The wake-up

4

Thorpe had barely stepped inside Meachum Fine Arts when he was approached by a well-dressed woman in her thirties, a big-boned Bertha with a prim mouth, plenty of auburn hair, and the beginnings of a double chin. She wore a cream-and-brown suit, the skirt at midcalf, her large feet squeezed into matching two-tone pumps. "Good afternoon." She appraised him with a cool smile, took in the sleek, gunmetal gray suit, black silk T-shirt, black loafers. Vaguely European, hip without trying too hard. She showed her flat white teeth. "I'm Nell Cooper. How can I assist you?"

Thorpe looked around the showroom, raised an eyebrow at the safe contemporary watercolors displayed against the right wall-sailboats and sunsets and dour Navajos. "I'm not at all sure you can."

Reading his distaste, Nell pivoted slightly, inclined her head at the paintings, and raised an eyebrow. "We have to carry a full range of aesthetic options, Mr…"

"Frank Antonelli. I'm moving into a home in Corona del Mar, and I thought you might be able to help me make it livable."

She nodded. "Please call me Nell. I can assure you, Frank, that at Meachum Fine Arts we pride ourselves in finding the perfect fit between our clients and the fine art they choose to surround themselves with."

"A perfect fit? That's a terrifying thought."

Nell was knocked a little off stride by that, but she recovered quickly.

Meachum Fine Arts was a one-story building in Newport Beach, right on the Pacific Coast Highway, with a black-and-white Op Art mural on the side facing the parking lot, and gold-flaked wood sphinxes flanking the doorway. The ocean was visible from the showroom, a beach volleyball game in progress, but the sound of the waves was muted by the thick tinted windows-you might as well have been watching ESPN. The distressed white pine floor creaked underfoot. The offerings were as eclectic as Nell had said-a red-toned Tenzing carpet, czarist Russian icons, and a museum-quality Italian rococo dresser-but there were too many soapstone sculptures of seals and dolphins. An oil painting got his attention, a realistic image of a traffic cop beckoning in bright sunshine, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face, one of his socks halfway down. Thorpe leaned closer.

"Do you like that?"

Thorpe nodded, noncommittal. He strolled around, stopped, then crossed over to a high-gloss ebony desk for a better look. He picked up a small limestone wall panel, held it gently, stared at the image of a man in an elaborate headdress surrounded by Mayan hieroglyphs. The panel was absolutely genuine, a seven-inch-long piece of limestone chipped off a temple wall in Uxmal or Copan or some unknown, overgrown city given up to lizards and dragonflies. Half the man's body was gone, but the face was startling, one of the lords of the Yucatan, a broad, thick-lipped autocrat from seven hundred years ago, more distant from the present than the calendar could count. Thorpe's fingers grazed the regal verdigris countenance, the face staring back at him with blind eyes. A king without a kingdom. In a perfect world, Thorpe would steal the broken panel and return it to the jungle, hide the Mayan lord in some triple-canopy vastness, where the howler monkeys could serenade him for eternity. In this world, it was just the kind of thing he was hoping to find in Meachum's gallery.

"Lovely, isn't it?" said Nell. "It just came in yesterday. It was pre-sold, I'm afraid."

"Pity." Thorpe held the limestone king in his hands. Pieces like this hadn't been allowed out of their country of origin for thirty years. "What's the provenance?"

"You'd have to ask Douglas. I really don't know."

"Is the buyer local?"

Nell hesitated. "We have to maintain our clients' privacy. I'm sure you understand."

Thorpe carefully replaced the panel on the desk. He went through the motions of looking at other items in the shop, felt the nap of a classic Anatolian carpet, peered at the signature on a Manolo bullfighter print while Nell hovered behind him.

"Why don't we sit down, have an espresso or a glass of wine, and get to know each other?" Nell gestured to the pale blue leather sofa in a nearby alcove, a cozy nook half-hidden from the main room. "We have a relatively small inventory, but I have access to pieces from all over the globe. I'm certain I can show you some things that would be suitable to your needs."

"How about a martini? That would suit my needs."

Nell started to check her watch, then slipped through a curtain into the back of the shop.

Thorpe sat down on the sofa, draped a leg over one of the arms, and listened to her cracking ice. It was a good sound, and the sound of her jiggling the cocktail shaker was even better. He waited until she came back bearing a couple of martini glasses, a little nervous, probably not sure if she had made the drink to his liking. She had too many clients with misplaced priorities. "Where's the boss?"

Nell's gray eyes heated up. Meachum might be her boss, but she didn't enjoy it. Another reason for Thorpe to like her. "Mr. Meachum is in New York on a buying trip."

"Must be our lucky day, Nell. That way, you get the commission, and I get the pleasure of your company. I hear he's a prick anyway."

Nell had a little-girl laugh, high and nervous, like it didn't get out to play enough. "I really can't address that."

Thorpe winked at her. "You just did."

Nell joined him on the couch, the soft flesh under her chin jiggling slightly. "This new home of yours… what kind of square footage are we talking about?"

Two martinis later, they were old friends, chuckling over the latest movies and the best Japanese restaurants, knee-to-knee, Nell confiding that she was tired of covering for Meachum: "Little Nell has her resume at the Guggenheim and the Whitney, and I'm just waiting for them to give me a buzz."

