The wake-up Page 14

  "One of these days, some kid you burned for a few hundred dollars is going to kill you."

  "Like you're Mr. Safe and Sane. You're the guy asking about Clark and Missy, so tell me about your PTA meetings and your 401(k) and your high-fiber diet. Edge City, Frank. You're as fucked-up as me. You just hide it better."

  They touched fists.

  "Clark's muscle… they as bad as I've heard?" asked Thorpe.

  "Worse. A couple of very sick dudes." A wizened old woman in a velour jogging suit and a Dodgers cap leaned against a walker. Hathaway threw her a kiss as they drove by, but she ignored him.

  "She looks like the old lady with the Hustler cap," said Thorpe.

  Hathaway half-turned in his seat, getting another look at the woman. "You're right."

  The village had been high on the Colombian plateau, guerrilla country, with stifling days and sharp, cold nights, the stars so close, he'd almost ducked. "That woman must have been a thousand years old," said Thorpe. "Probably spit in the face of Pizarro. Sat there the whole time we dug out that well, a wad of coca leaves filling one cheek, the Hustler cap perched on her head. Never would say where she got it."

  Hathaway looked straight ahead. "I think about going back there sometimes. See how those people are making out. Then I figure, Let well enough alone."

  Thorpe nodded. Never go back. Better to think they had made a difference.

  "I'm sorry about Kimberly," blurted Hathaway. "I should have said so sooner. She tried to cover for me when Billy found my stash at work. He bounced me anyway, but I appreciated the attempt. Small kindnesses, Frank, they stick in the memory. That old woman with the Hustler cap… she gave me corn cakes one morning. Never said a word, just gave them to me like I was one of her grandkids."

  Thorpe remembered the first time he and Kimberly had made love. She had gone into the kitchen afterward, come back a few minutes later with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, stood there, slim and naked, saying, "Don't count on this kind of treatment every time, Thorpe." But he had, and he was never disappointed. Maybe that's why he forgave her for her other lovers.

  "Frank? You ever find Lazurus?"

  "He's dead. It was the Engineer who killed her. He was running an op on Lazurus the whole time."

  "No shit?" Hathaway chewed his thumbnail. "I can believe it. I heard most of the equipment Lazurus's crew shipped turned out to be defective. Games within games. I can't keep it all straight."

  "The Engineer and I have been keeping in touch. We might be going to the movies together tonight. I hope so anyway."

  Hathaway stared at him. "You need help, just tell me."

  "I know."

  "Why fool around with Clark and Missy? Haven't you got enough on your plate?"

  "I've still got a little room."

  Hathaway chuckled. "There's a dude named Guillermo-he's the closest thing to competition that Clark's got. Guillermo moves five or six times the weight, but they've got an arrangement."

  "Peace treaty?"

  "More like a free-trade agreement," said Hathaway. "Clark's always coming up with new drug combos, and simpler ways to cook meth, so when he moved in a few years ago, his dealers started taking business away from Guillermo right off. They went back and forth for a long time, tit for tat, but Guillermo was preoccupied with keeping out the Mexican Mafia, and then the Aryan Brotherhood started undercutting him with that rotgut crank of theirs. So while Guillermo was scrambling, Clark made his move." He sniffed. "Nuclear fucking winter. Clark had just two men handling the rough work."

  "Vlad and Arturo."

  "That's right." Hathaway eyed him. "Vlad and Arturo took down five of Guillermo's dealers in one weekend, and that was that."

  "Five dealers by themselves?"

  "By themselves. It wasn't just the dealers who got dead, either." Hathaway looked like he had bitten into some rotten meat. "Vlad and Arturo cleaned house: men, women, babies crying in their cribs, everybody. " He set his jaw. "After that, Guillermo decided it was better to give Clark a slice of territory, and buy his overflow, than fight him. Things have been quiet between them ever since."

  "Guillermo let just two guys make him back off? I don't believe it."

  "If you know these two, you know they ain't normal guys, Frank. They went through those dealers' security like shit through a goose. That's why Clark and Missy can drive around town in a convertible, and Guillermo uses a bulletproof Lincoln Town Car. Nobody blamed Guillermo for calling things off."

  "Still… letting two guys make him back down… If I were Clark, I'd worry that Guillermo might hold a grudge. I might be able to drive around town with the top down, but I'd still be paying attention."

