The Wake-Up (4 page)

“What’s he talking about?” asked Pam.

Claire stretched in the sun. “It’s like when we walk into a club and there’s hotties everywhere, and we just have to decide which one to smile back at.” She scooped water out of the pool and let it run off her fingers and onto her throat. “Most of the time, that’s the best part of the evening,
before
we decide, when they’re all spread out there before us, eager to please, and we haven’t had to listen to their career plans.”

Pam took a swallow of tequila. “Speak for yourself, girl.”

Claire looked at Thorpe, her short hair beaded with water. “Did I get it right, Frank?”

“Yeah, you stuck the dismount.” Thorpe lay on the warm grass, feeling the glow of the tequila, enjoying the sun and the music. He hadn’t felt this good since he was fired.

3

Meachum’s house in Laguna was a piece of cake. Thorpe had seen Pokémon lunch boxes with better security. Located in a quiet neighborhood five blocks inland from the Pacific Coast Highway, the house was a modest stucco rambler dating from the 1960s, with large windows and a front walkway of worn paving stones. The yard was overgrown with shade trees, dry leaves drifting down. On the front porch, Thorpe could see two white wicker rocking chairs. No armed-response stickers on the windows, no motion-sensitive lights in back, no sign of a dog. The place was a walk-in, open and easy and inviting. Hard to imagine the hard charger living there.

Even late in the afternoon, people were still parking on the narrow streets and making the trek to the beach, towels slung over their shoulders, sandals flip-flopping on the cracked sidewalk. Thorpe, in shorts and a Santa Barbara 10-K T-shirt, had made a circuit of the block, checked out the alley behind the rambler. Half the homes had their back doors wide open, hoping to catch some breeze. If anyone asked what he was doing, he carried a flyer from a nearby open house as cover—a three-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath fixer-upper offered at $799,500. No one had asked him what he was doing, though. Laguna was a live-and-let-live town.

Thorpe started down the alley toward his car, which was parked a few blocks away. He had accomplished what he’d come for. A casually dressed stranger in the neighborhood would draw no attention. He could bide his time, then slip inside while the Meachums were sleeping, and leave something for the hard charger—a torn copy of the state of California’s community property statutes maybe, or the section of the tax code that detailed the penalties for putting a phantom employee on the books. Tuck it into Meachum’s briefcase, or the pocket of his suit jacket.

In a few days, Thorpe would show up at the gallery, check out the artwork, and when Meachum came over, he would ask him if he wanted to apologize to Paulo now. The hard charger would tighten a little around the mouth, demand to know what Thorpe
really
wanted, but he would do it. Even if he wasn’t afraid of his infidelity being exposed, even if he and his wife had an “understanding” and his business accounts were straight, the thing that would make Meachum go woozy, the absolute nuts guarantee, was realizing that Thorpe had traipsed into his life. Once you cracked the Fortress of Solitude, there were no more hard chargers. Meachum would make the apology, and then wait for Thorpe to make the next move. A move that would never come. Thorpe had other priorities: He had decided not to go on vacation; he was going to stay around here until he found the Engineer. He could go to Florida after he killed the Engineer.

Thorpe kicked a soda can down the alley, feeling good. A couple of old hippies approached, passing a joint back and forth. The woman’s doughy flesh pushed out of her cutoff jeans, her breasts pendulous in a macramé bikini top, the man a scarecrow in tie-dyed trunks, a floppy hat atop his head. Hair everywhere, truck-tire huaraches on their feet, the two of them smelling of pot and patchouli. He watched them stagger away, holding hands now, fingers entwined, and the sight filled him with wonder and a longing that made his chest hurt. He hurried out of the alley and onto a side street, stumbling in his haste, as though being chased.

Up ahead, a woman strode up the steep hill from downtown, a bag of groceries clutched in each arm. Her face was shiny with sweat, a handsome olive-skinned woman with dark hair curling past her shoulders. She wore a white embroidered peasant blouse, white pants cuffed at the ankle. She shifted the bags slightly as she reached the top of the hill, blew her hair out of her face, and grinned at him as she caught him watching.

