Cash Out (10 page)

And he's wise to stop right there.

R
od has brought a small Igloo full of food. He knows he can't rely on my kitchen to provide the early-morning nourishment he's ingrained into his daily routine. He's at the kitchen table, eyes closed over a half pound of raw salmon, cut sashimi-style—thanking the salmon, no doubt, for what it is about to give him. Finally, he opens his eyes and sighs, content, grabbing the chopsticks and glancing at his large glass of carrot juice.

I'm leaning against the counter, watching him. “You think I should stop all this and tell the detectives?”

Rod drops a piece into his mouth, looks out to the backyard, squinting. “Well . . .” He chews slowly, thinking about it, and swallows. “There's one thing I know.” He drops another piece into his mouth. Chews, swallows, takes a sip of carrot juice. “As your friend”—he straightens, looks down at his lap—“as the guy who knows what you
could
be doing with your life, all this just proves that you need to quit that job, drop this way of living, and listen to your soul.” He takes a sip. “So I'm happy you have a plan to get out.”

He glances up at me, returns to his sashimi.

“So if that means you need to hang on a few more days and play along with the geeks on this thing in Florida, maybe that makes sense.” Sip of juice. “Wait till the money's in your account.”

As crazy as it sounds, I think I agree.

He adds, “And I don't think it's such a bad thing that you'll be out of the state a day or two—you know, considering we have no idea who's behind Baldy.”

I nod. “Probably would be safer.”

“You'll be safe with your CEO and on the jet, far away from here and whoever sent Baldy after you, and Kate and the boys will be safe up at my place.” He downs another piece. “I'll have to keep training at the gym, but I can get some guys to come over when I'm gone.”

The thought of Kate and the boys staying at Rod's place calms me. His flat is a fortress, and you couldn't ask for a better group of protectors than Rod and his cage fighters.

“And later, if you think there
is
a connection between the geeks and the bald guy, you can tell the cops.”

Then a funny thing happens. I actually feel like I might have a chance in hell.

A
ll the scheming is starting to hurt my head. I haven't slept in nearly twenty-four hours, and I can feel my logic functions grinding to a crawl. Sitting here in my boys' room, on the rocking chair, waiting for them to wake, my brain tries to pick itself off the floor, like it's drooling as it stares into space with a dull gaze. I snap into a moment of clarity, replaying in a garbled echo what Rod just said in the kitchen.

You've got bigger monkeys to corral.

You need to get yourself on that jet tomorrow.

You need to calm your family's nerves.

You need to ID that bald guy.

You need to handle your nosy neighbor.

You need to prepare for Fitzroy and Florida.

My heart flutters as I consider it all: the guy I attacked, the guy who came after me and my family for reasons unknown. And now my best friend suggesting I've turned into a Money Guy, someone who has abandoned his passion—and even endangered his family—for Internet riches.

I used to be like Rod, so sure about things. But the older I get, the less sure I'm of anything.

There was a time I looked down on the corporate jobs. But then we brought Harry home from the hospital. I'd stare at him for hours at a time, and my perspective changed. Providing for your family is noble, period. It has universal value, and it gives meaning to life. Right?

Not to Rod, I guess. In one sense, that annoyed the hell out of me. But then again I loved the fact he was so resistant, such a purist. Hell, Rod wouldn't be Rod if he didn't scream into the deafening roar of Silicon Valley, if he didn't stand before it and throw his hips out and heave his middle fingers into the air. And of course, I'd love to join him, cashing out and giving this life the finger.

T
he house is silent as I begin to nod off in the rocking chair.

Then a gurgling noise. The sound of thick liquid. Choking.

A weak, muffled “Daddy.”

I shake my head, my temples throbbing.

More choking. Splatter on the floor. A gasp. “Daddy.”

Ben is sitting on the edge of his little bed, something dripping off his chin. I bolt over and scoop him up.

He cries, “Daddy.” Holds me tight. Little hands gripping my shoulders.

I smell vomit, and I'm relieved. It's not blood.

“Daddy,” he moans, and vomits again. It runs down my neck and back.

“It's okay,” I whisper, and stroke his head. His forehead is a little warm—mild fever. “Daddy's here now.”

I move us to the hallway, where I can get some towels. He vomits again, down my back and onto the floor. Rod comes around the corner, see us, and grabs some towels from the linen closet.

I turn on the faucet, splash cool water into Ben's mouth to get the taste out.

Afterward, he rests his head on my shoulder. “Daddy,” he mumbles, and squeezes me. A lump forms in my throat, my chest expands in warmth.

Rod is in the hallway, oblivious to the sour odor. He wipes Ben's mouth with one towel, drops the other near my feet, and spreads it out with a naked foot. “Let me have him,” he whispers.

