The Wake-Up (7 page)

“Why so sad, Frank?”

Thorpe turned, saw Gina Meachum beside him, a drink in her hand. “
Hello.
I’m surprised to see you here.”

“I could say the same about you.” Gina was a little tipsy, a little uncomfortable in casual jeans and a short-sleeved sweater the color of sweet cream. It probably wasn’t her kind of a party, which spoke well of her. “How do you know the Riddenhauers?”

“I don’t. I just got an invitation and thought it might be fun.”

“A terrible miscalculation.” They laughed together. “My husband is Douglas Meachum. That’s him over there, going to town on the Cushings. He selected the Riddenhauers’ artwork.”

“So you’re playing the part of the loyal wife tonight.”

“Actually, Douglas didn’t want me to come, but I insisted. He’s afraid I’ll say something he’ll regret.” Gina finished her drink. “How’s your knee?”

“I had a good nurse.”

“You look like you’re ready to leave. It’s early.”

“It’s overdue.” Thorpe kissed her on the cheek. “Good night.”

“Lucky man.”

9

“Just give me the name,” typed Thorpe. He had logged on after coming home from the party, given it one more shot. “Give me the name. We can both go to sleep.”

“Not sure.”

“Give me what you’ve got, then.” It took even longer to get a response this time.

“I’m sure of the name. Not sure I should give it to you.”

Thorpe stared at the screen, trying to determine the best tactic. The wrong approach would shut down this avenue for good. It had taken him four days to connect with this man, ever since Billy confirmed that the Engineer had been working for another shop. Thorpe had been passed from one contact to another, before finally reaching him tonight. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then banged out, “I won’t insult you by offering money, but I can promise you my help with any problems you might have.” He changed the word
problems
to
problem
before sending the instant message.

The courtyard gate squeaked, and Thorpe got up from the computer. He heard Pam giggle as he peeked through the blinds, saw her staggering through the moonlight toward her front door. A guy with a crew cut had his arm around her, a lumbering jock in khakis and a red-and-blue-striped rugby shirt. Thorpe went back to the computer, laid the 9-mm on the table.

“Money is never an insult.”

Thorpe waited.

“Still, a favor is a nice thing to be owed.”

Thorpe turned at the sudden welter of voices from outside, Pam yelling, the jock barking out obscenities. He forced himself to stay seated, to give the man on the other end of the conversation time to decide. Impatience was a sign of weakness.

“So many problems in the world, Frank. It would be good to have someone to call.”

Thorpe glanced toward the curtains, then back at the screen.

“Dale Bingham is the name you’re looking for.”

Pam started shouting again. He could hear Claire trying to smooth things over, repeating over and over that it was late, that it was after midnight. Thorpe was already out the door by the time the jock called somebody “a fucking bitch.”

Lights came on in a couple of other apartments as Thorpe ambled over, deliberately slowing his pace. The three of them were clustered on the steps of apartment number 4, Pam just inside the open door, while Claire blocked the jock from following. Pam was dressed sleek and sexy, hennaed hair piled high, glitter dusted across the tops of her breasts, but Claire must have been in bed already, her hair tousled, barefoot, wearing a Raiders jersey that hung to her knees.

“Have you seen my cat?” asked Thorpe.

The jock whirled. There was a fresh scratch on his cheek, two pink parallel lines. “What’s your problem?”

“Looking for my cat,” said Thorpe, closer now.

“I
told
you I was celibate,” Pam said from behind Claire. “That’s the first thing I said when you asked me if I wanted a drink. I’m celibate.”

“Fine, you don’t have to cum.” The jock tried again to get through the door, but Claire held her ground.

“I just wanted to dance—that’s what I told you.” Pam’s mascara was smeared. “You seemed like such a nice guy, Don. That’s why I let you drive me home.”

“My name is
Ron,
you fucking bitch.”

Thorpe stepped onto the porch. The air was heavy with booze. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

The jock turned on Thorpe, fists balled. “Get out of here, man, or I’ll kick your ass.”

