The Wake-Up (16 page)

26

The Engineer pulled Gregor back into the shadows as Thorpe emerged from the back door of a house down the alley, the kitchen light illuminating him as he stood there saying his good-byes to some ugly bastard in Bermuda shorts.

“We can stop him,” hissed Gregor.

The Engineer yanked on Gregor’s earlobe, silencing him. They might be able to shoot Thorpe before he reached his car, but they couldn’t surprise him, and the Engineer needed Thorpe alive and talking.

They had barely kept Thorpe’s taillights in sight after leaving the Strand theater, staying well back, but had lost him as he entered Laguna Beach. For the last half hour, he and Gregor had been doing a grid search of the residential areas, cruising back and forth, searching for his car. Thorpe didn’t live in Laguna—the Engineer knew that much. His wireless Internet connection was someplace in the Long Beach area, so Thorpe must have business in Laguna, the kind of a business that permitted a drop-in visit at 3:00 a.m. Love business maybe. The Engineer felt himself grow erect at the possibilities. A few minutes ago, they had spotted Thorpe’s car in the alley and quickly parked on a side street, unsure where he was. They were in the alley when the door to the house opened. The Engineer was frustrated to see the ugly bastard with Thorpe. Not love business, but still . . . there were other possibilities.

“He is
leaving,
” muttered Gregor.

“Stay.” The Engineer didn’t move until Thorpe drove away. He noted how the man on the porch waited until Thorpe left before returning to the house. He also noted Thorpe’s license plate number. Bishop was whisking his eggs with a fork when there was rapping on the back door. “It’s open.” He smiled, beating the eggs to a froth. “I knew you’d change your mind.” He heard the door open behind him, the floorboards creak. Too much weight. He dropped the bowl, reached for the gun in his pocket. . . . The punch caught him across the temple, knocked him down, the .38 sliding across the tiles.

“You’re a messy cook, champ.”

Bishop slowly raised his head off the floor, trying to focus. There was egg yolk in his hair. A big man, a really big meatball, hovered over him. Bishop could see the hairs in the man’s nostrils.

“Back off, Gregor. Give him room.”

Bishop pushed himself up with one hand. There were two of them, but it wasn’t Vlad and Arturo. . . . It was two other ones. The meatball who had hit him, and another one, a soft intellectual type. He rubbed his head with his fingertips, winced. No blood, though.

“Help him up, Gregor.”

Bishop felt himself being lifted effortlessly to his feet. His knees buckled.

“I was hoping to get off to a better start,” said the soft man. “Violence should always be the last resort, don’t you think?” He stood next to the stove, flipped on the gas, dreamy-eyed at the pop of the pilot light.

“You guys . . . take whatever you want,” said Bishop. He knew they weren’t here to take anything, not anything that could be carried, but he decided to make the effort. “There’s a stereo in the living room and a couple of good TVs.”

“Is that right?” said the soft man. “This is our big score, Gregor.”

Bishop bent forward, his hands on his knees. He used to be able to take a punch better.

“Where did Frank go?” asked the soft man.

Bishop straightened. “Frank who?”

The soft man smiled. “There’s no reason we can’t all be friends. Gregor and I, we’re the best friends you’re ever going to have. I know we’re off to a rocky start, but, hey, you were the one who pulled the gun.”

“I thought you were someone else.”

“A man with enemies. I knew I liked you, Mr. . . .”

“Bishop. Ray Bishop. I’d like to help you boys. . . .”

“Excellent, Mr. Bishop,” said the soft man, clapping his smooth hands.

“I just . . . I just don’t know any Frank.”

The soft man looked genuinely pained. “Gee, Mr. Bishop, I wish you hadn’t said that.” He turned up the gas, the jets hissing louder, the blue flame four inches high.

The meatball grinned. He was a huge locomotive, well over six feet, thick-gutted, with enormous hands and tiny, hateful eyes.

