Cash Out (12 page)
“Not today, honey. We're trying to figure some things out, okay?”
He slumps his shoulders, turns, and mopes back to the front room.
“We hand it over to Bryant?” I ask. “See if the cops can lift some prints off it?”
Kate and Rod look at each other and shrug. “That guy sounds like he's more interested in getting rich,” Kate says. “Plus, Rod's prints are all over it now.”
Long silence, and then Rod says, “Whoever is behind this, it would be great to send them in the wrong direction.”
“What do you mean?”
Kate says, “He means, put that thing under someone else's car.”
Kate and Rod exchange smiles.
“But someone who can handle the heat.”
“Can't be you, Rod. You're gonna have Kate and the boys at your place, and I don't want them near there.”
He's squinting at the floor, thinking, mumbling, “I know, I know.”
Kate says, “It should be someone who lives nearby, so they think I'm still here.”
Outside, a loud thwack. In the front room, Harry says, “Whoa.”
We join him by the front window.
Crazy Larry is in his Speedo and flip-flopsânothing else. He's sunken his buck knife so deep into the garage door that he has to plant a foot on the door and yank with two hands to get it out.
Rod whispers, “Damn.”
Kate nods to the Chevy Malibu station wagon parked on Larry's curb. It's old but pristine. “And that's his car.”
We all glance at each other, smile, and look back at Larry. He yanks the knife loose, turns around, takes ten steady paces, then pivots and heaves the knife back into the door.
“We'll need someone for diversion,” Rod says. “And a runner.”
“Y
ou're sure you're okay with this?”
“No, I'm
not
okay with this. But that's life.”
“Then you don't have to do it, Kate. No one's making you do it. It's just that Larry's crazy about you.”
“Exactly, which means I have the best chance of distracting him. I don't see another option. We need them to think that thing's on my van. Otherwise, someone will come back.”
“We could put it on someone else's car.”
“No. Larry's perfect. Look at the way he throws that thing.”
“But you can change your mind, Kate, and just let Rod and me do it.”
“It's fine. Just signal me once Harry makes the plant.”
“Like I said, put your cell in your back pocket, and I'll text you when Harry's done his thing. Just put it on vibrate.”
“Just promise me you'll watch Harry like a hawk. I swear, Danâsomething happens to that kid . . .”
“Nothing's gonna happen to him. Rod and I will be watching the whole time.”
She holds up a skirt. “What about this?”
“Try the jeans. Let him see your figure a little.”
“That's disgusting.”
“And be sure you get him with his back to the car.”
“I see that knife, I'm out of there.”
“Of course. They're on knife watch right now.”
“How in the hell did I ever get involved with you?”
“Have you thought of a conversation starter?”
“Dan, these jeans are the conversation starter. All I have to do is stand there.”
“Well, don't do that.”
“Of course not.”
“Just don't encourage him.”
“Maybe I should tell him I have a boil on my back.”
“Don't do that. He'll want to lance it.”
“With the buck knife.”
Harry slides into our room, his blue eyes like saucers. “He put the knife away.”
R
od and I watch from the front room as Kate and Harry walk across the street.
Crazy Larry puts his book down, rises from his spot on the porch, and adjusts his Speedo. The closer they get to his porch, the more Larry straightens.
She's wearing a tight T-shirt with her jeans. Her hair is blown.
Rod nudges me, says, “Hot mama.”
“Tell me about it,” I whisper.
Larry pushes his chest out and cocks his head, smiling. Forcing it. You can tell he's actually a little nervous. Imagine that, someone making Crazy Larry nervous.
Her back is to us.
He's facing the station wagon, staring at her. “Turn him around, Kate,” Rod whispers. “C'mon.”
Kate tosses her hair back and walks toward the driveway, motioning to the garage door, looking back at him with a big smile.
Larry stares at her ass.
She pivots and motions to the door, pointing to the knife marks, making some comment with a big smile.
Damn, what an actor.
Larry turns to face her. Finally.
Kate motions to Harry, as if she's telling him to go home.
“C'mon, buddy,” I whisper.
Harry heads straight for the station wagon.
“Look at him,” Rod gushes. “What a little stud.”
I prepare to send the text, my thumb rubbing Send.
Kate puts a hand on her hip, smiles as Larry imitates throwing a knife.
Harry darts to the back of the Malibu, reaches into his back pocket, and pulls out the tracking device.
Kate runs a hand through her hair, steps closer to Larry, luring him in.
Harry holds the device, looks around.
“C'mon, buddy. Quick.”
Kate smiles, gazes into the air, like she's saying,
What am I gonna do?
Larry baby-steps closer.
Harry looks at the device, gazes back at Larry.
“C'mon.”
Kate pushes a hip out, throws her arms up, laughs.
