The wake-up

by Robert Ferrigno

  "Too late."

  Bishop fingered his cap, turning it round and round in his hands. "Sorry to hear that."

  "They might have killed someone last night. If they did… they may not be done."

  "Oh, those two are never done." Bishop looked past him again. "They fooled me in Riverside. You seen them, right? Nice-looking couple. No history of violence. Only reason I busted Clark was so I could turn him. He turned me inside out instead." He cleared his throat. "The clerk at the chemical supply store… day before he was supposed to testify, the pastor of his church disappeared, him and his whole family. Neighbors didn't see anything, didn't hear anything. The pastor, his wife, and their two little girls, just up and gone." His face sagged. "Funny thing, they left their clothes behind. Left their toothbrushes and their bank account, too. Church had a prayer circle for them, asked God to do something. That's how the clerk found out. He got this phone call, and suddenly he changed his story. Never did find that family, so I guess God had a previous commitment." He stared at Thorpe. "You don't look so good."

  "You said the Riddenhauers had no history of violence."

  "They got a crew chief named Arturo who handles the rough stuff. A total hardball, but he looks like the president of the Jaycees. I didn't connect him with Clark until it was too late. These days, Arturo has a helper. Creepy type. Wouldn't think Arturo would need help, but there you go."

  "The creepy one… tall and skinny, ultrawhite?"

  "That's him. I seen guys in the morgue had more color."

  "His name is Vlad. I met him at a party. He didn't seem so dangerous."

  "I hope you're usually a better judge of character." Bishop buffed his black shoes with his hand. "Are you the one Clark and Missy are after?"

  Thorpe shook his head. "A couple of innocent bystanders. I put them in the soup."

  "Now you think you're gonna pull them out."

  "That's right."

  "Well, tell your innocent bystanders to relocate and not look back. That's my professional advice." Bishop checked his watch, stood up. "Duty calls."

  Thorpe easily kept pace with Bishop, the man's limp more pronounced now. Bags of broken cement leaked grit into the bare ground. Cardboard coffee cups lay crushed underfoot. "You said Arturo had a helper now. Now. You're still keeping tabs on them."

  "You're a good listener." Bishop kept walking. "I used to be the same way once. You may not be a cop… but you're something." He slipped his ID card into a time clock mounted on a railing. "Couple months after I lost my job, my wife walked out and took the kids with her. This may be hard for you to believe, but I wasn't the best husband in the world. She walked out, and I loved her so much, I didn't beg her to come back. I drifted for a couple of years; then my old partner heard about me, said if I cleaned up, he'd give me a job." His hands trembled slightly. "After I got myself under control, I figured I'd see what Clark and Missy were up to." He shook his head. "Maybe I just wanted to play policeman again. It's hard… hard to leave something you're good at."

  The wind kicked up sand. Thorpe checked the area without making a big deal out of it.

  Bishop stepped on an empty pack of Marlboros, crushed it flat. "Missy and Clark live in a fancy house in Newport with her brother, Cecil, who don't seem like much, from what I could see. Arturo and the new guy come and go as they please. I set up outside one of Clark's surf shops for a few days. Kept track of what went out the front door, what went out the back. That store isn't selling enough shirts and trunks even to pay for the air conditioning. I figured maybe he was dealing dope out of the stores, but I watched the clerks-they're not moving anything except their lips. I think Clark is using the stores to launder drug money."

  "You take what you had to the locals?"

  "Didn't have anything in the way of proof, and I'm not what any DA would consider a reliable source."

  Thorpe shook his hand. "Thanks, Ray."

  Bishop hung on. He had a good grip. "You're really going to try to stop them?"

  "I made the mess; now I have to clean it up."

  "Haven't you heard? Nobody picks up after themselves anymore." Bishop lowered his eyes. "When I first met Clark, he was a joke. Idiot lived eighty miles inland and all he talked about was big waves, surfing." He shook his head. "Now he lives in a mansion, and I clock in every fifteen minutes and shit in a Porta Potti. You tell me how that happened, Frank, because I'd really like to know."

  Thorpe didn't answer.

  "Yeah… well, you don't make promises, I like that." Bishop idly touched the pint bottle in his jacket. "I'd be willing to help you, though. Just as long as I keep out of sight."

