Institute on the UT campus, a state-of-the-art cancer research laboratory dedicated to finding a cure for his disease. Russell Reeves had hired renowned scientists from around the
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