The Wake-Up (23 page)

41

“Welcome to the scene of the crime.” Cecil grinned as he waved Thorpe inside. “Check it out.”

Thorpe stepped into the back room of the surf shop, closed the alley door. A folding cot was set up in the far corner of the room, Vlad’s clothes strewn on the floor. Missy sprawled beside a table, her elegant black dress hiked, one of her high heels snapped off. There was a hole through her eye. Vlad sat on the floor, his back against the sofa. Arturo lay on his back beside him, hands neatly folded across his suit jacket. Other than the fact that one ear was caked with dried blood, he looked as if he were resting. The room smelled like molten copper.

“
That’s
the only downside of the evening.” Cecil pointed at Missy’s body. He had two guns shoved into the front of his pants like Billy the Kid, Arturo’s machine pistol and a small .22 semiauto. “Damn Vlad got me all upset and threw off my rhythm. Pissed me off, I’ll tell you that much.”

Vlad’s complexion was even whiter now, waxy and translucent, a road map of fine blue veins visible under the skin. Thorpe realized that the dark spots on Vlad’s shirt weren’t part of the tie-dyed pattern. “You’ve been shot.”

Vlad nodded.

“I told you, Frank, he pissed me off,” said Cecil. “I won’t stand for that kind of thing. Not anymore. What we got here is a fucking new day for Cecil. You and me going to work together. You best understand that.”

Thorpe laughed.

“What’s so funny?” asked Cecil.

Thorpe made eye contact with Vlad. “Do you remember the art dealer Missy used? The one who sold her—”

“Douglas Meachum,” said Vlad. “He was at the party. He saw me standing in the corner, shaking . . . but Meachum just walked past. You were the only one who stopped to help.”

“I asked you a question, Frank,” said Cecil.

Thorpe ignored him but kept track of him with his peripheral vision. Any sudden moves . . . “Arturo went to Meachum’s house a few days ago,” he said to Vlad. “He went there and killed a man. Were you with him?”

Vlad’s face was blank. “Arturo didn’t kill anyone at Meachum’s house.”

“The man’s name was Ray Bishop,” said Thorpe. “Arturo beat him to death with a claw hammer. Were you there when he did it?”

Vlad scratched his head, and tufts of white-blond hair drifted down. “I wasn’t there. Neither was Arturo. He would have told me if he had done that.”

Thorpe stared at him. Vlad was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar. “You’re sure?”

Vlad nodded. “We were partners.”

Thorpe turned as Cecil reached for the machine pistol in his belt. “Don’t do that.”

Cecil gripped the butt of the gun but didn’t draw it. His face was incandescent. “I don’t take orders anymore.”

“Okay,” said Thorpe. Vlad coughed, and Thorpe glanced over, saw blood bubbling from his lips. Thorpe took his eyes off Cecil for only an instant, but it was long enough.

“I’m willing to forgive you for putting my head through the wall that time at the house,” said Cecil, the pistol steady on Thorpe’s chest. His knuckles were raw. “I’m willing to forgive and forget, because I’m a little shorthanded now, and I’m going to need some help when I take over the operation.”

“Clark might have something to say about that.”

“I’m not worried,” sneered Cecil. “You should have seen him, blubbering like a baby, talking to Missy like he expected her to answer. When he left, he told me he was going to grab his board and paddle out until it didn’t hurt no more.” He shook his head. “Hey, she was my sister, but you don’t see me dying about it. You got to move on, right, Frank?”

“Easier said than done.”

“Well, I said it and I done it.” Cecil’s finger curled around the trigger of the machine pistol. It was all he could do to hold himself back. “You going to work for me or not?”

“I don’t even want to be near you.”

Cecil grinned, pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, of course.

Thorpe stepped closer, pulled the pistol away, and swatted him across the head with it. “You have to flip off the safety.”

Cecil groaned, rolled across the floor, holding his head in his hands.

Thorpe turned to Vlad. “If you and Arturo didn’t kill Bishop . . .” He was thinking out loud, and not liking the answer he kept coming up with.

“Frank?” Vlad nodded toward Cecil.

Thorpe flipped the safety off, pointed the pistol at Cecil. “Don’t do it.”

Cecil stared up at Thorpe, the .22 in his hand. “You scared? I’m not.”

