37
“I can’t do it.” Vlad ran a hand across a rack of brightly colored shirts, the hangers going
clickety-clack
under his fingers. “I
can’t.
”
“Come on, it’s not like you haven’t done this kind of thing before,” said Clark. “This is your function, man, the fucking prime directive.”
“Arturo is my friend.”
“Your
friend
sold us out,” said Missy. It was the day after Thorpe had surprised her at Fashion Island, and
she
was ready to get started, but all Vlad wanted to do was make excuses, and Cecil giving her that “I told you so” face, which made her want to kick him. As soon as this thing with Arturo was settled, she was going to ship Cecil back to live with their uncle. He could see how well that attitude worked at the filling station.
They were standing in the salesroom of the Huntington Beach Camp Riddenhauer, the smallest store in the CR chain, ostensibly managed by Vlad. Located in a failing minimall on Warner Boulevard, it’d had almost no foot traffic since the used-CD shop next door had closed five months ago, but it still maintained an air of imminent success. The shelves were fully stocked, carrying the complete CR line of jackets, shorts, shirts, sandals, tanks, and tees. Surf posters covered the interior walls—tiny surfers riding mountainous blue waves, and black-and-white blowups of classic Hawaiian postcards from the 1930s and 1940s, beefy kahunas staring into the camera, their longboards planted in the sand behind them. Reggae music pounded out of the speakers, but they were the only ones there to hear it. Only 5:00 p.m., but, as usual, Vlad had sent the staff home for the day. Every few weeks, a step van would come and take most of the merchandise away to an incinerator, then come back and refill the store with fresh designs. It wasn’t Clark’s fault if the public had no taste.
“
Arturo
was the one who decided not to go after Guillermo,” Clark explained to Vlad. “
He
sold Frank down the river, and he didn’t ask for my okay. You don’t think that’s suspicious?”
“Arturo hates Frank,” said Vlad. “I don’t understand it, but he does.”
“Don’t forget, Arturo needs money big-time,” Cecil piped up. “I heard him bitching to Vlad about all the cash he lost in the stock market, going on and on about how he wasn’t never going to be able to retire now. Bitch, bitch, bitch. Arturo probably didn’t even know I was in the room. Nobody pays any attention to Cecil. Cecil is just part of the furniture. Put your foot up on Cecil’s face and get comfortable.”
“Talking about yourself in the third person is the first sign of insanity,” Clark said to him. “One word, dude . . .
lithium.
Make the molecule your friend.”
Cecil had a nasty answer, but he kept it to himself. Instead, he held a geometric Aborigine-print shirt against his chest for Missy to see. “How do I look?”
“Go jiggle the handle of the toilet,” said Missy. “Somebody left it running.”
Cecil threw the shirt down, stomped off to the rest room.
“It was
Arturo
didn’t think I was doing my job,” Clark said to Vlad. “ ‘Too much surf, not enough turf,’ that’s what he said.” He glanced at Missy. “He’s not the only one who thought I was backing off, but he was the only one who tried to fuck us over.”
There was a wind roaring through Vlad’s head, a static storm, but he could hear every word they said.
“Arturo was the only one who didn’t respond to my e-mail yesterday,” said Missy. “The
only
one. When I finally got him on the phone, he said his PDA was shot. No idea how it happened.” She jabbed a finger at Vlad. “
You
know what happened. We all know what happened. Frank talked to Guillermo, then Guillermo tried to send Arturo an e-mail and crashed his PDA. Arturo is the inside man. What more do you need?”
Vlad didn’t move. No one could tell that he was even breathing. “I believe you,” he said at last. It sounded soft as a surrender. “What Arturo did was wrong, very wrong . . . but I can’t take his life.”
“What, you expect
me
to do it?” said Clark.
“
I’ll
do it,” said Cecil, back from the rest room.
Missy and Clark laughed, and even Vlad smiled.
“What’s so funny?” demanded Cecil.
“Seriously, man, thanks for the offer,” said Clark, “but killing Arturo . . . it’s not like running down a little old lady.”
Cecil just stood there. His red hair looked like it was about to catch on fire.
Vlad stared at his hands, turning them over as though they didn’t belong to him. He wiggled his fingers. In just the last day, his cuticles had turned black. He hadn’t noticed until now.
“I can call Frank,” Missy said to Vlad. “
He’ll
do it if you won’t. He’s not scared.”
“Fuck Frank,” said Clark. “Arturo’s got that coyote radar—Frank gets anywhere near him, Arturo is going to come out guns blazing. But
you
. . . he trusts you, Vlad.”
“Frank is very focused, very well trained. You can tell just by looking at him,” said Vlad. “That’s why he was able to get away from Guillermo. A man like Frank—”
“Damn it, Vlad, will you just shut up?” said Clark. “I’m trying to give you a compliment.”
