The Wake-Up (12 page)

18

Thorpe lay on his belly, squinting under the couch and wondering what he was doing here at 2:00 a.m. He had just gotten back from his trial run at the Strand when his phone rang. He jiggled around the golf club, a four iron, stirring up dust balls. “Are you
sure
it went under here?”

“I thought so,” said Pam.

Thorpe looked back at her. Pam was perched on one of the end tables, legs drawn up, wearing only an XXL 50-Cent T-shirt and pale blue panties. He could hear Claire cursing nearby. “You did see a rat, though?”

Pam nodded. “Big one. He hadn’t brushed his teeth for a long time, either.”

“You two shouldn’t leave the dog door open. You don’t even
have
a dog.”

“We shut the dog door, how are we going to get in when we lock ourselves out?” asked Pam.

“Keep the dog door closed. That’s your problem.”

“The problem is the city’s cut back on rat abatement for the last four years,” said Claire, peering under the brown leather reading chair, her own golf club ready—a putter. She wore dark blue silk pajama bottoms and a T-shirt with Serena Williams’s picture on it. Her butt was in the air.

“He’s checking out your ass, Claire.”

Claire looked over at Thorpe. They were both low to the floor. “Is that right, Frank?”

“Guilty.”

Claire shook her head. “
Men.
You call them up in the middle of the night for help, and instead they scope out the goods.”

“Just kill the rat; then you two can flirt,” said Pam.

Thorpe got up. “Mr. Rat’s not under here.”

Claire stood up, too, her short dark hair falling around her face. “Ditto.”

“Well . . . he’s got to be somewhere,” said Pam, still on the end table.

Thorpe had been getting ready for bed when Pam had called, still exhilarated from seeing the crowd outside the movie theater, thinking of what he was going to do if he saw the Engineer in line Saturday night. He was going to let him watch the movie, catch him on the way back to his car, him and his bodyguard, catch them unaware. Thorpe imagined asking the Engineer how he’d liked the movie. Then the phone rang and Pam was yelling, and Claire was telling her to relax.

Thorpe walked into the kitchen, yawning.

“I already checked the kitchen,” Claire called.

“I’ll check it again,” said Thorpe. One of the cabinets was half-open. He bent down, started to open it with the golf club.

Claire touched his side and Thorpe jumped. She laughed, clucked like a chicken.

Still laughing, Thorpe opened the cabinet, gently nudged aside cereal boxes with the head of the golf club. The rat stared back at him, a big one, too, just like Pam had said, dirty brown and beady-eyed, his whiskers brushing the face of the white-haired Quaker on the cardboard oatmeal canister.

“Do you see anything?” asked Claire.

Thorpe shifted his weight. The rat followed his movements, turned its head, and seemed to make eye contact with the Quaker. Thorpe whacked the rat with the golf club, but it was a glancing blow. The rat scurried across Thorpe’s hands and onto the kitchen floor.

Bam! Claire swung the putter, missed, and smacked the floor. The rat’s legs slipped on the tile as it tried to get away, squealing, desperate now. She swung the golf club again, hit the rat a glancing blow, and sent him sailing. The rat bounced off the stove and lay stunned. Claire advanced on him, the putter raised high. The rat got to its feet, reared back, showed its yellowed incisors, snarled at her, eyes bulging.

“I think he’s in love with you,” Thorpe said to her.

The rat made a dash toward the living room, then cut back as Claire swung and missed, headed back toward the doggy door.

Claire raised the golf club, but Thorpe grabbed her arm before she could take another try, and the rat raced out through the doggy door, out into the night. Claire shook Thorpe off. “That was
stupid.
”

Thorpe walked to the doggy door, slid down the metal locking plate over the entrance. “Tough guy like that, he earned his freedom.” He leaned his four iron against the wall.

Pam peeked in the doorway. “Is it safe?”

Claire reached over, pinched Thorpe’s bare nipple.

Thorpe howled, rubbed his nipple. “That
hurt.
”

“It was meant to hurt. I wanted to kill it.”

“You’re licensed by the state of California to offer psychotherapy?” Thorpe’s nipple felt hot. The other one had stiffened in sympathy. “
You
need treatment, lady.”

