Robert Ferrigno - The wake-up

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."

"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.