Thorpe beamed as they went through portfolio notebooks of houses Meachum and Associates had made over. The notebooks were filled with slides and eight-by-ten color glossies, and Nell was eager to let him know the pieces she had chosen, and which ones had been selected by Douglas Meachum. The dates of installation were clearly marked on the slides and glossies, but there was no indication of the clients' identities, and, more importantly, he didn't see any other pre-Columbian pieces.

"The party that purchased the Mayan frieze, have you worked with him before?" asked Thorpe. "Or is it a she?"

"It's a them, and they're new to the art world." Nell shook her head. "The Mayan head is the piece de resistance, but it's only part of the collection we've put together for them. We're doing their whole house." She was slurring her words, her voice a little too loud. "Proof positive that art is wasted on the rich."

"I know just what you mean. Let me guess: They made their money in real estate? Strip malls and parking lots."

"Nope."

"They're doctors," said Thorpe. "Doctors have the worst taste in the world."

"Except for lawyers."

"Okay, he's a doctor; she's an attorney. Am I getting warm?"

Nell shook her head. "Cold as ice."

"Give me a hint."

"T-shirts." Nell giggled, covered her mouth, as though she had spilled the secret of the plasma warp drive.

"Right."

"I'm serious, Frank."

Thorpe turned the page, backing off, giving her a chance to tease him with more information. A circular red-and-white bedroom was filled with paintings, larger-than-life realistic nudes of Bill and Hillary Clinton, Jesse Jackson, Barbra Streisand, and Michael Moore. The sight gave Thorpe a headache.

"I put that whole room together," Nell boasted. She leaned closer and sloshed the last of her drink over her wrist, but she didn't seem to notice. "The artist is a young Chicano painter, totally self-taught. He does Republicans, too. I could talk to him…"

"Anyone working in here?" A woman stood just inside the doorway, tapping her perfectly white sneaker on the bleached pine, a thin, pretty blonde in her early thirties, wearing a white pleated tennis skirt, a scoop-neck blouse showing off the taut musculature of her upper arms. Three gold chains were looped around her neck, a gold stallion dangling from one of them. A red Ferrari convertible was double-parked out front. She scanned the room, her face sharp and hard. "I'm waiting." Her voice was a crow's caw, demanding, and she wasn't so pretty anymore.

Nell quickly got up, smoothed her hair. "Mrs. Riddenhauer, so nice to-"

"What do you look so guilty about?"

Nell reddened.

"Relax," said Mrs. Riddenhauer, her eyes on Thorpe. "No one could blame you." Her body seemed to vibrate at a submolecular level, but she didn't jerk or twitch-it was as though she simply put out more energy than her skin could contain. "Where's Meachum?"

"Mr. Meachum isn't here at the moment, but I'm sure that I-"

"He's never around unless I'm writing a check." Mrs. Riddenhauer caught sight of the Mayan wall plaque on the desk, crossed over and picked it up, her brows wrinkling. "Is this it?" She turned it over, handling it roughly. "Not very big for a hundred and twenty-five thousand."

"It's a unique object," Nell said softly. "Size… size isn't really important."

"That's where you're wrong." Mrs. Riddenhauer watched Thorpe. "My husband is hung like a Brahma bull, so don't think size-"

"Ole," said Thorpe, snapping his finger overhead, giddy from the martinis and his own good fortune.

Mrs. Riddenhauer squinted at Thorpe, then turned back to Nell. "Still seems like a lot of money for a chunk of rock, and this guy with the headdress is an ugly son of a bitch, too." Her eyes narrowed at Thorpe. "Ole… I get it." She hummed softly as she looked him over. "I like clever men."

"If you don't wish to take possession, I'm sure Douglas would be happy to retain the piece," said Nell.

"Don't be snippy," said Mrs. Riddenhauer, her eyes still on Thorpe. "Meachum said every room was supposed to have a-what did he call it?"

"An aesthetic focal point."

Mrs. Riddenhauer put back the limestone panel. "Well, the dining room needs a fucking focal point, and this is it. Just make sure it's installed before my party. You need to come by and rearrange the main living room, too. It's still not right." The sunlight coming through the window behind her made her skirt nearly transparent. A thong on center court… Thorpe wondered what Wimbledon would say about that. Mrs. Riddenhauer showed him her small, slightly uneven teeth. "You have a name, clever guy?"

"Frank Antonelli."

"Missy Riddenhauer." She slipped her hand in his. "As in Camp Riddenhauer."

Thorpe nodded, as though he knew what she was talking about.

"What do you do, Frank?"

"I sell insurance."

"Sounds dull." Missy held on to his hand, and her grip was warm and very firm, and if she wanted to hang on, Thorpe was going to have to clock her to make her let go. "You don't look dull."

"Ah, but I am. I see that Ferrari of yours out front, and all I can think of is what kind of liability coverage you have, and how you keep that short skirt from blowing in the wind when you accelerate."

"Would you like to go for a ride? You can see how well I manage it."

"I can't today."

Missy gnawed her lower lip, and Thorpe wasn't sure if it was a sign of desire or anger. She gave his hand a final squeeze, then released him. "You want to come to my party? It's next Saturday night, and it's going to be loads of fun. Come on, what's to think about? Meachum did a complete makeover on our home-you'll get a chance to see if you like his work, and I'll get a chance to see if you're as boring as you say you are."

"Sure, sounds like fun."

"I'll put your name on the guest list." Missy slipped him a business card. "Send me an e-mail if you need anything. Nell, give the man the details." She turned on her heel, strode out the door, and slid behind the wheel of the Ferrari.

Thorpe tucked away Missy's business card as she roared off.