In Search Of A Hero. Cheryl Wolverton
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him, or so he’d been told. What it was he couldn’t imagine, but many contacts in the past had come through for him, especially the one he was waiting on, so he wouldn’t leave until the tardy man showed up. The slight sound of sneakers on cement caught his attention, drawing his gaze to his unhurried contact.
“Hey, man, you been waiting long?”
André heard the drawl of Billy Redford as he came idling up. Tall and slim, Billy wore pants that were way too big, held up with a belt cinched in around his middle, and a tank top that had seen better days. The cap on his head was turned, the bill pointed down and to the right—always the same direction, same color, same tilt to the hat. Billy dropped down on the bench next to André.
“What do you think, Billy? We were supposed to meet thirty minutes ago,” he said impatiently. It was too hot to be impatient, he realized, and glanced across the park, willing himself to relax. Billy had good information. He usually did. Getting upset wouldn’t hurry the man. More than likely it would slow him down.
Few people could be seen wandering the park. In the distance he heard the occasional horn or someone’s loud laughter that broke through the night. Other than that, it was eerily quiet. Most couples, and singles for that matter, traveled into Fort Worth for the evening on a Friday night.
“I got caught up, man. You know you didn’t have to wait. A man with the color of your skin this time of night could just get himself into major trouble out here, ya know?”
“I live in this neighborhood now, Billy. I doubt because I’m Caucasian anyone is going to pick me off.” Of course, that wasn’t necessarily true, André thought, but he wouldn’t admit that to Billy. He wanted to help in the lower income area. He ignored the voice that said he still had bitterness toward his father that had partially been responsible for landing him where he now practiced.
Billy never met André’s eyes, his gaze constantly roving as he reached under his shirt and pulled out a manila folder, dropping it between them. That’s how Billy was. He was never still, always moving, his gaze never settling on one thing. Tall, slender, black, he was at least five years André’s senior.
And he was right. André needn’t have waited, except he had nothing at home waiting for him, no one there to welcome him, nothing at all. “Yeah, well,” André countered, “you said it was important. Your client was sure I’d want this.”
André lifted the folder to look in it, but Billy stopped him. “Where’s my payment?”
“I see the goods, you get paid,” André replied mildly, thinking they went through this every time Billy brought him information. It was standard practice.
Billy released the envelope. “I think you’ll find some interesting stuff in there.”
“Reading the mail again?” André murmured as he opened the papers to peruse just what was in them.
“Nah. But I have ears.”
“This life is gonna get you in trouble one day, Billy. You need to go legit,” André said and then sat forward as he realized what the papers covered.
“My money?” Billy prompted.
“Who gave you this stuff?” André demanded, his gaze going to Billy, his heart starting to hammer loud in his ears.
“Hey, that ain’t part of the deal, man,” Billy protested. “I can’t reveal my sources. I just deliver the goods and get paid.”
“This is different.” To André, at least, it was. This was about him, about his father, about the past.
“Not to me it ain’t,” Billy muttered. “I tell on my sources, I don’t get the business.”
André forced himself to calm down and pulled an envelope from his back pocket “Tell your contact I want to meet him.”
“I’ll do that,” Billy said, snatching the envelope. Just as quickly it disappeared from his hand under his shirt. Billy hurried off, leaving André sitting there holding the information that might just prove that his almighty father wasn’t perfect. That he could make mistakes. Of course, if it was true, it could also ruin his reputation, but all André could think about was the fact this might finally make his dad see things differently. It might finally make him admit he could be wrong.
But how?
André continued to sit there and stare at the information until an idea bloomed in the back of his mind, an idea that he didn’t really cotton to at first as it crawled up and presented itself, but an idea just the same. It was an idea that, as he forced himself to look at it and examine it objectively, might really work.
If André could only get his dad to go along with him.
And if the information wasn’t simply a pack of lies. Either way, this was something that couldn’t be ignored, and whether André liked the idea or not, it was a way to find out if this information was the truth.
His dad would probably love his plan.
André wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
But to see his family name like this, in these papers, and the consequences it would cause if it were true…
He had to do it.
Chapter Two
“Your father is busy. Is there something I can help you with?”
Rebekkah Hawkley stood poised by the elevators, ready to deter André Watson from going into his father’s office, if at all possible. She hated it when André showed up. He always put Drydan in such a foul mood, and then she had to work with an angry man for the rest of the day.
“Hello, Rebekkah,” André murmured with a smile, turning on the charm that usually got him past the secretaries in the building. Had Wanda not contacted Rebekkah, André would probably have made it all the way past Shirley and Mary and be in there right now, once again arguing with his father about some silly case.
The smile he had could warm anyone to his way of thinking if they weren’t careful. She’d seen him use it on jurors before. Tall, slender, golden hair like his mother, Margaret DuMoiré Watson, André had had it all, until he had a falling out with his father.
“Hello, André,” she replied and waited to see what he would say next.
She’d heard the story of what happened with his father. Supposedly, Drydan had fired André’s fiancée worried that André had taken time off to avoid seeing Sarah for some reason. Some sort of problem between the two had rocked the foundation of their relationship, according to office talk.
Drydan worried about his son and had thought he was helping him. But André had reacted in anger, leaving the practice, breaking Drydan and Margaret’s heart. The only good thing that had come of it was that it left an opening for an up-and-coming lawyer—her—and had gotten Drydan’s stepson, Michael, more involved in the business. He wasn’t a lawyer, but he did assist in research and such for Drydan—he had for nearly seven years now, since he’d come to live with the Watsons. After the falling out between André and his father, Michael had gone to work full-time for his father.
“Tell me, Rebekkah, are you still gofering for my father?”
Rebekkah’s eyes narrowed. André was great at distractions. He got to know his opponent and knew how to attack. That’s what made him a good lawyer. Unfortunately, it had made him cynical in many ways, too, she believed. “You know I don’t gofer for anyone, André. I’m a lawyer in my own right, and your father respects that.”
André snorted. “Yeah. Just like he does me.”
“You know he only wants you back in the business,” Rebekkah argued. “That’s why he’s always on you to get out of the inner city.” Sighing with exasperation she asked, “Why do you come here to cause Drydan problems? Your constant attacks wear him down.”
André at least, had the grace to shift