The wake-up

34

Vlad could see Pinto's knobby anteater-skin cowboy boots protruding from under the white Mustang, heavy-metal music from the boom box drowning out the sounds of work. Fancy boots for the job at hand. He eased into the double garage from the back door, not making a sound. Arturo beckoned Vlad closer, jaw clenched, probably still angry about Thorpe.

For the last few hours, all Arturo had talked about was how he wished he had gotten the phone call sooner. Then he could have taken care of Thorpe himself, instead of leaving it to Guillermo. Vlad felt bad that Thorpe had fooled him, but the feeling didn't really linger. None of his feelings lingered. Arturo was always in a boiling rage, taking everything personally. A dealer was late with a payment, a cooker spoiled a batch, and Arturo acted like they'd had him in mind when they did it.

Vlad picked up a grease rag, wiped at the blood and brain matter on his shoes. He didn't act out of anger or resentment; he didn't blame anybody or call names. He just did what he was supposed to do. He tossed aside the rag and was reaching for the handle of the hydraulic jack, when Pinto sensed that he wasn't alone.

"Mellon? That you?"

"It's me," said Vlad.

A socket wrench clattered to the concrete floor. Pinto crabbed the creeper out from under the car, but Vlad turned the handle of the jack, lowered it, pinning Pinto's torso with the frame of the Mustang.

"Fuck!" Pinto clawed at the floor, his knotty forearms scrolled with spiderweb tattoos, a spaceship snagged in the web, hanging upside down as a two-headed spider watched from Pinto's elbow joint. "Fuck!"

Vlad lowered the jack a little more, Pinto begging now, his boots flapping on the ground. That was the good thing about a hydraulic jack: You had such fine control over the level of lift, raising and lowering it by quarter inches. Precision work, he liked that. He once told Arturo that he was thinking of taking a correspondence course in watch making, and Arturo said he might just as well study brain surgery. It took a few minutes for Vlad to realize that Arturo wasn't serious. Arturo had apologized, even gave him a shoe box full of watches a few days later, new watches, too, said Vlad could practice on them. The watches were still in the shoe box, untouched. Someday, when Vlad wasn't so busy, he was going to see what made them tick.

"What's going on, man?" Pinto said from under the car.

Arturo strolled into the garage, avoided the spots of pink transmission fluid on the concrete floor. It was bright inside the garage, tools neatly laid out. A calendar on the wall showed a nude blonde holding a shock absorber between her legs. Arturo turned off the boom box. They didn't have to worry about Pinto's cries. The garage was in a warehouse district of Santa Ana, and everyone in the vicinity had gone home for the night long ago.

"What's this about?" called Pinto.

Arturo pulled up a stool and sat down. A cigarette smoldered in a tuna-can ashtray by the rear tire. "Did you think we wouldn't find out?"

Pinto's fingers twitched, the nails scalloped with grease. "Find out what?"

Vlad lowered the jack, heard Pinto groan, backed it up again. Not quite as high, though.

"Did you think we wouldn't find out?" repeated Arturo.

"Can't… can't breathe," gasped Pinto.

Vlad lowered the jack. He watched Pinto thrash around, then raised it again.

Arturo waited until Pinto had caught his breath, the man making wet sounds as he sucked in air. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Silence from under the car.

"Vlad?" said Arturo.

"It wasn't my fault," blurted Pinto.

"That's better," said Arturo. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"Let me out," said Pinto. "We'll talk."

"You can talk from there," said Arturo.

"Hey, Pinto," said Vlad. "If I wanted to buy a roller coaster like the one at the Kids Unlimited Karnival, how much would it cost?"

"What?"

"Vlad asked you a question," said Arturo.

"I don't know, man. Two or three hundred thousand. I never priced them," said Pinto. "Come on, let me out of here."

"Three hundred thousand, that's not so much," said Vlad. "I could ride anytime I wanted then, day and night."

"This Mellon… is he the one who put you up to it?" asked Arturo.

"You're cutting off my circulation," said Pinto.

Vlad lowered the jack.

"It was Mellon," said Pinto. "It was his idea. I didn't want to."

"I'm glad to hear that," said Arturo. "That makes a big difference."

"Mellon… he made me do it," said Pinto. "Said he'd kill me if I didn't help him."

