The Wake-Up (8 page)

11

“Sorry to barge in without calling first,” said Thorpe.

Missy inhaled the fragrance of the bouquet he had brought. “A man who brings flowers is always welcome.” She took in Thorpe’s gray suit, black cashmere sweater, and gray half boots. “Specially when he looks as good as you.” She went into the kitchen, came out a few minutes later with the flowers in a crystal vase, set them on the table. She had her robe loosely knotted, and her hair was brushed out, zigzagged like the Sphinx. She hummed softly to herself as she arranged the flowers. She looked tired, little pillows under her eyes, but happy, and Thorpe almost regretted being about to burst her balloon. “How about a cup of coffee, Frank?”

“I can’t stay long.”

Missy waved toward the tarot deck on the dining room table. “You got time to have your fortune told? I could give you a heads-up on what’s coming at you.”

“No thanks. If I knew what was coming, I’d never get out of bed.”

“Don’t be like that,” said Missy. “I’m kind of a white witch, if I do say so myself. That’s why I invited you to the party without even knowing you. I checked out your energy at the art gallery and knew you were good people.”

“That’s probably not the only thing she checked out.” Clark walked toward them, grinning. “She’s right, though, Frank, the cards don’t lie.” He hitched up his shorts. “I wouldn’t be where I am right now if it wasn’t for Missy and her gift.”

Missy kissed Clark, nipped at his throat like a she-wolf. “The first time I met Clark, I was working in a Hallmark shop in Riverside. He walked in looking for a Mother’s Day card, wearing an eye-in-the-pyramid T-shirt—you know, like on the back of the dollar bill? I took one look at him in that shirt and I just
knew
I was going to marry him.”

Clark nodded in agreement. “Find yourself the right woman, Frank. I know you got that Mr. GQ thing going, and that’s cool, but you find yourself a babe like Missy, that other pussy just won’t interest you. Somebody like Missy, she changes your whole life. It’s like you never were really awake before.”

Missy touched her hair, pleased. “Clark’s a romantic.”

“I’m serious, babe,” said Clark. “No telling where I would be without you. I know one thing, though, I wouldn’t be enjoying myself nearly as much.” He blushed, suddenly awkward. “Hey, I got an idea. It’s a beautiful day, Frank. How about you ditch the fancy pants and let me loan you some trunks. I’ll give you a surfing lesson.”

“I’ve got the day planned out.”

“Franks sells insurance,” said Missy.

“Wow, sorry to hear that,” said Clark.

“I don’t really sell insurance.” Thorpe reached into his jacket, pulled out the federal ID that Gavin Ellsworth had made him, and flipped open the wallet. Showed the six-pointed star, the tips worn as though it had been in use for years. “My name is Frank Antonelli. I’m an investigator with the Import-Export Division of the U.S. State Department.”

Clark stared at the badge. “Yikes.”

If Missy was surprised, she didn’t show it, her eyes so hard that you could have struck sparks off them. “I don’t see any warrant.”

“I didn’t see the need for a warrant. You’re not the focus of my inquiry.” Thorpe flicked the wallet shut, tucked it back into his jacket. He had practiced that insouciant open and shut flip for fifteen minutes before driving over this morning. A quick show of the tin and the official seal, and that was it. No big deal. The lazy mannerisms of authority were crucial, almost as important as the credentials themselves. Thorpe could have made do with an off-the-shelf badge and ID, but he trusted Ellsworth’s skill. He never knew when a citizen would want to give his wallet more than a cursory glance, and Missy appeared to be someone who wouldn’t be cowed by a federal officer. Or anyone else.

Missy knotted her robe tighter. “Just who
is
the focus of your investigation?”

“Should I call our lawyer, Missy?” asked Clark.

“That’s up to you,” Thorpe said to Missy, “but I think it’s unnecessary. I’m looking into possible violations of the 1987 Federal Antiquities Act by Douglas Meachum.”

“Antiquities?” said Clark. “Like the History Channel?”

Thorpe smiled. “Some dealers import historically significant art-works into the United States without the proper release forms from the country of origin.” He looked at Missy. “Meachum never filed paperwork for the Mayan plaque you bought last week.”

“
That’s
why you’re here?” said Missy.

“I’d like to take a closer look at the plaque,” said Thorpe. “I was hoping to get your cooperation without a subpoena.”

“See Clark,” said Missy, watching Thorpe, “that’s the polite way to put your foot on somebody’s neck.” She stalked off, led him through the house, and finally stopped in front of the cabinet. On her tiptoes now, she retrieved the key hidden on top and unlocked the glass doors, stood there with her arms crossed, daring him to make a move. “I thought we hit it off, Frank, I really did. You must have gotten a good laugh.”

Thorpe could see a vein pounding in the hollow of her throat. “I never laughed at you,” he said quietly.

