Prodigal Son | Page 2

conscious of Buddy watching me from across the room. "Healthy, in good shape, a good-looking kid."
"If this is some kind of stunt..."
"I'd like to bring him out to you, sir, if that would be possible."
I seemed to have outlasted the bluster. "What did you say your name was?" he asked in a quieter voice.
"Sloane," I said. "Daniel Sloane."
"I remember you," he said, as if such a thing were a minor miracle. "Are you sure about this? I mean really sure? Because I am not going to put Georgia through this all over again and have it be for nothing. Do you understand me?"
I remembered Georgia, his tall, stylish wife, alternately hysterical and hideously uncomfortable during the few hours I'd spent with her. "It's no joke," I said. "Believe me."
He gave me his new address. It was in West Lake Hills, a big jump in equity from the one listed in the file. I told him we were on our way and hung up.
"Well?" the kid asked.
"We're going over," I said, not wanting to meet his eyes.
"He didn't even care, did he?"
I felt ashamed for Burlenbach, ashamed even of my own tawdry little profit-oriented part in the exchange. "Look," I said. "He went through a lot of pain over this ten years ago. He just wants to be sure, that's all."
"Yeah," the kid said. "Sure he does." He shifted his feet and made a face. "Before we go, I need to use the, uh, donniker."
I hadn't heard the expression before, but the meaning was obvious enough. I pointed him down the hall, and while he was gone I folded the tiny blue-and-yellow T-shirt into thirds and put it back in the paper bag.
*
The August heat didn't seem to bother the kid much as we drove through downtown and crossed the river just below the Tom Miller Dam. He'd pulled back into himself after the phone call and I guessed he was working out the contingencies for himself.
The radio in my ancient Mustang told us that tonight was Czech night at AquaFest and there would be plenty of kolaches and bratwurst and cold Lone Star Beer on the Auditorium Shores. Not to mention the Golden State Carnival and a concert by Rusty Weir. I turned off on West Lake Drive and told Buddy to keep an eye out for the address.
The houses were almost invisible from the narrow, twisting road, most of them set well back and screened by mesquite and cedars. The odd glimpses, though, were enough to make the kid look back at me in disbelief. I found the driveway and eased down the graveled slope, steering around the BMW and the little sport Mercedes parked casually in the open.
It looked like the Burlenbachs had done pretty well for themselves in the last ten years, which was more than I could say for myself When I came to think of it, the five weeks I'd put in for them back then had been about the last steady work I'd had.
Frank Burlenbach answered the door himself, wearing pleated khaki pants and a white shirt that had obviously been hand-pressed with a lot of starch. His hair had gone completely white since the last time I'd seen him, giving him the worldly air of a talk-show host. His handshake left heavy cologne on my palm and I resisted the impulse to wipe it off on my pants.
"This is Buddy," I said, having to reach back and pull him forward by his shoulder.
The two of them looked each other over like prizefighters, and then Burlenbach stepped aside to let us in. He didn't offer to shake with the boy.
He led us into a living room done in red tile, wicker and bentwood. Lots of plants stood around in terracotta pots that matched the floor, and ceiling fans kept the air moving briskly. I couldn't help but wonder if they laid down carpet and rolled in overstuffed chairs every winter.
Georgia Burlenbach huddled at one end of a long, low couch with white cushions. Her hair was short and not quite blonde, her clothes wrinkled the way only expensive linen wrinkles. She looked broken, somehow, as if carrying the weight of that abandoned shopping cart around with her had finally been too much. She wanted to stand up, but her eyes flashed first to her husband and she read something there that made her stay put.
"You might remember Mr. Sloane," Burlenbach said, and she nodded. Her smile flickered on and off like it wasn't hooked up properly.
I took Buddy's shirt out of the paper bag and laid it on the coffee table in front of her. "He had this with him when he showed up at my office."
The woman gasped and Burlenbach took half a step toward her. "Oh God," she said. "Oh God, it's