  "You've helped me plenty. It's on me now."

  "Sure, I've been a big help." Bishop twisted the buttons on his uniform. "I got to make my rounds. Serve and protect."

  21

  "Oh, hello… Frank." Gina Meachum stood in her doorway, a hammer in her hand. A painting leaned against the sofa behind her. Her long dark hair was loosely bound with a strip of white lace, as though she had reached for whatever was handy to hold back her hair. She wore jeans and a cowboy shirt.

  "I hate to interrupt," said Thorpe, "but-"

  "Who is it?" Douglas Meachum called from inside the house.

  "A friend," Gina answered, then waved Thorpe inside. "This isn't a very good time. I'm finishing up some loose ends." She pushed back her hair. "Have you found a house yet?"

  "No… not yet." It was hard to lie to her. Even harder to tell her the truth. Did he start with the suggestion that they get out of town for a few weeks, or end with it? Should he smile when he assured them that he would take care of everything? Have no fear, Frank Thorpe is here. He followed her inside, watched as she hung the painting, trying to decide where to begin. The painting was a realistic bright oil of a play-ground scene, a little girl pushing a red toy truck through the sandbox while a boy watched her from halfway down a slide. You knew within moments they were going to be fighting over the truck.

  Gina stepped back, set down the hammer on a chest. "What do you think?"

  "I like it." Thorpe moved closer to her. "I need to talk to you and-"

  "Who's your friend?" Meachum said from the hallway, wheeling a large suitcase into the living room. He was wearing the same peacock blue Emilio Zegna suit that he had sported at LAX.

  "Frank is house shopping," said Gina. "We may be neighbors soon."

  "We're a little busy right now, Frank," said Meachum, setting down the suitcases. He was handsome but stiff and angular, as though there was a clothes hanger across his shoulders. "We're leaving for Hawaii in the morning."

  "Two weeks in Maui." Gina looked at Thorpe, made eye contact. "It's kind of a second honeymoon for us."

  "No need to be melodramatic," said Meachum.

  "Frank was at Missy's party," said Gina, still watching him. "He may be interested in some art for his new house."

  Meachum smiled at Thorpe. "Is that correct?"

  Thorpe had only two kinds of luck. Very, very bad or very, very good. "Yes… I was at the gallery a week or so ago, looking at some pieces. I talked to Nell-"

  "You won't be talking to her anymore." Meachum grimaced. "That woman stabbed me in the back. Didn't even have the integrity to tell me what she had done. No gratitude in this world anymore." He took a deep breath, adjusted his necktie. "I'm sure you've read all about our difficulties in the paper. I can only hope that Betty B's column doesn't dissuade you from allowing me to fulfill your aesthetic needs. I can assure you that I maintain the highest standard-"

  "The article said you gave Missy a full refund."

  "Douglas has never been anything less than ethical with his clients," said Gina.

  Meachum glanced at his wife. "Yes, I gave Missy a full and immediate refund."

  "Then what's the problem?" asked Thorpe.

  Meachum beamed. "Finally, someone who understands the business world. You're a breath of fresh air, Frank. Mistakes happen. What counts is how we deal with our mistakes."

 
; "I think people have an almost infinite capacity for forgiveness, as long as the apology is sincere," said Gina. There was just the faintest edge to her voice.

  "If Nell hadn't gone running to Betty B, no one would have had any complaints," said Meachum, avoiding her gaze.

  "I thought you came out pretty well in the column," said Thorpe. "Missy was the one who got snakebit."

  "Yes… well, I did my best. In my defense, I have to say that I attempted to convince Betty B that the story was of little interest to anyone, but she despises Missy-"

  "Despised," said Gina, correcting him. She glanced at Thorpe. "The poor woman was killed by a hit-and-run driver a couple of nights ago. It was just so sad."

  "Almost makes me believe in God," muttered Meachum. He looked at Thorpe, sniffed. "That was in poor taste. I apologize, but the column was very bad for business. I've been doing damage control for the last two days. It just seemed like a good idea to give things time to settle down."

  "A very good idea," said Gina.

  "Can we make an appointment to discuss some art when I get back, Frank?" said Meachum. "I'll be back in the gallery on the fifteenth."

  "I'll see you then."

