and accountability are the watchwords of the day. Your imbroglio with the Engineer is already being cited as a rationale for the shops’ being subsumed into traditional agencies. No fun in that, I can assure you. I can just see you sitting at an FBI meeting when the agent in charge starts droning on about work sheets and . . .” Billy narrowed his eyes, wagged a finger at Thorpe. “You
rascal.
I must be getting rusty.”
“Just a little.”
“You asked me about Gavin Ellsworth, and I let it slip right by,” said Billy, annoyed with himself. “What do you want with him?”
“I can fool you, Billy, but I can’t fool you for long.”
6
Pinto was on his knees, tightening the chain linkage on Danny Duck, when the staff-only door opened behind him. “I told you, it’s going to take me at least another hour,” he called, concentrating on the lag bolt. The torque wrench slipped and he scraped his knuckles on the housing.
“Fuck.”
He licked his hand, tasting blood and grease, as he turned. “See what you done. . . .” Vlad and Arturo stood in the open doorway, the two of them outlined by the morning sun, and Pinto’s Cocoa Puffs did a backflip in his guts. He smiled. “Hey . . . you surprised me.”
“Imagine that,” said Arturo. “It’s not even your birthday, either.”
Vlad quietly shut the door, and the interior of the Down the Bunny Hole ride was darker after the flash of sunshine, illuminated only by the overhead lights.
Pinto gripped the torque wrench.
Arturo walked over to Gloria Goose and sat down, propping one foot on her plastic beak as he leaned back against the red upholstery. He folded his hands in his lap, a powerfully built middle-aged man in a black suit. His face was broad and deeply pocked, his hair brushed straight back. “You’re late, Pinto.”
Pinto stood up, wiped his hands on a rag, his forearms so heavily tattooed that it looked like he was wearing blue lace gauntlets. “Not so late . . . just a few eight balls behind.”
“A few?” Arturo admired the shine in his loafers. His oldest son, Preston, shined all the shoes in his father’s closet every evening after finishing his homework. As a boy, Arturo had helped support his family by shining shoes in the business district of Los Angeles. His sons would never need to shine another man’s shoes, but it was good training. “I think it is more than a few. What do you think, Vlad?”
Vlad didn’t answer.
Pinto slouched against Danny Duck, a gristly, hollow-eyed speed freak in jeans and a T-shirt, his face a skull, his hair in clumps. An irregular reddish purple scar ran from his left ear, across his cheek, and down his neck—a souvenir of a meth explosion years earlier. Pinto had been cooking up a batch in his uncle’s storage shed, but he was in a hurry, as usual, and added the anhydrous ammonia too quickly. Rookie mistake. He was twenty-seven now, and a pretty good cooker when he wanted to be, but he preferred sales. He had the knack, and he got all the samples he wanted. His foot wouldn’t stop tapping. No idea what the tune was, either. He saw Arturo watching him. “You know me, man. I’m good for it.”
“Sure . . . we know you, Pinto. You are the man who is late.”
Pinto laughed too loudly.
Vlad stared at the brightly colored cartoon characters on the walls: mama rabbits feeding lettuce sandwiches to their bunnies, Mr. and Mrs. Quack-Quack at the swimming hole with their ducklings. He did a slow turn; a tall, pale man wearing thrift-store pants and a striped short-sleeved shirt. His face was sharp and angular, his wispy hair the color of wet straw. His eyes reminded Pinto of the Canadian glaciers in the bottled-water ads on TV, clean and blue and frozen.
The three of them were inside the Down the Bunny Hole ride at the Kids Unlimited Karnival, located for the next two weeks in the north parking lot of the Yorba Linda Mall. The carnival wasn’t open for another two hours. Pinto was doing regular
rascal.
I must be getting rusty.”
“Just a little.”
“You asked me about Gavin Ellsworth, and I let it slip right by,” said Billy, annoyed with himself. “What do you want with him?”
“I can fool you, Billy, but I can’t fool you for long.”
6
Pinto was on his knees, tightening the chain linkage on Danny Duck, when the staff-only door opened behind him. “I told you, it’s going to take me at least another hour,” he called, concentrating on the lag bolt. The torque wrench slipped and he scraped his knuckles on the housing.
“Fuck.”
He licked his hand, tasting blood and grease, as he turned. “See what you done. . . .” Vlad and Arturo stood in the open doorway, the two of them outlined by the morning sun, and Pinto’s Cocoa Puffs did a backflip in his guts. He smiled. “Hey . . . you surprised me.”
“Imagine that,” said Arturo. “It’s not even your birthday, either.”
Vlad quietly shut the door, and the interior of the Down the Bunny Hole ride was darker after the flash of sunshine, illuminated only by the overhead lights.
Pinto gripped the torque wrench.
Arturo walked over to Gloria Goose and sat down, propping one foot on her plastic beak as he leaned back against the red upholstery. He folded his hands in his lap, a powerfully built middle-aged man in a black suit. His face was broad and deeply pocked, his hair brushed straight back. “You’re late, Pinto.”
Pinto stood up, wiped his hands on a rag, his forearms so heavily tattooed that it looked like he was wearing blue lace gauntlets. “Not so late . . . just a few eight balls behind.”
“A few?” Arturo admired the shine in his loafers. His oldest son, Preston, shined all the shoes in his father’s closet every evening after finishing his homework. As a boy, Arturo had helped support his family by shining shoes in the business district of Los Angeles. His sons would never need to shine another man’s shoes, but it was good training. “I think it is more than a few. What do you think, Vlad?”
Vlad didn’t answer.
Pinto slouched against Danny Duck, a gristly, hollow-eyed speed freak in jeans and a T-shirt, his face a skull, his hair in clumps. An irregular reddish purple scar ran from his left ear, across his cheek, and down his neck—a souvenir of a meth explosion years earlier. Pinto had been cooking up a batch in his uncle’s storage shed, but he was in a hurry, as usual, and added the anhydrous ammonia too quickly. Rookie mistake. He was twenty-seven now, and a pretty good cooker when he wanted to be, but he preferred sales. He had the knack, and he got all the samples he wanted. His foot wouldn’t stop tapping. No idea what the tune was, either. He saw Arturo watching him. “You know me, man. I’m good for it.”
“Sure . . . we know you, Pinto. You are the man who is late.”
Pinto laughed too loudly.
Vlad stared at the brightly colored cartoon characters on the walls: mama rabbits feeding lettuce sandwiches to their bunnies, Mr. and Mrs. Quack-Quack at the swimming hole with their ducklings. He did a slow turn; a tall, pale man wearing thrift-store pants and a striped short-sleeved shirt. His face was sharp and angular, his wispy hair the color of wet straw. His eyes reminded Pinto of the Canadian glaciers in the bottled-water ads on TV, clean and blue and frozen.
The three of them were inside the Down the Bunny Hole ride at the Kids Unlimited Karnival, located for the next two weeks in the north parking lot of the Yorba Linda Mall. The carnival wasn’t open for another two hours. Pinto was doing regular
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