“Put the gun down and get out of here,” said Thorpe.

“I don’t think so,” said Cecil.

“Go home,” said Thorpe. “It’s over. We can stop now. All of us.”

“I don’t want to stop. This ain’t the old Cecil you’re talking to.”

“I don’t want to kill you,” said Thorpe.

“Look at you, all serious and concerned.” Cecil showed his bad teeth. “I don’t need you after all, Frank. Like I told Missy, I got an aptitude.” His finger tightened on the trigger.

Thorpe shot him three times, knocked Cecil backward in a spray of blood. Ears ringing, Thorpe wiped the machine pistol clean and tossed it onto the table. He felt an overwhelming heaviness, as though the room were caving in on him. He had been wrong about everything.

“I know what Cecil meant,” said Vlad. “It’s hard to stop once you start.”

Thorpe nodded. “Sometimes I think it’s nearly impossible . . . but we have to try.” He moved closer. “I should drop you off at a hospital.”

Vlad smoothed the lapels of Arturo’s suit. “The first time Arturo saw me, he crossed himself. I didn’t understand, so I waved back. It was a silly mistake. A lucky mistake.” He smiled. “We bumped into each other at Los Angeles Airport, and when I waved, he thought I was a courier from the Bucharest syndicate. I had worked for the syndicate before, done some
cold
work for them, but I had left to come to America. I wanted to see cowboys. Arturo and I stood in the airport, talking and watching the luggage circling round and round, and by the time my bag arrived, Arturo said he didn’t care if the syndicate hadn’t sent me, he had work for me.” He glanced at Thorpe. “What’s wrong?”

“Just . . . coincidence.” Thorpe shook his head. “All of our planning and calculation and research, but ultimately our lives pivot on a missed signal or a man in too much of a hurry.”

“Have you ever seen
The Lion King,
Frank?”

“Ah . . . yeah, sure. I like that movie.”

“I told Clark and Missy that they didn’t have to kill Arturo. They could have
exiled
him instead.”

“Like Simba?”

“I
knew
you would understand.” Vlad sighed. “I wish Arturo had just asked me for money, instead of going to work for Guillermo. I have over three million dollars in my closet, I would have given it to him.”

“You have three million dollars in cash and you’re living in the back of a store?”

“Arturo used to say that, too.” Vlad patted Arturo’s shoulder. “He told me to buy myself some clothes, a sports car, a house, a woman . . . but I never wanted any of those things. I never wanted anything at all. If I had found something I really wanted, I would have spent every penny . . . but I never did.” He trembled. “I just wished Arturo had asked me. I would have given him all the money he needed.” His shirt was soaked now. “Arturo was too proud to ask for help.”

“Arturo didn’t betray you. He wasn’t working for Guillermo.”

“Clark and Missy said he was. They had proof.”

“I set Arturo up.” Strange the relief Thorpe felt telling the truth. “I was the one who betrayed you all.”

Vlad peered at him. “Why?”

Thorpe shook his head.

“
Why,
Frank? What did we ever do to you?”

“Ray Bishop was a friend of mine, and I thought . . . I thought Arturo had killed him. I thought I was protecting the Meachums.” Thorpe looked around the room, taking in the dead. “I knew the kinds of things you and Arturo had done. Somebody had to step in . . . and that was me.”

“I see.” Vlad stared at him with those pale blue eyes. “Some of the things Arturo and I did . . . they made me sick. They gave me nightmares. Arturo and I, we did bad things, terrible things, but we didn’t kill your friend, and Clark told us not to touch the Meachums.” One eye was rimmed with blood. “Are you going to kill me now, Frank?”

“No.”

“Arturo is dead. There’s no one for me now.”

“I’m not going to kill you.”

Vlad’s hands twitched in his lap. “The scientists used to talk about these
things
they created . . . these cellular catalysts. They said their best work was sleeping inside us, just waiting until we needed it, but the scientists . . .” He looked at Thorpe, forced his hands to be still. “The scientists, they didn’t really know what we needed.”

“Let me take you to a hospital.”

A red tear slid down Vlad’s cheek. “I’ve seen enough doctors.”