“Come on, you can be honest now.” Missy patted his jacket pocket. “You’re the man with the badge; you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“I used you to get at Meachum,” said Thorpe. “I’m not proud of it, but I’m not ashamed, either. It’s my job. I had a good time last night.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard.” Missy roughly pushed her hair back, her eyes warming slightly. “It was a good party, wasn’t it?”

“A very good party.” Thorpe carefully took the limestone plaque out of the cabinet, the Mayan king in noble profile, his earlobes elongated in the early classical manner. “If it makes any difference, I could have done this last night, but I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of your guests. There was that skinny brunette with the diamonds and the fake boobs . . . Jackie. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.”

“That
skank,
” said Missy. “Yeah, that would have given her the first orgasm she’s had in years.”

Thorpe examined the plaque, taking his time. The surface was lightly pitted, every tiny crevice rimmed with moss the color of raw emeralds. It was so beautiful, he didn’t want to let it go. “What kind of provenance did Meachum give you?”

“Provenance?” asked Missy.

“A declaration of authenticity,” said Thorpe. “A history of the piece. Where it’s from, who its previous owners were, all the appropriate documentation.”

“It’s from . . . Mexico or Guatemala,” said Missy. “Someplace in the jungle. It’s
old,
that’s all I know. We got a receipt.”

Thorpe turned the plaque over, noted the chisel marks where it had been hammered off a wall in some dead city where it deserved to stay. It made him angry. He slipped it back into the cabinet. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time. We had a complaint about Meachum, and our office had to investigate, but he’s in the clear. At least regarding this piece. Have a good day.” Thorpe took a couple steps before Missy stopped him. He could barely hide his smile.

“What’s going on?” asked Missy.

“It’s not Mayan and it’s not old, so it doesn’t fall under the Antiquities Act,” said Thorpe. “It’s a very good fake. I’m sure your guests will never know the difference.”

“You’re saying that Meachum ripped us off?” asked Missy.

“I deal strictly with federal crimes, so it’s not really my business, but . . .” Thorpe leaned closer. “Speaking unofficially, if you paid for a genuine artifact, you got ripped off.”

“You’re sure?” Missy’s mouth was thinner than a fishhook. “You
know
what’s real and what’s not? You’re an expert on this stuff?”

“I’m an expert,” said Thorpe. “If it’s any comfort, this sort of thing happens all the time, so you needn’t feel embarrassed. Meachum may not have done it deliberately—a lot of dealers aren’t particularly knowledgeable about pre-Columbian art, and, like I said, this is a good copy.”

“I didn’t pay a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for a fucking
copy,
” said Missy.

Thorpe pretended to think about it. “Take the piece back to Meachum. I’m sure he’ll return your money. He won’t want to be taken to court. A sale like this constitutes fraud. You would win easily.”

“If I take him to court, it’s going to be all over the papers. I’ll look like a fool.”

“Meachum has his own reputation to consider. He’ll want to avoid publicity as much as you do.” Thorpe took out his wallet, handed Missy his business card. “Just in case he gives you a hard time, slip this to him when you return the plaque. Tell him I was checking on his paperwork. Let him know I was the one who told you the piece was a fake. He won’t argue. The last thing he’ll want is to draw attention to himself.”

Missy ran a finger over the raised lettering on the business card, circled the gold federal seal next to his name and cell phone number. She looked up at him. “I don’t like being taken advantage of. Not by you, and most definitely not by Douglas Meachum.”

“I can see that.”

Missy nodded. “I appreciate your trying to make things right . . . and not blowing things in front of Jackie Simpson at the party.” Her eyes flashed. “I would never have forgiven you for that, Frank.”

Clark snickered. “Lucky for you, dude.” A glance from Missy and he was conciliatory. “See, babe, in a way, you
were
right about Frank’s energy. He’s a good guy.”

Missy watched Thorpe, and it took everything for him not to blink.

12

Missy didn’t waste any time. It was barely five hours since he had told her that the Mayan king was a fake. Thorpe put away his pager, called the number on the State Department business card he had given to her, then keyed in his message code.

“Hey, Frank, this is me. Just wanted to let you know that Douglas Meachum pissed all over himself apologizing for selling me a fake, and wrote a refund check on the spot. I can’t tell if he’s more afraid of me or of you, but I guess it doesn’t matter. Just between us, I don’t think he’s got any of that . . . provenance that you told me about. Like you thought, he doesn’t want anybody to know about the fake art, either, so I guess everything has worked out. I’m still a little pissed at you for telling me you were an insurance salesman, but thanks for wising me up about the art world, and don’t be a stranger. Clark says his offer to teach you how to surf still stands. Ciao!”

