Robert Ferrigno - The wake-up

Betty B had been inside the Rusty Pelican for almost an hour. Cecil had followed her to three other fancy bars this evening. She probably told everybody it was part of her job, gathering gossip, then wrote off her bar tab on her taxes, another reason the country was going down the shitter. Cecil had joined the National Guard about five years ago, but he washed out of basic training because of his bum ankles. He used to feel embarrassed about it, but now he was glad it had happened. You put in your time defending your country, getting up at the crack of dawn, and some old drunk stiffs Uncle Sam for her fair share.

Try as he might, though, Cecil couldn't bring himself to hate Betty B. Yeah, she had written some pretty rank things about Missy, but, like Clark said, it was just a newspaper. Twice tonight he'd had a chance at her, and both times he had waited too long, making excuses why it wasn't the right moment. He beat the steering wheel. It was just this kind of weakness that kept him fetching coffee for Missy and double-checking the pH balance in the swimming pool.

Fuck it. This time, Cecil was going to take care of business. Cecil, not Vlad, and not that greaseball Arturo. Clark had told Missy no, said he was happy with the piece of the pie they had. Cecil had to admit it was a pretty fine slice, too-big house on the water, fancy cars, trash bags full of cash, but Missy had said how could you be happy with a slice when you could have the whole damned pie? Cecil didn't think Clark was scared of Guillermo, no matter what Missy said. He thought Clark was just… satisfied. Maybe after Cecil killed Betty B, he'd be satisfied, too.

Cecil shifted in his seat, practically sticking to it. He could smell his own sweat. If Vlad or Arturo were sitting here, they'd be cool and calm, Vlad probably talking about some cartoon show he had watched that afternoon, Arturo going on about his stock portfolio.

Cecil sat up as Betty B staggered out of the Rusty Pelican. She had to hold on to the doorman's arm, yapping away, breathing bourbon in his face, from the way he turned away. Cecil's chest was tight. He took short little breaths as he watched Betty B look around, probably trying to remember where she had parked her car. He eased the van out from the curb as Betty B started down the sidewalk. She kept patting her hair, as though trying to hold her head in place.

Cecil tugged at his cap for reassurance, and the action reminded him of what Betty B was doing with her hair. Loser. He had stolen more cars than he could count, had rolled drunks, beaten up queers, even done a few B and E's. He had hit Gary Jinks over the head with a tire iron for stealing his girlfriend, and once he threatened a club bouncer with a starter pistol, but here he was, sitting in some minivan, thirty-one years old, losing his hair, and he had never killed anyone.

Betty B started down the sidewalk in the cool night air.

Cecil rolled down the street, lights out, accelerating. Thorpe drove back through downtown Huntington Beach, feeling so light-headed that he wouldn't have been able to pass a field sobriety test. He hadn't had anything to drink, but there was no way he could walk a straight line. He could barely drive a straight line. That's what happiness could do to you. He had spent so much time hating himself these last few months, blaming himself, but now he was doing something about it. Come Saturday, he and the Engineer might meet again, a Shock Waves rendezvous. Those saints who said revenge never solved anything had never lost anyone. Killing the Engineer wouldn't bring back Kimberly, but it would make the Engineer just as dead.

For some reason, he thought of Claire, the two of them sitting on the steps under the stars, and her asking him why he had never hit on her. He would have liked to have told her.

Thorpe slammed on his brakes as a man and a woman ran across the street, holding hands. He watched them disappear into a Dunkin' Donuts shop. It was the same couple he had seen walking through the alley behind Meachum's house that first day, two old hippies in tie-dye and macrame, teeth missing, hair everywhere. He wondered how they had gotten from Laguna to Huntington, and he wondered what had happened to the man's floppy hat. Most of all, he wondered how they managed to look so much in love. He drove on, shaking his head.

The wake-up hadn't gone as smoothly as he'd thought. The column by Betty B in the Gold Coast Pilot had embarrassed Meachum, but it had been even worse for Missy. He had no idea how Betty B had found out. Billy had read the article and clucked about the law of unintended consequences, as immutable a law as relativity or thermodynamics. Thorpe had walked out of the restaurant, called the gallery a few minutes later. Gina Meachum answered the phone. He almost hung up, then asked to speak to Meachum. He wasn't there. "Frank? Is that you?" Gina said. She told him it was Nell Cooper who had fed Betty B the story. "Douglas was so upset, Frank. He said he had taught her everything she knew, and she betrayed him. She didn't even bother giving notice or leaving a forwarding address."

Thorpe remembered the dismay on Nell's face at the party, watching Meachum working the room, the smile she stuck on her face when she went to join him. Thorpe wasn't sure about the law of unintended consequences, but he believed in the law of common courtesy. It wasn't just Statue of Liberty boilerplate. His most successful operations had been achieved by going through an angry wife, a put-upon chauffeur, a secretary who was never thanked, a gardener whose work was stepped on, a bodyguard made to take out the trash. A powerful man who showed contempt for the people under him was the easiest target in the world. Thorpe was sorry that Missy had gotten caught up in the wake-up, but he was glad Nell had broken free of Meachum.

He took a right onto the Pacific Coast Highway, humming along to the radio as he headed back to his apartment.

Thorpe lay on his belly, squinting under the couch and wondering what he was doing here at 2:00 a.m. He had just gotten back from his trial run at the Strand when his phone rang. He jiggled around the golf club, a four iron, stirring up dust balls. "Are you sure it went under here?"

"I thought so," said Pam.

Thorpe looked back at her. Pam was perched on one of the end tables, legs drawn up, wearing only an XXL 50-Cent T-shirt and pale blue panties. He could hear Claire cursing nearby. "You did see a rat, though?"

Pam nodded. "Big one. He hadn't brushed his teeth for a long time, either."

"You two shouldn't leave the dog door open. You don't even have a dog."

"We shut the dog door, how are we going to get in when we lock ourselves out?" asked Pam.

"Keep the dog door closed. That's your problem."

"The problem is the city's cut back on rat abatement for the last four years," said Claire, peering under the brown leather reading chair, her own golf club ready-a putter. She wore dark blue silk pajama bottoms and a T-shirt with Serena Williams's picture on it. Her butt was in the air.

"He's checking out your ass, Claire."

Claire looked over at Thorpe. They were both low to the floor. "Is that right, Frank?"

"Guilty."

Claire shook her head. "Men. You call them up in the middle of the night for help, and instead they scope out the goods."

"Just kill the rat; then you two can flirt," said Pam.

Thorpe got up. "Mr. Rat's not under here."

Claire stood up, too, her short dark hair falling around her face. "Ditto."

"Well… he's got to be somewhere," said Pam, still on the end table.

Thorpe had been getting ready for bed when Pam had called, still exhilarated from seeing the crowd outside the movie theater, thinking of what he was going to do if he saw the Engineer in line Saturday night. He was going to let him watch the movie, catch him on the way back to his car, him and his bodyguard, catch them unaware. Thorpe imagined asking the Engineer how he'd liked the movie. Then the phone rang and Pam was yelling, and Claire was telling her to relax.