“Are you talking about the man who just left?” asked Bishop. “I didn’t even know his name. He saw my light on and asked directions. Said he was lost.”

“Lost was he?” said the soft man. “Where did he want to go?”

“He was a little drunk, if you really want to know,” said Bishop. “He said he had been driving around looking for the fire station. Said he wanted to fill out a complaint about a neighbor who wasn’t keeping his yard mowed. He didn’t make a lot of sense, if you really want to know. I offered to make him a cup of coffee, sober him up a little, but he didn’t want any part of it.”

“That sounds like Frank,” said the soft man. “You offer him your hand in friendship, and he rejects it.”

“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you.” Bishop looked from the soft man to the meatball. “Sorry I pulled the gun on you, too.”

“I say let bygones be bygones,” said the soft man. “What do you say, Gregor?”

“It’s late,” said Gregor. “It’s late and I’m tired.”

The soft man sighed. “Gregor
does
have a point, Mr. Bishop. I have enjoyed your little charade, but the reality is that you are going to tell me what I want to know. The only matter in dispute is how much pain you’re going to endure before you do.”

Bishop licked his lips. He didn’t turn his head, but he knew the hammer was on the counter behind him. “I don’t like being hurt. I got no pain threshold at all.”

“Now we’re making progress,” said the soft man. “So, where was Frank going?”

“There’s a Denny’s in South Laguna that’s open all night. He wanted me to meet him there for breakfast, but I prefer my own cooking.”

“Does Denny’s still have that Grand Slam Breakfast special?” asked the soft man.

Bishop smiled. He was fucked no matter what he did.

“It’s a very good deal,” said the soft man. “Pancakes, eggs, sausage . . . How do you know Frank? You must be pretty special for him to drop in like this.”

“We worked a stakeout one time,” said Bishop. “He was anticrime detail and I was Riverside PD. I transferred to Laguna a year ago, but we kept in touch.”

“You’re a police officer?” asked the soft man. “I should have known. You have the look.”

Bishop felt warm. “Thanks. Frank stopped by tonight and told me he had stepped in some dog shit, couldn’t get it off his shoe no matter what he did. Said it was just the worst stink imaginable. . . . I look at you two, and I understand what he meant.”

“Can I get started?” snarled Gregor.

“Not yet.” The soft man watched Bishop. “Frank must have given you his phone number, the two of you being old buddies. Why don’t you give him a call now, tell him you’re in very big trouble.”

Bishop wasn’t trembling anymore. “
Am
I in trouble?”

“Yes, I’m afraid you are, Mr. Bishop,” said the soft man.

As Gregor stepped toward him, Bishop grabbed the hammer and slammed it against the meatball’s head. Gregor groaned, staggered, and Bishop hit him again. “You’re under arrest,” he said, swinging wildly now, gasping with the effort, hitting him so hard that his fingers went numb. Gregor fell to one knee. Bishop reared back with the hammer . . . slipped on the omelette spill, the two of them falling into a heap.

Bishop threw punches, struggling, but Gregor easily held him down with one hand, reached for the hammer with the other.

One of Bishop’s eyes was stuck shut, but he could see Gregor straddling him, blood pouring down his face. One ear was half-torn off where Bishop had hit him with the claw end of the hammer. Beautiful sight. There was an explosion of bright light, and
pain.
So much pain.

“How do
you
like it?” asked Gregor.

“Put the hammer down,” said the soft man, his voice coming from far away. “I want him alive. I want to talk to him first.”

“You’re . . . busted,” Bishop whispered to Gregor. He couldn’t seem to move, but he could still talk. A good cop didn’t need a gun to command respect; he got it with a tone of voice, an attitude, a willingness to step into a situation. Otherwise, any yahoo with a cannon could be sheriff of Dodge City. “Assume the position, shitbag.”

Gregor swung the hammer again.

Bishop heard his teeth skitter across the tile floor. Such a strange sound.

