Bingham stared at him.
“It
is
a classic. These Nazi zombies have been resting on the bottom of a tropical lagoon in the South Pacific for fifty years when shipwrecked tourists accidentally wake them up. The blonde is Brooke Adams.”
“You’re as bad as the Engineer. He kept going on about the opening scene, where the Nazi zombies are goose-stepping underwater as the lifeboat drifts overhead.”
“Thank you.”
“This actually helps?”
“It might.”
“You want to tell me how?”
Thorpe stood up.
“I see. You’re done with me now. Fine. Well, fuck you, too, Frank.” Bingham stayed sitting, back against the wall, his voice flatlined now. “She picked you. I wasn’t interesting enough, so she picked you . . . and you let her get butchered.”
“If it makes you feel better, maybe when I find the Engineer, he’ll kill me first.”
“Promise?”
“You know, Dale, some people tell you to let things go, to forgive and forget, but that’s all bullshit. You’re a poor loser, and so am I.” Thorpe looked down at him. “Don’t let it bother you. There are lots worse things to be.”
14
Quentin wrapped his arms around himself as the jitters hit, holding on while his teeth chattered, jerking like one of those Dodger bobble-heads every Mexican in L.A. had on the dashboard of his Camaro. He sagged when it was over, his mouth sour. He looked over at Ellis, who was hitting on a pint of Southern Comfort while his knees bounced, racked with the jitters, too. “
Told
you the batteries were a bad idea.”
“Recipe called for batteries,” Ellis said, watching the Westminster dog show on the big screen with the sound off. He sat in the living room of the double-wide trailer, a pasty scarecrow in threadbare cutoffs, scabs crusted across his arms, hair hanging down to the middle of his back. The air conditioner rattled in the side window. It was ninety-eight degrees outside, but the heavy-duty conditioner kept things at a frosty sixty-five degrees inside. He was sweating anyway. Ellis was always hot. So was Quentin. Their nerve endings were too close to the surface—that’s what Quentin said. Ellis shifted on the recliner, eyes on the dog show. “Recipe calls for batteries, I add batteries.”
“Recipe calls for
lithium
batteries, not rechargeables,” said Quentin. “You ruined the batch, admit it. You’re the one got to explain it to Vlad and Arturo.”
Ellis scratched the scabs on his arms. “Batteries is batteries.”
“Rechargeables don’t have no lithium in them,” sputtered Quentin, his guts cramping up again. He groaned, a bony motorhead in a Green-peace T-shirt and greasy jeans, his dirty bare feet curled up under him on the flower-print sofa. “It’s the
lithium
the recipe calls for.”
“You . . . you got to admit . . .” Ellis took another drink, trying to hold his hand steady, the neck of the Southern Comfort bottle clicking against his front teeth. “You got to admit, Quentin, it’s a
fine
buzz.”
By way of response, Quentin bent over the coffee table, hooked a half gram of crank with the long nail of his pinkie, and snorted. It burned like drain cleaner. Damn Ellis had run out of coffee filters and used paper towels to filter the ephedrine brew, left in all kinds of impurities. He shook his head, hit the other nostril, jerked with the brain freeze. He smiled at his reflection in the glass tabletop, his brown hair spiked out. He would have liked to grow his hair long like Ellis, but it kept breaking off. Skin hung loosely from his arms and waist, sagged over his belt, dripped from his jawbone. He looked like he was a melting wax candle. A former all-state tackle at Huntington Beach High, Quentin had lost over one hundred pounds since he discovered the wonders of bathtub speed. He had never felt better in his life, really, but he no longer watched football on TV. He watched everything from Jap cooking contests to soap operas, but never football. Not even the Super Bowl.
Through the back window of the double-wide, Quentin could see the carcasses of half a dozen stripped cars rusting in the desert heat, hoods gaping, engines and tires missing. Ellis collected cars. Said it was the sport of kings. Most of them had bullet holes through the windshields from when they got bored. Plenty to be bored about, too, living out beyond the outskirts of Riverside, eighty miles from H.B. It might as well be 80 million. Fuck it. Riverside was Crank Central. He flicked his lighter, held it overhead, honoring his new alma mater. He looked over at Ellis, thinking he might get a laugh, but that crater-head was glued to the big screen.
