Robert Ferrigno - The wake-up

"He didn't seem like that kind of a guy." Carmen took the check from the mother, wished her a good day.

"No one seems like that kind of a guy, Carmen," said the Engineer.

Carmen wiped her upper lip, thinking it over.

"I'm in a hurry, lady," said the next man in line, loading six-packs of generic orange soda onto the counter.

"I got a smoke break in twenty minutes," Carmen said to the Engineer, scanning with both hands.

The Engineer waited for her outside, watching the shoppers come and go. The shit that people shoved into their mouths never ceased to amaze him, but he was in too good a mood to dwell on that now. He had spent the last couple days stopping at every supermarket, mini-mart, gas station, and drugstore in Long Beach, showing Thorpe's photo without result-other than a poor fool who had tried to hold him up while leaving an all-night market last night. The Engineer knew that Thorpe lived somewhere nearby; the man's Internet signal emanated from this general area, but that was as specific a location as his equipment could determine.

A white kid in a FUBU sweatshirt pushed a cart toward the parking lot, one wheel wobbling. He gave the cart a push, rode it for a few yards. You would have thought the moron had won the lottery.

Thorpe's license plate number had proved to be another dead end. Not that the Engineer ever had high hopes for it. The plate was valid, registered to Frank Antonelli, but the address listed was a mail drop in Cerritos, and the clerk there said the box hadn't been used in months.

The Engineer watched a couple of seagulls fighting over the remnants of a fast-food cheeseburger, screaming at each other as they tore at the bits of meat and cheese.

Gregor was still in the apartment, nursing his wounds from his encounter with Ray Bishop, the policeman or security guard-whatever he was, he had beaten Gregor's face as if he'd been trying to tenderize it. Almost tore one ear off, too. The Engineer could understand Gregor being angry, but there was no excuse for killing the man before he could be of service. No excuse whatsoever.

The Engineer had insisted that Gregor stake out the house in Laguna, see if Thorpe returned, but Gregor had quickly grown bored, said that too many people were walking past his car, staring at him. When the Engineer finally disposed of Frank, he was going to rid himself of Gregor, too. He should have killed the man when he murdered the rest of Lazurus's crew. Kindness was almost always a cause for regret.

The Engineer waved at Carmen as she walked through the automatic doors. He followed her around to a bench on the side of the building, the asphalt strewn with cigarette butts.

Carmen lit a cigarette, dragged deeply, and exhaled slowly through her nostrils.

The Engineer smiled at her.

"He just seemed like such a nice person," said Carmen. "Always called me by my name, not 'Hey, lady' or 'Hey, you.' Same as you did." She looked at the Engineer, gnawed at her lower lip. "I don't want to get anybody in trouble."

"My sister just wants the child support he owes her. The kids at school are teasing them about their clothes."

Carmen nodded. "Don't I know what that's like."

"Does Frank come in on any particular day of the week? Any particular time?"

Carmen shook her head.

"Did he ever give you any idea where he lived? Maybe he talked about a fire that had happened nearby, or he complained about traffic from the college? Anything that would give you a sense, a feeling of what neighborhood he was living in."

Carmen puffed away. "Not really."

The Engineer smiled, wanting to drive his fingers through her eyes. "Did he ever come in wearing workout clothes? Maybe he talked about a fitness center, or someplace where he liked to go running. I know he's a runner. That's where he used to meet women to cheat on my little sister."

Carmen looked pained. "I wish I could help."

The Engineer patted her on the hand, felt her recoil. "Don't you worry. I know something useful will come to you. A sharp-eyed woman like you. I'm sure you'll remember something."

"Uh-huh." Carmen shaped the ash on her cigarette by rolling it along the sole of her shoe. "I got to get back soon."

"Did Frank ever-"

"There was this one time…" Carmen scrunched up her face with the effort of thinking. "I remember I asked him if he had gone to the Christmas tree lighting at the pier. It's a really big deal, with fireworks shot off the Queen Mary, and balloons and free candy. Anyway, I was complaining because it was so crowded that I had to park like a mile away, and push my kids in the stroller, and they had to double up, the two of them howling the whole way-"

"And Frank said?"

"He said he had just walked over to the ceremony from his place. I told him he was lucky, and he told me he got that all the time, but he thought I was really the lucky one, because Christmas was no fun without kids." Carmen looked at the Engineer, flicked away her cigarette. "So, I guess he must have missed his kids."

If the Engineer could have resisted the impulse to vomit afterward, he would have kissed her.

"Where's Clark and Arturo?"

"They're on their way," said Vlad.

Thorpe and Vlad sat in Thorpe's rented Land Rover. They were parked on a ridge overlooking the gate to Ungerman Groves, the last independent stretch of orange trees in Orange County, seventy-six acres of stunted Valencia seedless. It was late afternoon, the groves deserted, traffic on the back road sparse. A developer had made old man Ungerman an offer too good to refuse. The trees hadn't been watered in months, completely unattended, bereft of leaves, their fruit rotting on the ground. Thorpe had used a fake ID and credit card for the Land Rover, picked up Vlad at one of Clark's stores in Huntington Beach. Not much conversation on the twenty-minute drive to the grove, just Vlad fiddling with the radio, singing along to various pop songs. He knew all the words.

Vlad turned off the radio, shifted in his seat. He wore checked polyester bell-bottoms, a polo shirt buttoned to the throat, and a cheap nylon raincoat. When he got into the car, the wind rippled the raincoat and Thorpe glimpsed a cut-down H-K assault rifle hanging from a shoulder strap, a forty-round banana clip in place, another one taped alongside it. A real full-auto fire hose. "This is a fine day."

Thorpe looked over at him.

"Once we get finished with Guillermo, Clark says you can come on board." Vlad's skin was white as chalk, his blond hair dull and thinning. Only his eyes were alive, a large broken blood vessel in one eye like a red flag. "You're going to like working with me and Arturo. We have a lot of fun."

"That's what I hear." Thorpe scanned the road, but there was no sign of Arturo, or Guillermo, either. He touched the 9-mm tucked into his waistband, his untucked black dress shirt covering the gun butt. He wondered which one of them had beaten Bishop's skull in with the hammer, Vlad or Arturo. Vlad's face was unbruised, but that didn't mean much. "How long have you and Arturo been working together?"

"I don't know."

"Taught you the business, did he?"

"The business?" Vlad's eyes were such a light blue, they looked diluted. "He taught me to drive, and to use good manners, and how to housebreak a puppy."

"You have a dog?"

"No, but I know how to paper-train one."

Thorpe laughed, but Vlad wasn't joking. He tensed, spotting a black Lincoln Town Car approach from the east.

Vlad saw it, too. "Is Guillermo's car really bulletproof?"

"That's what they say."

The Town Car didn't even slow as it passed on the road below the Land Rover, a big beast with smoked windows, riding heavy and low. The driver took a hard right onto the gravel access road to Ungerman Groves, tires squealing as he accelerated, dust flying. The Town Car smashed through the chain-link fence without any loss of momentum, the gate sailing end over end through the air.