"It's late," said Gregor. "It's late and I'm tired."
The soft man sighed. "Gregor does have a point, Mr. Bishop. I have enjoyed your little charade, but the reality is that you are going to tell me what I want to know. The only matter in dispute is how much pain you're going to endure before you do."
Bishop licked his lips. He didn't turn his head, but he knew the hammer was on the counter behind him. "I don't like being hurt. I got no pain threshold at all."
"Now we're making progress," said the soft man. "So, where was Frank going?"
"There's a Denny's in South Laguna that's open all night. He wanted me to meet him there for breakfast, but I prefer my own cooking."
"Does Denny's still have that Grand Slam Breakfast special?" asked the soft man.
Bishop smiled. He was fucked no matter what he did.
"It's a very good deal," said the soft man. "Pancakes, eggs, sausage… How do you know Frank? You must be pretty special for him to drop in like this."
"We worked a stakeout one time," said Bishop. "He was anticrime detail and I was Riverside PD. I transferred to Laguna a year ago, but we kept in touch."
"You're a police officer?" asked the soft man. "I should have known. You have the look."
Bishop felt warm. "Thanks. Frank stopped by tonight and told me he had stepped in some dog shit, couldn't get it off his shoe no matter what he did. Said it was just the worst stink imaginable… I look at you two, and I understand what he meant."
"Can I get started?" snarled Gregor.
"Not yet." The soft man watched Bishop. "Frank must have given you his phone number, the two of you being old buddies. Why don't you give him a call now, tell him you're in very big trouble."
Bishop wasn't trembling anymore. "Am I in trouble?"
"Yes, I'm afraid you are, Mr. Bishop," said the soft man.
As Gregor stepped toward him, Bishop grabbed the hammer and slammed it against the meatball's head. Gregor groaned, staggered, and Bishop hit him again. "You're under arrest," he said, swinging wildly now, gasping with the effort, hitting him so hard that his fingers went numb. Gregor fell to one knee. Bishop reared back with the hammer… slipped on the omelette spill, the two of them falling into a heap.
Bishop threw punches, struggling, but Gregor easily held him down with one hand, reached for the hammer with the other.
One of Bishop's eyes was stuck shut, but he could see Gregor straddling him, blood pouring down his face. One ear was half-torn off where Bishop had hit him with the claw end of the hammer. Beautiful sight. There was an explosion of bright light, and pain. So much pain.
"How do you like it?" asked Gregor.
"Put the hammer down," said the soft man, his voice coming from far away. "I want him alive. I want to talk to him first."
"You're… busted," Bishop whispered to Gregor. He couldn't seem to move, but he could still talk. A good cop didn't need a gun to command respect; he got it with a tone of voice, an attitude, a willingness to step into a situation. Otherwise, any yahoo with a cannon could be sheriff of Dodge City. "Assume the position, shitbag."
Gregor swung the hammer again.
Bishop heard his teeth skitter across the tile floor. Such a strange sound.
"Stop it." The soft man tried to pull Gregor off him.
Bishop spit blood into Gregor's face.
Gregor shrugged off the soft man, drove the hammer down again.
Bishop smiled. I can still piss the bad guys off, he thought. That's something. He heard things crack as Gregor hit him again and again, but he didn't feel the blows.
Bishop's lack of response seemed to make Gregor madder, the big man cursing as the hammer rose and fell, spraying the kitchen with brightness. Bishop had the thought… had to fight to keep the thought-it was like those dandelions that flew away if you breathed on them. He had the thought that even though Gregor was breaking him, Bishop wasn't broken. This man called Bishop was not broken. Not at all. He would have liked to tell Frank about this wondrous insight, but then, Frank probably already knew it.
Bishop could barely see Gregor anymore, the poor fellow shrinking to a smudge of darkness, his cursing fading now, too. Bishop thought of his wife and kids. In a perfect world, Frank would tell them how Bishop had changed in these last few days, how he had stood up, how he had died as a cop. He closed the eye that was still open. It made it easier to hang on to that bright and shining thought.
27
"You know what the fuck time it is?" said Cecil.
Thorpe held his State Department badge and ID to the security camera. "Let me in, asshole. You want a warrant, I'll come back with a SWAT team."
"I got to ask Missy."
"Make a decision, Cecil. Use your nutsack for something other than a hand rest."
Silence from the intercom.
"Time's up. Good-bye, Cecil. You explain it to her when I come back with-" The security gate swung open and Thorpe drove in.
Cecil met him at the front door. "Wait here. I'll go wake up her and Clark."
"What's that on the wall?" asked Thorpe, pointing. As Cecil turned to look, Thorpe shoved his head into the wall, drove him so hard, the plaster cracked. Thorpe stepped over him, walked down the hall. It was a cheap shot, and a dangerous move, but Thorpe needed to get into character. He needed to sell a story.
The master bedroom was dimly lit, redolent of good pot and Missy's perfume. Missy and Clark were sleeping in each other's arms, adrift on red silk sheets, the bed a massive heart. It was probably supposed to be romantic, but to Thorpe, it looked like they were swimming in blood. He lay at the foot of the bed, resting on one elbow now, watching the door. While he waited, he slipped a hand under the sheets and played with Missy's foot. She cooed, nestled deeper into the pillow, one slim breast falling free of the top sheet, her nipple hardening. Thorpe looked over, saw Clark's eyes open wide. "Hey, Clark, surf's up."
Cecil staggered into the bedroom waving a.44 Magnum. He saw Thorpe.
Thorpe yawned. "Don't do anything stupid."
Cecil moved closer. There was a lump rising already in the middle of his forehead, bits of plaster sticking to the reddening skin.
"What happened to your head, Cecil?" asked Missy, awake now, rubbing her eyes. "You look like a unicorn."
"I'm going to kill this son of a bitch," said Cecil, freckles flaring as he drew down on Thorpe.
Thorpe winked at Missy, his hand still under the covers.
"Damn it, Cecil, put the gun away before you hurt somebody," said Clark. He looked at Thorpe. "It's the middle of the night, Frank. What's going on?"
Cecil was trying to hold that big.44 steady, but his hand was shaking.
Thorpe smiled at him. Most people had no idea how hard it was to shoot someone who was looking you in the eyes.
"Stop it, Cecil!" snapped Missy. "You get your ass out of here now. I mean it."
Cecil's hand was twitching so badly that even if he got off a shot, Thorpe was probably safe. He wiped his eyes, slowly lowered the gun, breathing so hard, it was as if he had been running a race.
"Go on," said Missy, her voice gentle now. "Leave the gun."
"No fucking way," said Cecil, still watching Thorpe.
"Leave it," said Missy. "We're fine. Please? Do it for me."
Thorpe waited until Cecil had laid the.44 down on the nightstand, waited until he had started for the door. "Why don't you go make us some coffee? Black, two sugars for me. You probably already know how Clark and Missy take it." He listened to Cecil cursing all the way down the hall, then pulled his hand out from under the sheets. He backed off the hammer of the 9-mm he had been holding. "I'm glad you spoke up, Missy, I would have hated to ruin your linens."
"What's going on, Frank?" asked Clark. "Are we under arrest?"