Thorpe smiled back.

The woman gasped as the paper bag in her right hand broke, sending a cascade of groceries onto the sidewalk, a rain of fruits and vegetables and shattered glass jars. A bottle of Perrier foamed over her sandals. She held the other bag with both hands, surrounded by shards of glass, as Thorpe ran to help.

Thorpe bent down, pulled a sliver of green glass from her foot, and wiped away the spot of blood with a fingertip. Her white cuffs were spotted with mayonnaise.

“Be careful,” she said as Thorpe gathered up the broken glass.

“I’ll be careful. . . . Son of a
bitch.
” He stood up. A piece of clear glass was embedded in his knee. He hadn’t even seen it on the sidewalk.

“You’re hurt.” She shifted her groceries again, concerned.

“I’m fine. Stupid, but fine.” Thorpe pulled the piece of glass out of his knee.

She didn’t move her feet, but scooped up loose fruit, then gave them a quick check and put them in the other bag. Her hands were nimble as she selected the groceries, the thick nails trimmed and unpolished, utterly feminine. He bent to help her, and the two of them worked together until the sidewalk was clean. Thorpe carefully folded up a paper bag they had put the pieces of glass in, and walked it over to a garbage can. He turned and found her standing beside him.

“You’re bleeding. Follow me. I live just a block away.”

“It’s okay.”

“Don’t be so male.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You got hurt helping me. Let me return the favor. Come on, tough guy.” She beckoned, and he followed her, the two of them walking side by side. “I’m Gina.”

“Frank. Can I carry that bag?”

“We’re almost there. Are you house shopping? I saw you had a brochure.”

“Just looking.”

“It’s a nice neighborhood.” She slowed a few minutes later. “Here we are. Come up on the porch. I’ll get some bandages and antiseptic.”

Thorpe stared. It was the Meachum house. Stunned, he watched her climb the steps.

Gina must have misunderstood his hesitation. She nodded at one of the rattan rockers on the porch. “Make yourself comfortable. I’d invite you in, but the house is a mess.” It was a nice lie, and he appreciated her making the effort. She took her groceries inside, the screen door banging behind her.

Thorpe climbed onto the porch, still unsettled by the fact that Gina was Meachum’s wife. He sat down, rocked gently as he looked out at the neighborhood, feeling as though any sudden movement would upset some fragile cosmic equilibrium. He felt the same way sometimes when he was on assignment, closing in on a subject, making conversation, his senses so acute that he worried his own elevated heartbeat would give him away. He kept rocking. The houses all had tiny front lawns, but most of the neighbors let their shrubs run rampant, growing high, vines blooming over the windows, giving more privacy. He liked the feel of it, the tropical excess. Sometimes it was just best to give in to nature.

“What are you thinking about?” Gina stood in the doorway.

“I like your place.”

“Thanks. I grew up in this house. My husband keeps wanting to remodel, but I can’t do it.” Gina came onto the porch with a first-aid kit, sat down across from him. “You don’t have anything catching, do you?”

“No. I’d tell you if I did.”

She propped Thorpe’s leg up, used a gauze pad to wipe off the blood with those strong hands, no hesitation in her touch. Her black hair was thick and a little coarse—she pushed it back with her wrists as she worked—and her sweat was fragrant. He wondered how Douglas Meachum could cheat on her. He saw Meachum and the blonde driving away from LAX, and Thorpe wondered what kind of lies Meachum told himself when he was alone with the blonde, what lies he told the blonde about Gina. He watched her bent over his knee, and he realized that he couldn’t involve her in the wake-up. He was going to teach Meachum a lesson, but the house was off-limits. He would have to squeeze Meachum through his business.

“Ouch.”

“Don’t be a baby.” Gina cleaned the edges of the wound with a Q-tip now. Bits of color were speckled at the base of her cuticles: red, yellow, blue.

“Are you a painter?”

She rubbed her cuticles, pleased. “You’re very observant.” She checked the cut, put a fresh gauze pad on the wound. Her cell phone was beeping. “Hello.” She looked at Thorpe. “I’m on the porch. Where are you?”