Ellis watched a standard-size white poodle flounce across the floor of the pavilion, puffy balls of fur on the dog’s head and the tip of its tail bouncing with every step. “I’d like to get me one of them dogs.”
Quentin stared at the poodle’s handler scampering beside him, an old guy in a black tuxedo, breathing hard. He shook his head. The things some people would do to make a buck. Fucking pathetic.
“Beautiful dog,” said Ellis. “Looks like Julia Roberts.”
“You said the same thing about the cocker spaniel and the terrier and the Afghan hound. They
all
look like Julia Roberts to you.”
Ellis dragged a hand through his greasy hair. “I’m just saying we should get us a dog.”
A couple of weeks ago, some lady and her kid had walked down the private driveway to the front door, the kid in a Girl Scout uniform crisscrossed with merit badges, the lady carrying a paper bag loaded with cookies. Ellis had answered the door, listened while the kid went into her sales pitch. The lady had sniffed, wrinkled her nose, catching a whiff of the ethyl ether cooking in the garage. Ellis, for once in his life, had a smart reaction—told the lady they had cats and he was overdue to empty the litter box. “Gosh, mister, how many cats do you have?” asked the kid, gagging. No sale, bitch.
For the next couple of days, Ellis had jabbered on about how they should get a cat in case anyone else came around wondering about the smell. Quentin said no way, he had allergies, so now Ellis had switched to wanting a dog. Quentin tried to tell him that dog piss didn’t smell like cat piss, but once Ellis got his mind around an idea, he didn’t let go. It was just a matter of time until he came home with some puppy that would get into the acetone, go into convulsions, and then there would be a three-hour argument over who was going to dig the hole for it.
Quentin grabbed the remote and switched channels. Dozens of hot rods streamed around an oval track, kicking up dust. “That reminds me. Any of them cars of yours run? My sister’s kid wants one bad. Just turned sixteen and that’s all he talks about.”
“Nothing out there is worth a damn,” said Ellis, “but I can put something together for him. Clean VIN numbers guaranteed. Just give me a week or two.”
“How much?” asked Quentin.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Quentin watched the hot rods go round and round. They looked like windup toys. “My sister’s kid, he can tell you everybody won the Daytona Five Hundred. He can go clear back to 1946 or ’47, tell you what they were driving and what their time was, too.”
Ellis peered at the screen. “I’ll put a real nice car together for him. Anybody who can remember all that shit, he deserves it.”
“I don’t know . . .” Quentin repacked his nose. “I tried to tell him, when you pencil it out, it hardly pays to own a car. You figure in the DUIs, it would be cheaper to take a cab.”
“How you gonna pick up supplies if you don’t got a car?” asked Ellis. “You going to ask the cabbie to wait while you buy a couple hundred road flares, a crate of Sudafed, and twenty gallons of anhydrous ammonia?”
“I’m not talking about
us,
” said Quentin, “I’m talking about
him.
You start figuring in gas, oil, retreads, DUIs ... and jail time, you can’t forget that. Even if you make bail, you’re still gonna lose a day, assuming you don’t get popped on a weekend, when it’s gonna be worse. Like I said, all things considered . . .” He turned around, hearing something. Two men stood just inside the side door. They were wearing Bozo the Clown masks with orange hair and big red noses. If it hadn’t been for the shotguns, he would have thought it was Halloween.
“Oh wow, I love this part,” whispered Ellis, oblivious to their visitors, as one of the hot rods veered into another, the cars behind them unable to stop, tumbling end over end.