“I’m just looking for my cat. She’s a beautiful fluffy white Persian.” Thorpe smiled at him. “You probably should go home, Ron; Snowball is scared of strangers.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your cat, man.” The jock went to push Thorpe, but Thorpe dipped his shoulder, and the guy pushed air, lurched off the porch and onto the grass. The jock quickly got to his feet, his eyes hot now. “You
tripped
me.”

Thorpe stepped off the porch, leading the jock away. “Here, kitty. Snowball?”

“Be careful, Frank,” called Claire.

The jock jabbed a forefinger at her. “You,
shut
up.” He advanced on Thorpe.

Thorpe stood there in his baggy shorts and a T-shirt. “I’ll walk you to your car, if you want, Ron. Or call you a cab.”

The jock swung at Thorpe’s head, but Thorpe slipped-dodged the punch and threw him off balance. Another punch, same result. Another and another, the jock slipping on the damp grass, scrambling up, breathing hard, cursing. He kept kicking and punching, but Thorpe stayed just out of reach, moving loose and easy, sometimes gently tugging at the jock’s rugby shirt, sending him sprawling. After a few minutes, the jock was on his hands and knees in the grass, dripping with sweat and trying to catch his breath.

Thorpe helped him up. “I’m really tired, and it’s way past my bedtime. How about we call a truce. You go back to the club and find someone who hasn’t taken a vow of chastity, and I’ll go make myself a cup of warm cocoa and look for my kitty cat.”

The jock wiped his nose, nodded. “You’re lucky I don’t want to hurt an old guy.”

“I appreciate that.” Thorpe watched him leave, waiting until the jock had gone through the iron gate before walking back onto the porch. Miss Edwards upstairs had turned off her light, but he knew she was still watching. “You ladies all right?”

“Snowball?” Claire pinched him, laughed.

Thorpe smiled back at her. “That’s a
nice
name for a cat. If I had a cat, I’d probably name her something like that. Or Tabby.”

“I bet when Gandhi said he was celibate, nobody argued with him,” said Pam.

Claire and Thorpe looked at each other.

Pam yawned. “You coming in?”

“I’m going to stay out here for a little bit,” said Claire, sitting on the porch steps.

Thorpe sat beside her.

“I shouldn’t have left her alone at the club,” said Claire after Pam had closed the door. “It’s just that I have a busy day tomorrow and—”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“She’s got lousy taste in men,” said Claire. “Not that I should talk.”

“How long has this celibacy thing been going on?”

Claire laughed. “Three days. A new record.”

They sat there, not speaking now, enjoying the quiet of the surrounding apartments, aware of the odd intimacy that existed between them, an unacknowledged intimacy. A soap bubble of desire. Miss Edwards had given up and gone to bed. Just the two of them alone in the courtyard, hearing the hum of the freeway traffic in the distance. It felt like being shipwrecked on a desert island, listening to the sound of surf and not caring if they were rescued.

Claire shivered, pulled the football jersey down over her knees. “That was nice what you did. Not hitting that jerk.”

“Guys like that, all meat and attitude, you hit them and they resent it. They make excuses. They say they were drunk or you sucker punched them. You’re just giving them a reason to come back for more.” Thorpe plucked a blade of grass, peeled it down the center. “This way, you let them tire themselves out. If you pretend not to notice, they go away with their dignity intact and they never bother you again.”

“I shouldn’t have been surprised by the way you handled him.” Claire scratched behind her knee, and he knew the skin was baby-soft back there. “Question number sixteen.”

“Okay . . .”

Claire nodded again. “Question sixteen of the Minnesota Multiphasic Human Relations test. ‘You usually walk, A: fairly fast, with long steps; B: fairly fast, with short, quick steps; C: head up, looking the world in the face; D: slowly, head down.’ You answered, ‘C: head up, looking the world in the face,’ which indicates that you approach situations without any preconceived notions, with creativity and openness.”

“What about Ron the jock? How would he have answered the question?”