I give him a look.

“I'll take care of him,” Rod says. “I want you to go out front and tell me if you recognize the guy I found in your garage.”

“What?”

“I tied him up,” Rod whispers. “I'll stay here, near Kate and the boys.”

I give him my what-the-fuck? look.

I switch Ben over to Rod, and they hug.

Rod nods toward the front of the house. “Go see.”

T
he kitchen door opens to the garage. I open it, poke my head in—and see the nasty end of my garden shovel coming straight at my face.

I fall to my knees, kind of slow. I can't feel my nose, mouth or forehead—it's all morphed into a thick mask of pain. I look up, see the shovel coming again. I duck.

The shovel sinks into the door frame.

I look up. A man in his forties is backing up into the garage. I don't know this guy. Some of my rope is still wrapped around his right arm, my duct tape trailing his ankles. Rod may know how to fight, but apparently he knows jack about tying people up.

The man is wearing dark blue sweats and a gray sweatshirt. He looks athletic, and horrified.

No way this asshole's getting through me. I lunge for him, knock him down.

Rod's voice echoes from the other side of the house. “Danny?”

The man screams at the sound of Rod's voice, stumbles up, and slaps the garage door button on the wall. The garage door starts to jerk open, and he bolts toward it.

I struggle to my feet, slap the button. The door halts. I slap it again and it starts to jerk closed. “You're not going—”

He slides under the garage door, inches to spare.

Feeling a bit dizzy, I find myself falling to one knee.
Can't let this guy . . .

Rod hollers, “Danny, you okay?”

“Yeah.” I get to my feet, shake my head. “Just stay with Kate and the boys.”

I hear Kate holler, “Dan?”

Outside, a car door opens and shuts.

I reach back into the kitchen, feel around for the key hook on the wall, grab my keys, and slap the garage door open again. I try to run, but I suddenly realize I must have strained my scrotum, which is now sinking ice picks of pain into my stomach. I hobble out, see a green BMW 325i racing past my house.

He might have the fancy German import, and I might have an old Toyota. But I
have
raced through countless neighborhoods to reach shootings, disasters, and myriad other public-safety events, and I'd bet my life that I can catch him.

To the Corolla!
I think, and limp to the street.

I just don't expect to find Detective Bryant when I get there. But there he is, leaning against my shotgun door, toothpick in his mouth. Sly grin.

I stop for a second and limp toward him.

“Little bloody there, Danny.” Bryant pulls out the toothpick and shakes his head. “I'd call that a head wound.”

“That guy.” I shuffle up to him, panting. “You didn't stop him?”

Bryant smirks. “You ready to talk, Danny? For real?”

I stand there and think about it, wipe the blood out of my eyes.

“Okay.”

Three

B
ryant says, “I want in.”

I squint. “What are you talking about?”

“You heard me, partner. I want in.”

We're in his car, right in front of my house. Kate, Rod, and the boys are standing on the porch watching us. Across the street, Crazy Larry is on his own porch—nursing a coffee and staring.

I wipe a bit of blood off my nose. “Want in?”

Bryant folds his arms and glances at me. “I want in. Whatever this is, I want in.”

“Want in,” I repeat, my mind scrambling.

“I want a piece of the action.”

“Piece of the what?”

“C'mon, partner. You think I'm some idiot?”

I shake my head.

“I looked you up, got your employer. Found out you've been there since the beginning, almost.” He pauses. “Read a few stories. They say employees who've been at FlowBid awhile—guys like you—are worth millions.”

You have got to be kidding me.
“Sir, I'm not a millionaire.”

“Bullshit.” He wipes his mustache real fast, glances at me. “On paper, you're worth millions, for sure.”

“Whatever.” I look out, and Crazy Larry is still watching us, so calm. “So you want me to give you money I don't have, or else you'll make my life a living hell over that sandbox incident?”

Real slow. “No. No, that's not what I'm saying.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I'm saying I learned some things this morning that lead me to conclude you're in a big mess.”

I try not to freak. “And what's that?”

“I just locked down some details on this suspect.”

My chest tightens. “Did you get his name?”

“Well, that's just the thing. You see, I wanna help, but my caseload is huge and I got a ton of other cases that need attention.”

I laugh. “In San Carlos?”

He smiles to himself. “I'm busy.”

“Oh, I see.” I feel the rage building. “Too busy to investigate this guy, unless I make a donation to the Detective Bryant Fund?”

“Hell no.” He laughs, folds his arms. “No, I just want in on whatever it is you've got going.”

I think about it a second, realize Bryant must have something good on Baldy.

“Sir, I don't have anything going.”

“Like hell.”

