The Wake-Up Read Online Free PDF Page B

while the Meachums were sleeping, and leave something for the hard charger—a torn copy of the state of California’s community property statutes maybe, or the section of the tax code that detailed the penalties for putting a phantom employee on the books. Tuck it into Meachum’s briefcase, or the pocket of his suit jacket.
    In a few days, Thorpe would show up at the gallery, check out the artwork, and when Meachum came over, he would ask him if he wanted to apologize to Paulo now. The hard charger would tighten a little around the mouth, demand to know what Thorpe
really
wanted, but he would do it. Even if he wasn’t afraid of his infidelity being exposed, even if he and his wife had an “understanding” and his business accounts were straight, the thing that would make Meachum go woozy, the absolute nuts guarantee, was realizing that Thorpe had traipsed into his life. Once you cracked the Fortress of Solitude, there were no more hard chargers. Meachum would make the apology, and then wait for Thorpe to make the next move. A move that would never come. Thorpe had other priorities: He had decided not to go on vacation; he was going to stay around here until he found the Engineer. He could go to Florida after he killed the Engineer.
    Thorpe kicked a soda can down the alley, feeling good. A couple of old hippies approached, passing a joint back and forth. The woman’s doughy flesh pushed out of her cutoff jeans, her breasts pendulous in a macramé bikini top, the man a scarecrow in tie-dyed trunks, a floppy hat atop his head. Hair everywhere, truck-tire huaraches on their feet, the two of them smelling of pot and patchouli. He watched them stagger away, holding hands now, fingers entwined, and the sight filled him with wonder and a longing that made his chest hurt. He hurried out of the alley and onto a side street, stumbling in his haste, as though being chased.
    Up ahead, a woman strode up the steep hill from downtown, a bag of groceries clutched in each arm. Her face was shiny with sweat, a handsome olive-skinned woman with dark hair curling past her shoulders. She wore a white embroidered peasant blouse, white pants cuffed at the ankle. She shifted the bags slightly as she reached the top of the hill, blew her hair out of her face, and grinned at him as she caught him watching.
    Thorpe smiled back.
    The woman gasped as the paper bag in her right hand broke, sending a cascade of groceries onto the sidewalk, a rain of fruits and vegetables and shattered glass jars. A bottle of Perrier foamed over her sandals. She held the other bag with both hands, surrounded by shards of glass, as Thorpe ran to help.
    Thorpe bent down, pulled a sliver of green glass from her foot, and wiped away the spot of blood with a fingertip. Her white cuffs were spotted with mayonnaise.
    “Be careful,” she said as Thorpe gathered up the broken glass.
    “I’ll be careful. . . . Son of a
bitch.
” He stood up. A piece of clear glass was embedded in his knee. He hadn’t even seen it on the sidewalk.
    “You’re hurt.” She shifted her groceries again, concerned.
    “I’m fine. Stupid, but fine.” Thorpe pulled the piece of glass out of his knee.
    She didn’t move her feet, but scooped up loose fruit, then gave them a quick check and put them in the other bag. Her hands were nimble as she selected the groceries, the thick nails trimmed and unpolished, utterly feminine. He bent to help her, and the two of them worked together until the sidewalk was clean. Thorpe carefully folded up a paper bag they had put the pieces of glass in, and walked it over to a garbage can. He turned and found her standing beside him.
    “You’re bleeding. Follow me. I live just a block away.”
    “It’s okay.”
    “Don’t be so male.”
    “Do I have a choice?”
    “You got hurt helping me. Let me return the favor. Come on, tough guy.” She beckoned, and he followed her, the two of them walking side by side. “I’m Gina.”
    “Frank. Can I carry that