“ ‘A: fairly fast, with long steps.’ A ‘tromp right over you’ guy who doesn’t take no for an answer.”

Thorpe smiled. “That stuff is bullshit, you know.”

“I
have
had my doubts lately. I’ve been asking you questions for months now—Iowa, Stanford-Binet. . . . Your test results are contradictory. Not inconclusive,
contradictory.
” She was wide-awake. “Sometimes I think you do that deliberately.”

“That’s impossible. People with Ph.D.’s put those tests together.”

She pinched him again, harder this time. “I’ve been taking course work in criminal profiling. The certification process is pretty rigorous, but police and federal agencies are hiring, and I could use a full-time job.”

“A hundred years ago, cops used phrenology to solve crimes, convinced that the bumps on the heads of suspects could determine guilt or innocence. Profiling is in the same category. All those TV experts . . . the killer is a white man in his early thirties who wears boxers, not briefs . . . except when he isn’t, and doesn’t.”

Claire wiggled her toes. She had long ones, too. “Maybe I should sell insurance, like you.”

“You wouldn’t like it.”

Claire’s face was close, her breath warm on his cheek. “Why haven’t you ever made a move on me? I know you’re attracted.”

Thorpe looked back at her. “You’re too smart for me. I wouldn’t have a chance.”

“Liar.” Claire put her arm around him. “We’d have some fun.”

Thorpe half-closed his eyes, enjoying her touch, almost giving in.

Claire must have sensed his hesitation. “I used to see that one girl come by late at night. Cute brunette . . . acted like she knew just where she was going. She seemed like the kind of girl you’d go for. I was a little jealous.” She brushed her lips across his neck, and he raked his hands through her hair, the night humming now. “I kept waiting for her to show up after you got carjacked. Take care of you, maybe bring some chicken soup . . . at least see how you were doing. So, I guess it’s over with her.”

Thorpe pulled away slightly. “Yeah, it’s over.”

Claire stiffened. “You’re still carrying a torch?”

“No . . . not exactly.”

She watched him. “But not exactly free, either?”

He missed her touch already. “No.”

“No one is totally free, Frank. You can wait around forever for the perfect moment. Sometimes you just have to take what’s in front of you and enjoy it.” She waited. “Not tonight, huh? You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“No . . . not tonight.”

“Pretty sure of yourself, thinking you’re going to get asked again. Must be nice to be God’s gift to women.” Claire kissed him and he kissed her back, her mouth warm. “Good night, Frank,” she breathed into him, getting up. Another kiss and the door closed behind her, gone before he could tell her he had changed his mind. The night was lonely without her.

Thorpe went back to his apartment. He had left the computer on, something that Warren had warned him against.

“You’re up late, Frank. Or is it early where you are?”

Thorpe stared at the instant message flashing. He didn’t recognize the screen name, but he knew immediately who it was.

“Don’t ignore me, Frank. You had better manners that morning in the park.”

Thorpe shivered. That’s what happens when you get what you wish for. He typed “About time. I had about given up on you.”

“Keep the faith.”

“We’re way past that, you and I.”

“You got fired, Frank. I hope it wasn’t something I did.”

“How did you find me?”

“Trade secret. I took a peek at your personnel file. You’ve been a naughty boy, Frank. Got your fingers in the honey pot, according to what I read, but then, you should hear what they say about me. We should get together sometime. Exchange notes.”

“I’m pretty busy these days.”

“You’re not just playing hard to get, are you, Frank?”

“I don’t see what you have to offer. You had to burn down Lazurus’s operation to get away. Makes you seem kind of desperate.”

“Why so hostile? I’ve always treated you with the utmost courtesy. Is that belly wound still giving you problems? I hope you don’t blame me for that.”

“Of course not.”

“Can you still eat everything you like? Fried foods and such? You seem like the kind of person who likes things spicy. I’d hate to think you were on some bland baby food regimen.”

“I’ve got a healthy appetite, thanks.”

“Glad to hear it. We have to take our pleasures where we find them.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m here, Frank.”

