"Maybe Guillermo lied to Frank," Cecil said from the edge of the sunken media room, perched uncomfortably on the steps. "I agree with Missy: You should have gone ahead and killed Guillermo."
They ignored him.
Clark kept switching channels. The coffee table in front of him was strewn with half-eaten bowls of cereal, congealed eggs, and coffee cups. Sugar granules were scattered across the shiny black surface from where Clark had loaded up his Frosted Flakes.
"You fucked up, Arturo, no two ways about it." Missy sat on the couch, her legs tucked up, twisting her blond hair back and forth as if trying to start a fire. "Driving off the way you did, to interrogate a grease monkey, no less… no wonder Guillermo thinks we're weak."
"Guillermo thinks we're not dumb enough to fall into a trap- that's what he's thinking now," Arturo said to her, his voice wound as tightly as one of the watches Vlad wanted to take apart someday. "You should be thanking me and Vlad, instead of insulting us. You should be grateful for what we did last night, and what we did a hundred other nights."
"Arturo… dude, maybe you should have brought Frank here, so we could talk to him." Clark tapped the remote control on the arm of the chair as he spoke, sleepy-eyed and slack. "See, now we're not sure if he was hired by Guillermo or the Yellow Magic boys or maybe even-"
"How could we trust anything he said?" asked Arturo.
"You make him tell us the truth," said Missy. "Isn't that what you and Vlad do?"
"We do a lot more than that," said Arturo.
"Too late to argue about now, so let's kiss and make up." Clark yawned, pulled a vial of pills from the pocket of his pajamas. "Who wants to get high?"
"I do," called Cecil.
"Anybody?"
"Me!" said Cecil.
Clark looked around, shrugged, and shoved the vial back into his pocket.
"You should have brought Frank back here and forced the truth out of him," Missy said to Arturo. "That's all I intend to say on the matter."
"Let me tell you something." Arturo stepped toward her, but she just kept on twisting her hair. "Some people, it don't matter what you do to them, they're going to lie to you with their dying breath. Just like Pinto last night. Raising the car up, giving him room, letting him think there's a chance… that's when they break. Not Pinto. He was hard-core to the bone. Guys like him, they're going to lie just so they can feel like they got the last laugh. That's what Frank is like, too. Exact same."
Vlad tugged at his socks. "You said you had a lot of respect for Pinto."
"Lot of respect," said Arturo. "After the way he handled himself last night… yeah, he died like a man."
"Then that must mean you have a lot of respect for Thorpe, too," said Vlad.
Arturo's face got red.
"I think he's got you there, Arturo," said Clark. "That's what they call a logical syllogism."
"I'm going to get another ice tea." Arturo stalked toward the kitchen. If Cecil hadn't scooted out of the way, he would have been kicked aside.
There was a beeping from the couch. Missy pulled out her PDA, checked the screen. She opened the e-mail, curious, then closed it, slipped the PDA back between the cushions.
"Who was it, babe?"
"Nobody," said Missy. "Just more junk." "I'm in," said Warren, clapping his hands together like a Vegas dealer making a shift change. "How long, Billy?"
Billy looked out over the beach, impassive and untouchable. The morning light gleamed on his shaved head, his skin so black that it was purple, the color of kings. He was large and powerfully built, but graceful, oddly dapper in ocher slacks, a loose cotton shirt, and a yellow paisley ascot. Sometimes Thorpe thought Billy chose his wardrobe to see if anyone would laugh. No one ever did.
"Billy?"
"Four minutes, fifty-eight seconds," said Thorpe.
Warren's blue-tipped hair was spiked like a cockatoo. "You fucking with me?"
"Not even a remote possibility," said Thorpe.
"Under five minutes…" Warren nodded, flipped Missy's business card back to Thorpe, and went back to the wireless laptop balanced on his knees. "That's acceptable." He sat on a bench just off the beach bike path, wearing a black mesh tank top, Lycra bike shorts, and customized silver-flecked Rollerblades. Without his black leather jacket, he looked scrawny and vulnerable, but his sneer was still in place.
A few minutes ago, Warren had sent Missy spam. She had spiked the free offer without downloading it, but just opening the e-mail had inserted a worm into her operating system, a keystroke-sniffing program that Warren had created himself. Four minutes and fifty-eight seconds later, he had her password and files at his disposal.
"Off-the-shelf encryption… why do people even bother?" Warren sat hunched over, immobile except for his fingers dancing over the keys.
"Can you do it?" asked Thorpe.
"Don't insult me," said Warren.
"In the interest of fair play, I think Warren and I deserve to know what you're up to," said Billy. "The last time I saw you, your little wake-up had gone awry. It doesn't seem like you've made much progress since then."
"Not much."
"If you want our help, if you're exposing us to potential harm, I think it only appropriate that you tell us what you're planning." Billy sat down beside Warren, smoothed his ascot, playful now. "Of course, my own curiosity does factor in, too."
Thorpe hated to admit it, but Billy was right. If Thorpe had leveled with Bishop, he might still be alive. He casually checked the area, but there were only joggers, bicyclists, and skaters, all with their headsets on, moving to their own private beat.
Billy didn't say a word while Thorpe filled him in on what had happened since they had breakfast at the Harbor House Cafe. It had been only eight days since they had sat on the outdoor patio reading Betty B's column, Billy asking Thorpe if it was his doing. Everything had changed at that moment, and Thorpe hadn't even realized it. He told Billy everything that had happened in the last eight days. He left out only Danny Hathaway's involvement and the convenient departure of Gina and Douglas Meachum.
"I'm very sorry to hear about the death of your friend," said Billy when Thorpe was finished.
"We only knew each other for a few days…"
"It's not really a matter of time, is it? It's what you share, the decisions you make."
"He was my friend, Billy."
Billy patted Thorpe's arm, and for a change it wasn't an attempt to be proprietary or intimidating. It was oddly tender. "Don't beat up on yourself, Frank. Mistakes happen. The problem with being a lone wolf is that your mistakes magnify because you have no one to bounce your ideas off of, no one you trust to tell you no. I'm not telling you this to persuade you to work with me; I know you have to carry this wake-up of yours to its conclusion." His eyes were warm. "When you're finished, though, I hope you'll reconsider what we've discussed."
"Thanks, Billy." Thorpe meant it. "I just can't… I just can't quit. Not now."
"That's why you're the best at what you do," said Billy.
"What happened to the businessman who smacked the kid at the airport?" Warren crossed his legs, spun the wheels of his skate. "The art dealer. What happened to him?"
"He's in Hawaii," said Thorpe. "He's drinking mai tais with his wife."
Warren shook his head. "What's the name you want me to hack from her address book?" he asked, fingers poised over the laptop.
"Arturo… I don't know his last name," said Thorpe.
"No big deal," said Warren, tapping away. "I'll just run through her recent e-mail exchanges."
"Don't crash his PDA until I call," said Thorpe. "I don't know when I'll catch up with Missy. You're sure you can do it on a moment's notice?"
"Spare me your doubts, okay?" said Warren. "I'll toast him."