The Wake-Up (6 page)

7

“This good deed of yours, Frank, what a colossal waste of talent.” Billy hadn’t said a word during Thorpe’s story, just sat there, impassive, but he couldn’t hold back now. “A wake-up . . . just because some businessman smacked a child in the face? You think the boy has never been smacked before?”

“Not in front of me.”

“What do you expect the art dealer to do,
apologize
?”

“I already gave him a chance to do that, but he declined.”

Billy stared at Thorpe, the tumble of bowling pins crashing around them. “You’re serious.” The three of them sat on the bench of lane number 24, secure in their privacy. “Look, if you want to sharpen your claws, that’s a
good
sign, a healthy sign, but why bother with this art dealer? I have more challenging targets for you.”

“Software engineers? No thanks.”

“You’ll use your talents for Uncle Sam but not for me? Not for
your
self? What are you, a patriot?” Billy’s laugh boomed. “You were bounced out of the military, bounced out of the shop; you don’t owe your country anything. It’s time to grab what’s on the table.”

“I’m going to pass.”

Billy shook his head, amused. “Have it your way. The offer still stands.” He took a deep breath, spread his hands in an attitude of forgiveness. “I’m simply suggesting that this wake-up of yours is a thoughtless indulgence, as narcissistic as your vendetta against the Engineer.”

Thorpe leaned closer, right in Billy’s face now. “I don’t need your approval.”

“Temper, temper, but do you honestly think Kimberly would be targeting the Engineer if
you
had been the one murdered in the safe house?”

“You didn’t know her, Billy.”

“I
hired
her, Frank. Just like I hired you.”

“You didn’t know her.”

Billy eased back. “I’m simply suggesting that getting emotionally involved is risky, risky for you, risky for everyone around you. You’re a professional, so is the Engineer. You squeezed him, and he turned it back on you. If you could get some distance—”

Thorpe put a hand on Billy’s shoulder, felt the big man tense as he drew him closer. Billy liked touching, but he didn’t like being touched. Thorpe kept his hand where it was. “That’s the problem, Billy. I
can’t
get any distance from it. None at all.” He slowly released him.

Billy adjusted his shirt, smoothed out the wrinkles where Thorpe had grabbed him. A tiny vein throbbed on the side of his skull. “If you think this foolishness with the art dealer is going to help you get back into shape for some
real
work, you have my blessing.”

“I don’t think it’s foolish,” said Warren.

They both turned and stared at him. Warren hadn’t said a word since Thorpe had started talking about the wake-up.

Warren looked up from his GameBoy, surprised. “What? The guy hit a
kid.
”

Thorpe nodded. “That’s right.”

Warren pushed his light blue curls away from his face. “My mother’s boyfriend was a hitter. That shit would come out of nowhere, too. One minute, I’d be watching
Power Rangers;
the next, I’d be slammed up against the wall. Never did figure out what I had done wrong.” The barbell stud gleamed in his left eyebrow; it looked like a tear falling upward, freed of gravity. “I say
do
it, Frank. Fuck him up good.”

“Well . . . that was interesting,” said Billy, lips pursed. “Warren has given you his seal of approval, so I guess there’s nothing more to be said. How do you intend to use Ellsworth? You plan on selling one of his bogus masterpieces to the art dealer?”

“Something like that.”

Billy waited, then gave up. “There’s no need to involve Ellsworth. I can simply have Warren crash the dealer’s credit history. We could even get him audited, if you like. Take Ware five minutes—”

“Two minutes,” said Warren, tapping away at his GameBoy.

Thorpe smiled, enjoying seeing Billy try to find out what his plan was. Billy
hated
not knowing things. It wasn’t a matter of personal safety, or gaining financial advantage, or even power. Billy just liked being at the absolute apex of the information pyramid. The “Prime Mover,” he called it.

“Why not just tell the art dealer’s wife that he’s cheating?” said Billy. “Or just make the threat. That should do the job.” He rested his chin on his cupped hands, his expression serene, and Thorpe was reminded of the Mayan lord in Meachum’s gallery, distant and alien and implacable. “No? All right . . . well, considering your style, I imagine you’re planning something simple, something with the personal touch.”

“ ‘Something borrowed, something blue,’ ” said Thorpe.

Billy slowly brightened. “The art dealer’s wife . . . is she lovely, Frank?”

“I only met her once.”

“Sometimes once is all it takes,” said Billy. “Love at first sight, that’s the only kind that counts.” He cocked his head at Thorpe. “Just one look . . . wasn’t that the way it was with you and Kimberly?”

Thorpe raised a forefinger to his lips. “Shhh.”

Billy forced a smile.

“I’m just going to give Meachum a wake-up,” Thorpe said quietly. “I’m not saving the world or buying my way into heaven. I just want something to keep me busy while I wait for the Engineer to surface. Are you going to help me or not?”