  Hathaway shook his head. "I know what you're thinking. Last time I saw that look on your face, we almost ended up in federal prison, pounding rocks for twenty years."

  "Shining Path was murdering our villagers. We did the right thing."

  "You started a fucking war, Frank."

  "War between monsters. Shining Path guerrillas and the coca lords- it was like Godzilla versus Ghidra: You don't care who wins, you just want them to just keep tearing at each other so they don't wipe out Tokyo."

  "That wasn't our mission," said Hathaway. "It was fun, though." He scratched at the inside of his arm, the flesh scabbed. "You get involved with Clark and Missy… it might not be so much fun. I just hope you know what you're doing now." He sniffed. "Must be quite a payday."

  "There is no payday."

  "Payday or payback, got to be one or the other."

  "You get a regular retainer from Guillermo, or does he just pay you for advance notice of a bust?"

  Hathaway hesitated. "Is it that obvious?"

  "I know you, Danny. It's the move you'd make."

  Hathaway shrugged. "Man has to take care of his needs."

  "There're all kinds of needs. I need you to tell me about Guillermo. I need you to tell me about Missy and Clark, and Arturo and Vlad. I need to know all the players."

  Hathaway drove for a few more blocks. "I got something you might be interested in," he said finally. "One of Clark's cookers in Riverside was taken down a couple of days ago. Made a real mess of the tweaker's trailer, too. Clark must have lost another cooker, too, because some truly righteous crank hit the market yesterday. Shit had a real sweet, smooth burn… might as well have Clark's autograph on it."

  "Guillermo?"

  "Not a chance. Guillermo's trying to find out who's moving this shit, probably worried that Clark will think he's behind it. Nobody knows who the guilty party is, not yet, but it's bound to come out. Somebody always wants to tell the tale." Hathaway grinned at Thorpe. "Stand-up guys are in short supply, Frank-I think you and me are the last two specimens."

  23

  "That shit will kill you," said Arturo.

  Vlad stared at the half-eaten cheeseburger in his hand, watched a droplet of grease slide off the patty and spatter the wax paper on the tabletop. He took another bite, chewing with his mouth open, then reached for an onion ring.

  "Onion rings are even worse," said Arturo. "The oil they use… Clinton was president last time they changed the deep-fat fryer. You're just asking for a coronary."

  The onion ring drooped in Vlad's hand, soggy with batter. He stuffed it into his mouth. "I do not think it's food that will kill me, Arturo." He picked up a couple of french fries, catsup running down his fingers. "Or you, either, my friend."

  Arturo blotted his forehead with a paper napkin, threw it onto the ground. A uniformed truck driver looked over as the wind sent the napkin billowing against his leg, then went back to his triple cheeseburger. Arturo watched Vlad dredge more french fries through the puddle of catsup on his paper plate. In spite of all his warnings, the man just didn't care about nutrition. Then again, Arturo was the one who had clocked in with a cholesterol reading of over three hundred at his yearly physical. Gringo doctor had looked at him like he was measuring Arturo for a coffin.

  A horn blared at the nearby traffic signal,
some puto in a blue Miata. Arturo took a deep breath, let it slowly out. Stress could kill you as fast as a sledgehammer to the back of the head.

  The two of them sat at one of the outside tables at Gutbuster Burgers in Santa Ana. The umbrella over the table shaded them from direct sun, but not from the heat or the gritty auto exhaust from the intersection. Arturo had grown up less than a mile from this spot, breathing this filthy inland air day in and day out-no wonder he had asthma as a kid, his mother coating his chest with Vicks VapoRub every night, which worked about as well as lighting a candle to the Virgin of Guadalupe. His own kids breathed only ocean breezes, salty and clean and healthy. They lived in a house in Laguna del Cielo, an exclusive community in the hills above the Pacific. His mother had wept when she first saw the house, said God must be very happy with Arturo. Or very angry.

  Vlad pushed over the basket mounded with onion rings. "You want one?"

  Arturo's stomach grumbled, but he held up a can of vanilla Slim Fast. "This is what you should be eating for lunch. Vitamins, minerals, fiber, protein, everything you need." He popped the top. "This is what movie stars live on. That's why they look so good."

  "I thought you said Atkins was the reason they look so good."

