Robert Ferrigno - The wake-up

Vlad rocked Arturo. In movies, men always talked before they died. They told their true feelings, and gave messages for their families. In movies, men said it didn't hurt, or sometimes that they felt cold, but Arturo had died without saying a word. Vlad hung his head, feeling the life drain out of him, too.

"Things are going to be different now," Cecil said, out of breath, pointing the gun from one to the other. "I want… I want my own damn car, and my own credit card, too. I want… I want a plasma-screen TV in my room, and… and… I want a big fucking gun."

"Bag Arturo up before he bleeds all over the place," Missy said. "We're going to have to scrub the floor down. There's ammonia in the bathroom for the floor and-"

"Don't look at me," said Cecil. "Vlad gets the shit job for a change."

Missy rubbed her temples as if she had a headache. "Vlad, bag Arturo up. Please?"

Vlad shook his head.

Clark took another sip of Pepsi. "Here we go. Nothing is ever simple."

Cecil sauntered over to Vlad, looked down at him. "My sister told you to do something, bitch." He poked Vlad in the forehead with the.22. It looked like a toy gun, but it left a red ring on Vlad's white skin. "You hear me?"

"Back off, Cecil," said Clark.

Vlad looked past Cecil. "What am I going to tell Arturo's wife and children?"

"Don't tell them anything," said Missy. "The plan stays the same. We pack Arturo in with the clothes, and then take him to the incinerator tomorrow morning. His wife knows better than to check up on him for a few days. By then… he's just smoke."

"You said we were going to talk to him," said Vlad.

"You talked to him," said Cecil, moving on the balls of his feet, as if he were onstage. "You talked to him your way, and I talked to him mine." He aimed the gun at Vlad. "Now do what my sister told you, before I fucking talk to you, too."

"You're not going to turn Arturo into smoke," Vlad said to Missy.

"Put the gun down, Cecil," said Clark. "We're all friends here."

"Bullshit," said Cecil.

"Cecil, you do what Clark says," said Missy. "Go on, give me my gun back."

"No fucking way," said Cecil. "I told you before. Everything is different now. Cecil don't fetch and carry no more. Get used to it."

"I'll take care of Arturo," said Vlad. "I'll give him a proper funeral."

"Vlad… dude, it's got to be done like we planned," said Clark.

"Get your ass up. I don't want to tell you again." Cecil posed with the gun, pointing it out vertically and horizontally at Vlad, making gunshot sounds. "You want me to pop him, too, Clark? I'll fucking do it. This killing thing is no big deal. You get used to it real fast, that's the God's honest truth. I think I got me a natural aptitude."

"Give me my gun, Cecil," ordered Missy.

Cecil whirled on her. "I told you. Everything is-" The gun went off, and Missy gave a little cry, sat down in the chair.

"Missy?" said Clark. "Missy!"

"I didn't do anything," said Cecil.

Pink liquid ran out of Missy's right eye and down her cheek.

"Look what you done," Cecil said to Vlad. "You distracted me."

Clark clutched at Missy, but she flopped onto the floor. He stood over her, calling her name, howling like he had been the one shot, but she didn't move. Just like Arturo: One minute they were alive, and then next minute they were gone, and all the shouting didn't make a bit of difference.

"This is your fault," Cecil said to Vlad, so angry that he was sweating. "You did it." He shot Vlad. Shot him again. And again.

Vlad barely felt it. He brushed powdered sugar from the doughnut off Arturo's lips.

Thorpe watched from an outside table at the Los Flores Taqueteria as Paulo Rodriguez made a loop through the park across the street. Every minute or so, Paulo would pass into view, bent low over the handlebars like a fighter pilot, his teeth bared in delight. He had customized the bike Thorpe had left for him, adding streamers from the handlebars and about a dozen reflectors interspersed among the front and back spokes. A tiny Mexican flag hung from the seat, flapping as he sped away.

At the side of the path, his mother sat on a bench, chatting with two other women, string bags of fruit and snacks in their laps. It was early evening, still light, and they moved unhurriedly, nodding their heads in agreement, occasionally waving away the hovering insects. As Paulo sped toward her, his mother chided him to slow down, and he slammed on the brakes, locked the back wheel, and skidded to a stop in front of her. She wagged a finger, and he hung his head, more to hide his grin than from shame. She slipped a section of orange into his mouth and sent him on his way.

Thorpe crunched into his second pork taco, adding more hot sauce in between bites, juice dribbling at the corner of his mouth. The lemonade was fresh and ultrasweet. He watched Paulo and his mother and tried not to think. His wake-up had gotten Betty B and Ray Bishop killed… He had to take small pleasures where he found them.

A trio of languid homeboys sat at an adjoining table, slender teenagers with lupine faces, their skinny arms wrapped with tattoos. They glanced at him from time to time, not hostile, but not friendly, either, just keeping track of him. He listened to them discuss him in Spanish, their voices high and musical. One thought he was a narc. One thought he was la Migra. The third, the smallest, an overgrown child with a sunken chest and-from the way he regularly touched his pocket, reassuring himself-the only one strapped, thought they should take him down and find out.

Good time to be driving an armored car. Thorpe called Danny Hathaway. He answered on the second ring. It was noisy, wherever he was. "It's me," said Thorpe.

"Frankie!"

"Where are you?"

"Vegas, land of milk and honey. I'm at the Bellagio, jackpots going off around me like the Fourth of July. I drove straight out here after I left you. The Town Car gets lousy mileage, but it's one sweet ride."

"I wanted to give you my new cell phone number."

"I haven't got any paper." The clanging of slot machines interrupted Hathaway. "My first night in town, I hit the blackjack tables, hit them hard, man. I ended up with a stack of thousand-dollar chips bigger than Ron Jeremy's dick. You got to visit, Frank. They comped me a suite."

Thorpe smiled. "I'll call you soon."

"Everything work out with Clark and Missy? You got them tearing at each other's throats?"

That was a hard one to answer. He must have convinced Missy that Arturo had sold them out, because this morning she had transferred the hundred thousand dollars to his offshore account. Thorpe had already wired the money to Ray Bishop's wife in Pennsylvania. Right after he had called the Laguna PD and told them there was a body in the kitchen of the house on Pearl Street. Thorpe might have convinced Missy, but that was no guarantee.

Thorpe watched Paulo's mother eat fish crackers from a Ziploc bag, eat them one at a time, daintily. Her head was covered with a yellow scarf dotted with red roses. She kept turning slightly, following Paulo's progress through the park, keeping up her end of the conversation with her companions the whole time.

"Frank? Did it work out?"

"I'm going to call and make sure. I've got a date with the Engineer in a few days, and I want to have my mind clear."

"Kill him for me, will you?"

"Roger that." Thorpe hung up, then called Missy. The phone rang for a long time, and when it was finally answered, it wasn't Missy. "Cecil?"

"Just the man I was hoping to talk to," said Cecil, oddly chipper.

"Let me talk to Missy."

"Lose the attitude, Frank. I'm a professional myself now."

Thorpe rolled his eyes. "Can I speak to her?"

Cecil sniffed. "Missy's dead."