Arturo held up the pink slip.
Pinto flipped him the finger.
Vlad pretended to fan the water pistol like a six-shooter, splashed gasoline on Pinto's shoes an instant before one of Arturo's matches landed on his foot.
Pinto stomped like that Lord of the Dance faggot trying to put out the fire, screaming, while Arturo laughed and Vlad doused him. He stood there, out of breath, his clothes smoldering, soaked with gasoline, waiting for Arturo to torch him.
Arturo struck a match, held out the pink slip in the other hand.
Vlad blasted away with the squirt gun, splashing gasoline across Pinto's face, drenching him.
Arturo waved the pink slip.
Tears rolling down his gaunt cheeks, Pinto slowly held out his hand.
Arturo blew out the match.
Arturo and Vlad stepped outside a few minutes later, blinking in the sunlight. Some of the carnies were clustered around the snack bar, scraggly men and women gobbling hot dogs before the crowds came. Others leaned against their rides, drinking beer out of paper bags.
Vlad stared at the biggest ride in the parking lot. "I want to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl."
"The carnival isn't open yet, amigo," said Arturo.
Vlad was already on his way.
For the next half hour, Arturo watched Vlad going round and round on the Tilt-A-Whirl all by himself, smiling broadly, whooping it up.
The first time Arturo had invited Vlad over for dinner, his wife had been furious. Fortuna had said that Vlad was too white, that he was in league with el diablo. Vlad had been on his best behavior that night, bringing presents for the children-coloring books and remote-control race cars, Barbies and G.I. Joe walkie-talkies-but the toys did not soothe Fortuna. Cradling the crucifix that he had bought for her in Mexico City, the one blessed by the Holy Father himself, she had collected the gifts after Vlad left, and thrown them all away.
Arturo thought Fortuna spent too much time at Mass, but she was his wife, and the children were her responsibility. If she wanted to throw out perfectly good toys, that was her decision. But when she told him that she didn't want Vlad in the house anymore, Arturo told her that such things were for him to decide, and when she insisted, clutching at his arm, Arturo threw her down with a flick of his wrist, told her if she asked him again, he would break her jaw, and then his mother would have to stay with them while she recovered. They never spoke of it again, and Vlad came over for dinner at least once a week.
"Arturo!" Vlad waved from the top of the Tilt-A-Whirl. "Arturo!"
Arturo waved back. If Fortuna could see Vlad now, she would be ashamed of herself. How could someone who took such delight in small things be in league with the devil?
7
"This good deed of yours, Frank, what a colossal waste of talent." Billy hadn't said a word during Thorpe's story, just sat there, impassive, but he couldn't hold back now. "A wake-up… just because some businessman smacked a child in the face? You think the boy has never been smacked before?"
"Not in front of me."
"What do you expect the art dealer to do, apologize?"
"I already gave him a chance to do that, but he declined."
Billy stared at Thorpe, the tumble of bowling pins crashing around them. "You're serious." The three of them sat on the bench of lane number 24, secure in their privacy. "Look, if you want to sharpen your claws, that's a good sign, a healthy sign, but why bother with this art dealer? I have more challenging targets for you."
"Software engineers? No thanks."
"You'll use your talents for Uncle Sam but not for me? Not for yourself? What are you, a patriot?" Billy's laugh boomed. "You were bounced out of the military, bounced out of the shop; you don't owe your country anything. It's time to grab what's on the table."
"I'm going to pass."
Billy shook his head, amused. "Have it your way. The offer still stands." He took a deep breath, spread his hands in an attitude of forgiveness. "I'm simply suggesting that this wake-up of yours is a thoughtless indulgence, as narcissistic as your vendetta against the Engineer."
Thorpe leaned closer, right in Billy's face now. "I don't need your approval."
"Temper, temper, but do you honestly think Kimberly would be targeting the Engineer if you had been the one murdered in the safe house?"
"You didn't know her, Billy."
"I hired her, Frank. Just like I hired you."
"You didn't know her."
Billy eased back. "I'm simply suggesting that getting emotionally involved is risky, risky for you, risky for everyone around you. You're a professional, so is the Engineer. You squeezed him, and he turned it back on you. If you could get some distance-"
Thorpe put a hand on Billy's shoulder, felt the big man tense as he drew him closer. Billy liked touching, but he didn't like being touched. Thorpe kept his hand where it was. "That's the problem, Billy. I can't get any distance from it. None at all." He slowly released him.
Billy adjusted his shirt, smoothed out the wrinkles where Thorpe had grabbed him. A tiny vein throbbed on the side of his skull. "If you think this foolishness with the art dealer is going to help you get back into shape for some real work, you have my blessing."
"I don't think it's foolish," said Warren.
They both turned and stared at him. Warren hadn't said a word since Thorpe had started talking about the wake-up.
Warren looked up from his GameBoy, surprised. "What? The guy hit a kid."
Thorpe nodded. "That's right."
Warren pushed his light blue curls away from his face. "My mother's boyfriend was a hitter. That shit would come out of nowhere, too. One minute, I'd be watching Power Rangers; the next, I'd be slammed up against the wall. Never did figure out what I had done wrong." The barbell stud gleamed in his left eyebrow; it looked like a tear falling upward, freed of gravity. "I say do it, Frank. Fuck him up good."
"Well… that was interesting," said Billy, lips pursed. "Warren has given you his seal of approval, so I guess there's nothing more to be said. How do you intend to use Ellsworth? You plan on selling one of his bogus masterpieces to the art dealer?"
"Something like that."
Billy waited, then gave up. "There's no need to involve Ellsworth. I can simply have Warren crash the dealer's credit history. We could even get him audited, if you like. Take Ware five minutes-"
"Two minutes," said Warren, tapping away at his GameBoy.
Thorpe smiled, enjoying seeing Billy try to find out what his plan was. Billy hated not knowing things. It wasn't a matter of personal safety, or gaining financial advantage, or even power. Billy just liked being at the absolute apex of the information pyramid. The "Prime Mover," he called it.
"Why not just tell the art dealer's wife that he's cheating?" said Billy. "Or just make the threat. That should do the job." He rested his chin on his cupped hands, his expression serene, and Thorpe was reminded of the Mayan lord in Meachum's gallery, distant and alien and implacable. "No? All right… well, considering your style, I imagine you're planning something simple, something with the personal touch."
" 'Something borrowed, something blue,' " said Thorpe.
Billy slowly brightened. "The art dealer's wife… is she lovely, Frank?"
"I only met her once."
"Sometimes once is all it takes," said Billy. "Love at first sight, that's the only kind that counts." He cocked his head at Thorpe. "Just one look… wasn't that the way it was with you and Kimberly?"
Thorpe raised a forefinger to his lips. "Shhh."