Thorpe sat in the last pew of Holy Innocents Church, smiling. He wished he could have seen Meachum’s face when Missy told him about the federal agent who had been looking into his paperwork.

Holy Innocents was a small Catholic church in East L.A., cool and dark inside, the carpet worn, the cracked wooden pews polished to a dull sheen. A huge stained-glass window of the crucifixion loomed over the altar. Red glass blood dripped from Jesus’ side and from his brow, while angels and saints watched from overhead, unwilling or unable to do anything about it. The church was empty at midafternoon except for a few Hispanic women lighting candles in the vestibule, the women keeping up a quiet conversation.

Thorpe selected a small catechism card from the back of the next pew, the image on the front of the card showing a youthful Jesus seated on the grass with two white lambs and three children. Thorpe wrote on the back: “Next time, be kind to strangers and small children, Doug. You never know who’s watching.” He tucked the card into his jacket. After he mailed it to Meachum, the wake-up would be complete, but Thorpe was going to give him a few more days to sweat. No permanent damage, but maybe Meachum would think twice the next time he was in a hurry. A small thing, but Thorpe found pleasure in it. He checked his watch. In a couple hours, he was going to take another step closer to finding the Engineer, but right now . . .

Father Esteban strode down the aisle, his cassock swirling around his knees.

Thorpe stood up, noted the priest’s black high-tops. “Thanks for seeing me.”

Father Esteban was wary. “Usually when I get called from my prayers on a matter of urgency, it is to give confession . . . or last rites.” His voice was low and raspy, like a boxer who had taken too many hits to the throat.

“Right. . . . Well, I’m good on both counts.”

Father Esteban was in his early thirties, a lean, serious Hispanic. Almost as tall as Thorpe, he had smooth caramelized skin and short black hair. A scar curved from his left ear to the side of his mouth, and a drop of sweat had stained his white collar. The cross around his neck was a plain wooden one.

“I’ve got a bicycle outside,” said Thorpe, starting for the double doors. “I’d like you to pass it on to one of your parishioners, Paulo Rodriguez.”

Father Esteban walked outside with him, stood beside the bicycle. It was a good bike, not new, no flashy paint job, and a little big for Paulo, but that way he’d get some use out of it. Father Esteban looked the bicycle over. “An interesting choice, Mr. . . .”

“Frank.”

“Sometimes people who donate things to the church, people from outside the parish, they like to give the very best. A beautiful twenty-speed mountain bike thick with chrome, a backpack suitable for climbing Mount Everest, titanium running strollers. This is much better. New bicycles are stolen very quickly, or worse, taken by force. This one . . .” He shook Thorpe’s hand, his grip strong and calloused. “Paulo will be very happy.”

“One more thing . . .”

Father Esteban walked back inside, and Thorpe had no choice but to follow.

Thorpe stopped just inside the doorway. “A week or so ago, a man at LAX was hurrying to his ride and he struck Paulo, knocked him down. Let Paulo know that the bicycle is the man’s way to tell him how sorry he is.”

Father Esteban stared at Thorpe. “You weren’t that man; I can see that.”

“No . . . I’m just sort of the messenger.”

Father Esteban laughed. “You’re no messenger, and this fine bicycle didn’t come from the man in a hurry.”

Thorpe didn’t answer.

“Are you uncomfortable in the house of God?” His voice was a hoarse whisper.

“I feel like I’m trespassing.”

“I used to feel the same way myself.” Father Esteban folded his hands in front of him. “This man who hit Paulo . . . you saw him do it?”

“I was too far away. The man left before I could reach him.”

Father Esteban’s eyes were dark and deep. “You found where Paulo prays. Did you also find the man who hit him?”

Thorpe was lost in the stillness of the priest’s gaze. “Yes, I did.”

“You didn’t call the police, though.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No.”

“Did you hurt this man?”

“Not physically, but yes, I hurt him.”

Father Esteban nodded. “Good.”

“That’s a strange attitude for a priest. I thought you were more into the ‘turn the other cheek’ thing.”

“Turning the other cheek is a useless lesson for those without power.” Father Esteban put his hand on Thorpe’s shoulder, and the sleeves of his robe slid up a couple inches. Thorpe glimpsed a tiger tattoo snaking up his wrist, crude work, too, jailhouse tats done with a needle, spit and carbon from burned match heads. Father Esteban tugged his sleeve down. “I’ll tell Paulo the truth. I’ll tell him that you saw what happened to him and decided to do something about it. That way, he’ll learn that there are good men as well as bad men.”

“You don’t want to get his hopes up, Padre.”

Father Esteban held on to him as Thorpe started to leave. “A very wise priest brought me into the light about ten years ago. This priest, may God bless him, once told me, ‘Esteban, never underestimate the positive power of guilt.’ ” He winked at Thorpe. “So . . . what in heaven’s name did you
do,
Frank?”