  Meachum forced a handshake on him. He probably thought that sealed the deal. "Is that what you came here for? Forgive my manners- I didn't even ask."

  Thorpe turned to Gina. "Have a good trip." He walked quickly toward the front door. "I hate this song," said Mellon.

  "We're not here for a concert," said Pinto as Hellfire Sonata boomed out from the other side of the door, the lead guitar from Iron Church howling. He racked the pump Mosburg.

  As if on cue, the door to the master bathroom slid open and Weezer stepped out in a reek of chemicals, a fat cracker wearing bib overalls and rubber gloves, swim goggles pushed back onto his forehead, a black war-surplus rubber respirator dangling around his neck. He jerked back when he saw them, then came at them. "What the fuck are you doing in my house?" he demanded, shouting to be heard over the music.

  Mellon started laughing. "You look like a deep-sea diver."

  "Hey, Captain Nemo, we came to pick up the load," said Pinto.

  Weezer slid the door shut behind him. It was quieter now. "Do you morons know who I work for?"

  "You're one of Clark's cookers." Pinto sniffed. "Smells like fresh crank, too."

  Weezer didn't back down. "When Vlad and Arturo get done with you, there won't be hardly anything left." The respirator bounced under his chin as he spoke. "Two flushes and you'll be sent down the sewer with the rest of the turds."

  Mellon cocked both barrels of his sawed-off gun.

  "I had guns pulled on me before." Weezer spit on the floor, looked at Pinto. "You and your sidekick should take off now, while you still have a chance."

  "My sidekick," said Pinto. "I like that."

  "Knock that off, Pinto," said Mellon. "I ain't nobody's sidekick."

  "No harm done." Weezer slowly turned his back on them, slid the door open. The music pounded around them. "I'm going to go back to work, and let you two be on your way. We'll just call this whole thing a misunder-"

  Mellon unloaded both barrels into Weezer's back, hurled him into the bathroom. He looked at Pinto, waved at the smoke and spray. "I truly do hate that song."

  22

  Thorpe heard Hathaway coming a block away, the full-size Ford 4?4 pulling into the parking lot, bouncing over the speed bumps, glass packs trumpeting as Hathaway pumped the accelerator. The metallic blue truck was tricked out with oversize blackwalls, gold-flecked chrome wheels, and matching chrome bed rails, bumpers, and mirrors. A decal beside the gas tank showed a cartoon bad boy pissing onto a Chevy insignia. He revved the engine again as Thorpe opened the door.

  "Subtle ride, Danny," said Thorpe, stepping up into the cab. It smelled of weed.

  Hathaway peeled out of the parking lot before Thorpe was completely inside. Thorpe banged his head, hanging on with one hand as Hathaway cackled, gave it more gas.

  "I missed you, too, asshole," said Thorpe, buckling himself in. At the small of his back, he felt the 9-mm semiauto clipped to his belt. He had been carrying since he talked to Ray Bishop and found out who Clark and Missy really were.

  "You really missed me, you would have got in touch sooner." Hathaway downshifted, the fingers of his right hand caging the devil's-head floor shift knob. Lean and hard as a roofing nail, he wore a WHAT WOULD JESUS DO? tank top, shorts, and huaraches. Hathaway had been in Thorpe's four-man Delta Force squad. He was much younger than Thorpe, moody and high-strung, the only member other than Thorpe to survive. After their courts-martial, Thorpe had gotten Billy to take him into the shop, but the pace of operations was too slow for Hathaway, and his drug habit had flared up. When Billy cut him loose, Hathaway had hired on with the DEA, which always needed deep-cover field agents, and a minor drug problem was part of the job description. Hathaway had flourished at DEA; he could have moved inside to a desk, could have run his own string of informants, but he preferred the street, and the excuse it gave him to play the part.

  They cruised the outskirts of Little Saigon, a community of recent Southeast Asian immigrants who had transformed the former white-bread inland slum into a bustling high-density community of minimalls and backyard vegetable gardens. The street signs were all bilingual now, and most of the high school valedictorians had last names that were unpronounceable to the older residents.

  "You talked to Billy lately?" asked Hathaway, watching a couple of pretty Vietnamese girls in shorts and crop tops. "Fucker won't even return my calls."