Thorpe could hear Meachum’s voice through the receiver, saying, “I’m still in New York. Where’d you think I’d be?”

Gina averted her eyes, turned toward the street so that Thorpe couldn’t see her face as she listened. “No, I haven’t been by the gallery.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Don’t talk to me like that.” Gina checked the gauze pad. “I’m busy, that’s why.” She looked away. “I had an accident walking home from the grocery store. A man helped me.” She glanced at Thorpe. “I don’t know; I just met him. He cut himself on some glass helping me, so at this moment I’m taking care of him.” She pulled the phone away from her ear, disgusted, and snapped it shut. It started beeping again, but she ignored it.

“I’m sorry,” said Thorpe.

“For what?” Gina tore off strips of clear adhesive and taped him tight. “You’ll live.”

4

Thorpe had barely stepped inside Meachum Fine Arts when he was approached by a well-dressed woman in her thirties, a big-boned Bertha with a prim mouth, plenty of auburn hair, and the beginnings of a double chin. She wore a cream-and-brown suit, the skirt at midcalf, her large feet squeezed into matching two-tone pumps. “Good afternoon.” She appraised him with a cool smile, took in the sleek, gunmetal gray suit, black silk T-shirt, black loafers. Vaguely European, hip without trying too hard. She showed her flat white teeth. “I’m Nell Cooper. How can I assist you?”

Thorpe looked around the showroom, raised an eyebrow at the safe contemporary watercolors displayed against the right wall—sailboats and sunsets and dour Navajos. “I’m not at all sure you can.”

Reading his distaste, Nell pivoted slightly, inclined her head at the paintings, and raised an eyebrow. “We have to carry a full range of aesthetic options, Mr. . . .”

“Frank Antonelli. I’m moving into a home in Corona del Mar, and I thought you might be able to help me make it livable.”

She nodded. “Please call me Nell. I can assure you, Frank, that at Meachum Fine Arts we pride ourselves in finding the perfect fit between our clients and the fine art they choose to surround themselves with.”

“A
perfect
fit? That’s a terrifying thought.”

Nell was knocked a little off stride by that, but she recovered quickly.

Meachum Fine Arts was a one-story building in Newport Beach, right on the Pacific Coast Highway, with a black-and-white Op Art mural on the side facing the parking lot, and gold-flaked wood sphinxes flanking the doorway. The ocean was visible from the showroom, a beach volleyball game in progress, but the sound of the waves was muted by the thick tinted windows—you might as well have been watching ESPN. The distressed white pine floor creaked underfoot. The offerings were as eclectic as Nell had said—a red-toned Tenzing carpet, czarist Russian icons, and a museum-quality Italian rococo dresser—but there were too many soapstone sculptures of seals and dolphins. An oil painting got his attention, a realistic image of a traffic cop beckoning in bright sunshine, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face, one of his socks halfway down. Thorpe leaned closer.

“Do you like that?”

Thorpe nodded, noncommittal. He strolled around, stopped, then crossed over to a high-gloss ebony desk for a better look. He picked up a small limestone wall panel, held it gently, stared at the image of a man in an elaborate headdress surrounded by Mayan hieroglyphs. The panel was absolutely genuine, a seven-inch-long piece of limestone chipped off a temple wall in Uxmal or Copán or some unknown, overgrown city given up to lizards and dragonflies. Half the man’s body was gone, but the face was startling, one of the lords of the Yucatán, a broad, thick-lipped autocrat from seven hundred years ago, more distant from the present than the calendar could count. Thorpe’s fingers grazed the regal verdigris countenance, the face staring back at him with blind eyes. A king without a kingdom. In a perfect world, Thorpe would steal the broken panel and return it to the jungle, hide the Mayan lord in some triple-canopy vastness, where the howler monkeys could serenade him for eternity. In
this
world, it was just the kind of thing he was hoping to find in Meachum’s gallery.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” said Nell. “It just came in yesterday. It was pre-sold, I’m afraid.”

