Free The Wake-Up by Robert Ferrigno Page B

got some jagged edges because it was chipped off a Mayan temple in the middle of the jungle and then brought down-river in a dugout canoe,” said Missy. “You ever hear of Indiana Jones?”
    “You ever hear of being ripped off?” sniffed Jackie, walking away.
    Thorpe edged after Jackie, body-to-body through the crowd, the air heavy with perfume. He watched her summon a drink, then stand around fingering a display of orchids, making sure they were real. He had planned on coming back tomorrow or the next day, but he could finish things now. All he had to do was sidle up to Jackie, whisper a few words in her ear, and she would take care of the rest of it, the rumor spreading through the party like a virus. Thorpe could be on his way. He watched Jackie tapping her foot, saw her tear off an orchid blossom and toss it onto the carpet, and decided to keep walking. Using her against Meachum was overkill, and besides, Missy would be equally hurt by the gossip. Missy was a climber, spikes on at all times, but she hadn’t done anything to Paulo, or Thorpe, either. No, he was going to stick to his original plan. But he was going to check out the rest of the house first.
    As he eased past an alcove, he stopped, seeing a pale man standing alone in a corner, trembling. His cheekbones were sharp as blades, his blond hair bled of color. Looking at his high-water trousers and badly ironed white shirt, Thorpe thought at first he was a party crasher, but if so, he wasn’t enjoying himself. “Excuse me . . . can I help you?” said Thorpe.
    The man’s blue eyes were wide. He kept trembling.
    Thorpe put his hand on the man’s arm.
    The man stared at Thorpe. “The room is too . . .
full.
I . . . I cannot breathe.”
    Thorpe squeezed the man’s arm. It was like trying to compress a steel beam. “Take it easy. What’s your name?”
    “Vladimir.” The man was gasping now. “Vlad.”
    “Okay, Vlad, how about if I walk you outside? It’s not that far.”
    Vlad clung to Thorpe, sweaty and sour. “I am scared in here.”
    “Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” Thorpe said gently, leading him out. “Just breathe—”
    “Arturo!” Vlad jerked.
“Arturo.”
    Thorpe turned, saw a stocky man in a perfectly tailored black suit. He looked like a middleweight boxer turned hedge-fund manager.
    “What’s going on?” growled Arturo.
    “Too many people,” said Vlad, panting. “I am choking on them. This man . . . he wanted to help me.” His watery eyes turned to Thorpe. “Thank you,
sir.
You’re very kind.”
    “I hope you feel better.” Thorpe watched Arturo guide Vlad toward the front door, then headed off in the other direction. At the far wall, he took a short flight of stairs down, following the sound of laughter, louder than and different from the sounds above. He came out into a large room that smelled faintly of epoxy resin. There were half-made surfboards stacked nearby, Styrofoam shavings curling underfoot, black respirators hanging next to an industrial ventilator on the far wall.
    Clark and four other men stood around a finished surfboard that was laid out on a rack at waist height, their fingers curled around beer bottles. The board must have been twelve feet long, with blue and silver decorations, ancient Hawaiian motifs. Other finished boards leaned against the walls, old-style longboards, not meant for hotdogging, but for elegantly cruising the waves. The men with Clark were in their forties and fifties, deeply tanned, wearing surf jams and T-shirts washed too many times, potbellied and losing their hair, but utterly at ease with one another. They were having the best time of anyone Thorpe had seen at the party, and he envied them. Clark was right in the middle, talking fast, in a half crouch, pivoting as though he were riding a wave. One of the other men spotted Thorpe, and they all turned.
    “It’s cool, boys,” said Clark. “This here’s . . . Fred, or Farley, or . . .”
    “Frank.” Thorpe reached into a