42

Thorpe was halfway through the front gate before he spotted the man sitting on his front stoop reading a newspaper. The paper hid his face, but Thorpe recognized the posture, legs splayed, the same way he had sat when they were crouched in the underbrush, hiding from Lazurus’s men. It was the Engineer.

“You coming in, Frank?” the Engineer said from behind the newspaper. The same voice that Thorpe had heard while lying in the plastic surgeon’s office, flat and uninflected, not a trace of the European accent from the running track. “If you’re going to rabbit, there’s no need to sprint. I’m too out of shape to chase you.”

Thorpe checked the street, checked the windows of the other apartments. He shut the gate behind him, heard it lock, then crossed toward his front door.

The Engineer folded the paper, stood up, fleshier than Thorpe remembered, his face newly sunburned. He wore dark pants, a short-sleeved dress shirt, and a clip-on necktie. Good camouflage. “I don’t know if you’re a comics fan,” he said, tucking the paper under one arm, “but that
Dilbert
still cracks me up. Nice to see—”

Thorpe drove the heel of his hand under the Engineer’s chin, snapped his head back, and knocked him onto the grass. The newspaper fluttered in the breeze. Thorpe waited, but there was no sign of Gregor, or anyone else the Engineer might have brought along.

The Engineer groaned, tried to sit up, then lay back down again.

Thorpe patted him down for weapons. Nothing.

“You . . . you
still
mad about that bit of fun at the safe house?” gasped the Engineer. “I thought we were past that.” He rolled over onto his belly, got to his hands and knees. “You going to hit me again? If you are, do it now, so I won’t have so far to fall.”

Thorpe watched him.

The Engineer got slowly to his feet. He spit, his tongue sliding across his mouth. “You chipped my front tooth.” He straightened his necktie. “I got back a few days early and wanted to surprise you. Black’s Beach is nice, but you
really
don’t want to see me naked, Frank.” He stuck his hand out. “No hard feelings.”

“Shut up.”

“You think you’re the only one with a grudge?” The Engineer pouted. “I’m the wounded party here.
You’re
the one who stepped into my situation with Lazurus. I spent months setting that up, and you and Kimberly trashed it in a few weeks. If anyone is owed an apology—”

Thorpe backhanded him.

The Engineer stayed on his feet, spitting blood now. “Okay . . . okay. Let’s agree to disagree. We can do business. That’s all that matters.”

“Where’s Gregor?”

The Engineer dabbed at his mouth. “That’s another sad story. Poor Gregor. I offered him a management opportunity, but, in the end, he just wasn’t able to meet my exacting standards. In spite of my efforts, he was just another load of meat.”

“How did you find me?”

“Secrets are the basis of any relationship, Frank. You keep yours and I’ll keep mine. We should be focusing on the future. I have my contacts and suppliers; you have yours. We don’t have to be friends, but it would be a terrible waste not to become partners.”

Thorpe had spent months trying to find the Engineer, and now that he had him, he didn’t know what to do. He had assumed there would be some sort of confrontation, with Gregor present, and plenty of the ultraviolence. Thorpe had assumed he would kill them both, or die trying, but this . . . Killing him now would be murder. Turning the Engineer over to the police was tempting. The Engineer’s old shop would cover up any crimes he had committed on their watch, but maybe he had gotten careless lately. Perhaps he was wanted, fingerprints and eyewitnesses waiting to put him away. Warren could hack some police databases, see what came up. It wouldn’t be as satisfying as killing the son of a bitch, but after the scene with Vlad, Thorpe had had enough of death.

“What are you thinking, Frank?”

“Trying to decide what to do with you.”

The Engineer pursed his lips. “You could treasure me for the rare and unique individual that I am.”

“That’s not one of my options.”

The Engineer laughed. “Come on, let’s get rich and have some laughs. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

Thorpe checked the front door to his apartment. The tiny bit of clear wax pressed against the upper jamb was uncracked, undisturbed. He opened the door, grabbed the Engineer by the back of the neck, and pushed him inside. Thorpe stepped in, crouched, the 9-mm sweeping from side to side.

The Engineer looked up from the floor. “You’re not very trusting.”

Thorpe locked the door behind him and went through the house, the gun cocked. He checked the bathroom, the closets, even looked under the bed. The windows were still locked from the inside, their own wax seals intact. They were alone.