“Pity.” Thorpe held the limestone king in his hands. Pieces like this hadn’t been allowed out of their country of origin for thirty years. “What’s the provenance?”

“You’d have to ask Douglas. I really don’t know.”

“Is the buyer local?”

Nell hesitated. “We have to maintain our clients’ privacy. I’m sure you understand.”

Thorpe carefully replaced the panel on the desk. He went through the motions of looking at other items in the shop, felt the nap of a classic Anatolian carpet, peered at the signature on a Manolo bullfighter print while Nell hovered behind him.

“Why don’t we sit down, have an espresso or a glass of wine, and get to know each other?” Nell gestured to the pale blue leather sofa in a nearby alcove, a cozy nook half-hidden from the main room. “We have a relatively small inventory, but I have access to pieces from all over the globe. I’m certain I can show you some things that would be suitable to your needs.”

“How about a martini? That would suit my needs.”

Nell started to check her watch, then slipped through a curtain into the back of the shop.

Thorpe sat down on the sofa, draped a leg over one of the arms, and listened to her cracking ice. It was a good sound, and the sound of her jiggling the cocktail shaker was even better. He waited until she came back bearing a couple of martini glasses, a little nervous, probably not sure if she had made the drink to his liking. She had too many clients with misplaced priorities. “Where’s the boss?”

Nell’s gray eyes heated up. Meachum might be her boss, but she didn’t enjoy it. Another reason for Thorpe to like her. “Mr. Meachum is in New York on a buying trip.”

“Must be our lucky day, Nell. That way, you get the commission, and I get the pleasure of your company. I hear he’s a prick anyway.”

Nell had a little-girl laugh, high and nervous, like it didn’t get out to play enough. “I really can’t address that.”

Thorpe winked at her. “You just did.”

Nell joined him on the couch, the soft flesh under her chin jiggling slightly. “This new home of yours . . . what kind of square footage are we talking about?”

Two martinis later, they were old friends, chuckling over the latest movies and the best Japanese restaurants, knee-to-knee, Nell confiding that she was tired of covering for Meachum: “Little Nell has her résumé at the Guggenheim and the Whitney, and I’m just waiting for them to give me a buzz.”

Thorpe beamed as they went through portfolio notebooks of houses Meachum and Associates had made over. The notebooks were filled with slides and eight-by-ten color glossies, and Nell was eager to let him know the pieces she had chosen, and which ones had been selected by Douglas Meachum. The dates of installation were clearly marked on the slides and glossies, but there was no indication of the clients’ identities, and, more importantly, he didn’t see any other pre-Columbian pieces.

“The party that purchased the Mayan frieze, have you worked with him before?” asked Thorpe. “Or is it a she?”

“It’s a
them,
and they’re new to the art world.” Nell shook her head. “The Mayan head is the pièce de résistance, but it’s only part of the collection we’ve put together for them. We’re doing their whole house.” She was slurring her words, her voice a little too loud. “Proof positive that art is wasted on the rich.”

“I know just what you mean. Let me guess: They made their money in real estate? Strip malls and parking lots.”

“Nope.”

“They’re doctors,” said Thorpe. “Doctors have the worst taste in the world.”

“Except for lawyers.”

“Okay,
he’s
a doctor;
she’s
an attorney. Am I getting warm?”

Nell shook her head. “Cold as ice.”

“Give me a hint.”

“T-shirts.” Nell giggled, covered her mouth, as though she had spilled the secret of the plasma warp drive.

“Right.”

“I’m
serious,
Frank.”

Thorpe turned the page, backing off, giving her a chance to tease him with more information. A circular red-and-white bedroom was filled with paintings, larger-than-life realistic nudes of Bill and Hillary Clinton, Jesse Jackson, Barbra Streisand, and Michael Moore. The sight gave Thorpe a headache.

“I put that whole room together,” Nell boasted. She leaned closer and sloshed the last of her drink over her wrist, but she didn’t seem to notice. “The artist is a young Chicano painter, totally self-taught. He does Republicans, too. I could talk to him. . . .”