  "What's the matter, you tired of your job?"

  "Too much paperwork." Hathaway sniffed. "I hear Billy's gone into business for himself. Maybe you could put in a good word for me."

  "It would be a waste of a word."

  Hathaway smiled, his teeth white and shiny as fresh dice. Hathaway might let everything else go, but he was fastidious about his oral hygiene. Thorpe remembered the two of them dug into the tree line of a Colombian mountainside, hunkered down for almost a week, waiting to spring an ambush, wet and cold the whole time. Thorpe had shivered and kept quiet, while Hathaway had chewed sugarless Dentyne and jabbered about dental caries and gingivitis and the need to floss after every meal, until Thorpe had threatened to knock his incisors out.

  Thorpe checked the side-view mirror. "You said you could fill me in about the local meth scene."

  "You have to admire Vietnamese people." Hathaway nodded at an old man sweeping the sidewalk in front of a noodle shop. "They have discipline, a sense of order. You drive down the street in Santa Ana, there's trash all over the sidewalk. Huntington Beach is even worse. Surfers, Frank, they want the ocean pristine, but you walk into one of their cribs, you better wear your hip waders. The Vietnamese, they're not afraid of soap and water."

  Thorpe checked the side-view mirror again. It was the day after Gina and Douglas Meachum had left for Hawaii. Thorpe wondered how the second honeymoon was going, wondered if Meachum had called the blonde yet, waiting until Gina was in the shower. Maybe he had learned his lesson. Learned it without Thorpe's help. Thorpe had twelve days to make sure that they were safe when they came back home. Time enough. If Thorpe got lucky again, the Engineer would be at the screening of Shock Waves tonight. He was out there in cyberspace, circling in the darkness; the smell of blood and money kept him close, but it might be the Engineer's love of oddball movies that forced him into a mistake. A man's passions were always his weakness.

  "Asian women, they are the absolute best." Hathaway slowed, checked out a slim, well-dressed woman stepping out of a black Lexus. "No tits, though. If the Vietnamese had tits, I'd marry the whole country."

  "Let's talk meth, Danny."

  "What's your interest in the wonderful world of speed?"

  "There's a married couple distributing chemicals out of Newport-"

  "Clark the shark? He and Missy are the only ones who fit that description." Hathaway waited for confirmation, shrugged. "Clark moves high-quality
meth, and designer pharmaceuticals he comes up with himself. Himself. Only does about fifteen, twenty million dollars a year, but the man's a regular Thomas Alva Edison… if Edison'd been a dope fiend." He looked at Thorpe. "You don't want to mess with him."

  "That's what everybody tells me." Thorpe checked the mirror again. "There's a white Pathfinder that's been trailing us for the last mile and not doing a good job of it. Young white guy with a goatee behind the wheel. Couple of others with him."

  Hathaway glanced at the rearview, then popped open the dash, revealed a.357 Magnum lying among the fast-food wrappers and catsup packs. "Why don't you snap off a few rounds, see how committed they are?"

  Thorpe closed the dash. "You burned these yokels?"

  "Sold them a thousand hits of Midol last week." Hathaway ran a red light. "They seemed to be under the impression it was ecstasy."

  The Pathfinder pulled into oncoming traffic, raced through the intersection after them, almost hit a Cadillac.

  Thorpe tightened his seat belt as Hathaway made a hard right onto a side street, then veered through an alley, tires screeching. He cut through a car wash on the next block, took a one-way street the wrong way, raced through another alley, and headed in the opposite direction. Thorpe's fingers hurt from hanging on.

  "We're clear," said Hathaway. "You could have backed them off with a couple shots from the Magnum, saved my tires, but hey, no hard feelings."

  "What do you mess around with this petty shit for?"

  "It's not the money, Frank; it's the principle of the thing."

  Hathaway thought he was being clever, but Thorpe knew it was the truth. Danny saw the world as two circles. One very tiny circle contained his friends, with barely room inside for Thorpe and one or two others. The other circle contained everyone else on the planet. His friends could count on Hathaway to keep his word, and to keep his silence. The rest of the world had reason to worry. Casual rip-offs, short-weighting his busts for the DEA, strong-arming crack dealers for their bankroll and their stash, it was all the same agenda to him: whatever, whenever, whoever.