Free The Wake-Up by Robert Ferrigno

around, that’s all I’m saying.”
    “Thanks, Warren.”
    Warren went back to his game. “I just don’t like the Engineer playing cute with my trip wire. Pisses me off.”
    “I’m glad we’ve got that settled,” said Billy. “Go ahead, Frank, give the art dealer a wake-up. Buy the kid a baseball mitt and take him to a ball game, load him up with hot dogs and Cracker Jack. See if it makes him all better. See if it makes
you
all better. When you’re finished, we’ll get to work, you and I. It will be just like the old days.”
    Thorpe didn’t answer.

8
    “I told you,
buddy,
you’re not on the guest list.”
    “Just check with Mrs. Riddenhauer,” said Thorpe.
    “I don’t
need
to check with Missy. The guest list is my responsibility, and I don’t see your fucking name on it. No name, no invite, no can do.” The man in the doorway jabbed the list, his round face getting redder. He was a beefy redhead in white linen trousers and a short-sleeved sports shirt with a pattern of exploding volcanoes. “You going to take off on your own steam, or am I going to have to help you?”
    Thorpe saw Missy walking toward them, dressed in a black leather micromini and a matching halter, her white-blond hair dangling in dozens of braids. An S-M Medusa. Thorpe stood there in a gunmetal gray single-breasted suit and a black silk polo shirt, watching her bear down on him.
    “Problem, Cecil?”
    Cecil’s freckles flared. “Mr. Style Fuck here is trying to crash the party.”
    “I invited him.”
    Cecil waved the list at her. “His name ain’t on the list.”
    Missy smacked the paper aside, air-kissed Thorpe, and led him inside. “You’ll have to forgive my brother. He’s the family idiot.”
    “DNA plays some nasty jokes,” said Thorpe.
    “You don’t put the names on the list, how can I do my job?” Cecil yelled after them.
    Missy’s high heels went
clickity-clack
against the hardwood floor. She squeezed Thorpe’s hand as they reached the edge of a huge sunken living room filled with people. Waiters in tuxedos gracefully navigated the room, keeping their silver trays with drinks and canapés aloft. “Olé, Frank.”
    “Olé?” A young guy patted Missy on the hip, sloshed his cocktail on the carpet. “What does that mean?”
    “Private joke,” said Missy, her eyes on Thorpe. “Frank, this is my husband, Clark. Clark, this is Frank . . . something or other.”
    “Greetings, dude.” Clark was a lanky, barefoot beach bum with stringy shoulder-length hair and sleepy blue eyes. He wore baggy madras shorts and an orange tank top with a CAMP RIDDENHAUER logo. A Superman Band-Aid crossed his chin, and even that added to his look of insouciant cool. “Glad you could make the party.
Mi casa . . .
well, you know the drill.” He tossed his empty glass into a potted palm. “Rock on.”
    “Mingle, baby!” Missy called as Clark staggered off, bumping his way across the room and down a flight of stairs. “He’s a genius, you know.”
    “Yes, I could tell.”
    “Clark’s really hooked into youth culture, but I hope when he gets older, he dresses more like you. European suits, plain but sharp. Above it all. Is that how you feel, Frank? Like you’re above it all?”
    “Eight miles high.”
    Missy squeezed his arm. “I love an arrogant man. They’re such a challenge.”
    The house was a sprawling, gated oceanfront estate with natural wood, high ceilings, and full-length windows open to the beach. The sound of the waves rolled in over the hum of conversation. Nell had filled Thorpe in on the Riddenhauers after Missy had stalked out of the art gallery. Clark Riddenhauer designed a line of sportswear geared toward surfers and would-be surfers—he was a talented slacker, a guy who acted like he would have been happy to live in a VW van, eat fish tacos for breakfast, smoke dope, and surf. Missy’s job was to crack the whip.
    “Clark started the Camp Riddenhauer line just three years ago, and now we’ve got five