The wake-up

by Robert Ferrigno

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 M
issy 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."

  20

  Thorpe shadowed Ray Bishop around the half-built housing development for a half hour, followed him as he made his rounds up and down the cluttered work site. Bishop limped slightly, stopping to clock in at regular intervals with his ID card. Orange Industrial Security kept their rent-a-cops on a tight leash. Quite a comedown, going from lead detective at the Riverside PD to an unarmed security guard with a badge the size of a dinner plate on his chest.

  Thorpe waited until Bishop sat down on a nail keg, pulled out a steel thermos bottle, and poured a cup of coffee, waited until he pulled a pint bottle out of his jacket, sweetened the cup. Bishop didn't even know he was there until Thorpe softly spoke his name. The poor bastard bobbled his drink, splashed his pants. "First time I ever drank on the job," he stammered. "I got this cough that-"

  Thorpe held his hands up. "I'm not checking up on you."

  Bishop wiped his mouth. He was an ugly man with a broken beak and bad skin, a tough guy aging badly, gone soft and sallow. "You're not management?"

  "Don't insult me," said Thorpe. Bishop smiled. It didn't make him look any better, but Thorpe was glad to see he still had it in him. "My name is Frank. I want to talk to you about Clark and Missy Riddenhauer."

  Bishop stopped smiling. "That's a mistake," he rasped. "You local or federal?"

  "I'm not a cop."

  "Yeah, right." Bishop looked out at the half-built homes, the piles of wood debris and curling tar paper. "How did you find me? I thought I covered my tracks."

  "You had to get bonded for this job."

  "That's right, I had to pass inspection to guard lumber and Sheet-rock." Bishop fingered the buttons on his gray uniform. "Old partner of mine from Riverside runs the security firm. Matt said I didn't meet their standards but that he would make an exception. Acted like I should have kissed his fat ass in gratitude." He spit. "If he asked, I would have, too."

  Thorpe had gone to the computer after seeing Betty B on TV this morning. Getting run down the same day her column came out was probably just a coincidence, but Thorpe had a suspicious mind. He kept following the threads on the insurance-industry database, half-expecting the Engineer to send him a message, but he was all by himself on the Net. An hour later, he hit pay dirt, but it gave him no pleasure, just a sick feeling in his stomach. Three years ago, Clark Riddenhauer had won a $1.2 million judgment against the Riverside Police Department, and Detective Ray Bishop, for malicious arrest and prosecution. The arrest had been for production, sale
, and distribution of methamphetamines. The PD's insurance carrier, Liberty State Mutual, had settled out of court. Thorpe had read the judgment, hoping that Bishop was an inept cop who had busted a couple of innocent civilians and stepped on his dick instead. So far, Bishop was living up to his advance billing.

  "The Riddenhauer case, that was an impressive example of poor police work, Ray." Thorpe picked up a small chunk of concrete, chucked it across the site, and dinged an empty tar bucket. "No wonder you lost your badge and pension. I think the Academy uses you as an example on how not to pump up your arrest stats."

  Bishop scowled, and Thorpe got an idea of what he had been like before he had taken the long fall. "What's this about?"

  "A one-point-two-million-dollar settlement. The Riddenhauers must have had quite an attorney. Of course, you being a falling-down drunk, that didn't help, either."

  "I was never impaired on the job, and that didn't have nothing to do with it anyway." Bishop pulled at his wrinkled jacket. There was dried mud on the cuff of his trousers. "It's a little late for the department to be coming after me now. I ain't got anything you want."

  "I told you: I'm not a cop."

  "What are you, then?"

  Thorpe ignored the question. "If you made a good bust, how did Clark and Missy beat it?"

  Bishop sat down on the nail keg, looked past him.

  "It's life-and-death, Ray."

  "Maybe you ain't noticed, Frank, but I don't do life-and-death anymore." Bishop sat there, and Thorpe gave him all the time he needed to rediscover his courage, or anger, or resentment, whatever it took to start him talking. Bishop took off his cap, wiped his forehead. "I busted Clark for buying crystal meth precursors from a chemical supply house." He shook his head. "Just prior to trial, the main prosecution witness, a clerk at the supply house, recanted. He told the judge that I had threatened him, forced him to finger Clark. That the whole thing was a setup."

  "A witness who gets cold feet… that's what depositions are for."

  "Recanting cost the clerk his plea bargain. It meant three years in Vacaville, but he jumped at it. That gave his story serious credibility." Bishop looked up at Thorpe. "I hope you know what you're doing. Missy and Clark… you really don't want to mess with them."