“Can I get up now?” The Engineer fingered his necktie.
“Please?”

Thorpe beckoned him.

The Engineer awkwardly got to his feet. “That’s . . . better.” He held his hands out, losing his balance.

Thorpe reached for him. It was a reaction, not a thought. As he steadied him, the Engineer snatched off his tie, jammed it under Thorpe’s nose. Thorpe heard a faint crackle of breaking glass, and his knees buckled. When Thorpe awoke, he was seated in his leather chair, he had a ringing headache, and he and the Engineer weren’t alone.

Gregor squinted at him, over three hundred pounds of ugly, his belly flopping out of the purple jogging suit. The Cyrillic tattoos ringing his thick neck seemed stretched, as though he had swallowed a Great Dane. His face was puffy and scabbed over, his left ear bandaged. “He is awake.”

“It’s a real mind fuck, isn’t it, Frank?” said the Engineer.

Thorpe stared back at Gregor and knew that all the bad thoughts that had come to him while listening to Vlad were true. Arturo hadn’t killed Bishop. Arturo had killed more than enough to deserve killing, but he hadn’t killed Ray Bishop.

“Hey!” Gregor kicked Thorpe in the shin. “He’s
talking
to you.”

“Yeah, it’s a real mind fuck.” Thorpe was still weak from the anesthetic the Engineer had used on him, so numb that he had barely felt Gregor’s kick. The only sensation he had was fear. He had been under fire, had jumped out of planes and crawled through tunnels where the darkness was thick with spiders, but now, sitting in his own living room, it was all Thorpe could do to stop his teeth from chattering. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He had long since given up hope of a cozy old age, surrounded by grandchildren. It was losing to the Engineer that he was afraid of. Losing to the Engineer
again.

“What is it, Frank?” asked the Engineer. “You look like you have something on your mind.”

“I was just wondering what happened to Gregor? Did he try stopping a train with his face?”

“A few bumps and bruises, but I think it adds to his charm.”

Thorpe smiled. “Looks like it must have hurt.”

The Engineer pulled up another chair. They were almost knee-to-knee now. “Don’t bother feeling under the cushion. We found the pistol you stashed. Found the one in the sofa, too. I like the way you plan ahead, the way you try and anticipate the worst. That’s very laudable.” He leaned closer.

Thorpe looked into the Engineer’s eyes and thought of Vlad. Vlad had killed at least as many men as the Engineer, had gathered up lives by the handful, but his blue eyes were dim and dying, the sad eyes of a lost boy. The Engineer’s eyes were dark and mature in their evil, full of a grimy eagerness for the work.

“In all your planning, though, did you ever foresee your present situation?” asked the Engineer. “Your hidden weapons found, the boogeyman inside your door, sitting right next to you, in fact, close enough to kiss.” He smiled. “I guess what I’m asking, Frank, is did you ever imagine things going
this
far wrong?”

“So far so good.”

“Indeed,” said the Engineer. “I haven’t hit you, haven’t tied you up or restrained you in any way, haven’t brutalized you. We’re just a couple of men of the world having a talk.” He smiled. “Since I quit the shop, things haven’t gone as well as I’d hoped. Mistakes and miscalculations were made. I’m not complaining, but your personnel file was like an answer to a prayer. Some very interesting notations in that file, suggestions that you had been less than a loyal employee. Money-laundering takedowns that came up short, warehouses that turned up empty—you had some nice paydays.”

Thorpe wiggled his toes, spread the fingers of his hands. Progress. Hope was the only antidote to fear, and he clung to that hope. He was going to get out of this. He
was.

“You walked away with a bundle, Frank. I like a man with initiative.”

Thorpe’s head still throbbed, but he was breathing deeper now. “Ancient history.”

The Engineer shook his head. “Not eggs-
actly,
” he said, sounding just like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Gregor chuckled, fists clenching and unclenching.

The Engineer beamed at Thorpe. “I like to amuse Gregor with my imitations: Irish brogue, Eddie Murphy, laid-back surfer, Boston Brahmin, Valley Girl. . . . He’s particularly fond of my Bill Clinton: ‘Hilly Mae, put down that rollin’ pin, darlin’.”

“
Very
fond of Mr. Bill Clinton,” agreed Gregor.