“Anyone working in here?” A woman stood just inside the doorway, tapping her perfectly white sneaker on the bleached pine, a thin, pretty blonde in her early thirties, wearing a white pleated tennis skirt, a scoop-neck blouse showing off the taut musculature of her upper arms. Three gold chains were looped around her neck, a gold stallion dangling from one of them. A red Ferrari convertible was double-parked out front. She scanned the room, her face sharp and hard. “I’m
waiting.
” Her voice was a crow’s caw, demanding, and she wasn’t so pretty anymore.

Nell quickly got up, smoothed her hair. “Mrs. Riddenhauer, so nice to—”

“What do you look so guilty about?”

Nell reddened.

“Relax,” said Mrs. Riddenhauer, her eyes on Thorpe. “No one could blame you.” Her body seemed to vibrate at a submolecular level, but she didn’t jerk or twitch—it was as though she simply put out more energy than her skin could contain. “Where’s Meachum?”

“Mr. Meachum isn’t here at the moment, but I’m sure that I—”

“He’s never around unless I’m writing a check.” Mrs. Riddenhauer caught sight of the Mayan wall plaque on the desk, crossed over and picked it up, her brows wrinkling. “Is
this
it?” She turned it over, handling it roughly. “Not very big for a hundred and twenty-five thousand.”

“It’s a unique object,” Nell said softly. “Size . . . size isn’t really important.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Mrs. Riddenhauer watched Thorpe. “My husband is hung like a Brahma bull, so don’t think size—”

“Olé,” said Thorpe, snapping his finger overhead, giddy from the martinis and his own good fortune.

Mrs. Riddenhauer squinted at Thorpe, then turned back to Nell. “Still seems like a lot of money for a chunk of rock, and this guy with the headdress is an ugly son of a bitch, too.” Her eyes narrowed at Thorpe. “Olé . . . I get it.” She hummed softly as she looked him over. “I like clever men.”

“If you don’t wish to take possession, I’m sure Douglas would be happy to retain the piece,” said Nell.

“Don’t be snippy,” said Mrs. Riddenhauer, her eyes still on Thorpe. “Meachum said every room was supposed to have a—what did he call it?”

“An aesthetic focal point.”

Mrs. Riddenhauer put back the limestone panel. “Well, the dining room needs a fucking focal point, and this is it. Just make sure it’s installed before my party. You need to come by and rearrange the main living room, too. It’s
still
not right.” The sunlight coming through the window behind her made her skirt nearly transparent. A thong on center court . . . Thorpe wondered what Wimbledon would say about that. Mrs. Riddenhauer showed him her small, slightly uneven teeth. “You have a name, clever guy?”

“Frank Antonelli.”

“Missy Riddenhauer.” She slipped her hand in his. “As in
Camp Riddenhauer.
”

Thorpe nodded, as though he knew what she was talking about.

“What do you do, Frank?”

“I sell insurance.”

“Sounds dull.” Missy held on to his hand, and her grip was warm and very firm, and if she wanted to hang on, Thorpe was going to have to clock her to make her let go. “You don’t
look
dull.”

“Ah, but I am. I see that Ferrari of yours out front, and all I can think of is what kind of liability coverage you have, and how you keep that short skirt from blowing in the wind when you accelerate.”

“Would you like to go for a ride? You can see how well I manage it.”

“I can’t today.”

Missy gnawed her lower lip, and Thorpe wasn’t sure if it was a sign of desire or anger. She gave his hand a final squeeze, then released him. “You want to come to my party? It’s next Saturday night, and it’s going to be loads of fun. Come on, what’s to think about? Meachum did a complete makeover on our home—you’ll get a chance to see if you like his work, and I’ll get a chance to see if you’re as boring as you say you are.”

“Sure, sounds like fun.”

“I’ll put your name on the guest list.” Missy slipped him a business card. “Send me an e-mail if you need anything. Nell, give the man the details.” She turned on her heel, strode out the door, and slid behind the wheel of the Ferrari.

Thorpe tucked away Missy’s business card as she roared off.