"I can call Frank," Missy said to Vlad. "He'll do it if you won't. He's not scared."
"Fuck Frank," said Clark. "Arturo's got that coyote radar-Frank gets anywhere near him, Arturo is going to come out guns blazing. But you… he trusts you, Vlad."
"Frank is very focused, very well trained. You can tell just by looking at him," said Vlad. "That's why he was able to get away from Guillermo. A man like Frank-"
"Damn it, Vlad, will you just shut up?" said Clark. "I'm trying to give you a compliment."
"Arturo always lets me talk," said Vlad. "He doesn't yell at me, except sometimes when I eat fatty foods that he would like to eat himself. I don't blame Arturo for being angry. My metabolism isn't fair. It's not my fault, but it's not fair."
"You understand what the hell he's talking about?" Clark said to Missy.
Missy smiled at Vlad. "I know you and Arturo are friends, but we're your friends, too, aren't we?"
Vlad shook his head. "Not really."
"We pay you plenty, don't we?" said Clark. "Arturo ever give you a dime?"
"I don't need a dime."
"You're missing the fucking point," shouted Clark.
"I'm here," said Cecil, talking to himself. "I'm ready, willing, and able, but does anybody ask Cecil to do the job? No way, Jose."
"I told Arturo we're having our weekly meeting here tomorrow," Clark said to Vlad, "so get yourself prepared. Six o'clock. While Missy goes over the financials, Cecil will bring in Diet Coke or Diet Pepsi, or whatever diet crap Arturo is drinking these days, and when he reaches for the glass, you sidle over and put a bullet in his head. One shot should do it. We'll double-bag Arturo, then stuff him into one of the containers of excess clothes. Next morning, the truck comes and takes the load to the incinerator." He grinned. "No muss, no fuss, no bother."
"Sure, let Cecil bring the drinks like Jeeves the butler," muttered Cecil.
"Why don't you give Arturo another chance?" asked Vlad.
"You got to be shitting me," said Clark.
"Maybe if you give him a chance, Arturo will turn on Guillermo," said Vlad, looking around. "Arturo just needs to be appreciated more. Told that he's doing a good job. He worries all the time. Maybe if you were nicer to him, he wouldn't worry so much."
Missy stared at him, wondering what she would have to do, how high they would have to rise, before she and Clark would be dealing with a better-quality person. The loyal ones, like Vlad and Cecil, were pea brains. Arturo was smart, but greedy, and untrustworthy. All of the time she and Clark had put into the business, all their talent and hard work, and here they were, surrounded by weaklings and Benedict Arnolds. She had to ask herself, Really, what would it take? "Vlad, honey," she said evenly, "I don't think Arturo sold us out because he was worried."
"If you were nicer to him, Arturo might switch back," said Vlad. "Then, instead of Guillermo having Arturo on the inside of us, we would have Arturo on the inside of him. Please, Clark? Arturo deserves another chance."
"He deserves to be burned up and have his ashes dumped in a landfill." Clark scowled. "Maybe I have been too easygoing, but that's about to change. Just be here tomorrow, Vlad, and be ready to do your job. Smile, dude. Tomorrow's the first day of the rest of your life."
38
"Excuse me, miss?" The Engineer put on his earnest but weary expression. It wasn't hard. It was barely 9:00 a.m., but he was already tired. For the last three days, ever since the checker at Ralphs gave him the heads-up on Thorpe, he had been knocking on doors within walking distance of the Belmont Shore pier. His feet were sore and his face ached from smiling. "Could you help me, please?"
The woman stopped, eyed him as the security gate closed behind her with a rusty squeak. She shifted her briefcase. "I'm in a hurry."
The Engineer put his hands up. "I just need a moment of your time. I'm not selling anything. You have my word on that."
"Just a minute." She walked to a car parked in front of the small apartment complex, popped the trunk.
No slack from this one. She was all business. A lot of them said they were in a hurry, but she meant it. Nice-looking woman, but a real stick up her ass. Give him ten minutes, and she'd loosen up. A California State University, Fullerton, staff parking sticker was on her rear window, right next to one from Cal State, Long Beach, and another one from Golden West College. What was that old song-"Hot for Teacher"? He watched her stow her briefcase, admired her figure in the tailored trousers and jacket. Some women looked like dykes when they dressed like men; others became even more feminine. The Engineer would bet that half the college boys in her class sported a woody when she wrote on the blackboard.
"What do you want?"
The Engineer gave up on the smile. "I was hoping you could help me find someone. I think he lives in the Shore, but I don't have an address on him." He fumbled in his notebook, a practiced clumsiness, designed to reinforce his nonthreatening aspect. The Engineer, with his high-water pants and white short-sleeved dress shirt, his pocket protector stuffed with ballpoints, was a nerd out of water in the Shore, a doofus lost in the cool zone. "State… State of California owes him an inheritance from his late uncle, but he moved without leaving a forwarding address." He handed her the photo of Thorpe. "Have you ever seen him around here?"
She stared at the photo.
It was a lousy photo, eight years out of date, taken when Thorpe was discharged from the military, all steely-eyed and with that knowing grin that the Engineer wanted to burn away with a blowtorch. He dabbed his moist forehead with his clip-on necktie. It was a lousy photo, but it was the only one he had.
"He looks kind of familiar."
"It's an old picture." She held on to the photo, which was a good sign. The Engineer looked at her directly. "I'll be honest with you. I represent a company that tracks down dead accounts in the state Department of Revenue." He pulled a business card from his pocket, handed it over. "That's me, Earl Johnson. The uncle died over six years ago, but I just got the file last week. If the account isn't paid out in three months, it reverts to the state." He tugged at his pants.
"What's his name?"
"I'm embarrassed to tell you, but we don't know what name he's going under right now. That's what makes this job so tough. He's kind of an… underground type, you know? Real name is Frank Stanford, but your guess is as good as mine as to what the name is on his driver's license. No matter to me. We aren't connected in any way, shape, or form with law enforcement, so you won't be getting anyone in trouble. All I want to do is find him and have him collect his money. I'll be honest with-"
"You said that already."
The Engineer smiled. It hurt, but if he'd had barbed wire through his gums, he would have smiled for her. Lousy bitch interrupting his flow, seeing if she could trip him up. Too smart for her own good, just like he thought. "Well, Miss…" She didn't give up her name. Fine, see where that gets you. She was lucky he was focused on finding Thorpe and wasn't about to let anything distract him. Business before pleasure. "I guess I do repeat myself, and I apologize…" He hitched up his pants again. "I just wanted to let you know that when I locate him, I get a ten percent finder's fee, which is a nice chunk of change. Any help you give me, I won't forget when I get paid."
She handed back the photo. "That's very nice of you, Mr. Johnson."
"That's the way I was raised, ma'am."
She flicked his business card with her thumbnail. "I do remember him. Frank somebody, just like you said."
The Engineer kept his distance, not wanting to scare her off, the tips of his fingers tingling with anticipation.
"I used to see him running along the beach. He lived on Claremont. Last time I talked to him, he said he was moving. He said he had a new apartment in… Los Alamitos, I believe."