Free The Wake-Up by Robert Ferrigno Page A

shops.” Missy smoothed Thorpe’s lapels. “I don’t fuck around on my husband, just so you know.”
    “So you’re only practicing now, in case you get divorced?”
    Missy started to laugh, then spotted someone across the room— a blue-haired matriarch wearing cat’s-eye glasses and a paisley muumuu, a cigarette jutting from the corner of her painted mouth. Missy waved, but the woman ignored her. “I hope that old cunt gets cancer,” Missy hissed. She waved again, and the woman acknowledged her with a curt nod this time, ashes floating down. “We’ll talk later. I have to make nice right now.”
    Thorpe watched Missy scurry over, take the older woman’s arm, chattering away. He took a passing glass of champagne, then made his way through the house, listening to conversations and checking out the security. Thorpe had met with Gavin Ellsworth earlier in the day, and the master forger had delivered the goods, Ellsworth hunched over a bowl of chicken noodle soup at Denny’s, goggle-eyed behind his thick glasses as he crumbled crackers into his soup, reminding Thorpe of the federal penalties if he got caught. Thorpe smiled at the memory. Billy was right, as usual: Thorpe
had
decided on the simple approach for his wake-up, one that required the minimum of detail work and the maximum of bravado. He touched the wallet in the breast pocket of his jacket, deftly avoided a drunk in a purple tuxedo, and worked his way deeper into the party.
    The talk in the room was mostly about the house, the new art, the encroachment of the wrong sort into the colony, and the lovely ass on the new tennis instructor at the club. The crowd was California chic, the women in leather and silk and skin, most of the men in yacht club finery—every man a commodore! Claire would have loved the scene, everyone’s ego on full display, with a full-fantasy kicker.
    “I was
wondering
if you were really going to show up,” said Nell.
    “Nice party.”
    “I can’t wait to leave.” Nell pushed back a strand of hair. She was overdressed in a formal blue cocktail dress and jacket, a single strand of pearls around her neck. “What do you think of the art?”
    “Who’s the woman Missy is talking to?” asked Thorpe.
    Nell peered across the room. “That’s Betty Berquist, Betty B . . . local doyenne. Lived here forever, drinks her way through every party and charity gala. Writes a weekly column for the
Gold Coast Pilot,
very bitchy, very on point.
Everyone
reads it.” She nodded. “Those’re the Enersons. He’s in commercial real estate; she collects cloisonné pig figurines.” Another nod. “Carla Schmidt. Husband owns a Mercedes dealership. Won’t come
near
us. Strictly New York galleries.” Another nod. “Mark Kelly. Halogen lighting. Did over a hundred million in sales last year. We did his game room. Contemporary erotica, the cruder the better.” She grimaced. “I sometimes think I don’t have the stomach for this job. Ah, there’s Douglas. I have to go over and schmooze with some prospective clients. Would you like to meet him?”
    “You go ahead.” Thorpe spotted Halley Anderson on the other side of the room, the blonde from the red Porsche, pretending to listen to some Botoxed duffer wearing a new Harley-Davidson jacket with the collar turned up. She kept smiling and looking past him at Meachum. Thorpe eased his way into the dining room, hearing Missy’s voice. He found her standing in front of an antique glass case displaying some dull, unglazed Incan pottery and shards of green jade. The Mayan plaque rested at the center.
    “I
personally
selected the pieces,” said Missy to a group of women clustered around the case. She pointed to the limestone plaque. “
This
is the centerpiece of my collection. The man with the elaborate headdress is probably a Mayan king.”
    “He looks like a Vegas showgirl,” said an icicle-thin woman with a two-carat diamond in each earlobe. “It’s
broken,
too.”
    “Well,
Jackie,
it’s