“You know what I mean. Can you smell the ocean from where you are?”

“I went beachcombing just this morning. The offshore swells brought in all sorts of interesting things. What about you?”

“I can smell the surf from where I’m sitting.”

“We might be neighbors and not even know it. Sad, isn’t it? We should get together.”

“You think we have anything to talk about?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Be bold, Frank.”

“I have to get my beauty sleep.” Thorpe logged off. His hands were shaking. He stared at his fingers until they stopped trembling, waited until they were perfectly still. It took longer than he would have liked.

10

“I still don’t know why
I’m
the only one who can fix coffee,” grumbled Cecil, bumping the table, the Pyrex pot held high. “ ‘Cecil get me some coffee.’ ‘Cecil make me some eggs. . . .’ ”

Missy looked up from dealing out her tarot cards, annoyed at being interrupted, the precognitive
flow
totally ruined now. She scooped up the cards and then straightened them as her brother refilled her cup. Normally, she would have been furious with him for distracting her while she was doing her morning reading, but after last night’s triumph, she was willing to overlook his stupidity.

She watched Cecil’s clumsy fingers holding the pot, coarse red hairs in waves across the back of his hands. Hands just like his daddy’s. Their mama had hated those ugly hands, those farmer’s hands, but she had put up with them, and that was her own damn fault. Cecil reached out and steadied her cup as he poured. He’d be thinking of filling the cup until it overflowed, imagining the scalding coffee slopping onto the table, splashing her tarot cards. Cecil might be thinking that, but he didn’t do it, stopping so that the fresh coffee was exactly one inch from the rim, just like she had taught him. Missy could train an orangutan to be a proper English butler if she put her mind to it.

“How come it’s always
me
on kitchen duty?” Cecil scratched his belly. “That’s a fair question, isn’t it?”

Missy picked up the deck of cards, shuffled. She was wearing only a loosely knotted black silk robe, her blond hair unbraided now, a wild corona after the party.

She cut the deck, flipped up the top card. “
That’s
why.”

Cecil peered at the card.

“Ten of swords.” Missy tapped the card with a finger. “That’s
you,
Cecil. Ten of swords. Means you exist to serve the queen of swords.”

“That’s
her,
Cecil.” Clark snickered from the other side of the table, sitting there in just a pair of heart-patterned boxers.

“Kitchen duty, yard duty, fucking
doorman
duty, ten of swords or not, it just ain’t right.” Cecil sat back, rolled one of his syrup-soaked pancakes into a tube, and took a bite, pointing it at her. “You should hire beaners to do all that, not put it off on family.”

“I’ve told you before: I won’t have strangers living with us, poking their noses into our affairs.” Missy wiped her lip with the tip of her pinkie. “You don’t like it, you can get your ass back to sweet home Alabama and I’ll send for Cousin Leroy. I expect he’ll be happy to take your place.”

“Leroy is a retard,” said Cecil.

“Then he won’t have any trouble filling your shoes.” Clark pushed aside his half-eaten sunny-side up eggs, looked over at Missy. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re beautiful, baby,” Missy leaned over and kissed him, her tongue probing his mouth. “I didn’t hurt you last night, did I?”

Clark fingered the welt on his neck, shook his head.

“That’s good.” Neither of them had slept after the party finally tapered off, too excited, too happy. The caterers had packed up and moved out by 4:00 a.m., just in time for the cleanup crew to take over, twelve Mexican women, who had scrubbed, cleaned, and vacuumed the house, all under Cecil’s watchful eye.

“The party went all right, didn’t it?” asked Clark.

“Sure, long as Cecil is here to fetch and shuffle, help people with their coats and tell them where to take a piss, everything’s fine,” said Cecil, retreating to the kitchen.

“The party was just
perfect,
baby.” Missy beamed at Clark. “Betty B said she was going to give us a big write-up in her column.”

“When does it come out?” asked Clark. “Tuesday?”

