22
Thorpe heard Hathaway coming a block away, the full-size Ford 4×4 pulling into the parking lot, bouncing over the speed bumps, glass packs trumpeting as Hathaway pumped the accelerator. The metallic blue truck was tricked out with oversize blackwalls, gold-flecked chrome wheels, and matching chrome bed rails, bumpers, and mirrors. A decal beside the gas tank showed a cartoon bad boy pissing onto a Chevy insignia. He revved the engine again as Thorpe opened the door.
“Subtle ride, Danny,” said Thorpe, stepping up into the cab. It smelled of weed.
Hathaway peeled out of the parking lot before Thorpe was completely inside. Thorpe banged his head, hanging on with one hand as Hathaway cackled, gave it more gas.
“I missed you, too, asshole,” said Thorpe, buckling himself in. At the small of his back, he felt the 9-mm semiauto clipped to his belt. He had been carrying since he talked to Ray Bishop and found out who Clark and Missy really were.
“You really missed me, you would have got in touch sooner.” Hathaway downshifted, the fingers of his right hand caging the devil’s-head floor shift knob. Lean and hard as a roofing nail, he wore a WHAT WOULD JESUS DO? tank top, shorts, and huaraches. Hathaway had been in Thorpe’s four-man Delta Force squad. He was much younger than Thorpe, moody and high-strung, the only member other than Thorpe to survive. After their courts-martial, Thorpe had gotten Billy to take him into the shop, but the pace of operations was too slow for Hathaway, and his drug habit had flared up. When Billy cut him loose, Hathaway had hired on with the DEA, which always needed deep-cover field agents, and a minor drug problem was part of the job description. Hathaway had flourished at DEA; he could have moved inside to a desk, could have run his own string of informants, but he preferred the street, and the excuse it gave him to play the part.
They cruised the outskirts of Little Saigon, a community of recent Southeast Asian immigrants who had transformed the former white-bread inland slum into a bustling high-density community of minimalls and backyard vegetable gardens. The street signs were all bilingual now, and most of the high school valedictorians had last names that were unpronounceable to the older residents.
“You talked to Billy lately?” asked Hathaway, watching a couple of pretty Vietnamese girls in shorts and crop tops. “Fucker won’t even return my calls.”
“What’s the matter, you tired of your job?”
“Too much paperwork.” Hathaway sniffed. “I hear Billy’s gone into business for himself. Maybe you could put in a good word for me.”
“It would be a waste of a word.”
Hathaway smiled, his teeth white and shiny as fresh dice. Hathaway might let everything else go, but he was fastidious about his oral hygiene. Thorpe remembered the two of them dug into the tree line of a Colombian mountainside, hunkered down for almost a week, waiting to spring an ambush, wet and cold the whole time. Thorpe had shivered and kept quiet, while Hathaway had chewed sugarless Dentyne and jabbered about dental caries and gingivitis and the need to floss after every meal, until Thorpe had threatened to knock his incisors out.
Thorpe checked the side-view mirror. “You said you could fill me in about the local meth scene.”
“You have to admire Vietnamese people.” Hathaway nodded at an old man sweeping the sidewalk in front of a noodle shop. “They have discipline, a sense of order. You drive down the street in Santa Ana, there’s trash all over the sidewalk. Huntington Beach is even worse. Surfers, Frank, they want the ocean pristine, but you walk into one of their cribs, you better wear your hip waders. The Vietnamese, they’re not afraid of soap and water.”
Thorpe checked the side-view mirror again. It was the day after Gina and Douglas Meachum had left for Hawaii. Thorpe wondered how the second honeymoon was going, wondered if Meachum had called the blonde yet, waiting until Gina was in the shower. Maybe he had learned his lesson. Learned it without Thorpe’s help. Thorpe had twelve days to make sure that they were safe when they came back home. Time enough. If Thorpe got lucky again, the Engineer would be at the screening of
Shock Waves
tonight. He was out there in cyberspace, circling in the darkness; the smell of blood and money kept him close, but it might be the Engineer’s love of oddball movies that forced him into a mistake. A man’s passions were always his weakness.
“Asian women, they are the absolute best.” Hathaway slowed, checked out a slim, well-dressed woman stepping out of a black Lexus. “No tits, though. If the Vietnamese had tits, I’d marry the whole country.”
“Let’s talk meth, Danny.”
“What’s your interest in the wonderful world of speed?”
“There’s a married couple distributing chemicals out of Newport—”
“Clark the shark? He and Missy are the only ones who fit that description.” Hathaway waited for confirmation, shrugged. “Clark moves high-quality meth, and designer pharmaceuticals he comes up with himself.
Himself.