“Arturo always lets me talk,” said Vlad. “He doesn’t yell at me, except sometimes when I eat fatty foods that he would like to eat himself. I don’t blame Arturo for being angry. My metabolism isn’t fair. It’s not my fault, but it’s not fair.”
“You understand what the
hell
he’s talking about?” Clark said to Missy.
Missy smiled at Vlad. “I know you and Arturo are friends, but we’re your friends, too, aren’t we?”
Vlad shook his head. “Not really.”
“We pay you plenty, don’t we?” said Clark. “Arturo ever give you a dime?”
“I don’t need a dime.”
“You’re missing the fucking point,” shouted Clark.
“I’m here,” said Cecil, talking to himself. “I’m ready, willing, and able, but does anybody ask Cecil to do the job? No way, José.”
“I told Arturo we’re having our weekly meeting here tomorrow,” Clark said to Vlad, “so get yourself prepared. Six o’clock. While Missy goes over the financials, Cecil will bring in Diet Coke or Diet Pepsi, or whatever diet crap Arturo is drinking these days, and when he reaches for the glass, you sidle over and put a bullet in his head. One shot should do it. We’ll double-bag Arturo, then stuff him into one of the containers of excess clothes. Next morning, the truck comes and takes the load to the incinerator.” He grinned. “No muss, no fuss, no bother.”
“Sure, let Cecil bring the drinks like Jeeves the butler,” muttered Cecil.
“Why don’t you give Arturo another chance?” asked Vlad.
“You got to be shitting me,” said Clark.
“Maybe if you give him a chance, Arturo will turn on Guillermo,” said Vlad, looking around. “Arturo just needs to be appreciated more. Told that he’s doing a good job. He worries all the time. Maybe if you were nicer to him, he wouldn’t worry so much.”
Missy stared at him, wondering what she would have to do, how high they would have to rise, before she and Clark would be dealing with a better-quality person. The loyal ones, like Vlad and Cecil, were pea brains. Arturo was smart, but greedy, and untrustworthy. All of the time she and Clark had put into the business, all their talent and hard work, and here they were, surrounded by weaklings and Benedict Arnolds. She had to ask herself, Really, what would it
take
? “Vlad, honey,” she said evenly, “I don’t think Arturo sold us out because he was worried.”
“If you were nicer to him, Arturo might switch back,” said Vlad. “Then, instead of Guillermo having Arturo on the inside of
us,
we would have Arturo on the inside of
him.
Please, Clark? Arturo deserves another chance.”
“He deserves to be burned up and have his ashes dumped in a landfill.” Clark scowled. “Maybe I
have
been too easygoing, but that’s about to change. Just be here tomorrow, Vlad, and be ready to do your job. Smile, dude. Tomorrow’s the first day of the rest of your life.”
38
“Excuse me, miss?” The Engineer put on his earnest but weary expression. It wasn’t hard. It was barely 9:00 a.m., but he was already tired. For the last three days, ever since the checker at Ralphs gave him the heads-up on Thorpe, he had been knocking on doors within walking distance of the Belmont Shore pier. His feet were sore and his face ached from smiling. “Could you help me, please?”
The woman stopped, eyed him as the security gate closed behind her with a rusty squeak. She shifted her briefcase. “I’m in a hurry.”
The Engineer put his hands up. “I just need a moment of your time. I’m not selling anything. You have my word on that.”
“Just a minute.” She walked to a car parked in front of the small apartment complex, popped the trunk.
No slack from this one. She was all business. A lot of them said they were in a hurry, but she meant it. Nice-looking woman, but a real stick up her ass. Give him ten minutes, and she’d loosen up. A California State University, Fullerton, staff parking sticker was on her rear window, right next to one from Cal State, Long Beach, and another one from Golden West College. What was that old song—“Hot for Teacher”? He watched her stow her briefcase, admired her figure in the tailored trousers and jacket. Some women looked like dykes when they dressed like men; others became even more feminine. The Engineer would bet that half the college boys in her class sported a woody when she wrote on the blackboard.
“What do you want?”
The Engineer gave up on the smile. “I was hoping you could help me find someone. I think he lives in the Shore, but I don’t have an address on him.” He fumbled in his notebook, a practiced clumsiness, designed to reinforce his nonthreatening aspect. The Engineer, with his high-water pants and white short-sleeved dress shirt, his pocket protector stuffed with ballpoints, was a nerd out of water in the Shore, a doofus lost in the cool zone. “State . . . State of California owes him an inheritance from his late uncle, but he moved without leaving a forwarding address.” He handed her the photo of Thorpe. “Have you ever seen him around here?”
She stared at the photo.
It was a lousy photo, eight years out of date, taken when Thorpe was discharged from the military, all steely-eyed and with that knowing grin that the Engineer wanted to burn away with a blowtorch. He dabbed his moist forehead with his clip-on necktie. It was a lousy photo, but it was the only one he had.
“He looks kind of familiar.”