“Well, there's obviously something going on, but damned if I know what it is.”

He smiles. “You sure about that?”

I close my eyes and exhale.
Tell him about the geeks? My options?

“Because this guy yesterday? This guy who's after you?”

“Yeah?”

“I got a positive ID on him, I think.”

“You're kidding me.”

“And if he's who I think he is, he's not some everyday dude.”

“Who is he?”

He chuckles. “Well, hold on, partner.”

I look away, shake my head. “Unbelievable.”

He says, “First, I want you to understand where I'm coming from.”

I sit back in the seat, fold my arms.

“Let me give you a little background.” He looks down, and his face tightens. “You see, partner. I've been working my ass off all these years, barely making it.”

Long pause. “Okay . . .”

“And I just sit here every day and watch you kids run around with your money. All you cocky little pricks who've done nothing, just worked a few years, and then you're set for life.”

I look away and shake my head. “I'm not like that.”

“And all I'm saying is, I want my shot.” He sounds almost like a kid. “I want my fucking shot at the action.” He's yelling now. “Been working all my life, serving the community, barely making it, watching kids like you skip right into the millions, just being at the right place at the right time, and all I'm saying is, I want in.”

He turns and looks at me.

“I want in. I want a shot at making a little money. I want to pay off my mortgage. I want to stop worrying about the bills for a change.”

We look at each other for a long time. There's pain in his eyes, hope in his brows.

“I don't want your money, partner. I just want a shot at the action.”

I look away and think about it.

Crazy Larry is watching us, his head cocked in bewilderment, like he's a cat and I'm a new windup toy.

“Sir, I don't know about any ‘action.' I have no idea why this guy is on me, and I'm not involved in any big deal or anything.”

“But you have to be.”

“Because of this bald guy?”

“Exactly.”

“And you're not going to tell me who he is, are you?”

He shakes his head no. “I don't have to tell you. I can proceed with my investigation without telling you a thing.”

“But if I decide to tell you everything I know?”

He nods. “Then I'd be more than happy to tell you everything
I
know. All you have to promise me is, once we figure out what's happening, I have a chance to get a cut. Like, if it involves insider information, I get a chance to invest accordingly.”

“Fine. But why are you so sure there's any action to be had?”

He folds his arms and smiles. “With this guy? Your friend from the sandbox? This guy doesn't get involved unless there's money to be had—a lot of money.”

My stomach weakens.

He whispers, “Okay, partner. You first.”

So I tell him. I tell him everything.

And he tells me.

And I realize I'm in way over my head.

“W
hat was
that
about?” Kate is holding Ben, soothing him. “You guys were out there for like an hour.”

I push my hair out of my face. “We were just trading information.”

I can hear Rod and Harry laughing in the boys' room.

“You look pale.” She studies my face. “Are you okay?”

I look back into her eyes. Damn, she's beautiful, and warm, and I wish we could go back to that time when everything was so easy and natural between us, when I could wrap my arms around her and she'd smile to herself and fall into me. Of course, life was so much simpler back then—before kids, before corporate, before we dove headfirst into the rushing white waters of our new life.

“Not sure.”

Light tapping on the front door. Kate and I glance at each other, then at the door.

From the other side: “Yoooooooooooooooo-hoooooo?”

Kate looks away and sighs.

“What is it?” I snap.

The door opens, and Calhoun eases his head through. “Morning, sugar pops.” He giggles and raises an eyebrow. “Mind if I come in?”

I struggle to get up. “Actually, this isn't the greatest—”

He pushes through, looks around. “Well, well, well, isn't this the little Taj Mahal?” He's taking it all in, his eyes working fast; it's the first time he's made it inside our house, and he knows it'll probably be the last. “Someone likes his Fancy Town.”

He's still wearing the robe, and he's sipping coffee out of a plastic Goofy mug, ears and all.

“Calhoun, we're kinda dealing with a few things right now.”

He puts his free hand on his hip and blows a raspberry at me, long and sloppy, spit spraying everywhere. His lower lip eases out as he waits for a reaction.

“Calhoun, we just—”

“So you decide to have a little party over here, and you don't even invite little ol' Calhoun, the man who saved your life?”

Kate laughs, says, “Does this look like a party? Okay, sure, there's vomit in the hallway. And, yeah, the cops came. But this isn't that kind of party.”

He closes his eyes. “One would have assumed you'd have me over for waffles and bacon this morning”—he tucks his chin, hopeful; opens his eyes, pleading—“considering I saved your little lover's life.”

“Well, we're sorry, Calhoun. We just have—”

“Calhoun!” It's Harry in the hallway, waving him over.

“Come see the LEGO city I built with Rod.”