  "Well, this is what I say now."

  "Okay." Vlad started on another cheeseburger, gawky in pants that were too big, and an orange polo shirt buttoned up to the throat. His eyes were blue and blank as buttons.

  They made quite a pair, sitting outside Gutbuster: Arturo barrel-chested, thick wrists poking from the sleeves of his suit jacket, while Vlad was flattened out, knotted with muscle. Even though Vlad was much younger, his face was networked with tiny wrinkles, and there was blood in the whites of his eyes. Arturo had suggested Vlad go to his doctor, get checked out, but Vlad just shook his head. Last week, Arturo had found tufts of blond hair in the car, but he didn't bring it up.

  "What are you thinking, Arturo?"

  Arturo took a sip from the can of Slim Fast, smacked his lips. "Thinking that I've probably already lost five pounds drinking this stuff, and it's only been a week."

  "You look good."

  Arturo smacked his belly. "I'm off fast food forever." He stared at the onion rings. "No saturated fat. No refined sugar. No caffeine. No milk shakes, either." He chugged his low-fat drink as Vlad polished off the second cheeseburger. "Not everyone has your metabolism, Vlad. You can eat as much as you want and never gain an ounce, but not me. I got Indian blood. Yaqui, from the deserts of northern Mexico. I read all about it. It's genetics. My ancestors were always on the verge of starvation, so my people store fat easily. Save it for a rainy day. Except it never rains anymore."

  Vlad folded another onion ring into his mouth.

  Arturo grabbed an onion ring. "This has probably got twenty-five grams of carbohydrates in it. That's about a quarter of my daily allotment." He bit into the onion ring, chewed slowly, as though performing a scientific experiment. He finished that one, reached for another. "If these were fried in canola oil, things would be different, but this thing's full of old grease, just like I told you." He chewed faster now.

  "Did you call Weezer and let him know we're on our way?"

  "He's not answering his phone, which means he's probably ruined the batch and he's afraid to tell us. I'm so sick of dealing with crankheads."

  "We should go before the traffic gets bad."

  "I want to let my meal settle. Just that one onion ring probably upset my digestion."

  "You ate two onion rings."

  "Then my goddamned digestion is twice as upset." Arturo watched a slim blond college girl walk to the window and order a double cheeseburger, double fries, double rings.

  Arturo's face was hot with anger now. "Clark needs to pay attention to business instead of throwing parties for people who don't like him anyway. That's why we got all this trouble with dealers extending credit, and suppliers jacking their prices… and cookers getting killed. That's an insult, Vlad, and instead, all Clark and Missy want to talk about is some stupid article about their stupid party."

  "I feel bad about that party. I embarrassed myself."

  "You still thinking about that?"

  Vlad shook his head. "So many pretty people in one place, laughing, talking fast… I felt like I was drowning on words. If that man hadn't stopped to help me-"

  "I didn't like him."

  "Everybody else ignored me, pretended they didn't see me, but he was nice."

  "He had eyes like a wolf."

  Vlad shrugged. Once Arturo had decided on something, there was no changing his mind.

  "Forget about him. We got other problems." Arturo covered a belch. "I'm getting sick of us driving freeways day and night, making pickups, smacking down brainless, crusty-eyed dealers, counting money that's all wrinkled and covered with disease-"

  "That's our job, Arturo."

  "Clark needs to apply his brain so we don't waste our time with these losers. He should make a drug that burns the fat away. Or makes people smarter." Arturo snagged another onion ring. "If he made a grease with vitamins and minerals and antioxidants, a good grease, then we would not have to do the things we do."

  Vlad watched him chew through the onion ring. "You should tell Clark about the good grease."

  "I did tell him." Arturo stood up. "Let's go see Weezer and listen to his sad excuses."

  Vlad dabbed at the inside of his nose with a napkin, saw a spot of bright red blood. He bussed the table, depositing their cups and paper in a trash can before following Arturo to their car.

  24

  Wakened from their long slumber, Nazi zombies trooped slowly across the bottom of the tropical lagoon, their jackboots kicking up little puffs of sand with every step. Thorpe had seen the movie five or six times before, but he had never understood why the zombies were all wearing sunglasses. Except that it made them look really cool. The sound track was a mere whisper from where he stood. He leaned forward, peered down through the second opening in the projection room, checking out the crowd below. Still no sign of the Engineer.

