Ellis watched a standard-size white poodle flounce across the floor of the pavilion, puffy balls of fur on the dog's head and the tip of its tail bouncing with every step. "I'd like to get me one of them dogs."
Quentin stared at the poodle's handler scampering beside him, an old guy in a black tuxedo, breathing hard. He shook his head. The things some people would do to make a buck. Fucking pathetic.
"Beautiful dog," said Ellis. "Looks like Julia Roberts."
"You said the same thing about the cocker spaniel and the terrier and the Afghan hound. They all look like Julia Roberts to you."
Ellis dragged a hand through his greasy hair. "I'm just saying we should get us a dog."
A couple of weeks ago, some lady and her kid had walked down the private driveway to the front door, the kid in a Girl Scout uniform crisscrossed with merit badges, the lady carrying a paper bag loaded with cookies. Ellis had answered the door, listened while the kid went into her sales pitch. The lady had sniffed, wrinkled her nose, catching a whiff of the ethyl ether cooking in the garage. Ellis, for once in his life, had a smart reaction-told the lady they had cats and he was overdue to empty the litter box. "Gosh, mister, how many cats do you have?" asked the kid, gagging. No sale, bitch.
For the next couple of days, Ellis had jabbered on about how they should get a cat in case anyone else came around wondering about the smell. Quentin said no way, he had allergies, so now Ellis had switched to wanting a dog. Quentin tried to tell him that dog piss didn't smell like cat piss, but once Ellis got his mind around an idea, he didn't let go. It was just a matter of time until he came home with some puppy that would get into the acetone, go into convulsions, and then there would be a three-hour argument over who was going to dig the hole for it.
Quentin grabbed the remote and switched channels. Dozens of hot rods streamed around an oval track, kicking up dust. "That reminds me. Any of them cars of yours run? My sister's kid wants one bad. Just turned sixteen and that's all he talks about."
"Nothing out there is worth a damn," said Ellis, "but I can put something together for him. Clean VIN numbers guaranteed. Just give me a week or two."
"How much?" asked Quentin.
"Don't worry about it."
Quentin watched the hot rods go round and round. They looked like windup toys. "My sister's kid, he can tell you everybody won the Daytona Five Hundred. He can go clear back to 1946 or '47, tell you what they were driving and what their time was, too."
Ellis peered at the screen. "I'll put a real nice car together for him. Anybody who can remember all that shit, he deserves it."
"I don't know…" Quentin repacked his nose. "I tried to tell him, when you pencil it out, it hardly pays to own a car. You figure in the DUIs, it would be cheaper to take a cab."
"How you gonna pick up supplies if you don't got a car?" asked Ellis. "You going to ask the cabbie to wait while you buy a couple hundred road flares, a crate of Sudafed, and twenty gallons of anhydrous ammonia?"
"I'm not talking about us," said Quentin, "I'm talking about him. You start figuring in gas, oil, retreads, DUIs… and jail time, you can't forget that. Even if you make bail, you're still gonna lose a day, assuming you don't get popped on a weekend, when it's gonna be worse. Like I said, all things considered…" He turned around, hearing something. Two men stood just inside the side door. They were wearing Bozo the Clown masks with orange hair and big red noses. If it hadn't been for the shotguns, he would have thought it was Halloween.
"Oh wow, I love this part," whispered Ellis, oblivious to their visitors, as one of the hot rods veered into another, the cars behind them unable to stop, tumbling end over end.
The shotguns had focused Quentin, brought his mind to full attention. He couldn't bring himself to look at those Bozo faces-that was too much to ask-but he was thinking better now, with all the time in the world, because things had slowed down, the way they always did when he was behind a load of crank, and the more he thought about it, the more the fact that they were wearing masks seemed like a good thing. If you were going to waste somebody, you didn't need to bother wearing a mask. Yeah, the masks were a hopeful sign, but he still couldn't bring himself to look at anything but the shotguns, a sawed-off double-barrel and a pump Mosburg. The shorter Bozo, the one cradling the Mosburg, had lacy tattoos scrolled over his forearms, spiderwebs with spaceships caught in the strands, and Quentin recognized the design, knew who they belonged to, but he didn't say anything. Not a word.
"Give up the goods, motherfuckers," demanded the tall Bozo.
"What?" Ellis tore himself away from the TV. "Hey… what's the deal?"
The tall Bozo waved the double-barrel. It had been sawed off unevenly, the metal still shiny, not filed smooth, and that bothered Quentin for reasons he couldn't even fathom. "The deal is, you hand over your stash, and I don't blow your shit away."
Ellis peered at the shorter Bozo's arms. "Pinto? Is that you, man? What up, dude?"
"He recognizes you." The tall Bozo pulled back the hammers on the double-barrel. "Time to make a commitment here, Pinto."
Ellis looked at Quentin. "Did I fuck up?"
Quentin wanted to cry.
Pinto pushed back his Bozo mask. "Damn thing was too hot anyway," he said to his partner. He raised his shotgun.
"Quentin?" wailed Ellis. "I fucked up, didn't I?"
Quentin closed his eyes. He covered his ears, too, covered them tight.
15
"You look chipper this morning," said Billy. "What's the occasion?"
Thorpe slid into the booth beside Billy, the two of them facing the entrance. "Maybe I'm just happy to see you."
"Perhaps that's it." Billy's plate was piled high with a Turbo omelette, the specialty of the Harbor House Cafe in Sunset Beach-four eggs, three kinds of cheese, bacon, sweet onions, and sliced avocado. They sat in the corner of the patio overlooking Pacific Coast Highway, and though the surrounding tables were filled, the traffic noise masked their conversation. Billy sliced into the omelette with the side of his fork. He was a big man, but he took small bites, his manners impeccable. "Although I suspect your bonhomie has more to do with that wake-up of yours."
"Just coffee, thanks," Thorpe said to the waitress. He had sent the "be kind to strangers and small children" card to Meachum's gallery- he should get it today. Thorpe watched the waitress walk away. A sunny day, Meachum getting his wake-up, and a waitress in running shorts with the legs of a marathoner. He should call Father Esteban and tell him to light a candle in gratitude.
Billy wore dark slacks and a Hawaiian shirt with hula dancers on it, their grass skirts shimmying as he ate. On him, it had a look of casual elegance, a planter from the 1920s with five thousand acres of pineapples to be harvested, and never a doubt in his mind that the offshore hurricane would strike the next plantation, not his. "Have you settled everything with the art dealer?"
"All settled."
"You should thank the poor man." Billy dabbed his lips with a napkin. "I haven't seen you look this good since your encounter with the Engineer."
Thorpe watched the waitress approach with his coffee. The people at the surrounding tables were mostly locals and construction workers from the condos being put up across the street, young people in beach attire, and yacht clubbers from the nearby marina, wearing pearls and Rolexes.
"You sure this is all you want?" the waitress asked him.
Thorpe smiled back at her. "I've got all I can handle."
"You should thank the art dealer," said Billy as the waitress left.
"You already said that."
"The truth bears repeating."
"What did you want to talk to me about, Billy?"
Billy's eyes were innocent. "Do I need a reason?"