The shotguns had focused Quentin, brought his mind to full attention. He couldn’t bring himself to look at those Bozo faces—that was too much to ask—but he was thinking better now, with all the time in the world, because things had slowed down, the way they always did when he was behind a load of crank, and the more he thought about it, the more the fact that they were wearing masks seemed like a
good
thing. If you were going to waste somebody, you didn’t need to bother wearing a mask. Yeah, the masks were a hopeful sign, but he still couldn’t bring himself to look at anything but the shotguns, a sawed-off double-barrel and a pump Mosburg. The shorter Bozo, the one cradling the Mosburg, had lacy tattoos scrolled over his forearms, spiderwebs with spaceships caught in the strands, and Quentin recognized the design,
knew
who they belonged to, but he didn’t say anything. Not a word.
“Give up the goods, motherfuckers,” demanded the tall Bozo.
“What?” Ellis tore himself away from the TV. “Hey . . . what’s the deal?”
The tall Bozo waved the double-barrel. It had been sawed off unevenly, the metal still shiny, not filed smooth, and that bothered Quentin for reasons he couldn’t even fathom. “The deal is, you hand over your stash, and I don’t blow your shit away.”
Ellis peered at the shorter Bozo’s arms. “Pinto? Is that you, man? What up, dude?”
“He recognizes you.” The tall Bozo pulled back the hammers on the double-barrel. “Time to make a commitment here, Pinto.”
Ellis looked at Quentin. “Did I fuck up?”
Quentin wanted to cry.
Pinto pushed back his Bozo mask. “Damn thing was too hot anyway,” he said to his partner. He raised his shotgun.
“Quentin?” wailed Ellis. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”
Quentin closed his eyes. He covered his ears, too, covered them tight.
15
“You look chipper this morning,” said Billy. “What’s the occasion?”
Thorpe slid into the booth beside Billy, the two of them facing the entrance. “Maybe I’m just happy to see you.”
“Perhaps that’s it.” Billy’s plate was piled high with a Turbo omelette, the specialty of the Harbor House Café in Sunset Beach—four eggs, three kinds of cheese, bacon, sweet onions, and sliced avocado. They sat in the corner of the patio overlooking Pacific Coast Highway, and though the surrounding tables were filled, the traffic noise masked their conversation. Billy sliced into the omelette with the side of his fork. He was a big man, but he took small bites, his manners impeccable. “Although I suspect your bonhomie has more to do with that wake-up of yours.”
“Just coffee, thanks,” Thorpe said to the waitress. He had sent the “be kind to strangers and small children” card to Meachum’s gallery— he should get it today. Thorpe watched the waitress walk away. A sunny day, Meachum getting his wake-up, and a waitress in running shorts with the legs of a marathoner. He should call Father Esteban and tell him to light a candle in gratitude.
Billy wore dark slacks and a Hawaiian shirt with hula dancers on it, their grass skirts shimmying as he ate. On him, it had a look of casual elegance, a planter from the 1920s with five thousand acres of pineapples to be harvested, and never a doubt in his mind that the offshore hurricane would strike the next plantation, not his. “Have you settled everything with the art dealer?”
“All settled.”
“You should thank the poor man.” Billy dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I haven’t seen you look this good since your encounter with the Engineer.”
Thorpe watched the waitress approach with his coffee. The people at the surrounding tables were mostly locals and construction workers from the condos being put up across the street, young people in beach attire, and yacht clubbers from the nearby marina, wearing pearls and Rolexes.
“You sure this is all you want?” the waitress asked him.
Thorpe smiled back at her. “I’ve got all I can handle.”
“You should thank the art dealer,” said Billy as the waitress left.
“You already said that.”
“The truth bears repeating.”
“What did you want to talk to me about, Billy?”
Billy’s eyes were innocent. “Do I need a reason?”
“No, but you always seem to have one.”
Billy laid his fork down. “How did you find Dale Bingham?”
Thorpe was surprised. “How do
you
know him?”
Billy leaned forward. He seemed to engulf the table, the hula dancers on his shirt in perfect syncopation. “You asked me to find out if the Engineer worked for another shop, so I quietly put out the word. It was Bingham who finally provided confirmation. Now you surprise him, asking questions, so he thinks I gave him up.”
“I had no idea, Billy. I got his name from another source.”
