The wake-up

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.