"So, you ripping off our cookers was just self-defense," said Arturo.

"That's right," said Pinto. "Absolutely, self-defense."

"Where we going to find this Mellon?" asked Arturo.

"Mellon… he's got a place just off Seventeenth Avenue," said Pinto. "I don't know the address, but I'll take you there."

"This is a nice car," said Vlad. "Lot nicer than the other one."

"I guess that's what you did with the crank you stole from us," said Arturo.

"You shouldn't have taken my Mustang," said Pinto, defiant now. "I loved that fucking car."

Vlad tapped the side panel. "What's with the snake emblem?"

"It's a '68 Shelby GT Five Hundred Cobra. Almost cherry," said Pinto. "Zero to sixty in four point eight seconds. Less than fifty of them left in this condition." Even in his position, he couldn't keep the pride out of his voice. "Just let me out of here, okay? I'll show you the interior. All leather. Matched hides and everything."

Arturo's PDA beeped and he pulled it out of his jacket, checked it. "Missy wants to know how things are going," he said to Vlad. He keyed a reply.

Vlad watched Pinto try to squeeze out from under, the creeper's metal wheels squeaking on the concrete. Vlad let him make an inch of progress, then adjusted the jack, dropping the car down slightly so that Pinto retreated, thinking it was some permutation of the Cobra's undercarriage, trying again from a different direction. They went back and forth, Vlad humming as Arturo tapped away on the PDA.

"Come on, man, this is so unnecessary," said Pinto, gasping, farther under the car than he had been before, only his knees free now. "Mellon is the one you want to deal with. He's a total crank maniac… I'd go in guns blazing if I was you. Let me out and I'll take you right over. We'll settle this, then go back to business as usual."

Arturo put away the PDA. "You don't know his address?"

"I wish I did, man. Just let me out, and I'll take you there."

"His address is 1209 Plesa, right off Twenty-fifth, not Seventeenth." Arturo smiled, but Pinto couldn't see it. "I was having a little fun with you. Don't worry about taking us over. We've already been there."

"Place was a real mess," said Vlad. "Smelled bad, too. I don't think Mellon had taken out the garbage in weeks. Drugs… they ruin a person's perspective."

"Fuck you, man. Fuck the both of you."

Vlad lowered the jack and Pinto screamed, the sound uncoiling from his chest, echoing in the garage.

"Mellon only had about a half ounce of that gold meth you took off Weezer," said Arturo. "He said you kept the rest, promised to move it out later this week. Where is it?"

Pinto made gurgling sounds, boots kicking feebly.

Arturo beckoned to Vlad, waited until the jack was raised. "Where's the rest of the meth?"

"Fuck… you."

"You need to work on your vocabulary," said Arturo.

Pinto gagged, legs twitching.

Vlad raised the car slightly.

"Better?" said Arturo.

"My ribs…" Pinto tried to scuttle out, but his legs weren't working. "You fuckers…" His voice was high-pitched now, like a little girl's. A brave little girl's. "I think… I think you broke something important."

"I'm sure it's nothing that an Ace bandage and a little bedrest won't cure," said Arturo. "Come on, Pinto, just tell us what we want to know, and then we'll let you finish working on your beautiful car."

"Sure… sure you will."

"You can trust us," said Arturo. "Have we ever lied to you?"

Pinto's breathing was ragged.

Arturo looked over, and Vlad raised the jack, kept going, lifted the car three feet off the floor. Arturo squatted down, keeping his knees clean, and looked in at Pinto. Vlad looked, too. Pinto's head lay against the floor, his eyes half-closed. Blood dribbled from his mouth and nose. "Pinto? Pinto! Where did you stash our goods?"

Pinto opened his eyes, stared back at them. "Fuck… you."

"Bueno." Arturo nodded, then took the smoldering cigarette from the bent-can ashtray, puffed it back into life. He reached under the car, offered it to Pinto, but the man's hands just twitched. Arturo stuck the cigarette into the side of Pinto's mouth, then backed away, squatting on his haunches, watching. "Good for you, hombre. I wouldn't talk to me, either." Pinto dragged deeply on the cigarette, started to cough.

Arturo nodded, and Vlad released the jack, brought it crashing down. It sounded like someone stepping on a baby chick with a heavy boot.