“Of
course
I’ll help you,” Billy said, preening, and Thorpe remembered all the reasons he had for not liking him. “What kind of a friend would I be if I didn’t? I’ll have Ellsworth contact you immediately.”

Thorpe stood up.

“You should stay off the Net for a while,” said Warren.

Thorpe looked at him.

Warren’s fingers danced over the GameBoy. “Me jumping around after the Engineer . . . if he’s good enough, and I’m not saying he is, but
if
he is, he may be able to backtrack on me. He may be able to smoke out my connections. Billy uses my system when he contacts you, so that’s a vulnerability.” His fingers stabbed at the keys now. “I’ve got enough black ice in my program that he’s never going to home in on my location, but you, Frank, you got that off-the-rack security. I’d be careful if I were you.” He peeked at Thorpe. “If you have to hit the Net, don’t hang around, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Thanks, Warren.”

Warren went back to his game. “I just don’t like the Engineer playing cute with my trip wire. Pisses me off.”

“I’m glad we’ve got that settled,” said Billy. “Go ahead, Frank, give the art dealer a wake-up. Buy the kid a baseball mitt and take him to a ball game, load him up with hot dogs and Cracker Jack. See if it makes him all better. See if it makes
you
all better. When you’re finished, we’ll get to work, you and I. It will be just like the old days.”

Thorpe didn’t answer.

8

“I told you,
buddy,
you’re not on the guest list.”

“Just check with Mrs. Riddenhauer,” said Thorpe.

“I don’t
need
to check with Missy. The guest list is my responsibility, and I don’t see your fucking name on it. No name, no invite, no can do.” The man in the doorway jabbed the list, his round face getting redder. He was a beefy redhead in white linen trousers and a short-sleeved sports shirt with a pattern of exploding volcanoes. “You going to take off on your own steam, or am I going to have to help you?”

Thorpe saw Missy walking toward them, dressed in a black leather micromini and a matching halter, her white-blond hair dangling in dozens of braids. An S-M Medusa. Thorpe stood there in a gunmetal gray single-breasted suit and a black silk polo shirt, watching her bear down on him.

“Problem, Cecil?”

Cecil’s freckles flared. “Mr. Style Fuck here is trying to crash the party.”

“I invited him.”

Cecil waved the list at her. “His name ain’t on the list.”

Missy smacked the paper aside, air-kissed Thorpe, and led him inside. “You’ll have to forgive my brother. He’s the family idiot.”

“DNA plays some nasty jokes,” said Thorpe.

“You don’t put the names on the list, how can I do my job?” Cecil yelled after them.

Missy’s high heels went
clickity-clack
against the hardwood floor. She squeezed Thorpe’s hand as they reached the edge of a huge sunken living room filled with people. Waiters in tuxedos gracefully navigated the room, keeping their silver trays with drinks and canapés aloft. “Olé, Frank.”

“Olé?” A young guy patted Missy on the hip, sloshed his cocktail on the carpet. “What does that mean?”

“Private joke,” said Missy, her eyes on Thorpe. “Frank, this is my husband, Clark. Clark, this is Frank . . . something or other.”

“Greetings, dude.” Clark was a lanky, barefoot beach bum with stringy shoulder-length hair and sleepy blue eyes. He wore baggy madras shorts and an orange tank top with a CAMP RIDDENHAUER logo. A Superman Band-Aid crossed his chin, and even that added to his look of insouciant cool. “Glad you could make the party.
Mi casa . . .
well, you know the drill.” He tossed his empty glass into a potted palm. “Rock on.”

“Mingle, baby!” Missy called as Clark staggered off, bumping his way across the room and down a flight of stairs. “He’s a genius, you know.”

“Yes, I could tell.”

“Clark’s really hooked into youth culture, but I hope when he gets older, he dresses more like you. European suits, plain but sharp. Above it all. Is that how you feel, Frank? Like you’re above it all?”

“Eight miles high.”

Missy squeezed his arm. “I love an arrogant man. They’re such a challenge.”

The house was a sprawling, gated oceanfront estate with natural wood, high ceilings, and full-length windows open to the beach. The sound of the waves rolled in over the hum of conversation. Nell had filled Thorpe in on the Riddenhauers after Missy had stalked out of the art gallery. Clark Riddenhauer designed a line of sportswear geared toward surfers and would-be surfers—he was a talented slacker, a guy who acted like he would have been happy to live in a VW van, eat fish tacos for breakfast, smoke dope, and surf. Missy’s job was to crack the whip.

“Clark started the Camp Riddenhauer line just three years ago, and now we’ve got five shops.” Missy smoothed Thorpe’s lapels. “I don’t fuck around on my husband, just so you know.”

“So you’re only practicing now, in case you get divorced?”