“What a baby,” said Claire. “And don’t call me ‘lady.’ ”

“Are you guys gonna fuck right here on the kitchen table?” asked Pam. “And if you do, can I watch?”

Claire looked at Thorpe.

“I’m celibate,” said Pam. “I have to have
some
fun.”

Claire took Thorpe’s hand, led him toward her bedroom.

“Rat hunting really turns you on,” said Thorpe, exhilarated and nervous and trying not to think too much. “Who knew the killer ape was female?”

“Shut up.” Claire closed the door behind them, the room in twilight, sheer curtains on the single window. It smelled like Claire. Thorpe had never been there before. There were photos on the walls that he couldn’t make out, and a large desk with a computer and books piled on one side. A bed, too, low to the ground, with lots of pillows.

He looked over at her, and Claire was hesitant, unsure, too, and that convinced him. Thorpe kissed her gently, knowing that this was a bad time to start something, but he kissed her anyway, and she kissed him back, eager now. They undressed each other, not speaking, their little bites and nips silent introductions to their dark places, their flesh warming.

“You still think this is a bad idea?” whispered Claire as they eased onto her bed, the flowery sheets cool against their skin, goose bumps rising, her breasts pebbled, and he warmed her with his tongue. “
Do
you?” she gasped.

“Probably.”

She arched against him, her hand sliding up along his thigh. “You want me to stop?” Her touch was feathery. “I can stop, if you want.”

Thorpe buried his face in her hair, inhaled her fragrance as she caressed him. He groaned, bit his lips shut, shifted his weight, on top of her now, kissing his way past the hollow of her sternum, trying not to hurry, but sensing her eagerness matched his own.

Claire’s legs curled around him. “That’s good.”

He made his way lower, licked her belly button, tasted her sweet salt sweat. She made tiny crying sounds as he kissed her lower still.

“This is okay, what we’re doing, isn’t it?” Claire’s back arched as he licked her, and she was warm and slick, waxed smooth. She reached down, breathing hard, held the back of his head in place. “I . . . I don’t want . . . don’t want you to be sorry we’re doing this.”

Thorpe started laughing.

“That tickles. I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

Thorpe looked up at her, his face glistening.

She averted her eyes. “I’ll shut up.”

Thorpe entered her, and she was soft and deep; then she gripped him so tightly, the two of them gasped. Neither of them talking now. Just the two of them, alone in the vast twilight, driving into each other, lost and mindless and free. He hardly thought of Kimberly at all.

They lay quietly afterward, arms and legs tangled, tickled by the surface-tension sweat, exhausted and exhilarated. Moonlight softened all the outlines, all the sharp edges. Through the wall came the faint sound of the television in Pam’s bedroom. Thorpe stroked Claire, felt her pulse beating through her flesh, and he would have ridden that rhythm all night. He loved the afterward more than the sex. Afterward was more intimate. The barriers broken, no illusions, no lies. For the moment anyway. A moment was good enough. He breathed in the warmth of her, knowing it was too good to last.

Claire rested her head on his chest. “Where did you get so much anger?”

Thorpe shifted.

“Don’t be upset. I had a good time. A wonderful time. I was just surprised at the rage inside you, that’s all.” She blew her hair off her face. “Not anger at women, not a bit of it—I know you better than that. I steer away from those kind of men.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Claire rolled onto her pillow. “Sometimes an angry fuck can be really great, but your anger . . . it just keeps cycling around in your brain. It must be like having a head full of wasps.” She traced his mouth with a forefinger. “I’ve hurt your feelings.”

“I’ll get over it.”

“Don’t be like that. The first time is always weird. At least you didn’t keep changing positions like a gyroscope, showing off your fancy moves.”

“I usually wait until the second date to break out the trapeze.”

She played with the hair on his chest. “I’ve wanted to make love to you since you first moved in.”

“Anticlimactic, wasn’t it?”

“Not exactly.”

Thorpe brushed his lips across her breast, lingering. “Do I get another chance?”

Claire played with his fingers. “Do you want to know the exact moment I was sure it was going to happen?”

Thorpe ran his nails down her long legs.

“It was the day you moved in, and you came by to borrow a couple of eggs, and even though I invited you in, you stayed in the doorway. Hard to get . . . that’s very attractive.” Claire kissed his fingers one by one. “I could feel your eyes on me as I crossed to the refrigerator, and I didn’t hurry. I took the eggs out of the carton, two in each hand, and I offered them, and you stood there, smiling, waiting me out.
That’s
when I knew.”