Only does about fifteen, twenty million dollars a year, but the man’s a regular Thomas Alva Edison . . . if Edison’d been a dope fiend.” He looked at Thorpe. “You don’t want to mess with him.”
“That’s what everybody tells me.” Thorpe checked the mirror again. “There’s a white Pathfinder that’s been trailing us for the last mile and not doing a good job of it. Young white guy with a goatee behind the wheel. Couple of others with him.”
Hathaway glanced at the rearview, then popped open the dash, revealed a .357 Magnum lying among the fast-food wrappers and catsup packs. “Why don’t you snap off a few rounds, see how committed they are?”
Thorpe closed the dash. “You burned these yokels?”
“Sold them a thousand hits of Midol last week.” Hathaway ran a red light. “They seemed to be under the impression it was ecstasy.”
The Pathfinder pulled into oncoming traffic, raced through the intersection after them, almost hit a Cadillac.
Thorpe tightened his seat belt as Hathaway made a hard right onto a side street, then veered through an alley, tires screeching. He cut through a car wash on the next block, took a one-way street the wrong way, raced through another alley, and headed in the opposite direction. Thorpe’s fingers hurt from hanging on.
“We’re clear,” said Hathaway. “You could have backed them off with a couple shots from the Magnum, saved my tires, but hey, no hard feelings.”
“What do you mess around with this petty shit for?”
“It’s not the money, Frank; it’s the principle of the thing.”
Hathaway thought he was being clever, but Thorpe knew it was the truth. Danny saw the world as two circles. One very tiny circle contained his friends, with barely room inside for Thorpe and one or two others. The other circle contained everyone else on the planet. His friends could count on Hathaway to keep his word, and to keep his silence. The rest of the world had reason to worry. Casual rip-offs, short-weighting his busts for the DEA, strong-arming crack dealers for their bankroll and their stash, it was all the same agenda to him: whatever, whenever, whoever.
“One of these days, some kid you burned for a few hundred dollars is going to kill you.”
“Like you’re Mr. Safe and Sane. You’re the guy asking about Clark and Missy, so tell me about your PTA meetings and your 401(k) and your high-fiber diet. Edge City, Frank. You’re as fucked-up as me. You just hide it better.”
They touched fists.
“Clark’s muscle . . . they as bad as I’ve heard?” asked Thorpe.
“Worse. A couple of very sick dudes.” A wizened old woman in a velour jogging suit and a Dodgers cap leaned against a walker. Hathaway threw her a kiss as they drove by, but she ignored him.
“She looks like the old lady with the Hustler cap,” said Thorpe.
Hathaway half-turned in his seat, getting another look at the woman. “You’re
right.
”
The village had been high on the Colombian plateau, guerrilla country, with stifling days and sharp, cold nights, the stars so close, he’d almost ducked. “That woman must have been a thousand years old,” said Thorpe. “Probably spit in the face of Pizarro. Sat there the whole time we dug out that well, a wad of coca leaves filling one cheek, the Hustler cap perched on her head. Never
would
say where she got it.”
Hathaway looked straight ahead. “I think about going back there sometimes. See how those people are making out. Then I figure, Let well enough alone.”
Thorpe nodded. Never go back. Better to think they had made a difference.
“I’m sorry about Kimberly,” blurted Hathaway. “I should have said so sooner. She tried to cover for me when Billy found my stash at work. He bounced me anyway, but I appreciated the attempt. Small kindnesses, Frank, they stick in the memory. That old woman with the Hustler cap . . . she gave me corn cakes one morning. Never said a word, just gave them to me like I was one of her grandkids.”
Thorpe remembered the first time he and Kimberly had made love. She had gone into the kitchen afterward, come back a few minutes later with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, stood there, slim and naked, saying, “Don’t count on this kind of treatment every time, Thorpe.” But he had, and he was never disappointed. Maybe that’s why he forgave her for her other lovers.
“Frank? You ever find Lazurus?”
“He’s dead. It was the Engineer who killed her. He was running an op on Lazurus the whole time.”
“No shit?” Hathaway chewed his thumbnail. “I can believe it. I heard most of the equipment Lazurus’s crew shipped turned out to be defective. Games within games. I can’t keep it all straight.”
“The Engineer and I have been keeping in touch. We might be going to the movies together tonight. I hope so anyway.”
Hathaway stared at him. “You need help, just tell me.”
“I know.”
“Why fool around with Clark and Missy? Haven’t you got enough on your plate?”
“I’ve still got a little room.”
Hathaway chuckled. “There’s a dude named Guillermo—he’s the closest thing to competition that Clark’s got. Guillermo moves five or six times the weight, but they’ve got an arrangement.”
“Peace treaty?”