Missy started to laugh, then spotted someone across the room— a blue-haired matriarch wearing cat’s-eye glasses and a paisley muumuu, a cigarette jutting from the corner of her painted mouth. Missy waved, but the woman ignored her. “I hope that old cunt gets cancer,” Missy hissed. She waved again, and the woman acknowledged her with a curt nod this time, ashes floating down. “We’ll talk later. I have to make nice right now.”

Thorpe watched Missy scurry over, take the older woman’s arm, chattering away. He took a passing glass of champagne, then made his way through the house, listening to conversations and checking out the security. Thorpe had met with Gavin Ellsworth earlier in the day, and the master forger had delivered the goods, Ellsworth hunched over a bowl of chicken noodle soup at Denny’s, goggle-eyed behind his thick glasses as he crumbled crackers into his soup, reminding Thorpe of the federal penalties if he got caught. Thorpe smiled at the memory. Billy was right, as usual: Thorpe
had
decided on the simple approach for his wake-up, one that required the minimum of detail work and the maximum of bravado. He touched the wallet in the breast pocket of his jacket, deftly avoided a drunk in a purple tuxedo, and worked his way deeper into the party.

The talk in the room was mostly about the house, the new art, the encroachment of the wrong sort into the colony, and the lovely ass on the new tennis instructor at the club. The crowd was California chic, the women in leather and silk and skin, most of the men in yacht club finery—every man a commodore! Claire would have loved the scene, everyone’s ego on full display, with a full-fantasy kicker.

“I was
wondering
if you were really going to show up,” said Nell.

“Nice party.”

“I can’t wait to leave.” Nell pushed back a strand of hair. She was overdressed in a formal blue cocktail dress and jacket, a single strand of pearls around her neck. “What do you think of the art?”

“Who’s the woman Missy is talking to?” asked Thorpe.

Nell peered across the room. “That’s Betty Berquist, Betty B . . . local doyenne. Lived here forever, drinks her way through every party and charity gala. Writes a weekly column for the
Gold Coast Pilot,
very bitchy, very on point.
Everyone
reads it.” She nodded. “Those’re the Enersons. He’s in commercial real estate; she collects cloisonné pig figurines.” Another nod. “Carla Schmidt. Husband owns a Mercedes dealership. Won’t come
near
us. Strictly New York galleries.” Another nod. “Mark Kelly. Halogen lighting. Did over a hundred million in sales last year. We did his game room. Contemporary erotica, the cruder the better.” She grimaced. “I sometimes think I don’t have the stomach for this job. Ah, there’s Douglas. I have to go over and schmooze with some prospective clients. Would you like to meet him?”

“You go ahead.” Thorpe spotted Halley Anderson on the other side of the room, the blonde from the red Porsche, pretending to listen to some Botoxed duffer wearing a new Harley-Davidson jacket with the collar turned up. She kept smiling and looking past him at Meachum. Thorpe eased his way into the dining room, hearing Missy’s voice. He found her standing in front of an antique glass case displaying some dull, unglazed Incan pottery and shards of green jade. The Mayan plaque rested at the center.

“I
personally
selected the pieces,” said Missy to a group of women clustered around the case. She pointed to the limestone plaque. “
This
is the centerpiece of my collection. The man with the elaborate headdress is probably a Mayan king.”

“He looks like a Vegas showgirl,” said an icicle-thin woman with a two-carat diamond in each earlobe. “It’s
broken,
too.”

“Well,
Jackie,
it’s got some jagged edges because it was chipped off a Mayan temple in the middle of the jungle and then brought down-river in a dugout canoe,” said Missy. “You ever hear of Indiana Jones?”

“You ever hear of being ripped off?” sniffed Jackie, walking away.

Thorpe edged after Jackie, body-to-body through the crowd, the air heavy with perfume. He watched her summon a drink, then stand around fingering a display of orchids, making sure they were real. He had planned on coming back tomorrow or the next day, but he could finish things now. All he had to do was sidle up to Jackie, whisper a few words in her ear, and she would take care of the rest of it, the rumor spreading through the party like a virus. Thorpe could be on his way. He watched Jackie tapping her foot, saw her tear off an orchid blossom and toss it onto the carpet, and decided to keep walking. Using her against Meachum was overkill, and besides, Missy would be equally hurt by the gossip. Missy was a climber, spikes on at all times, but she hadn’t done anything to Paulo, or Thorpe, either. No, he was going to stick to his original plan. But he was going to check out the rest of the house first.

As he eased past an alcove, he stopped, seeing a pale man standing alone in a corner, trembling. His cheekbones were sharp as blades, his blond hair bled of color. Looking at his high-water trousers and badly ironed white shirt, Thorpe thought at first he was a party crasher, but if so, he wasn’t enjoying himself. “Excuse me . . . can I help you?” said Thorpe.