“Alison Peabody was positively green,” Missy bubbled, her black robe rustling with every movement. “You see the way she was looking at the artwork, walking from room to room, trying not to let her jaw drop? Kept asking who helped me with it. Wait until she reads the article, sees the pictures. She’s going to need a deep-tissue massage just to unkink her asshole.”

“Vlad and Arturo didn’t stay long.” Clark tossed back his stringy hair. “I tried to make them comfortable, but—”

“No way to make them comfortable,” chided Missy. “Arturo’s too uptight, and Vlad . . . well, he just doesn’t know how to act around normal people.”

“I offered him something would have mellowed him right out,” said Clark, “but he just shook his head.”

“Oh
please.
You know Vlad’s not going to do any drugs. That boy had more drugs shot into him than you and I could take in a dozen lifetimes.”

“Vlad should count his blessings.”

“Don’t talk foolish, baby. Those doctors treated him like a lab rat.”

“Sure, poor Vlad, let’s cry in our beer for poor Vlad,” Cecil called from the kitchen. “I ask for a little help with the chores, and it’s ‘Go fuck yourself, Cecil.’ ”

“Vlad is special,” said Missy.

“I’m special, too,” replied Cecil, coming back to the table.

Missy glared at Cecil. “Vlad is like a unicorn. He’s one of a kind. You, Cecil?
Shit.
”

Cecil threw his dish towel down and stomped off toward the media room. Probably going to watch porno or
World’s Fastest Police Chases II,
III,
and
IV,
drinking bourbon and talking to himself. Special? He was about as special as a toilet seat.

Missy smiled, sipped her coffee. She stared out the window, watching the cold green sea. Clark loved the ocean—the sight, the smell, the rush. Called it ‘Mother Ocean’ and all that other surf nonsense, but when she looked at the waves, all she thought about were sharks and jellyfish and fat octopi waiting to pull somebody under. Octopi, that was the right word for when there was more than one octopus. Not many people knew that.

Clark stood up. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Missy watched him stride toward their bedroom, slim and lean and skin so smooth, like he’d never done a day’s work in his life. She hummed softly to herself. It had been a
great
party last night. Not bad for a girl who had grown up without ever getting a birthday party, none with a cake anyway. She had shown them. Shown them all. She crossed her legs, reveled in the sound the silk made. Best money could buy. Fuck those symphonies Alison Peabody was always going on about; good silk was all the music she needed. Next thing, the very next thing, she was going to step up the business. The
real
business. Clark was a genius, but he was too easygoing for his own good, willing to waste his time with those damn surf bums. Well, not if she had any say about it. They had already come a lot further than he had ever expected, but
she
wasn’t surprised. Wasn’t satisfied, either. You let your guard down, you thought you could just kick back and ride the waves, next thing you knew, you were fucked good and fucked permanent.

Her coffee was cold, but she didn’t feel like calling to Cecil and telling him to brew up a fresh pot. She replayed the party in her mind. All those guests and neighbors, the fancy ones, the rich ones who had it all handed to them, the sportswear industry contacts and country club honchos, they had all been there. It had taken three years, but she had finally cracked the social scene. She was an equal now; she was one of them.

She was glad that cutiepie from the art gallery had been there to see it. Frank, the sharp-dressed man. She reached for the tarot cards, curious about him, but Cecil had thrown her off. Tonight was soon enough to deal out a reading on Frank. She remembered hearing his voice last night, saw him standing at the front door while Cecil gave him a hard time about being on the guest list, Frank not mad, not throwing his weight around, just beaming, like he had it all under control. She shifted her legs again, the silk warm as a man’s breath. That grin of Frank’s . . . Clark was lucky she was true-blue.

The front gate buzzed.

“Cecil!” No response from that useless toad. Missy strode to the front door, checked the security monitor.

Thorpe smiled at her from the screen. “Good morning.”

Missy smiled back, even though he couldn’t see her. She glanced over at the tarot cards. “You believe in fate, Frank?” She pressed the button that opened the electronic gate before he could answer.