  "Who are you looking for?" asked D.K., the projectionist, watching the movie through his own portal. He was a frail old gent in a threadbare brown suit, a proud, liver-spotted lothario with a bad comb-over.

  "Nobody."

  "Nobody, my ass. If you're checking out the girls, forget it. You're too old and too square for this crowd. You want to turn some heads, you'll need to get some tattoos, and pierce your pecker."

  "I'll take that under consideration."

  "I remember when all it took to get laid was a Brylcreem pompadour and new Levi's. I wouldn't be young again if you paid me."

  Thorpe watched the exits, so disappointed, he wanted to break something. He had no right to be-it had always been a long shot- but he was. It would have been an elegant trap, tripping up the Engineer with a classic bad movie. The fact that Shock Waves was also one of Thorpe's favorites would only have made it sweeter. Would have.

  "Let me turn the sound up in here," said D.K. "I can't hear a thing."

  "I like it quiet," said Thorpe, still watching.

  The audience was bathed in light from the tropical island on-screen. The theater was packed. Thorpe could see rows and rows of surfers with their bare feet up, and street kids slouched like ragged hippies lost in a time warp. Plenty of couples Thorpe's age, too, buffs drawn from all over to the screening of this out-of-print rarity. The Los Angeles Times had even included a boxed notice in its upcoming-events calendar yesterday. The Engineer had to have seen it. He wasn't here, though. Thorpe had roped off the balcony, found a spot where he could see people walking in past the ticket booth without being seen himself. He had gone to high alert at one point when a group had approached wearing zombie masks, but they weren't the right size for either the Engineer or his bodyguard. He tracked them anyway, waited until they had raised their masks to stuff popcorn into their mouths before returning to his post. He scanned the crowd again. The Engineer wasn't there.

  "Y
ou got to plan ahead if you want to meet the ladies." D.K. crossed his legs. "See, you're at the wrong movie. Midnight features, that's for the screwballs and freaks and girls wear ripped fishnet stockings. Those kind of girls aren't interested in a man with a job, a man who uses deodorant. You should be going to the matinees we run on weekdays. Ghost, Dirty Dancing, A Man and a Woman, early Harrison Ford and Richard Gere, too. The joint is just packed with horny housewives. Fish in a barrel for a good-looking fella like you."

  Thorpe smiled. "What about you?"

  "Wednesday mornings. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, Doris Day and Rock Hudson." D.K. rearranged the strands of hair on his scalp. "Good thing we only run those movies once a week, or I'd have a heart attack."

  On-screen, the shipwrecked survivors straggled ashore, Brooke Adams's blouse clinging to her. One of the paradigms of any great zombie movie was a fetching ingenue with great cleavage. In a few minutes, the survivors would traipse through the jungle to the abandoned laboratory of a renegade Nazi scientist and the fun would really start.

  "People been saying for years that Rock Hudson was queer, but I'll never believe it," said D.K., watching the movie.

  Thorpe watched Brooke Adams. "If this movie is so good, why don't we go inside and watch it?" asked Gregor.

  "Because I am a cautious man," said the Engineer. "Frank may be in there."

  "Let me go in and find out."

  "Do you honestly think you could spot him before he saw you?" sneered the Engineer. "Sit back and read your magazines."

  Gregor started to say something, then thought better of it. Instead, he tilted back his seat, the motor groaning with the weight of him, opened a copy of Assbusters. There was just enough moonlight coming through the window to illuminate the pornographic images, the flesh gray and dead as the lunar landscape.

  The Engineer sat perfectly still in the driver's seat of the Buick sedan, watching the Strand theater. They had been there for over an hour, watching the crowd slowly filing through the doors, but had seen no sign of Thorpe. There was undoubtedly a back entrance, but the Engineer couldn't be in two places at once, and he didn't trust Gregor to keep lookout. It was hard to be unobtrusive when you were over three hundred pounds. The man had other abilities. No, the Engineer stayed put. He could sit for hours without needing to shift his weight, completely comfortable. He could have been an astronaut, able to live in cramped quarters for months without complaint. He would have been an astronaut if there had been money in it, money or ego gratification. What was the point of going to the stars unless you were getting away with something?