Robert Ferrigno - The wake-up

Quentin grabbed the remote and switched channels. Dozens of hot rods streamed around an oval track, kicking up dust. "That reminds me. Any of them cars of yours run? My sister's kid wants one bad. Just turned sixteen and that's all he talks about."

"Nothing out there is worth a damn," said Ellis, "but I can put something together for him. Clean VIN numbers guaranteed. Just give me a week or two."

"How much?" asked Quentin.

"Don't worry about it."

Quentin watched the hot rods go round and round. They looked like windup toys. "My sister's kid, he can tell you everybody won the Daytona Five Hundred. He can go clear back to 1946 or '47, tell you what they were driving and what their time was, too."

Ellis peered at the screen. "I'll put a real nice car together for him. Anybody who can remember all that shit, he deserves it."

"I don't know…" Quentin repacked his nose. "I tried to tell him, when you pencil it out, it hardly pays to own a car. You figure in the DUIs, it would be cheaper to take a cab."

"How you gonna pick up supplies if you don't got a car?" asked Ellis. "You going to ask the cabbie to wait while you buy a couple hundred road flares, a crate of Sudafed, and twenty gallons of anhydrous ammonia?"

"I'm not talking about us," said Quentin, "I'm talking about him. You start figuring in gas, oil, retreads, DUIs… and jail time, you can't forget that. Even if you make bail, you're still gonna lose a day, assuming you don't get popped on a weekend, when it's gonna be worse. Like I said, all things considered…" He turned around, hearing something. Two men stood just inside the side door. They were wearing Bozo the Clown masks with orange hair and big red noses. If it hadn't been for the shotguns, he would have thought it was Halloween.

"Oh wow, I love this part," whispered Ellis, oblivious to their visitors, as one of the hot rods veered into another, the cars behind them unable to stop, tumbling end over end.

The shotguns had focused Quentin, brought his mind to full attention. He couldn't bring himself to look at those Bozo faces-that was too much to ask-but he was thinking better now, with all the time in the world, because things had slowed down, the way they always did when he was behind a load of crank, and the more he thought about it, the more the fact that they were wearing masks seemed like a good thing. If you were going to waste somebody, you didn't need to bother wearing a mask. Yeah, the masks were a hopeful sign, but he still couldn't bring himself to look at anything but the shotguns, a sawed-off double-barrel and a pump Mosburg. The shorter Bozo, the one cradling the Mosburg, had lacy tattoos scrolled over his forearms, spiderwebs with spaceships caught in the strands, and Quentin recognized the design, knew who they belonged to, but he didn't say anything. Not a word.

"Give up the goods, motherfuckers," demanded the tall Bozo.

"What?" Ellis tore himself away from the TV. "Hey… what's the deal?"

The tall Bozo waved the double-barrel. It had been sawed off unevenly, the metal still shiny, not filed smooth, and that bothered Quentin for reasons he couldn't even fathom. "The deal is, you hand over your stash, and I don't blow your shit away."

Ellis peered at the shorter Bozo's arms. "Pinto? Is that you, man? What up, dude?"

"He recognizes you." The tall Bozo pulled back the hammers on the double-barrel. "Time to make a commitment here, Pinto."

Ellis looked at Quentin. "Did I fuck up?"

Quentin wanted to cry.

Pinto pushed back his Bozo mask. "Damn thing was too hot anyway," he said to his partner. He raised his shotgun.

"Quentin?" wailed Ellis. "I fucked up, didn't I?"

Quentin closed his eyes. He covered his ears, too, covered them tight.

"You look chipper this morning," said Billy. "What's the occasion?"

Thorpe slid into the booth beside Billy, the two of them facing the entrance. "Maybe I'm just happy to see you."

"Perhaps that's it." Billy's plate was piled high with a Turbo omelette, the specialty of the Harbor House Cafe in Sunset Beach-four eggs, three kinds of cheese, bacon, sweet onions, and sliced avocado. They sat in the corner of the patio overlooking Pacific Coast Highway, and though the surrounding tables were filled, the traffic noise masked their conversation. Billy sliced into the omelette with the side of his fork. He was a big man, but he took small bites, his manners impeccable. "Although I suspect your bonhomie has more to do with that wake-up of yours."

"Just coffee, thanks," Thorpe said to the waitress. He had sent the "be kind to strangers and small children" card to Meachum's gallery- he should get it today. Thorpe watched the waitress walk away. A sunny day, Meachum getting his wake-up, and a waitress in running shorts with the legs of a marathoner. He should call Father Esteban and tell him to light a candle in gratitude.

Billy wore dark slacks and a Hawaiian shirt with hula dancers on it, their grass skirts shimmying as he ate. On him, it had a look of casual elegance, a planter from the 1920s with five thousand acres of pineapples to be harvested, and never a doubt in his mind that the offshore hurricane would strike the next plantation, not his. "Have you settled everything with the art dealer?"

"All settled."

"You should thank the poor man." Billy dabbed his lips with a napkin. "I haven't seen you look this good since your encounter with the Engineer."

Thorpe watched the waitress approach with his coffee. The people at the surrounding tables were mostly locals and construction workers from the condos being put up across the street, young people in beach attire, and yacht clubbers from the nearby marina, wearing pearls and Rolexes.

"You sure this is all you want?" the waitress asked him.

Thorpe smiled back at her. "I've got all I can handle."

"You should thank the art dealer," said Billy as the waitress left.

"You already said that."

"The truth bears repeating."

"What did you want to talk to me about, Billy?"

Billy's eyes were innocent. "Do I need a reason?"

"No, but you always seem to have one."

Billy laid his fork down. "How did you find Dale Bingham?"

Thorpe was surprised. "How do you know him?"

Billy leaned forward. He seemed to engulf the table, the hula dancers on his shirt in perfect syncopation. "You asked me to find out if the Engineer worked for another shop, so I quietly put out the word. It was Bingham who finally provided confirmation. Now you surprise him, asking questions, so he thinks I gave him up."

"I had no idea, Billy. I got his name from another source."

"I told him that had to be the case, but he doesn't believe me." Billy drummed his fingers on the tabletop, restless. "That's what I get for trying to do a good deed. I'm picking up all your bad habits." He glared at Thorpe. "I had hoped to recruit him."

Thorpe shook his head. "I don't think Bingham's right for the job."

"Bingham has a great set of ears. He could have been very useful." Billy poked at his omelette. "I won't ask you who referred you to him."

Thorpe laughed. "Go ahead, ask."

"I don't want to fight." Billy delicately lifted a thin forkful of eggs and avocado, offered it to Thorpe. "Bite?" He waited, shrugged. "Warren said to tell you that he's traced the Engineer to Southern California. He's definitely still in the area."

"I know."

Billy looked surprised.

"He instant-messaged me a few nights ago. We had a little chat."

"He told you where he was?"

Thorpe smiled. "He said he was living on the beach, talked about the offshore swells coming in. I told him I was living on the coast, too."

"Risky behavior on your part, don't you think?"

"Why lie when the truth accomplishes the purpose? We both want to get together." Thorpe watched three trim, well-dressed older women at a nearby table, laughing as they worked on their second round of mimosas. One was showing the others something in the newspaper. "The only difference is that the Engineer wants to talk before he kills me. He thinks I've got a few million stashed, and he wants me to tell him where it is. Me… I don't need to talk with him. I just want to kill the motherfucker."