“More like a free-trade agreement,” said Hathaway. “Clark’s always coming up with new drug combos, and simpler ways to cook meth, so when he moved in a few years ago, his dealers started taking business away from Guillermo right off. They went back and forth for a long time, tit for tat, but Guillermo was preoccupied with keeping out the Mexican Mafia, and then the Aryan Brotherhood started undercutting him with that rotgut crank of theirs. So while Guillermo was scrambling, Clark made his move.” He sniffed. “Nuclear fucking winter. Clark had just two men handling the rough work.”
“Vlad and Arturo.”
“That’s right.” Hathaway eyed him. “Vlad and Arturo took down five of Guillermo’s dealers in one weekend, and that was that.”
“Five dealers by
themselves
?”
“By themselves. It wasn’t just the dealers who got dead, either.” Hathaway looked like he had bitten into some rotten meat. “Vlad and Arturo cleaned house: men, women, babies crying in their cribs,
everybody.
” He set his jaw. “After that, Guillermo decided it was better to give Clark a slice of territory, and buy his overflow, than fight him. Things have been quiet between them ever since.”
“Guillermo let just two guys make him back off? I don’t believe it.”
“If you know these two, you know they ain’t normal guys, Frank. They went through those dealers’ security like shit through a goose. That’s why Clark and Missy can drive around town in a convertible, and Guillermo uses a bulletproof Lincoln Town Car. Nobody blamed Guillermo for calling things off.”
“Still . . . letting two guys make him back down . . . If I were Clark, I’d worry that Guillermo might hold a grudge. I might be able to drive around town with the top down, but I’d still be paying attention.”
Hathaway shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking. Last time I saw that look on your face, we almost ended up in federal prison, pounding rocks for twenty years.”
“Shining Path was murdering our villagers. We did the right thing.”
“You started a fucking war, Frank.”
“War between monsters. Shining Path guerrillas and the coca lords— it was like
Godzilla versus Ghidra:
You don’t care who wins, you just want them to just keep tearing at each other so they don’t wipe out Tokyo.”
“That wasn’t our mission,” said Hathaway. “It was fun, though.” He scratched at the inside of his arm, the flesh scabbed. “You get involved with Clark and Missy . . . it might not be so much fun. I just hope you know what you’re doing now.” He sniffed. “Must be quite a payday.”
“There is no payday.”
“Payday or payback, got to be one or the other.”
“You get a regular retainer from Guillermo, or does he just pay you for advance notice of a bust?”
Hathaway hesitated. “Is it that obvious?”
“I know you, Danny. It’s the move you’d make.”
Hathaway shrugged. “Man has to take care of his needs.”
“There’re all kinds of needs. I need you to tell me about Guillermo. I need you to tell me about Missy and Clark, and Arturo and Vlad. I need to know all the players.”
Hathaway drove for a few more blocks. “I got something you might be interested in,” he said finally. “One of Clark’s cookers in Riverside was taken down a couple of days ago. Made a real mess of the tweaker’s trailer, too. Clark must have lost another cooker, too, because some truly righteous crank hit the market yesterday. Shit had a real sweet, smooth burn . . . might as well have Clark’s autograph on it.”
“Guillermo?”
“Not a chance. Guillermo’s trying to find out who’s moving this shit, probably worried that Clark will think
he’s
behind it. Nobody knows who the guilty party is, not yet, but it’s bound to come out. Somebody always wants to tell the tale.” Hathaway grinned at Thorpe. “Stand-up guys are in short supply, Frank—I think you and me are the last two specimens.”
23
“That shit will kill you,” said Arturo.
Vlad stared at the half-eaten cheeseburger in his hand, watched a droplet of grease slide off the patty and spatter the wax paper on the tabletop. He took another bite, chewing with his mouth open, then reached for an onion ring.
“Onion rings are even worse,” said Arturo. “The oil they use . . . Clinton was president last time they changed the deep-fat fryer. You’re just
asking
for a coronary.”
The onion ring drooped in Vlad’s hand, soggy with batter. He stuffed it into his mouth. “I do not think it’s food that will kill me, Arturo.” He picked up a couple of french fries, catsup running down his fingers. “Or you, either, my friend.”
Arturo blotted his forehead with a paper napkin, threw it onto the ground. A uniformed truck driver looked over as the wind sent the napkin billowing against his leg, then went back to his triple cheeseburger. Arturo watched Vlad dredge more french fries through the puddle of catsup on his paper plate. In spite of all his warnings, the man just didn’t care about nutrition. Then again, Arturo was the one who had clocked in with a cholesterol reading of over three hundred at his yearly physical. Gringo doctor had looked at him like he was measuring Arturo for a coffin.
A horn blared at the nearby traffic signal, some
puto
in a blue Miata. Arturo took a deep breath, let it slowly out. Stress could kill you as fast as a sledgehammer to the back of the head.
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.