“It’s an old picture.” She held on to the photo, which was a good sign. The Engineer looked at her directly. “I’ll be honest with you. I represent a company that tracks down dead accounts in the state Department of Revenue.” He pulled a business card from his pocket, handed it over. “That’s me, Earl Johnson. The uncle died over six years ago, but I just got the file last week. If the account isn’t paid out in three months, it reverts to the state.” He tugged at his pants.
“What’s his name?”
“I’m embarrassed to tell you, but we don’t know what name he’s going under right now. That’s what makes this job so tough. He’s kind of an . . . underground type, you know? Real name is Frank Stanford, but your guess is as good as mine as to what the name is on his driver’s license. No matter to me. We aren’t connected in any way, shape, or form with law enforcement, so you won’t be getting anyone in trouble. All I want to do is find him and have him collect his money. I’ll be honest with—”
“You said that already.”
The Engineer smiled. It hurt, but if he’d had barbed wire through his gums, he would have smiled for her. Lousy bitch interrupting his flow, seeing if she could trip him up. Too smart for her own good, just like he thought. “Well, Miss . . .” She didn’t give up her name. Fine, see where that gets you. She was lucky he was focused on finding Thorpe and wasn’t about to let anything distract him. Business before pleasure. “I guess I do repeat myself, and I apologize. . . .” He hitched up his pants again. “I just wanted to let you know that when I locate him, I get a ten percent finder’s fee, which is a nice chunk of change. Any help you give me, I won’t forget when I get paid.”
She handed back the photo. “That’s very nice of you, Mr. Johnson.”
“That’s the way I was raised, ma’am.”
She flicked his business card with her thumbnail. “I
do
remember him. Frank somebody, just like you said.”
The Engineer kept his distance, not wanting to scare her off, the tips of his fingers tingling with anticipation.
“I used to see him running along the beach. He lived on Claremont. Last time I talked to him, he said he was moving. He said he had a new apartment in . . . Los Alamitos, I believe.”
“Los Alamitos? You’re sure?”
She flicked his business card again. “Frank said Los Alamitos had better freeway access. He was always complaining about the traffic.”
“Thank you very much. Could I have your name, just in case I find him?”
She walked around to the driver’s side of her car. “That’s all right, Mr. Johnson, you work hard enough for your money. I hope you find him. He didn’t seem like a bad person. Maybe the inheritance will help him straighten his life out.”
“Thank you, miss. I wish everyone I met was as kind as you.” The Engineer watched her drive away, then headed toward his car at the end of the street, trying to restrain his excitement, his heart fluttering in his chest as if it were going to burst free. He unlocked his car, got behind the wheel. Little Miss Teacher maintained perfect eye contact and kept her voice casual, but she was lying. There was a little park down the street, just a patch of brown grass, a couple of graffiti-etched benches, and swarms of pigeons. The Engineer was going to pick up a loaf of bread and stake out the park. Pigeons were filthy, disease-ridden scavengers that shit indiscriminately, but people opened up to a man feeding birds. What did
that
say about humanity?
Claire kept her eyes on the road as she pulled her phone out of her purse. She crossed Studebaker, took the entrance ramp to the 22 freeway, speeding now, driving aggressively, which she rarely did. Her class at Cal State, Fullerton, started at ten o’clock, but she didn’t need to speed. The conversation with Earl Johnson was bothering her. That strange, creepy man had put her on guard immediately, and the more he talked, the more defensive she’d become. She forced herself to drive at the legal limit.
She was still angry at Frank, hurt and humiliated by his erratic behavior, but there was no way in the world that she would have told Earl Johnson where he lived. She had gone beyond mere denial, however; she had actively
lied
to the man. She didn’t feel guilty about it, either.
There was a connection between her and Frank, a mutual attraction, try as they might to deny it. The good ones, the interesting ones, they were always trouble, but she was bored with the worm boys in the department, assistant professors desperate for approval, eager to please. No thanks. Then there was Frank, who sent out conflicting signals, forced her to make the first move, but was great fun in bed. There was no way Frank sold insurance. She had known that for a long time, imagining all kinds of interesting reasons why he would make up something like that. Maybe he had a trust fund, or an ex-wife who paid him alimony. He didn’t seem to be involved with anything illegal. She dialed Frank’s number. Earl Johnson had given her the perfect excuse to call him.
The number rang and rang, then finally went dead. She tried it again, with the same result. No message. No voice mail. She was half-tempted to turn around and go back to his apartment and wake him, or leave a message taped to his door, in case he was still incommunicado. She kept driving. She hated being late for class, and she
had
sent Earl Johnson off chasing his tail. Today was a full day, two Elementary Psych classes at Fullerton, and an Adolescent Behavior class way up at Cal State, Northridge. She wouldn’t get home until late this evening. Time to tell Frank about Earl Johnson then. She was going to beat on his door until he answered, make a complete ass of herself if she had to. Frank would probably laugh, tell her she had just turned away his big windfall. She smiled, dialed his number again with one hand.