Harry kneels down, plants the device under the Malibu's back fender, and bolts.
I send the text.
Larry cocks his head and turns to face Harry, who's already standing a safe distance from the Malibu, hands at his side, feet together, scared shitless.
I think,
I am the worst parent in North America
.
And I'm out the door.
L
arry is staring at Harry like he's a nasty math problem.
From my porch, I wave and holler, “Larry!” like he's a long-lost friend.
Larry's still staring at Harry, steps toward him. Kate follows.
I trot across the street, make it to Harry's side, pick him up. He grabs me and holds on for dear life.
Kate stands behind Larry, hand on her forehead.
Larry is staring at the back end of the Malibu.
“Hey, Larry.”
Still staring at the Malibu. “Your child interrupted my time with your wife.”
That sounds so . . .
Kate says, “I was just telling Larry about my uncle Bo who used to throw knives, only he had a cabin in the woods.”
Larry says, “And I heard something.” He gazes at the sky. “A click.”
Harry buries his face into my shoulder.
Rod emerges from our house. Nursing a glass of carrot juice. So casual. But prepared to turn Larry into a pile of bloody, cocoa-butter-scented jelly.
Kate says, “I think Harry may have stumbled and nicked your car.” She walks over to the back of the Malibu, makes a big production of searching for any nicks on the wagon's original, mud-brown paint job. “I don't see any marks, though. Guess we lucked out this time.”
Larry looks like he's listening for a faint sound. “But I heard a click.” Squints into space. “It sounded almost metallic.”
Crap.
Harry lifts his head off my shoulder, announces, “It was my mythical creatures ring,” and brandishes a fat plastic ring Rod gave him last year.
What a kid.
Larry turns to Harry and says, “I don't like mythical creatures.”
I give Harry a squeeze. “Okay, Larry. I hear ya. Sorry about that. I'm gonna give this kid a snack and head on out.”
Kate says, “I should go, too.”
Larry stops her. Says, “Not yet.” His voice is so cool and even. “You were telling me about your uncle Bo.”
A
t work, I decide to tackle the toughest thing first. I drop in on my old instant-messaging friend, Anne.
Anne is long and lean, sandy-blond hair down to the middle of her back. Freckles on her face. Big blue eyes. Pretty woman, for sure, my kind of look and all that, but ever since we cooled itâcame down from the insanity and the high that came with itâI can barely look at her. She is the symbol of my seediest, darkest sideâa reminder of my worst potential realized.
And I have to see her daily.
When I get to her cube, I gesture that I need to speak with her.
“You okay?” she whispers, scanning my face.
“Just come with me.”
The FlowBid facility is designed to stroke the ego and retain employees. It's 2008, after all; the dot-com bust of just a few years back is already a distant memory. These days, the skyrocketing real estate market and the new frenzy around tech companies like FlowBid and Google and Facebook have pumped more cash into the Valley than ever. Add the funds pouring in from frothy investors, skyrocketing user statistics, and astronomic NASDAQ gains, and you have the recipe for the typical 2008 Silicon Valley workplace: a hip interior design with cement floors and exposed air ducts, bottles of Pellegrino in every conference room, an on-campus masseur to rub away stress, a free concierge service that will find you anything from a new nanny to concert tickets, heavily discounted on-site dry cleaning, free lunches at the cafeteria, and a world-class fitness center with a staff of six.
Anne and I find an empty conference room.
“I'm sorry, but someone's got hold of those IMs.”
Her face darkens and her brow crinkles. She looks down and covers her eyes with a trembling hand.
“Ohmyfuckinggod.
Ohmyfuckinggod
.”
I flatten my hand on the table. “But I think it's gonna be okay.”
She's taking big breaths.
“Seriously, Anne.”
She looks up. “Is it Kate?”
“God, no.”
“Someone here?”
I pause.
“Well, sort of.”
“Fitzroy? Is it Fitzroy? It's Fitzroy, isn't it? You should see the way he looks at me.” She shudders. “Please tell me it's not Fitzroy.”
“It's not Fitzroy.”
Huge sigh of relief.
“It'sâ”
The door opens, and it's Janice from Finance, poking her head in. She's wearing a gray blazer with this scarf thing wrapped around her neck, and her hair is paralyzed by a gallon of Aqua Net. Classic Janice.
“Dan?” she whispers.
I clench my jaw, say nothing.
“I still need to talk to you about putting those P6s into theâ”
“Janice,” I say through gritted teeth. “Can you tell that I am having a closed-door conversation here?”
She looks at me, then at Anne, and pulls her head back, shuts the door.
Anne says, “It's not someone from Mark's office or something, is it?” Mark is her husband.
“No, no. It's these guys you don't know. I don't know them, either, really.”
“Guys?” Anne huffs. “As in
guys
, plural?”