The man’s blue eyes were wide. He kept trembling.

Thorpe put his hand on the man’s arm.

The man stared at Thorpe. “The room is too . . .
full.
I . . . I cannot breathe.”

Thorpe squeezed the man’s arm. It was like trying to compress a steel beam. “Take it easy. What’s your name?”

“Vladimir.” The man was gasping now. “Vlad.”

“Okay, Vlad, how about if I walk you outside? It’s not that far.”

Vlad clung to Thorpe, sweaty and sour. “I am scared in here.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” Thorpe said gently, leading him out. “Just breathe—”

“Arturo!” Vlad jerked.
“Arturo.”

Thorpe turned, saw a stocky man in a perfectly tailored black suit. He looked like a middleweight boxer turned hedge-fund manager.

“What’s going on?” growled Arturo.

“Too many people,” said Vlad, panting. “I am choking on them. This man . . . he wanted to help me.” His watery eyes turned to Thorpe. “Thank you,
sir.
You’re very kind.”

“I hope you feel better.” Thorpe watched Arturo guide Vlad toward the front door, then headed off in the other direction. At the far wall, he took a short flight of stairs down, following the sound of laughter, louder than and different from the sounds above. He came out into a large room that smelled faintly of epoxy resin. There were half-made surfboards stacked nearby, Styrofoam shavings curling underfoot, black respirators hanging next to an industrial ventilator on the far wall.

Clark and four other men stood around a finished surfboard that was laid out on a rack at waist height, their fingers curled around beer bottles. The board must have been twelve feet long, with blue and silver decorations, ancient Hawaiian motifs. Other finished boards leaned against the walls, old-style longboards, not meant for hotdogging, but for elegantly cruising the waves. The men with Clark were in their forties and fifties, deeply tanned, wearing surf jams and T-shirts washed too many times, potbellied and losing their hair, but utterly at ease with one another. They were having the best time of anyone Thorpe had seen at the party, and he envied them. Clark was right in the middle, talking fast, in a half crouch, pivoting as though he were riding a wave. One of the other men spotted Thorpe, and they all turned.

“It’s cool, boys,” said Clark. “This here’s . . . Fred, or Farley, or . . .”

“Frank.” Thorpe reached into a cooler filled with crushed ice, pulled out a bottle of beer.

“You surf, Frank?”

Thorpe twisted the cap off. “No.”

“I was telling Kelsey about a board I’m making for him,” said Clark. “Plastic core for—”

“If you don’t surf, what do you do with your life?” demanded a man with frizzy hair.

“Piss it away, mostly,” said Thorpe.

“Good for you.” Clark cracked his bottle against Thorpe’s. “Me, too.”

“You still haven’t told us what happened to your chin, Clark,” said Frizzy Hair.

Clark took a swallow of beer. “Did a wicked face plant at Trestles yesterday.”

Frizzy Hair belched. “My money’s on Missy closing her legs without warning.”

The other longboarders laughed.

“What money?” Missy stood at the bottom of the stairs. “You said for
your
money, I had closed my legs without warning.” She walked toward them. “What I want to know, Mr. Mack Sinclair, Mr.
Second
Place, Waimea Invitational 19
fucking
87, is what money could you possibly have to bet on what my legs did or did
not
do?”

Frizzy Hair shrugged, lowered his eyes. “I didn’t mean nothing.”

“You don’t mean shit,” said Missy. “None of you freeloaders do.” She shook her head. “Clark, honey, you need to get back to the party. Frank . . . I don’t know how many wrong turns you took to find your way here, but you better come with us before the boys here start telling you about the good old days and the good old waves, and then Mack asks you to spring for another keg.”

Clark hurried after Missy, but Thorpe finished his beer. “Nice meeting you fellows.” He walked out, keeping his eye on Missy’s ass hitting all cylinders in that tight leather skirt.

Missy didn’t turn around, but she must have known he was there. “Hanging around with those fools . . . I’m disappointed in you, Frank.”

“
Already?
That’s a new record.”

Missy looked flustered.

“You shouldn’t talk to Mack like that, baby,” said Clark. “He’s got his pride.”

“That’s all he’s got,” said Missy.

Clark grinned at Thorpe. “When she’s right, she’s right.”

The three of them separated in the dining room. Clark and Missy walked toward the living room, while Frank headed for the front door. He took a shortcut through the game room, made his way past the people clustered around the pool table, playing arcade games. Glancing into the living room, he could see Meachum and Nell talking to a husband and wife combo, pitching hard, Meachum with his chest puffed, jaw thrust forward, the hard charger in all his glory. Nell laughed at his jokes, nodding reflexively, and Thorpe wondered how much longer she could keep doing it without her head exploding. Probably longer than she would have believed. You start out with grand ambitions, but you find out you have an almost infinite capacity for betraying them.