The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [7]
“God, he was handsome,” she said.
She didn’t mean Tom. Her blue eyes were focused on the newspaper and a black-and-white photo of a young man under the headlines, “Clark McCall Murdered”…“Prostitute Charged”…“Senator McCall ‘Devastated’”…“Presidential Campaign Delayed.”
“That’s a mug shot,” Scott said, “from when he was busted for dope. He was always in trouble.”
She shrugged. “He was rich.”
“His daddy’s rich.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
“Well, then, he should’ve picked you up Saturday night instead of that hooker.”
“Oh, I would’ve cost him a lot more than her. But then, I don’t carry a gun.”
“Girl, from where I’m standing, you’re sure packing some heat.”
She gave him a coy smile then dropped her eyes back to the newspaper. She shook her head slowly as if pondering a great mystery.
“Rich and handsome. Why would he want a black prostitute when he could have any white girl in town?”
“Cheaper, like you said.”
Scott always enjoyed flirting with Dibrell’s girls, but he had tired of this conversation. The murder of a senator’s son did not concern him this afternoon. He was here to make money. So he said, “Scott Fenney, to see Tom.”
The receptionist put down her polish, blew on her nails, and picked up the phone. She held the receiver carefully with the inside pads of her fingers so as not to scuff her fresh paint job, punched a button with the eraser end of a pencil, and said, “Mr. Fenney is here.” She hung up, rearranged herself in her chair so as to show off her impressive upper body, and said, “So, are you married?”
Scott held up his left hand to display his wedding ring.
“Eleven years.”
“Too bad.” She blew on her nails again and said, “Go right back, Mr. Fenney. And call me if that changes…or even if it don’t.”
Grammar skills notwithstanding, she was a fine example of what Texas men wanted most—a gorgeous Texas girl. Texas myths were many, but one was no myth: the most gorgeous girls in the world were found in Texas. Dallas, Texas. Girls like her, they graduate from high school or maybe junior college, and from small towns all across Texas they head straight to Dallas like moths to light. They come for the jobs, they come for the nightlife, they come for the single men making lots of money, the kind of money that buys big homes and fancy cars and fashionable clothes and glittery jewelry guaranteed to bring a smile to any Texas girl’s face. Girl wants to marry a refinery worker and live in a double-wide, she moves to Houston; girl wants to marry money and live in a mansion, she moves to Dallas.
Scott walked through the reception area and down a gallery filled with more cowboy art and remembered to put on his glasses. He was slightly farsighted and needed the glasses only when reading in poor light, but he made it a practice to wear them in front of clients because clients like lawyers who look smart. He arrived at Tom’s office suite, which consisted of a secretarial area, a private bathroom, a study with a fake fireplace, and Tom’s inner sanctum.
Marlene, Tom’s middle-aged secretary, looked up from the McCall story, smiled, and waved him in. He found Tom on the far side of the vast space, his head buried in his hands, looking small behind the massive desk under the ten-foot-high ceiling. Scott walked toward his rich client, weaving his way around more leather furniture and a fancy silver-inlaid Mexican saddle on a stand and past photographs of Tom with governors and senators and presidents, and, on the coffee table, the hard hat with DIBRELL stenciled across the front, and the rolled-up blueprints he used as props at groundbreakings, even