“Stop it.” The soft man tried to pull Gregor off him.

Bishop spit blood into Gregor’s face.

Gregor shrugged off the soft man, drove the hammer down again.

Bishop smiled. I can still piss the bad guys off, he thought. That’s something. He heard things crack as Gregor hit him again and again, but he didn’t feel the blows.

Bishop’s lack of response seemed to make Gregor madder, the big man cursing as the hammer rose and fell, spraying the kitchen with brightness. Bishop had the thought . . . had to fight to keep the thought—it was like those dandelions that flew away if you breathed on them. He had the thought that even though Gregor was breaking him, Bishop wasn’t broken. This man called Bishop was not broken. Not at all. He would have liked to tell Frank about this wondrous insight, but then, Frank probably already knew it.

Bishop could barely see Gregor anymore, the poor fellow shrinking to a smudge of darkness, his cursing fading now, too. Bishop thought of his wife and kids. In a perfect world, Frank would tell them how Bishop had changed in these last few days, how he had stood up, how he had died as a cop. He closed the eye that was still open. It made it easier to hang on to that bright and shining thought.

27

“You know what the fuck
time
it is?” said Cecil.

Thorpe held his State Department badge and ID to the security camera. “Let me in, asshole. You want a warrant, I’ll come back with a SWAT team.”

“I got to ask Missy.”

“Make a decision, Cecil. Use your nutsack for something other than a hand rest.”

Silence from the intercom.

“Time’s up. Good-bye, Cecil. You explain it to her when I come back with—” The security gate swung open and Thorpe drove in.

Cecil met him at the front door. “Wait here. I’ll go wake up her and Clark.”

“What’s that on the wall?” asked Thorpe, pointing. As Cecil turned to look, Thorpe shoved his head into the wall, drove him so hard, the plaster cracked. Thorpe stepped over him, walked down the hall. It was a cheap shot, and a dangerous move, but Thorpe needed to get into character. He needed to sell a story.

The master bedroom was dimly lit, redolent of good pot and Missy’s perfume. Missy and Clark were sleeping in each other’s arms, adrift on red silk sheets, the bed a massive heart. It was probably supposed to be romantic, but to Thorpe, it looked like they were swimming in blood. He lay at the foot of the bed, resting on one elbow now, watching the door. While he waited, he slipped a hand under the sheets and played with Missy’s foot. She cooed, nestled deeper into the pillow, one slim breast falling free of the top sheet, her nipple hardening. Thorpe looked over, saw Clark’s eyes open wide. “Hey, Clark, surf’s up.”

Cecil staggered into the bedroom waving a .44 Magnum. He saw Thorpe.

Thorpe yawned. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Cecil moved closer. There was a lump rising already in the middle of his forehead, bits of plaster sticking to the reddening skin.

“What happened to your head, Cecil?” asked Missy, awake now, rubbing her eyes. “You look like a unicorn.”

“I’m going to kill this son of a bitch,” said Cecil, freckles flaring as he drew down on Thorpe.

Thorpe winked at Missy, his hand still under the covers.

“Damn it, Cecil, put the gun away before you hurt somebody,” said Clark. He looked at Thorpe. “It’s the middle of the night, Frank. What’s going on?”

Cecil was trying to hold that big .44 steady, but his hand was shaking.

Thorpe smiled at him. Most people had no idea how hard it was to shoot someone who was looking you in the eyes.

“Stop it, Cecil!” snapped Missy. “You get your ass out of here
now.
I mean it.”

Cecil’s hand was twitching so badly that even if he got off a shot, Thorpe was probably safe. He wiped his eyes, slowly lowered the gun, breathing so hard, it was as if he had been running a race.

“Go on,” said Missy, her voice gentle now. “Leave the gun.”

“No fucking way,” said Cecil, still watching Thorpe.

“Leave it,” said Missy. “We’re fine. Please? Do it for me.”