Calhoun looks at me, says, “I'd love to.” He marches toward the boys' room, stops, and turns back to Kate with those pleading eyes. “Not even a little plate of Eggos?”

Like scolding a dog: “Calhoun, no.”

“Fine.” He gives us a final raspberry, real quick, and turns to Harry. “Your mommy no leggo her Eggos.”

Harry smiles, not getting it.

“But let's see your LEGOs.” They laugh and pad down the hallway.

Kate turns to me. “What did he tell you?”

“Who, Calhoun?”

“What? No, the detective.”

“Oh.”

She feels my forehead with the back of her hand. “I'm worried about you.”

“I think I'm losing it.” Then again, I think, an hour ago some guy broke into our garage and tried to take my head off with a shovel.

“Just stay focused a little longer,” she softens, “and then I'll put you down for a nap.” She's talking to me like I'm one of the children, and I have to admit that, on this day, I like it. “Danny Boy needs some sleep.”

I nod.

“And maybe some more Vicodin?”

Another nod.

“Mama's gonna take care of you,” she says.

Ben snuggles closer to her, sighs, “Mommy.”

“Now tell Mommy what the detective said”—her voice hardens—“so we can get a plan going.”

Down the hall, I hear Calhoun announce, “Potty break.”

I shake my head, will myself to focus a little longer.

“Long story short . . .” I lower myself onto the couch, hissing in pain. “The cop gets a lead on the bald guy, gets a positive ID on him, tells me he's employed with a firm called Stanislau, which has offices in Grenoble, Munich, New York, LA, and San Francisco.”

“And?”

A loud noise in the bathroom. Heavy porcelain.

Internal alarms go off. “What the . . .”

“Danny, stay with me. What about this Stanislau?”

I plod ahead. “I guess they're some kind of high-end private firm—personal security, intelligence gathering. Like a CIA for top-tier companies—capital investment firms, venture capital funds, even some family trusts. Big money. Really big money.”

Kate sits down with Ben, gazes at the wall. “Whoa. What the F?”

“Bryant said he'd heard about a guy like this who'd turned some heads in San Jose—got detained for suspicious activity around a tech campus down there, but got himself released. So Bryant sends the Safeway pics down to San Jose PD—he's got a buddy there—and they send back a fax of the guy's business card.”

“What's his name?”

“He wouldn't tell me.”

A loud crash from the bathroom.

Ah, fuck.

Calhoun. In my bathroom. Making too much noise.

Kate says, “But he works for this security firm?”

“Well . . . ” I get up and hobble to the hallway. God, my crotch hurts. “It looks that way.”

She sighs hard, falls back on the couch. “What do we do?”

I turn and head down the hallway. “We take care of a more immediate crisis.”

I
'm pounding on the door.

Calhoun grunts, “Goaway.”

I shake the door handle with both hands.

Grunt. “Ineedsomeprivacy.”

Rod joins me, squints at the door. “What's the deal?”

I yell, “Calhoun, are you upper-decking?'

From the bathroom, a big sigh of relief.

Rod juts his jaw out, tenses. “You want me to bust it open?” He steps back, ready to kick.

I wave him off. I don't need a broken door on top of everything else.

Calhoun grunts, “Onemore.”

“Calhoun, I'm gonna kill you.”

“Antisocial”—big grunt—“ingrates.” Big sigh. Then another grunt. “Notevenawafflebreakfast—ahhhhhhh.”

Kate arrives, carrying a hairpin. Rod snatches it and begins to pick the lock. In seconds it clicks, and Rod steps back, waves me in. Kate turns away, closes her eyes.

I open the door a little.

Grunt. “One-nnnnnnnn moooore.” Sigh and a grunt. “Justalittle”—grunt—“guy.” Big sigh.

I push the door open. Calhoun is sitting on the exposed upper water basin of our toilet, his open robe covering the sides, his feet on the seat, his elbows on his knees, his face grimacing.

Rage courses through me. “
Calhoun!
” I roar. “Off.”

Harry runs into the bathroom and freezes in wonderment. “Wow.”

Calhoun tries to close his robe, yelps, “Privacy! Privacy!” Closes his eyes, sticks his chin out. “Someone help me.”

I want to throttle him, but I don't want to get near him. Rod backs away, grumbling, “Gross.” Kate barges past us, her nostrils flaring. She grabs the plunger next to the toilet, winds up for a swing.

Calhoun recoils, squeaks, “Don't hit me, Mommy.”

“
Get
”—she whacks him hard across the face—“
off
”—another whack, right in the chops—“
right
”—she swings again, he ducks, and she loses her balance a little, but comes back with a direct attack, covering his face with the plunger and pushing his head back—“
now
.”