No matter how you looked at it, Cecil was overworked and under-appreciated. He had boosted the minivan in record time-slim-jimmed the door latch, cracked the wheel lock with a breaker bar, and popped the ignition in two shakes of a lamb's tail. You think Missy would be impressed? You'd be out of your fucking mind, you thought that.
Cecil squeezed the steering wheel. The gardener's gloves were a little lame maybe, but he didn't have any of the cool surgical gloves movie badasses always wore. Cecil knew what he was doing. Gloves were gloves. He knew about cars, too. Missy would have given him a smack for boosting a minivan instead of a Hummer or a Mercedes, but those rides all had security systems and satellite monitoring units. No, if you were contemplating murder, a beat-up minivan was just what the situation called for.
He pulled his baseball cap lower, one of those expansion teams from a city no one ever heard of. Another advantage of watching so much television was that Cecil had learned how to get away with murder. Gloves, that was the first thing. Then a hat, so you couldn't be ID'd from your hair, which in Cecil's case was red and thinning. Clark kept saying he was going to work on some kind of hair-growing formula, but all he seemed to do was come up with better ways to get fucked-up. Not that Cecil was complaining. Clark and his new and improved dope kept the money train rolling. Still, the guy could spend a little time and help out his brother-in-law. Cecil's barber suggested he get a crew cut, said short hair put less stress on the scalp, but that was probably just a way to keep Cecil coming back every two weeks for a trim. Everyone was a rip-off.
Betty B had been inside the Rusty Pelican for almost an hour. Cecil had followed her to three other fancy bars this evening. She probably told everybody it was part of her job, gathering gossip, then wrote off her bar tab on her taxes, another reason the country was going down the shitter. Cecil had joined the National Guard about five years ago, but he washed out of basic training because of his bum ankles. He used to feel embarrassed about it, but now he was glad it had happened. You put in your time defending your country, getting up at the crack of dawn, and some old drunk stiffs Uncle Sam for her fair share.
Try as he might, though, Cecil couldn't bring himself to hate Betty B. Yeah, she had written some pretty rank things about Missy, but, like Clark said, it was just a newspaper. Twice tonight he'd had a chance at her, and both times he had waited too long, making excuses why it wasn't the right moment. He beat the steering wheel. It was just this kind of weakness that kept him fetching coffee for Missy and double-checking the pH balance in the swimming pool.
Fuck it. This time, Cecil was going to take care of business. Cecil, not Vlad, and not that greaseball Arturo. Clark had told Missy no, said he was happy with the piece of the pie they had. Cecil had to admit it was a pretty fine slice, too-big house on the water, fancy cars, trash bags full of cash, but Missy had said how could you be happy with a slice when you could have the whole damned pie? Cecil didn't think Clark was scared of Guillermo, no matter what Missy said. He thought Clark was just… satisfied. Maybe after Cecil killed Betty B, he'd be satisfied, too.
Cecil shifted in his seat, practically sticking to it. He could smell his own sweat. If Vlad or Arturo were sitting here, they'd be cool and calm, Vlad probably talking about some cartoon show he had watched that afternoon, Arturo going on about his stock portfolio.
Cecil sat up as Betty B staggered out of the Rusty Pelican. She had to hold on to the doorman's arm, yapping away, breathing bourbon in his face, from the way he turned away. Cecil's chest was tight. He took short little breaths as he watched Betty B look around, probably trying to remember where she had parked her car. He eased the van out from the curb as Betty B started down the sidewalk. She kept patting her hair, as though trying to hold her head in place.
Cecil tugged at his cap for reassurance, and the action reminded him of what Betty B was doing with her hair. Loser. He had stolen more cars than he could count, had rolled drunks, beaten up queers, even done a few B and E's. He had hit Gary Jinks over the head with a tire iron for stealing his girlfriend, and once he threatened a club bouncer with a starter pistol, but here he was, sitting in some minivan, thirty-one years old, losing his hair, and he had never killed anyone.
Betty B started down the sidewalk in the cool night air.
Cecil rolled down the street, lights out, accelerating. Thorpe drove back through downtown Huntington Beach, feeling so light-headed that he wouldn't have been able to pass a field sobriety test. He hadn't had anything to drink, but there was no way he could walk a straight line. He could barely drive a straight line. That's what happiness could do to you. He had spent so much time hating himself these last few months, blaming himself, but now he was doing something about it. Come Saturday, he and the Engineer might meet again, a Shock Waves rendezvous. Those saints who said revenge never solved anything had never lost anyone. Killing the Engineer wouldn't bring back Kimberly, but it would make the Engineer just as dead.
For some reason, he thought of Claire, the two of them sitting on the steps under the stars, and her asking him why he had never hit on her. He would have liked to have told her.
Thorpe slammed on his brakes as a man and a woman ran across the street, holding hands. He watched them disappear into a Dunkin' Donuts shop. It was the same couple he had seen walking through the alley behind Meachum's house that first day, two old hippies in tie-dye and macrame, teeth missing, hair everywhere. He wondered how they had gotten from Laguna to Huntington, and he wondered what had happened to the man's floppy hat. Most of all, he wondered how they managed to look so much in love. He drove on, shaking his head.
The wake-up hadn't gone as smoothly as he'd thought. The column by Betty B in the Gold Coast Pilot had embarrassed Meachum, but it had been even worse for Missy. He had no idea how Betty B had found out. Billy had read the article and clucked about the law of unintended consequences, as immutable a law as relativity or thermodynamics. Thorpe had walked out of the restaurant, called the gallery a few minutes later. Gina Meachum answered the phone. He almost hung up, then asked to speak to Meachum. He wasn't there. "Frank? Is that you?" Gina said. She told him it was Nell Cooper who had fed Betty B the story. "Douglas was so upset, Frank. He said he had taught her everything she knew, and she betrayed him. She didn't even bother giving notice or leaving a forwarding address."
Thorpe remembered the dismay on Nell's face at the party, watching Meachum working the room, the smile she stuck on her face when she went to join him. Thorpe wasn't sure about the law of unintended consequences, but he believed in the law of common courtesy. It wasn't just Statue of Liberty boilerplate. His most successful operations had been achieved by going through an angry wife, a put-upon chauffeur, a secretary who was never thanked, a gardener whose work was stepped on, a bodyguard made to take out the trash. A powerful man who showed contempt for the people under him was the easiest target in the world. Thorpe was sorry that Missy had gotten caught up in the wake-up, but he was glad Nell had broken free of Meachum.
He took a right onto the Pacific Coast Highway, humming along to the radio as he headed back to his apartment.
18