"Don't be snippy," said Mrs. Riddenhauer, her eyes still on Thorpe. "Meachum said every room was supposed to have a-what did he call it?"
"An aesthetic focal point."
Mrs. Riddenhauer put back the limestone panel. "Well, the dining room needs a fucking focal point, and this is it. Just make sure it's installed before my party. You need to come by and rearrange the main living room, too. It's still not right." The sunlight coming through the window behind her made her skirt nearly transparent. A thong on center court… Thorpe wondered what Wimbledon would say about that. Mrs. Riddenhauer showed him her small, slightly uneven teeth. "You have a name, clever guy?"
"Frank Antonelli."
"Missy Riddenhauer." She slipped her hand in his. "As in Camp Riddenhauer."
Thorpe nodded, as though he knew what she was talking about.
"What do you do, Frank?"
"I sell insurance."
"Sounds dull." Missy held on to his hand, and her grip was warm and very firm, and if she wanted to hang on, Thorpe was going to have to clock her to make her let go. "You don't look dull."
"Ah, but I am. I see that Ferrari of yours out front, and all I can think of is what kind of liability coverage you have, and how you keep that short skirt from blowing in the wind when you accelerate."
"Would you like to go for a ride? You can see how well I manage it."
"I can't today."
Missy gnawed her lower lip, and Thorpe wasn't sure if it was a sign of desire or anger. She gave his hand a final squeeze, then released him. "You want to come to my party? It's next Saturday night, and it's going to be loads of fun. Come on, what's to think about? Meachum did a complete makeover on our home-you'll get a chance to see if you like his work, and I'll get a chance to see if you're as boring as you say you are."
"Sure, sounds like fun."
"I'll put your name on the guest list." Missy slipped him a business card. "Send me an e-mail if you need anything. Nell, give the man the details." She turned on her heel, strode out the door, and slid behind the wheel of the Ferrari.
Thorpe tucked away Missy's business card as she roared off.
5
"Best behavior now, Warren. This is a dangerous man," said Billy, introducing them. "Everybody in the shop thought Frank was a brainiac, but I knew better."
Warren looked up from his beeping GameBoy, pushed aside a nest of light blue hair, the silver chains around his wrists making slinky sounds. He was in his twenties, a sullen punk in torn jeans and a black leather jacket, a barbell stud through his left eyebrow, blue mascara matching his hair and nail polish-the geek as rough trade. He propped one black engineer's boot on the plastic bench of lane number 24, the last lane of the Hollywood Bowlerama, eyeballing Thorpe.
Thorpe held up his right hand. "I come in peace."
Warren went back to his GameBoy, one of those modified units sold only in Japan.
"You'll have to forgive Warren-he's very territorial," said Billy.
"I'll survive." Thorpe felt like he had to shout to be heard over the thundering din, but Billy's silky voice somehow cut through the noise, slipped under the disco blaring on the sound system. No wonder Billy had wanted to meet here: there wasn't a parabolic mike or laser recorder that could pick up conversation through the auditory soup.
"Of course you will," purred Billy, a tall, powerfully built man in his mid-fifties, with large liquid eyes, a broad, flat nose, and skin the color of polished anthracite. His gray hair was cropped and thick, an aristocrat in burnt-orange trousers and a shimmering yellow rayon bowling shirt. He plucked his bowling ball from the return chute, hefted it in his huge hands. "Good to see you, Frank. The shop should have never let you go, but then, Hendricks always had a limited imagination."
"Maybe I was due for a change."
"Nonsense." Cheers erupted from the next lane. Old ladies in green team shirts-Keglar Kuties-were clapping, high-fiving each other. A wizened bottle redhead called to Billy, and he waved back, then moved to the approach line, stood there, the bowling ball clasped to his chest. His matching yellow bowling shoes whispered across the polished hardwood as he glided forward. A smooth release and the ball whipped down the alley. Strike! He sauntered back.
"Two forty-one," said Warren. "Today's three-game average is two twelve. Two seventeen for the week."
Billy tapped the side of his head. "Warren keeps it all up here. You should see him at the supermarket-he knows the final bill before the clerk scans the last item. Comes in handy, Frank. They can't subpoena what's not written down." His face reflected the red neon lane lights as he took inventory of Thorpe's dark gray Versace. "Tres chic, as always. You're the best-dressed killer I ever met." He grinned. "One dead in the parking lot, another cut down charging out of the underbrush, and another so badly wounded, he died that afternoon." Pins crashed around them, echoing off the concrete-block walls. "My whole career, I never hefted anything more dangerous than a butter knife, and you kill three men in the fifteen seconds it took you to reach your car." Billy's eyes were bright now. "What does that feel like?"
"Like it wasn't nearly enough."
Billy nodded. "Yes, Kimberly was a talented girl, intellectually very agile. Weeks… well, I always thought he was a little careless."
"Shut up, Billy."
"Eggs and omelettes, Frank, and you did draw blood yourself. If you were an ancient Egyptian, those three dead men would be added to your slaves in the afterlife."
"I don't want any slaves."
"Might be nice to have someone to send out for ice water."
"You think I'm going to need a cold drink, Billy?"
Billy reached for his rum and Coke. "We're both going to be parched for all of eternity. Of that, I'm certain." He peered at Thorpe over the rim of the glass, a lepidopterist examining a particularly interesting butterfly, imagining how he would look with pins through his wings. "How are you physically, Frank? I heard you were lucky not to lose your spleen. I warrant you've been doing push-ups for weeks now, building your strength, working up a good healthy sweat-"
"Did you check out the Engineer like I asked?"
"Congratulations." Billy rattled the ice cubes in his drink. "You were right. He was a virus. You have no idea how many markers I had to call in to get confirmation."
"Does the Engineer's shop know where he is?"
"What are you guys talking about?" Warren looked from one to the other, his narrow fox face framed by the upturned collar of his leather jacket. "Speak English, okay?"
"A virus is a player who inserts himself into an existing criminal enterprise, then directs it toward his own ends, or the ends of his shop," explained Billy.
"I should have picked up on him," said Thorpe. "Lazurus was into extortion, credit card fraud, money laundering… nothing particularly interesting. Then the Engineer joined the crew and they shift into overseas transfers of dual-use hardware. I figured Lazurus had brought him in to oversee the technical part of the operation, but I should-"
"You weren't the only one fooled." Billy chuckled. "Lazurus probably thought it was his idea to go into the arms business. The Engineer was going to roll up some very nasty operators when the time was ripe. He was going to take down the whole network. You can understand him being vexed when you stepped on his toes. All that hard work spoiled."
"Vexed? You saw what he did at the safe house."
Billy shrugged. "These deep-cover boys are always twitchy, and the Engineer was positively subterranean. The way you and Kimberly duped him must have touched a nerve."
"Why didn't he just say something?" asked Thorpe. "We were on the same side."
"Actually, no." Billy played with the crease in his trousers. "Different shop."