“You’re a scary date, Claire.” He liked saying her name.

“You’re not scared.” Her eyes were bright as she rocked against him. “That’s one of your games. You downplay yourself, pretend to be in over your head, but you’re not.”

He watched her, knowing why he had kept his distance. So much for following your instincts. His hand traced along the inside of her, the two of them trembling with the moment, that quiet point when all good and dangerous things were imminent.

“Turn on the TV,” said Pam.

Thorpe blinked himself awake, Claire beside him, rubbing her eyes.

Pam stood in the bedroom doorway. “Quick, turn on the TV.”

Claire fumbled for the remote, popped the TV on. She kissed Thorpe.

“Haven’t you two had enough?” asked Pam. “Oh, here it is.”

Thorpe sat up as the image of Betty B came on-screen, a still photo of the columnist in one of her signature hats.

“. . . The longtime columnist for the
Gold Coast Pilot
was struck and killed last night by a hit-and-run driver as she left the Rusty Pelican in Newport Beach. Police ask anyone who might have information on the accident to please contact them.”

“Betty B put me in her column when I did that suntan oil commercial in Huntington a few months ago,” gushed Pam. “She called me an ‘up-and-coming spokesmodel with a killer bod.’ Isn’t that just the wildest coincidence?”

Thorpe stared at the screen. “Yeah . . . it is.”

19

“How long is he going to stay mad?” asked Cecil.

Missy watched Clark paddling his board out through the breakers, one of his fourteen-foot torpedoes, black with silver rails. “Until he takes something for it.”

“This is so unfair.” Cecil sat on the very edge of Missy’s blanket. “I did the job, didn’t I? I didn’t get caught, did I? You keep giving me this kind of responsibility, after a while, you won’t
need
Vlad and Arturo.”

Missy adjusted her pink bikini top. “Dream on.”

Cecil picked up one of the newspapers from the stack he had brought, started reading aloud. “ ‘Betty B, as she was known to her many friends, was killed by a driver unknown to the police at this time.’ ” He beamed at her. “ ‘Driver unknown.’ That’s me. I’m like a ghost or something. Like fucking Zorro. You should be proud of me.”

Missy watched Clark as he stopped paddling, turned, and waited for the next set of waves. “I am proud of you.”

“Then how come Clark is so pissed?”

Missy waved to Clark, but he pretended not to see. She thumped her taut abdominal muscles with a flick of her index finger. You could have beaten out a tune on her belly. It might not have been the song you really wanted to hear, though.

The stretch of beach just north of Del Mar was almost deserted this time of the morning. Just Clark, a few younger surfers with their stubby boards, and a couple of retirees trudging over the soft sand with metal detectors.

Clark had been so angry when Cecil told him what he had done that he had grabbed his board with hardly a word. Didn’t even want to call any of his longboard buddies. He told Missy he didn’t want company, wanted to be alone, but she had ignored him, gotten in the 4x4. Cecil had tried to get in, too, but Clark had peeled out of the driveway. If Cecil hadn’t let go of the door handle, he would have lost a hand. Cecil followed them in the other car, while Missy gave him directions on the cell, and Clark kept saying, “Tell that fat fuck to go home.” Like Missy was going to listen.

Poor Cecil. It really
wasn’t
fair the way Clark treated her brother. Cecil had knocked on their bedroom door early this morning, so excited that he could hardly talk, and turned on the news. Missy had clapped her hands with delight, seeing the footage of the ambulance rushing off, lights flashing, and that old photo of Betty B they showed—she hadn’t looked so good in twenty years. Clark wasn’t pleased, though. He said Missy and Cecil had overstepped, which was a word she had never heard him use before.

“
You’re
glad I did it, aren’t you?” asked Cecil.

Gulls screamed overhead. “I just wish I had been there to see that bitch go flying.”

Cecil grinned. It was the same goofy expression she remembered from when they were kids, Cecil willing to do anything to please her. All she had to do was tell him that some boy on the bus had teased her, and Cecil’s fists would start flying. Sometimes he got suspended the very first week of the new school year. If Missy had told him that the Man in the Moon had peeked in her window, Cecil would have tried to steal a rocket ship.

