Robert Ferrigno - The wake-up

"You ever hear of being ripped off?" sniffed Jackie, walking away.

Thorpe edged after Jackie, body-to-body through the crowd, the air heavy with perfume. He watched her summon a drink, then stand around fingering a display of orchids, making sure they were real. He had planned on coming back tomorrow or the next day, but he could finish things now. All he had to do was sidle up to Jackie, whisper a few words in her ear, and she would take care of the rest of it, the rumor spreading through the party like a virus. Thorpe could be on his way. He watched Jackie tapping her foot, saw her tear off an orchid blossom and toss it onto the carpet, and decided to keep walking. Using her against Meachum was overkill, and besides, Missy would be equally hurt by the gossip. Missy was a climber, spikes on at all times, but she hadn't done anything to Paulo, or Thorpe, either. No, he was going to stick to his original plan. But he was going to check out the rest of the house first.

As he eased past an alcove, he stopped, seeing a pale man standing alone in a corner, trembling. His cheekbones were sharp as blades, his blond hair bled of color. Looking at his high-water trousers and badly ironed white shirt, Thorpe thought at first he was a party crasher, but if so, he wasn't enjoying himself. "Excuse me… can I help you?" said Thorpe.

The man's blue eyes were wide. He kept trembling.

Thorpe put his hand on the man's arm.

The man stared at Thorpe. "The room is too… full. I… I cannot breathe."

Thorpe squeezed the man's arm. It was like trying to compress a steel beam. "Take it easy. What's your name?"

"Vladimir." The man was gasping now. "Vlad."

"Okay, Vlad, how about if I walk you outside? It's not that far."

Vlad clung to Thorpe, sweaty and sour. "I am scared in here."

"Don't worry, I've got you," Thorpe said gently, leading him out. "Just breathe-"

"Arturo!" Vlad jerked. "Arturo."

Thorpe turned, saw a stocky man in a perfectly tailored black suit. He looked like a middleweight boxer turned hedge-fund manager.

"What's going on?" growled Arturo.

"Too many people," said Vlad, panting. "I am choking on them. This man… he wanted to help me." His watery eyes turned to Thorpe. "Thank you, sir. You're very kind."

"I hope you feel better." Thorpe watched Arturo guide Vlad toward the front door, then headed off in the other direction. At the far wall, he took a short flight of stairs down, following the sound of laughter, louder than and different from the sounds above. He came out into a large room that smelled faintly of epoxy resin. There were half-made surfboards stacked nearby, Styrofoam shavings curling underfoot, black respirators hanging next to an industrial ventilator on the far wall.

Clark and four other men stood around a finished surfboard that was laid out on a rack at waist height, their fingers curled around beer bottles. The board must have been twelve feet long, with blue and silver decorations, ancient Hawaiian motifs. Other finished boards leaned against the walls, old-style longboards, not meant for hotdogging, but for elegantly cruising the waves. The men with Clark were in their forties and fifties, deeply tanned, wearing surf jams and T-shirts washed too many times, potbellied and losing their hair, but utterly at ease with one another. They were having the best time of anyone Thorpe had seen at the party, and he envied them. Clark was right in the middle, talking fast, in a half crouch, pivoting as though he were riding a wave. One of the other men spotted Thorpe, and they all turned.

"It's cool, boys," said Clark. "This here's… Fred, or Farley, or…"

"Frank." Thorpe reached into a cooler filled with crushed ice, pulled out a bottle of beer.

"You surf, Frank?"

Thorpe twisted the cap off. "No."

"I was telling Kelsey about a board I'm making for him," said Clark. "Plastic core for-"

"If you don't surf, what do you do with your life?" demanded a man with frizzy hair.

"Piss it away, mostly," said Thorpe.

"Good for you." Clark cracked his bottle against Thorpe's. "Me, too."

"You still haven't told us what happened to your chin, Clark," said Frizzy Hair.

Clark took a swallow of beer. "Did a wicked face plant at Trestles yesterday."

Frizzy Hair belched. "My money's on Missy closing her legs without warning."

The other longboarders laughed.

"What money?" Missy stood at the bottom of the stairs. "You said for your money, I had closed my legs without warning." She walked toward them. "What I want to know, Mr. Mack Sinclair, Mr. Second Place, Waimea Invitational 19 fucking 87, is what money could you possibly have to bet on what my legs did or did not do?"

Frizzy Hair shrugged, lowered his eyes. "I didn't mean nothing."

"You don't mean shit," said Missy. "None of you freeloaders do." She shook her head. "Clark, honey, you need to get back to the party. Frank… I don't know how many wrong turns you took to find your way here, but you better come with us before the boys here start telling you about the good old days and the good old waves, and then Mack asks you to spring for another keg."

Clark hurried after Missy, but Thorpe finished his beer. "Nice meeting you fellows." He walked out, keeping his eye on Missy's ass hitting all cylinders in that tight leather skirt.

Missy didn't turn around, but she must have known he was there. "Hanging around with those fools… I'm disappointed in you, Frank."

"Already? That's a new record."

Missy looked flustered.

"You shouldn't talk to Mack like that, baby," said Clark. "He's got his pride."

"That's all he's got," said Missy.

Clark grinned at Thorpe. "When she's right, she's right." The three of them separated in the dining room. Clark and Missy walked toward the living room, while Frank headed for the front door. He took a shortcut through the game room, made his way past the people clustered around the pool table, playing arcade games. Glancing into the living room, he could see Meachum and Nell talking to a husband and wife combo, pitching hard, Meachum with his chest puffed, jaw thrust forward, the hard charger in all his glory. Nell laughed at his jokes, nodding reflexively, and Thorpe wondered how much longer she could keep doing it without her head exploding. Probably longer than she would have believed. You start out with grand ambitions, but you find out you have an almost infinite capacity for betraying them.

"Why so sad, Frank?"

Thorpe turned, saw Gina Meachum beside him, a drink in her hand. " Hello. I'm surprised to see you here."

"I could say the same about you." Gina was a little tipsy, a little uncomfortable in casual jeans and a short-sleeved sweater the color of sweet cream. It probably wasn't her kind of a party, which spoke well of her. "How do you know the Riddenhauers?"

"I don't. I just got an invitation and thought it might be fun."

"A terrible miscalculation." They laughed together. "My husband is Douglas Meachum. That's him over there, going to town on the Cushings. He selected the Riddenhauers' artwork."

"So you're playing the part of the loyal wife tonight."

"Actually, Douglas didn't want me to come, but I insisted. He's afraid I'll say something he'll regret." Gina finished her drink. "How's your knee?"

"I had a good nurse."

"You look like you're ready to leave. It's early."

"It's overdue." Thorpe kissed her on the cheek. "Good night."

"Lucky man."

"Just give me the name," typed Thorpe. He had logged on after coming home from the party, given it one more shot. "Give me the name. We can both go to sleep."

"Not sure."

"Give me what you've got, then." It took even longer to get a response this time.

"I'm sure of the name. Not sure I should give it to you."