Thorpe tried the L.A. Times site, but the paper's archives drew a blank on Meachum Fine Arts or Douglas Meachum. The Orange County Register had done a bare-bones business story three years ago, when the company opened, "offering artwork tailored to the client's own unique aesthetic profile." Right. The Register story contained a couple of quotes from Douglas Meachum on the "esoteric and proprietary" methods used to align the art with the client, but there was no photo of him. The Gold Coast Pilot, however… bingo. Thorpe should have started there. The Pilot was a local weekly targeted at the yacht and tennis club set, the oceanfront nouveau riche crowd. Two years ago, they had done a full-page color feature on Meachum Fine Arts. He double-clicked on the accompanying photo, got a good look at Douglas Meachum posed in front of an ugly-ass Dali watercolor, a look of blithe condescension on his lean, handsome face. Meachum was the hard charger.
He went back to the insurance Web site. Douglas Meachum was forty-five, lived in Laguna Beach, had a new Jaguar and three-year-old Ford Explorer on his policy. Pristine driving record. No tickets, no accidents. He did, however, have a wife. Thorpe wasn't surprised that Meachum was a player-it went with the arrogance and sense of entitlement that Thorpe had seen in the man's walk, the tilt of his head.
A woman answered the phone at Meachum's gallery, identified herself as Nell Cooper, chief sales consultant. She said Mr. Meachum was on a business trip but would be back tomorrow, and perhaps there was something she could help him with? Thorpe said no, then asked if Halley Anderson was working today. Nell Cooper said there was no one with that name employed there. Thorpe thanked her and hung up. Then he called Halley Anderson. She picked up on the fourth ring.
"Hello."
"Hi, Halley. Is Doug there?"
Hesitation on the other end, one hand muffling the receiver as she said something.
"Who is this?" demanded Meachum, on the line now.
"I saw you at LAX this morning. You were in such a rush, you knocked a kid down. You bloodied his nose and didn't even stop to say you were sorry. Bad manners, Doug."
"How did you get this number?"
"I wanted to give you a chance to apologize to the boy."
"Are you an attorney?" asked Meachum. "Some ambulance chaser who thinks I'm going to admit to hitting this little wetback?"
"I didn't say he was Latino, but don't worry, I'm not a lawyer. The boy's name is Paulo. You just have to tell Paulo you're sorry, and that will be the end of it."
Silence on the phone.
"What's there to think about, Doug? 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 Pokemon 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 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 macrame 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.