Thorpe waited until Cecil had laid the .44 down on the nightstand, waited until he had started for the door. “Why don’t you go make us some coffee? Black, two sugars for me. You probably already know how Clark and Missy take it.” He listened to Cecil cursing all the way down the hall, then pulled his hand out from under the sheets. He backed off the hammer of the 9-mm he had been holding. “I’m glad you spoke up, Missy, I would have hated to ruin your linens.”

“What’s going on, Frank?” asked Clark. “Are we under arrest?”

Thorpe glanced around. “You see a cop?” He reached into his jacket, tossed Missy his badge and ID. “Here’s a souvenir. I don’t need it anymore.”

“I don’t understand,” said Clark.

“I think I do.” Missy watched him. “Are you here to kill us, Frank?”

She caught on fast. It made Thorpe’s job so much easier. “I decided against it.”

“What changed your mind?” asked Missy.

Clark turned to Missy. “I’m confused.”

About ten minutes later, Thorpe had told them his story. The three of them were still on the bed—Thorpe stretched out, languid as a cat, Clark sitting cross-legged, half-dressed now in a pair of Matrix pajama bottoms, smoking a joint. Missy remained nude, completely at ease, one bare leg sticking out from the sheets. She was so taut and lean, Thorpe could count the striations in her inner thigh. No tan line, either.

“You have more twists than fifty miles of back road, Frank,” said Missy, not taking her eyes off him. “I mean that as a compliment.”

“You don’t have to believe me,” said Thorpe. “I just wanted to give you the option.”

Clark offered Thorpe the joint. “Where are my manners?”

Thorpe ignored the joint. “Same place I left my sense of fair play.”

“So this whole thing with the fake ID and the art was your way of gaining our trust?” She tossed her hair, blond and brassy. “You didn’t have to work so hard.”

“It wasn’t hard. A badge gets a lot of respect, even from people who should know better.” Thorpe shifted position, took up even more room on the bed. “You have to admit you were grateful when I told you the art was fake. I wouldn’t know a fake from a firing squad, but it worked. I could have killed you any time I wanted after that.”

Clark blew a smoke ring. “Killing us isn’t really the hard part. It’s avoiding Vlad and Arturo afterward—
that’s
the puzzlement. Guillermo knows that better than anyone.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have killed you until
after
I’d killed them,” said Thorpe.

“You think you’re Superman?” Clark giggled. “Where’s your cape, dude?”

“I don’t need to be Superman; I just need to get close.” Thorpe patted the sheets. “Look at us here, snug as bugs.” He smiled at Missy. “Five minutes after I gave you the benefit of my art expertise, you asked me to stay for breakfast. Remember? Sooner or later, you would have introduced me to Vlad and Arturo, and maybe we would have gone out sailing, or up to Big Bear to ski, and then . . .” He cocked a finger at Clark. “Bang.” Turned the finger on Missy. “Bang.” He shrugged. “Getting close means the other person has let his guard down. After that, it’s just a matter of waiting for the right opportunity, and I’m very patient.”

Missy let the sheet slip from her breasts. “Vlad and Arturo might have surprised you.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

“I got to award this one to Missy,” said Clark, “which is why I find it hard to believe that Guillermo sent you.” He pulled the sheet back over Missy’s breasts. “Me and Guillermo got what’s called a ‘balance of terror’ thing working between us. Vlad and Arturo scare the holy shit out of him, and I’m not a greedy man. Now, Guillermo can throw more troops into the fight, but if things get too messy, too public, the police and DEA move in, and we all lose.”

“That’s why Guillermo hired me. I clean up after myself.”

“
You’re
not greedy, Clark, but Guillermo is,” said Missy.

“Don’t start with that again,” said Clark. “Did the Aryan Brotherhood send you to stir up trouble, Frank? Or was it the Yellow Magic boys? I know they’re looking to expand operations. Come on, who hired you? I’ll pay plenty for the truth.”

