31
“He
does
look a little familiar,” said the doughy checker at Ralphs supermarket, her tongue stuck in the corner of her mouth, as though that would help the cow think.
“Take your time,” said the Engineer. “It’s an old photograph.”
The checker—her name tag said CARMEN—scanned cans of infant formula, bricks of cheese, and boxes of prepackaged noodle slop while taking another look at the photo of Frank he had laid on the counter. “Thirty-nine fifty-five,” she said to the mother with the screaming brat in line, then turned to the Engineer. “What do you want with him?”
The Engineer didn’t react, but he felt a wave of pleasure surge through him. She
recognized
Thorpe. He had already taken in her cheap jewelry, her fatigue, and the tiny photos of ugly children that dangled from her key ring in the register. “He’s my brother-in-law,” the Engineer said, head down, as though he were embarrassed. “Ran out on my sister and left her with a couple kids to raise. I hired a private detective, who tracked him to Long Beach, but I’m tapped out. Figured I’d try to find him myself.”
“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.
32
“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.
“Wow,” said Vlad.
The Town Car careered through the grove, flattened a couple of small trees, and stopped in a little clearing, facing away from them. Dust slowly settled around the Town Car. The windows stayed rolled up, gray exhaust curling out the tailpipe. Hathaway had called Thorpe just before he picked up Vlad, given him the location of the grove. Guillermo had picked a good site for a private meeting—no surprises, not from the outside anyway.
“I hope you and Arturo can be friends,” said Vlad. “He didn’t want Missy to cut you in. He says we don’t need the help, and that you’re not worth the money.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t care about money, but Arturo has a family to think about. He worries about money all the time. Don’t
ever
ask him about the stock market.” Vlad adjusted his assault rifle, made himself more comfortable. “We disappeared Arturo’s broker last year. All those Internet stocks . . . I never understood that.”
Thorpe watched him, not sure whether to believe him.
Vlad ran a finger over the leather trim of the Land Rover. “Soft. The broker had shoes that were soft like this. They fit me good, but Arturo wouldn’t let me keep them. He bought me a pair of really expensive loafers afterward. Arturo says nice clothes are an investment, but I like swap meets.” He looked at Thorpe. “You have really nice clothes. I think Arturo is a little jealous of you.”
“Where’s the accent from, Vlad? The Balkans, that would be my guess.”
“You’re a good guesser.” Vlad hesitated. “I was born in Romania.” He shifted in his seat again. “I have a photograph of me as a baby; Ceauşescu is holding me up for the camera. He’s not smiling, but you can tell he’s proud. I’ll show it to you sometime.”
“You must have been young when he was overthrown.”
“I was nine. They had already finished the primary operations on me.” Vlad’s cheeks colored slightly when he saw Thorpe’s surprise, the effect more stark because of the whiteness of his skin. “Romania was a very poor country under Ceauşescu, but the leader had a great vision. His scientists did some of the first experiments with recombinant DNA. Glandular extracts, too, and a full range of drugs and hormone injections. Special drugs for special children. There were a lot of tests you had to pass. It was a very great honor.”
“So it was like what the East Germans did? To make superathletes for the Olympics?”
“Not exactly. More like . . . Ceauşescu, he wanted to play God.”
“Yes, there’s a lot of that going on.”
“We were called the ‘New Ones.’ It was a great honor, Frank.” Vlad looked away, his voice trailing off. “Our scientists had high hopes, and they were very successful, all things considered, but it would have taken decades to achieve their goal. They didn’t have enough time.” He smelled like dry leaves. “When the regime was overthrown, the scientists had really only taken the first few steps into the project. First steps . . . they are always wobbly.” A tiny bubble of blood formed at the base of one nostril. “The New Ones who reached adulthood, the few who did . . . we were wobbly, too.” He looked at Thorpe. A drop of blood rolled from his nose, and he absently wiped it away. “You don’t mind . . . you don’t mind knowing about me, do you?”
“No, of course not,” said Thorpe, stunned.
Vlad smiled at him. “I told Arturo you had good eyes.” He nodded toward a car driving from the west. “Here comes Arturo now.” You would have thought it was Santa Claus, from the sound of his voice.