“Of course, you’re already familiar with my Italian intellectual—”

“Are we going to work out our deal? This shit is boring me.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” said the Engineer, sleepy eyes glittering. He walked over to the desk. Thorpe’s laptop was already turned on. “What’s your password?”

Thorpe thought about it. “Onyx three two three.”

The Engineer tapped in the password, smiled as the operating system opened up. “I’m glad you didn’t make me ask you again,” he said, ripping through the files. “You’d be surprised how many people think they need to put on a show of resistance. I’m not sure if they’re trying to impress me, or ministering to some ego need of their own. . . .” He stared at the screen. “An empty address book? How do you keep in touch?”

“I’m a lousy correspondent.”

“What I’m looking for are your business contacts, your connections—buyers and sellers, all the little people you use and abuse. That’s what
you
bring to the table.”

“What are you bringing?”

“Always so flippant, so self-controlled.” The Engineer whipped the mouse, searching through Thorpe’s files. “The only time I heard you lose your cool was after you had left the safe house—you were getting medical attention, if I remember correctly. You sounded scared. I bet you’re scared now . . . probably telling yourself to hang on, stay strong, being a regular cheerleader for the home team.” He glanced at Thorpe, then back at the screen. “Three bank accounts. What are the passwords?” He typed as Thorpe told him, clucked with disappointment a few moments later. “There’s not nearly enough here to retire on, Frank. At this rate, you’re going to be collecting aluminum cans while you lug around your prostate.” He turned his head. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“I had some miscalculations myself.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Thorpe hesitated, thinking, but not taking too long, just maybe long enough to indicate that he was arguing with himself and that the Engineer had won. “Sorry, other than a storage locker full of cash and bricks of cocaine, I’m flat broke.”

The Engineer watched Thorpe, then finally shut the computer down and handed it to Gregor. “I’ll examine this at my leisure.” He sat down across from Thorpe again. “Where exactly is this storage locker of yours?”

“You working for the IRS now?” Thorpe stretched, used the opportunity to glance out the window. Late evening now, the courtyard empty, the sound of stereos and TVs playing in the distance. He hoped Claire wasn’t at home.

The Engineer smiled. “She’s not here, if you’re interested.”

“Who?” Thorpe didn’t turn away from the Engineer’s smile, but he felt the blow. A light blow, a love tap, but it brought the fear back, worse than before.

“Claire. Lovely woman. A little
mature
for my tastes, but feisty.”

“My neighbor?”

“Oh, more than your neighbor, much more, if my information is correct. Mrs. Kinsley and I had a nice chat this afternoon at the park. She’s the one who let me in the gate. Made me some wretched tea while I waited for you. Sweet old lady, but her kitchen needs a good scrubbing. They get old, they lose their sense of smell. I was about to cancel her ticket, when she got a phone call and had to dash. Mrs. Kinsley says you and Claire have the look. You know the look, Frank. Mrs. Kinsley got all warm and fuzzy when she talked about the two of you, said she was eighty-three years old but that she still remembered that look.”

“I threw a fuck into Claire once or twice. You want to make something of that, go ahead.”

“That’s rather unchivalrous of you. I met Claire this morning, showed her your photograph. She said you looked familiar. That’s all,
familiar.
Then she told me you had moved away, moved to Los Alamitos because it had better freeway access. Wasn’t that wonderful? It’s the details that sell a lie. Having a woman willing to lie for you is one thing, but a woman who lies for you
well,
oh my, Frank . . . you truly are a lucky man.”

Thorpe shrugged. The Engineer’s indolent gaze was eating a hole in him.

“Here’s my dilemma,” said the Engineer. “I know you can be useful, and I dearly want your goods, but on the other hand, I’m still upset with you for that business with Kimberly. I can be petty and vindictive. I’m working on it, but I want you to be aware of my failings.”

“Maybe you can get some kind of therapy.”

“I did a seminar for a foreign security agency several years ago.” The Engineer tugged at his socks, stood up. “I tried to impress upon them that torture,
physical
torture, as a means of extracting information is very inefficient. When the information is needed fast, it’s even more so. By contrast, my methods never fail. Never, Frank, not once. The head of security listened, but I’m not sure he truly understood.”