The wake-up

40

Thorpe watched from an outside table at the Los Flores Taqueteria as Paulo Rodriguez made a loop through the park across the street. Every minute or so, Paulo would pass into view, bent low over the handlebars like a fighter pilot, his teeth bared in delight. He had customized the bike Thorpe had left for him, adding streamers from the handlebars and about a dozen reflectors interspersed among the front and back spokes. A tiny Mexican flag hung from the seat, flapping as he sped away.

At the side of the path, his mother sat on a bench, chatting with two other women, string bags of fruit and snacks in their laps. It was early evening, still light, and they moved unhurriedly, nodding their heads in agreement, occasionally waving away the hovering insects. As Paulo sped toward her, his mother chided him to slow down, and he slammed on the brakes, locked the back wheel, and skidded to a stop in front of her. She wagged a finger, and he hung his head, more to hide his grin than from shame. She slipped a section of orange into his mouth and sent him on his way.

Thorpe crunched into his second pork taco, adding more hot sauce in between bites, juice dribbling at the corner of his mouth. The lemonade was fresh and ultrasweet. He watched Paulo and his mother and tried not to think. His wake-up had gotten Betty B and Ray Bishop killed… He had to take small pleasures where he found them.

A trio of languid homeboys sat at an adjoining table, slender teenagers with lupine faces, their skinny arms wrapped with tattoos. They glanced at him from time to time, not hostile, but not friendly, either, just keeping track of him. He listened to them discuss him in Spanish, their voices high and musical. One thought he was a narc. One thought he was la Migra. The third, the smallest, an overgrown child with a sunken chest and-from the way he regularly touched his pocket, reassuring himself-the only one strapped, thought they should take him down and find out.

Good time to be driving an armored car. Thorpe called Danny Hathaway. He answered on the second ring. It was noisy, wherever he was. "It's me," said Thorpe.

"Frankie!"

"Where are you?"

"Vegas, land of milk and honey. I'm at the Bellagio, jackpots going off around me like the Fourth of July. I drove straight out here after I left you. The Town Car gets lousy mileage, but it's one sweet ride."

"I wanted to give you my new cell phone number."

"I haven't got any paper." The clanging of slot machines interrupted Hathaway. "My first night in town, I hit the blackjack tables, hit them hard, man. I ended up with a stack of thousand-dollar chips bigger than Ron Jeremy's dick. You got to visit, Frank. They comped me a suite."

Thorpe smiled. "I'll call you soon."

"Everything work out with Clark and Missy? You got them tearing at each other's throats?"

That was a hard one to answer. He must have convinced Missy that Arturo had sold them out, because this morning she had transferred the hundred thousand dollars to his offshore account. Thorpe had already wired the money to Ray Bishop's wife in Pennsylvania. Right after he had called the Laguna PD and told them there was a body in the kitchen of the house on Pearl Street. Thorpe might have convinced Missy, but that was no guarantee.

Thorpe watched Paulo's mother eat fish crackers from a Ziploc bag, eat them one at a time, daintily. Her head was covered with a yellow scarf dotted with red roses. She kept turning slightly, following Paulo's progress through the park, keeping up her end of the conversation with her companions the whole time.

"Frank? Did it work out?"

"I'm going to call and make sure. I've got a date with the Engineer in a few days, and I want to have my mind clear."

"Kill him for me, will you?"

"Roger that." Thorpe hung up, then called Missy. The phone rang for a long time, and when it was finally answered, it wasn't Missy. "Cecil?"

"Just the man I was hoping to talk to," said Cecil, oddly chipper.

"Let me talk to Missy."

"Lose the attitude, Frank. I'm a professional myself now."

Thorpe rolled his eyes. "Can I speak to her?"

Cecil sniffed. "Missy's dead."

Thorpe stared at the phone.

"It was an accident. Vlad distracted me."

Distracted? Thorpe watched Paulo taking another lap. "You killed your sister?"

"I told you already. It wasn't my fault."

"Is Arturo there?"

Cecil cackled. "DOA. That was one uppity Mexican, but I put him down like a bag of warm shit. You got to get over here and see what I done, Frank. It's pretty impressive, if I do say so myself."

Thorpe couldn't speak. He had expected Vlad to get the assignment, but never Cecil.

"Practice makes perfect, Frank. It's true. You wouldn't believe the trouble I had running down that old bitch, but tonight, facing off against Arturo and Vlad, I was in the zone. Come over and see for yourself. I'm the real deal now. We got a lot to talk about, you and me. I'm at the Huntington Beach store."

Cecil had killed Betty B. Thorpe looked past the homeboys at the nearby table, still trying to picture Cecil as the angel of death. Arturo was dead, and Missy, and maybe Clark and Vlad, for all he knew. That should be enough. Enough to make up for Ray Bishop getting his head hammered in. More than enough. Thorpe watched Paulo make another pass through the park, standing on the pedals, hollering.

"Come on by, Frank. I don't know what I'm going to do if you don't."

Thorpe clicked off the phone and started for his car.

Paulo drove past, making his loop-de-loop, racing with another boy about his age, the two of them barking like dogs as they pedaled. Paulo glanced at Thorpe but didn't react, didn't recognize him. Thorpe smiled. That was as close to a happy ending as he could expect.