Arturo parked his Lexus next to them, got out and looked around. He had a large Band-Aid across the side of his chin. As he walked over, Thorpe saw a machine pistol in a spring-loaded shoulder rig under his open suit jacket. He must have thought a claw hammer wouldn’t be much use against Guillermo.
Thorpe and Vlad stepped outside, joined Arturo in watching the Town Car. Thorpe noticed a distinctive sheen to Arturo’s dark green suit. Woven Kevlar. The cautious man survives—that was one of Billy’s mottoes, and it must have been Arturo’s, too. There were only two factories in the country that made such high-quality protective garments— their suits cost nine thousand dollars, but Thorpe imagined Arturo had a closetful. Arturo might worry about money, but some clothes really were an investment. “You cut yourself shaving?” Thorpe asked gently.
Arturo touched his chin. “What business is it of yours?”
“You should be careful, that’s all,” said Thorpe.
“Guillermo just got here,” said Vlad.
Thorpe glanced over at Arturo’s car. “Where’s Clark?”
“He decided to sit this one out. Are you surprised?” Arturo looked through a pair of small binoculars, methodically scanning the grove, taking his time. “There’s nobody hiding in the trees.” His pocket buzzed, and he pulled out a PDA, checked the message, and shook his head in disgust. “Missy,” he said to Vlad. “She wants to know if we’re done yet.”
“Missy doesn’t like doing business on cell phones,” Vlad said to Thorpe. “She says all kinds of people are listening in.”
“She just likes telling us what to do,” said Arturo. “She thinks she’s smarter than anyone else.”
“Something’s happening,” said Thorpe as the driver of the Town Car got out, walked around to the other side, and opened the passenger door. No one there.
“What’s he doing?” asked Arturo.
The driver opened the trunk. It was empty, except for the spare tire. The two rear doors remained shut. “He’s showing us that there’s only him and Guillermo,” said Thorpe.
“I can’t see from this angle,” said Vlad. “The windows are blacked out.”
“Guillermo isn’t going to show himself until we get down there for our parley,” said Thorpe. “He’s probably got a couple of
pistoleros
stuffed alongside him on the backseat for insurance.”
Arturo checked his machine pistol. “That won’t be a problem.” He looked at Thorpe. “Time for you to earn your pay, gringo.”
Thorpe nodded. “I’ll go down, check things out. When I give you the sign, you start down to the clearing. Take it slow. I don’t want Guillermo getting jumpy.”
“I know what to do; you just hold up your end,” said Arturo.
“As soon as Guillermo realizes that Clark’s not with you, it’s
over,
so as you drive down, keep turning around as if you’re talking to somebody in the backseat. Then, when you make your final approach, drive past the Town Car so you can jump out and rake the inside through the open doors.”
“I told you we don’t need any advice,” growled Arturo. “Your job is to convince Guillermo that we’re here to settle our problems about the cookers. You think you can handle that?”
“We’re going over the plan whether you want to or not,” said Thorpe. “If you get killed down there, I get killed, too. Guillermo’s only going to hold off on me until you arrive, so the timing is crucial. Don’t come on too fast, not too slow, and make sure you kill them all. You think
you
can handle that?”
Arturo slightly tilted the machine pistol. He didn’t aim it at Thorpe, not exactly, but his intentions were clear. He smiled. “Maybe I keep you waiting, huh? Maybe I go bird-watching or decide to stop and shoot some rabbits?”
“That’s a good plan, Frank,” said Vlad. His nose was dripping blood again. “We’re all . . . you know,
excited.
”
Thorpe locked eyes with Arturo. “You should watch out for head shots down there. Although, looking on the bright side, there wouldn’t be a mark on that suit—they could bury you in it.”
“That’s not so funny, Frank,” said Vlad.
“Sure it is.” Arturo’s eyes were black and shiny as beetle wings. “Frank is a joker. That’s why Missy likes him so much. She likes a good laugh, and there’s Frank, ready, willing, and able to tickle her funny bone.”
“Don’t fight, you guys,” said Vlad.
“Please?”
Thorpe got into the Land Rover. “Wait a minute or two after I wave; then come on down. Don’t wait too long; otherwise, Guillermo’s going to think something’s gone wrong.”
Arturo picked his teeth with a fingernail. “What could go wrong?”