"A terrible miscalculation." They laughed together. "My husband is Douglas Meachum. That's him over there, going to town on the Cushings. He selected the Riddenhauers' artwork."
"So you're playing the part of the loyal wife tonight."
"Actually, Douglas didn't want me to come, but I insisted. He's afraid I'll say something he'll regret." Gina finished her drink. "How's your knee?"
"I had a good nurse."
"You look like you're ready to leave. It's early."
"It's overdue." Thorpe kissed her on the cheek. "Good night."
"Lucky man."
9
"Just give me the name," typed Thorpe. He had logged on after coming home from the party, given it one more shot. "Give me the name. We can both go to sleep."
"Not sure."
"Give me what you've got, then." It took even longer to get a response this time.
"I'm sure of the name. Not sure I should give it to you."
Thorpe stared at the screen, trying to determine the best tactic. The wrong approach would shut down this avenue for good. It had taken him four days to connect with this man, ever since Billy confirmed that the Engineer had been working for another shop. Thorpe had been passed from one contact to another, before finally reaching him tonight. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then banged out, "I won't insult you by offering money, but I can promise you my help with any problems you might have." He changed the word problems to problem before sending the instant message.
The courtyard gate squeaked, and Thorpe got up from the computer. He heard Pam giggle as he peeked through the blinds, saw her staggering through the moonlight toward her front door. A guy with a crew cut had his arm around her, a lumbering jock in khakis and a red-and-blue-striped rugby shirt. Thorpe went back to the computer, laid the 9-mm on the table.
"Money is never an insult."
Thorpe waited.
"Still, a favor is a nice thing to be owed."
Thorpe turned at the sudden welter of voices from outside, Pam yelling, the jock barking out obscenities. He forced himself to stay seated, to give the man on the other end of the conversation time to decide. Impatience was a sign of weakness.
"So many problems in the world, Frank. It would be good to have someone to call."
Thorpe glanced toward the curtains, then back at the screen.
"Dale Bingham is the name you're looking for."
Pam started shouting again. He could hear Claire trying to smooth things over, repeating over and over that it was late, that it was after midnight. Thorpe was already out the door by the time the jock called somebody "a fucking bitch."
Lights came on in a couple of other apartments as Thorpe ambled over, deliberately slowing his pace. The three of them were clustered on the steps of apartment number 4, Pam just inside the open door, while Claire blocked the jock from following. Pam was dressed sleek and sexy, hennaed hair piled high, glitter dusted across the tops of her breasts, but Claire must have been in bed already, her hair tousled, barefoot, wearing a Raiders jersey that hung to her knees.
"Have you seen my cat?" asked Thorpe.
The jock whirled. There was a fresh scratch on his cheek, two pink parallel lines. "What's your problem?"
"Looking for my cat," said Thorpe, closer now.
"I told you I was celibate," Pam said from behind Claire. "That's the first thing I said when you asked me if I wanted a drink. I'm celibate."
"Fine, you don't have to cum." The jock tried again to get through the door, but Claire held her ground.
"I just wanted to dance-that's what I told you." Pam's mascara was smeared. "You seemed like such a nice guy, Don. That's why I let you drive me home."
"My name is Ron, you fucking bitch."
Thorpe stepped onto the porch. The air was heavy with booze. "Here, kitty, kitty."
The jock turned on Thorpe, fists balled. "Get out of here, man, or I'll kick your ass."
"I'm just looking for my cat. She's a beautiful fluffy white Persian." Thorpe smiled at him. "You probably should go home, Ron; Snowball is scared of strangers."
"I don't give a fuck about your cat, man." The jock went to push Thorpe, but Thorpe dipped his shoulder, and the guy pushed air, lurched off the porch and onto the grass. The jock quickly got to his feet, his eyes hot now. "You tripped me."
Thorpe stepped off the porch, leading the jock away. "Here, kitty. Snowball?"
"Be careful, Frank," called Claire.
The jock jabbed a forefinger at her. "You, shut up." He advanced on Thorpe.
Thorpe stood there in his baggy shorts and a T-shirt. "I'll walk you to your car, if you want, Ron. Or call you a cab."
The jock swung at Thorpe's head, but Thorpe slipped-dodged the punch and threw him off balance. Another punch, same result. Another and another, the jock slipping on the damp grass, scrambling up, breathing hard, cursing. He kept kicking and punching, but Thorpe stayed just out of reach, moving loose and easy, sometimes gently tugging at the jock's rugby shirt, sending him sprawling. After a few minutes, the jock was on his hands and knees in the grass, dripping with sweat and trying to catch his breath.
Thorpe helped him up. "I'm really tired, and it's way past my bedtime. How about we call a truce. You go back to the club and find someone who hasn't taken a vow of chastity, and I'll go make myself a cup of warm cocoa and look for my kitty cat."
The jock wiped his nose, nodded. "You're lucky I don't want to hurt an old guy."
"I appreciate that." Thorpe watched him leave, waiting until the jock had gone through the iron gate before walking back onto the porch. Miss Edwards upstairs had turned off her light, but he knew she was still watching. "You ladies all right?"
"Snowball?" Claire pinched him, laughed.
Thorpe smiled back at her. "That's a nice name for a cat. If I had a cat, I'd probably name her something like that. Or Tabby."
"I bet when Gandhi said he was celibate, nobody argued with him," said Pam.
Claire and Thorpe looked at each other.
Pam yawned. "You coming in?"
"I'm going to stay out here for a little bit," said Claire, sitting on the porch steps.
Thorpe sat beside her.
"I shouldn't have left her alone at the club," said Claire after Pam had closed the door. "It's just that I have a busy day tomorrow and-"
"It wasn't your fault."
"She's got lousy taste in men," said Claire. "Not that I should talk."
"How long has this celibacy thing been going on?"
Claire laughed. "Three days. A new record."
They sat there, not speaking now, enjoying the quiet of the surrounding apartments, aware of the odd intimacy that existed between them, an unacknowledged intimacy. A soap bubble of desire. Miss Edwards had given up and gone to bed. Just the two of them alone in the courtyard, hearing the hum of the freeway traffic in the distance. It felt like being shipwrecked on a desert island, listening to the sound of surf and not caring if they were rescued.
Claire shivered, pulled the football jersey down over her knees. "That was nice what you did. Not hitting that jerk."
"Guys like that, all meat and attitude, you hit them and they resent it. They make excuses. They say they were drunk or you sucker punched them. You're just giving them a reason to come back for more." Thorpe plucked a blade of grass, peeled it down the center. "This way, you let them tire themselves out. If you pretend not to notice, they go away with their dignity intact and they never bother you again."
"I shouldn't have been surprised by the way you handled him." Claire scratched behind her knee, and he knew the skin was baby-soft back there. "Question number sixteen."
"Okay…"
Claire nodded again. "Question sixteen of the Minnesota Multiphasic Human Relations test. 'You usually walk, A: fairly fast, with long steps; B: fairly fast, with short, quick steps; C: head up, looking the world in the face; D: slowly, head down.' You answered, 'C: head up, looking the world in the face,' which indicates that you approach situations without any preconceived notions, with creativity and openness."