The Wake-Up Read Free

airboating through the Glades by moonlight, and conch chowder at Shirttail Charlie’s. There were still parts of the Keys where you could slip through the mangrove trees, stand knee-deep in the warm Atlantic, and it was so quiet that you could hear mermaids singing sad songs under the sea. “A lapse in judgment,” that’s how the shop described the Lazurus fiasco—they might as well be accusing him of forgetting to take his vitamins or failing to rotate his tires.
    Near the exit, a thin Hispanic kid was selling confections, holding out a wooden tray filled with candy and nuts, small oranges, and chunks of fresh coconut. A sweet-faced kid no older than nine or ten, standing there in hemmed cutoffs and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. Most people hurried past, not making eye contact, but the kid’s smile never faltered. Thorpe liked the kid’s hustle, the way he positioned himself to get maximum foot traffic, head high. No matter what the need that brought him here on a school day, he was no beggar. Thorpe had seen him refuse money from an old woman who wasn’t interested in his goods, accepting her handful of loose change only when she took a pack of Chiclets and a single chocolate Kiss.
    A chunky teenage girl with chopped black hair stood by the carousel, the four gold rings through her lower lip making her look like a hooked tuna. Thorpe pegged her for the gray rubberized suitcase, but she grabbed a Louis Vuitton overnighter instead. Daddy’s girl, and he had missed it. Thorpe turned, saw Kimberly riding the up escalator to the main concourse, a pale green sundress clinging to her. He was sweating now, but he stayed where he was.
    The sign over the carousel blinked. Luggage from American Airlines flight 223 would be unloaded next. About time. Thorpe’s 7:00 a.m. flight to Miami had turned back barely a half hour out of L.A. with engine trouble—if the luggage didn’t arrive soon, he was going to miss the alternate flight. At least a dozen nervous passengers had decided not to reschedule. Flames shooting out of the port engine could do that to you, particularly with the pilot’s calling for calm over the intercom, his voice crackling. Thorpe was as superstitious as anyone, seeing portents in soap slivers and broken shoelaces, but he never let that stop him. If God really wanted to communicate with him, he could fire off a certified letter.
    Thorpe glanced again toward the escalator, glimpsed Kimberly’s bare legs, the green dress swirling around her knees as she disappeared from view. Unable to stop himself, Thorpe gave chase, taking the escalator three steps at a time.
    Halfway down the concourse, he spotted her, deep in a crowd of travelers. He lost sight of her for a few moments; then the crowd parted and there she was, wearing the same green dress she had worn the first time she made contact with Lazurus, a demure dress of some silky synthetic, which only hinted at her lithe figure. Frantic now, Thorpe bumped his way through the swarm of people separating them, lightly touched her shoulder.
    “Yes?” The woman stared at him. Lovely woman . . . but she wasn’t Kimberly.
    “Sorry.” Thorpe backed off, embarrassed, beelined over to a coffee stand, and ordered a Mexican-style espresso.
    The heavyset woman behind the counter levered out the inky brew from a stainless-steel manual machine, using two hands. She added a dash of cocoa and three sugar cubes to the cardboard cup, then took his three singles for the coffee. She rang up the sale, tore off the register receipt, showed it to him. “You got a red star. Coffee’s on the house. You’re a lucky man.”
    “You’re a lucky man,” said the plastic surgeon for the fifth or sixth time.
    “If I was lucky, I wouldn’t have been shot,” gasped Thorpe.
    “You’re lucky that someone of my skill is working on you,” said the surgeon
as he examined Thorpe’s gunshot wound. “Working solo, too, no anesthesiologist or surgical nurse in attendance. . . . Let those