“I told him that had to be the case, but he doesn’t believe me.” Billy drummed his fingers on the tabletop, restless. “That’s what I get for trying to do a good deed. I’m picking up all your bad habits.” He glared at Thorpe. “I had hoped to recruit him.”
Thorpe shook his head. “I don’t think Bingham’s right for the job.”
“Bingham has a great set of ears. He could have been very useful.” Billy poked at his omelette. “I won’t ask you who referred you to him.”
Thorpe laughed. “Go ahead, ask.”
“I don’t want to fight.” Billy delicately lifted a thin forkful of eggs and avocado, offered it to Thorpe. “Bite?” He waited, shrugged. “Warren said to tell you that he’s traced the Engineer to Southern California. He’s definitely still in the area.”
“I know.”
Billy looked surprised.
“He instant-messaged me a few nights ago. We had a little chat.”
“He
told
you where he was?”
Thorpe smiled. “He said he was living on the beach, talked about the offshore swells coming in. I told him I was living on the coast, too.”
“Risky behavior on your part, don’t you think?”
“Why lie when the truth accomplishes the purpose? We both want to get together.” Thorpe watched three trim, well-dressed older women at a nearby table, laughing as they worked on their second round of mimosas. One was showing the others something in the newspaper. “The only difference is that the Engineer wants to talk before he kills me. He thinks I’ve got a few million stashed, and he wants me to tell him where it is. Me . . . I don’t need to talk with him. I just want to kill the motherfucker.”
Billy rested his fingers on Thorpe’s wrist. “Be careful.” His fingers flexed. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
Thorpe glanced at Billy’s manicure, noted the perfect half-moon cuticles, the thick, healthy nails.
Billy removed his hand. “Come work for me. I’ve got a very tricky job. It’s just your style.”
Thorpe checked his watch.
Shock Waves
was out of print, but he had located a bootleg 35-mm copy from a collector in Seattle and had received it by FedEx yesterday. In four days, it was going to be shown as the midnight feature at the Strand, a small theater in Huntington Beach. The local papers were running small notices about the special presentation in the entertainment sections tomorrow. He had thought to publicize it more widely, but he didn’t want to scare off the Engineer. If he really
was
a movie buff, he’d see the notice.
“Frank?” Billy pursed his lips. “Remember the account I told you about at the bowling alley? I’m trying to turn the chief software designer of a local firm. He’s relatively young, MIT grad, not married, but he has a girlfriend. Interesting woman—breeds Dobermans and is a chess grandmaster. I was hoping to use a variant of what you did with that coven of white supremacists in Bakersfield. A masterful scenario, but difficult to execute, and I don’t have anyone on staff I trust with the job. I was hoping you could step in for a couple weeks. Money is no object. The client has given me a blank check.”
“I’m busy.”
“Nonsense. You’re finished with your wake-up. All you’re doing now is waiting around for the Engineer to pop out of a cake or something. I’m giving you a chance to earn some money.”
“I still have most of the get-lost cash the shop gave me.”
“May I give you some advice, Frank?”
“No.”
Billy pushed aside his plate, sent silverware clattering. “You’ve got too much heart. It gets in your way. It limits you. I want you to reconsider what I’ve—”
Thorpe turned as the ladies at the nearby table exploded in laughter, and he saw a photograph of Missy in the paper one of them was waving.
“I’ve always been open to compromise,” said Billy. “Perhaps you’d be willing to consult on the case. Just give me the value of your expertise. I’ll be honest with you—I think once you get your toes wet, you won’t be able to resist. Come on, Frank, quit playing hard to get.”
“Excuse me,” Thorpe said to the woman holding the newspaper. “Could I see that when you’re finished with it?”
“Take it,
please,
” said the woman, a taut matron in white silk workout garb, her mouth a lascivious slash. “The girls and I will pee ourselves laughing if we read it again.”
Thorpe took the copy of the
Gold Coast Pilot
back to the table, starting to read it as he walked.
“What is it?” asked Billy as Thorpe sat down.
“Trouble,” said Thorpe.