“I felt a little . . . bad afterward.” Cecil dug his fingers into the sand. “Not as bad as I thought, though.”

“You’ll get the hang of it.”

Cecil nodded, fully dressed and ridiculous in a straw cowboy hat because he burned easily, his freckles flaring. He looked like the beefy, ignorant redneck he had always been, but this morning, after what he had done to Betty B . . . well, Missy was happy to have him sitting cross-legged on the corner of her blanket, and she didn’t care who saw him with her. Of course, it helped that they were practically alone on the beach.

“I’m thinking of getting me a gun,” said Cecil. “Big one. Maybe a shoulder holster, too.”

Missy watched Clark catch a wave. He rode it in, cut across the crest, picking up speed as he raced toward shore, crouched over the board, legs wide, hair flying in the breeze.

Cecil sniffed. “If you ask me, I think Clark is just mad because now you’ve got
me
to take care of things. You don’t have to ask him to sic Vlad and Arturo on people.”

Missy pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms around her knees as she watched Clark. “Gosh, he’s pretty, isn’t he?”

“Personally, I see a lot of disrespect from those two, not just directed at me, either.”

Missy glanced over at Cecil. “Give me a for instance.” She waited. “That’s what I thought.” She shaded her face with her hand, watching Clark again.

Cecil chewed on his lower lip. “I see things. People don’t pay attention to me, but I see the way Arturo looks when you talk. Like he knows more than you do.”

Missy was thinking that over, when Clark waved, riding the longboard toward shore.

Missy waved back, smiling as he took the board all the way in. He splashed into the shallows, then slung the board under one arm, carried it closer to the blanket, and drove it in the sand. Every move he made was like a Beach Boys song. He waved again, beckoning, and Missy realized that he wasn’t waving at her. She turned, saw Arturo and Vlad standing on the shoulder of the road, beside their parked cars.

Clark approached the blanket, shaking his long hair out. He still wouldn’t look at her.

“This ain’t good.” Cecil kept sneaking peeks at Arturo and Vlad. “This ain’t good at all.”

“Hush.”

Cecil got heavily to his feet, stuck his hands in his pockets. “You tell them I didn’t do nothing you didn’t want me to do.”

Missy reached into the cooler, pulled out a can of beer for Clark.

“You tell them I’m
family,
” said Cecil.

Clark walked right past the blanket, met Arturo and Vlad halfway. Missy could see them talking, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying.

“Dang it,” said Cecil as the three of them headed toward the blanket. “
Dang
it.”

Missy tossed Clark a beer, smiled as he caught it one-handed. “I get you boys a brew?”

Vlad shook his head and Arturo didn’t even respond.

Clark popped the beer, took a long swallow, and wiped his mouth.

“You sure know how to ride that board,” said Cecil. “You could probably turn pro if you wanted to, Clark.”

Clark belched.

Arturo laughed and Cecil’s face got even redder.

Clark picked up a towel, dried his face. He stood there, gazing off toward the water. “Arturo said one of our Riverside houses got taken down yesterday.” He blew salt water out of his nose. “Lost about five pounds of crank.”

“I
told
you Guillermo was going to—”

“We don’t know it’s Guillermo, Missy.” Clark took another swallow of beer. “We just know we lost about five pounds of crank, and two cookers got wasted.”

“Well, who else
could
it have been? Nobody else would have the balls—”

“Arturo and Vlad are going to find out who did it,” said Clark, water droplets glistening on his shoulders.

“I guess maybe now Cecil’s going to get some credit for what he did last night,” said Cecil. “Maybe I can come along with Arturo and Vlad—”

Clark bounced the beer can off Cecil’s head.

Missy had no idea what new dope Clark was on, but it had sure turned him into major alpha dog. It was kind of nice, as long as he didn’t get carried away with himself. “Clark, honey,” she said, blotting his broad back with the towel, “you got to admit this would be a good time to put down Meachum, maybe his wife, too, make an example of them.”

“I’m not admitting anything until Arturo and Vlad tell me who wasted my cookers.” Clark looked at Missy, and it was like looking into the eye of a storm. “Motherfucker who did it took one of my new recipes.”