Thorpe shrugged. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up. You do what you want.”

“What I
want
is a hallucinogen that sharpens my reflexes, makes my dick hard, and improves my memory.” Clark grinned. “I’m working on it, too.”

Missy hadn’t taken her eyes off Thorpe. “
Listen
to him, Clark.”

“You want a war, Missy and I don’t,” said Clark. “Vlad and Arturo are good, the best, but they’re only two men.”

“Frank makes three,” said Missy.

Thorpe didn’t respond.

“Is that what you’re here for?” asked Clark. “You offering your services? Was that stare-down with Cecil supposed to impress us?”

“Putting Cecil out of his misery wouldn’t have impressed my grand-mother, and I don’t want a job.”

“Then why the heads-up?” Clark leaned forward on the bed. “Why are you being so nice to us, Frank?” His eyes were all pupil now. “Missy tells me everything. That’s the basis of a good marriage.”

“I always wondered what the basis was,” said Thorpe.

“Now you know.” A sharp edge in Clark’s voice now. “So why the freebie?”

“No such thing as a freebie,” said Thorpe. “I had a deal with Guillermo, but he’s backing off, and I’m not about to wait around for the official cancellation. Consider this payback.” He eyed Missy. “Besides, maybe we’ll meet up again sometime and you’ll remember when we were all in bed together. A man has to think long range in my business.”

Missy shook her head. “If you’re serious enough to take out Vlad and Arturo, no way would Guillermo stiff you.” She nudged him with her foot, let it rest against him. “I’m a little disappointed, you coming up with this tall tale, Frank.”

“I’m a little disappointed, you killing Betty B,” snapped Thorpe. “Guillermo read her column and knew you’d take it hard. He started having doubts that I could pull things off, afraid you’d be mad at me for telling you the art was fake. He thought you might pull in the welcome mat.”

“You
did
get pissed off at Frank after the article came out, babe,” said Clark. “You got mad at him and Betty B and Meachum, and the Man in the Moon, too. You said you wished you had kept that damn stone plaque. Said it all looked plenty old anyway.”

“I couldn’t believe it when you flattened Betty B,” said Thorpe. “Guillermo saw that on the news and told me to hold off on my end of the deal. He said he wanted to wait and see if you went after Meachum, too. Then all he would have to do was dime you out to the cops. The DA
hates
coincidences. I told him no way you would be that stupid, but Guillermo seems to think you are.”

“Guillermo is going to have plenty to think about soon enough,” said Missy.

Clark played with Missy’s hair. “Actually, when you think about it . . . if Frank is telling the truth, killing Betty B saved our lives.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Kudos, babe.”

Thorpe slid off the bed, yawned. “You and Guillermo can work it out. I’m done.”

“You go home, man, go home and tell whoever you’re working for that we didn’t buy the bullshit.” Clark threw his pillow at Thorpe. “Dude wants to cause trouble. Split the alliance. Go on, get out of here before I make a phone call. You never even
met
Guillermo. He’s the Invisible Man. Missy doesn’t like him, but me and Guillermo, we got no beef. We got an arrangement.”

Thorpe shrugged. “You might want to rethink that arrangement. Who do you think took down those two cookers of yours? Good night, Missy.”

“Wait!” said Clark. “How do you know about the cookers?”

“
You
killed them?” said Missy.

“I don’t do grunt work. I have too much respect for myself,” said Thorpe. “Guillermo sent some
vatos
out to Riverside to do the job. Do it up good and sloppy. He wanted to see how you would respond. Little weakness on your part, Clark. That’s blood in the water to someone like Guillermo.”

Missy glared at Clark. “Exactly.”

“You might want to make that phone call,” said Thorpe. “I hope Vlad and Arturo are as ferocious as you think they are, because Guillermo has the taste now.”

They called out to him, but Thorpe kept walking.