Robert Ferrigno - The wake-up

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.

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.