The Wake-Up Read Online Free PDF

You draw blood, you apologize. It’s common courtesy, but it will make a big difference to Paulo.”
    “Did my wife put you up to this?”
    “I’m just trying to give you a chance to make things right,” said Thorpe. “Remember all those fairy tales about the old woman who knocks on the castle door late one night, asking for a meal? An old woman who turns out to be a witch, or an angel? The lesson is always the same, Doug. When in doubt, be kind.”
    “I’m not feeling very kind at the moment, Mr. . . . Ah well, I don’t really care who you are. Suffice it to say, if you bother me again, I’ll contact the police.”
    Thorpe listened to the dial tone. No apology. Well, a guy who took the easy way out wasn’t the type who decked a kid and kept walking. Thorpe wasn’t surprised at Meachum’s response. He smiled. Truth be told, he wasn’t disappointed, either. He got up, stretched, and went outside.
    “Frank!” Pam toasted him with the tequila bottle as Claire waved.
    Frank sat down on the grass beside the blue wading pool, admiring the way the water glistened on their skin. Rainbows everywhere and no pot of gold. Pam passed him the bottle. He took a swallow, felt the fire, and bit into a lemon wedge, the taste sharp and clean on his tongue. Bees buzzed in the flowers nearby. He took another swallow, then passed the bottle back.
    “Hey, you.” Claire rested her head on the edge of the pool. “Something happen today? You hit the lottery or fall in love?”
    The tequila hit him hard and fast on an empty stomach. “Something like that. I’ve got all these possibilities . . . and no consequences.”
    “What’s he talking about?” asked Pam.
    Claire stretched in the sun. “It’s like when we walk into a club and there’s hotties everywhere, and we just have to decide which one to smile back at.” She scooped water out of the pool and let it run off her fingers and onto her throat. “Most of the time, that’s the best part of the evening,
before
we decide, when they’re all spread out there before us, eager to please, and we haven’t had to listen to their career plans.”
    Pam took a swallow of tequila. “Speak for yourself, girl.”
    Claire looked at Thorpe, her short hair beaded with water. “Did I get it right, Frank?”
    “Yeah, you stuck the dismount.” Thorpe lay on the warm grass, feeling the glow of the tequila, enjoying the sun and the music. He hadn’t felt this good since he was fired.

3
    Meachum’s house in Laguna was a piece of cake. Thorpe had seen Pokémon lunch boxes with better security. Located in a quiet neighborhood five blocks inland from the Pacific Coast Highway, the house was a modest stucco rambler dating from the 1960s, with large windows and a front walkway of worn paving stones. The yard was overgrown with shade trees, dry leaves drifting down. On the front porch, Thorpe could see two white wicker rocking chairs. No armed-response stickers on the windows, no motion-sensitive lights in back, no sign of a dog. The place was a walk-in, open and easy and inviting. Hard to imagine the hard charger living there.
    Even late in the afternoon, people were still parking on the narrow streets and making the trek to the beach, towels slung over their shoulders, sandals flip-flopping on the cracked sidewalk. Thorpe, in shorts and a Santa Barbara 10-K T-shirt, had made a circuit of the block, checked out the alley behind the rambler. Half the homes had their back doors wide open, hoping to catch some breeze. If anyone asked what he was doing, he carried a flyer from a nearby open house as cover—a three-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath fixer-upper offered at $799,500. No one had asked him what he was doing, though. Laguna was a live-and-let-live town.
    Thorpe started down the alley toward his car, which was parked a few blocks away. He had accomplished what he’d come for. A casually dressed stranger in the neighborhood would draw no attention. He could bide his time, then slip inside