“Afraid so.”
“Dan, I just can't . . . Holy shit.” She begins to cry. “This is my marriage.”
“I'm sorry, Anne.”
“Who are they?”
“A bunch of laid-off IT guys.”
Her voice cracks. “So a bunch of guys are reading all that stuff about myâ”
“Anne, listen to me. It's not going to get out. These guys just want a favor from me, and I'm gonna do everything I can to give it to them. I should be able to.”
She sniffles and shakes her head in disbelief.
“I just thought I should let you know, in case the whole thing blows up.”
“Blows up?”
“In case I can't deliver what they want.”
“And what is that?”
“I can't tell you.”
“And if you can't deliver it, they do what?”
I pause, trying to come up with a gentle way to tell her. “Well, they claim . . . They say they'd send the IMs to everyone at FlowBid.”
Anne goes pale, takes some big breaths.
“That's not gonna happen,” I say. “I'm ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent sure I can handle this, and they'll destroy the records once I deliver my end of the bargain. But if something screwy does happen and they do send those IMs out, you should be prepared.”
She scans the room. “They want money?”
“No.”
“Because if they want money, I can help with that.”
“No, it's something else. And I can't tell you.”
We sit there a long moment, thinking about it.
“Anne, I'm really sorry I brought you into this.”
“No . . .” She looks away, takes a big breath, and exhales. “No, this is my bad, too. The way I remember it,
I
was the one who started it.”
“It was crazy, that's for sure.”
She sighs, looks down. “I love him, Dan. I love Mark with all my heart.”
“I know. And I love Kate.”
“We're just bad news, you and me. We just shouldn't be around each other.”
“Maybe.” I look away and mumble. “I don't know.”
She says, “It was such a slippery slope.”
She's right. The whole thing unraveled so quickly, and easilyâfrom friendly chitchat to harmless flirting to full-blown porn chat in a matter of days.
“We made a big mistake,” I say. “But we did stop way before the big no-no.”
“As if that would matter to Mark or Kate.” She closes her eyes. “Those IMs get out, I guarantee everyone will think we were doing it.”
“Well, it's not going to. I'm on it.”
She sniffles, glances at me. “I want to know who they are, Dan. I have a right.”
“I don't even have their names yet. When I get them, I'll let you know.”
She covers her eyes again. “Fuck.”
“Have faith, Anne.”
She looks up, examines my face. “I think this finally did it.”
“Did what?”
She makes a look like she smells something foul. “Killed my crush on you.”
I force a chuckle. “Aw . . .”
She gets up to leave. “Don't take it personally when I go back to my desk and remove you from my IM list.”
“You haven't done that already? Damn.”
She walks to the door, and I don't even take the opportunity to glance at her butt.
“Oh, yeah,” she says, and turns back to me, her eyes shaky.
“What?”
“Do you think I could take her?”
“Take her?” I frown. “Who?”
“Kate? If she comes after me, do you think I could take her?”
I don't have the heart to tell her.
T
ime to unload the peas. The bag has been defrosting, and my crotch is starting to get wet. I take a stall in the men's room, pull the bag out. I don't want to walk out of here with a bag of peas in my clutch, so I rip it open and turn to the toilet. They spill out, and it sounds like a giant rabbit on the toilet releasing a thousand pellets into the water.
I hear something, stop.
Someone's at a urinal.
Fuck.
I wait awhile, hoping he'll finish, but Christ, he's taking forever.
Fuck it, I don't have time for vanity
, I think, and recommence the pouring: more rapid-fire kerplunks, followed by a few stragglers, which sound even worse.
I flush the toilet, realize I should've been flushing all along, then fold the pea bag and slip it into my back pocket. Now it's a matter of waiting the urinator out.
The urinal flushes.
Finally.
I stand at my stall door, spy through the crack. It's this guy from Web marketingâbig jaw, bigger nose, small eyes. Can't remember his name.
He looks into the mirror, sees my feet at the stall door, scans up and meets my gazeâlooks away quickly.
Major awkwardness.
Only one thing to do now, unless I want to be known as the guy who spies at people from inside the stalls. I open the door and step out. “Hey, man.”
Scrubbing his hands hard. “Hey.”
I take a sink on the opposite end. “What's new in the Web cave?”
“Just manic, as always. Was here till three
A.M.
” He glances at my shoes. “You okay?”
“Me?”
He straightens, pulls a paper towel, glances back at the stall. “Just hoping you're okay.”
“Oh, I'm fine. It's just that I had a minor procedure yesterday andâ”
He waves for me to stop. “No worries, man. You don't need to explain.”
“No, that was just a bagâ”
“No sweat, man.” He turns and heads out the door. “Take it easy.”
That went well.
Wonder how long it will take before half the Web team has heard that Dan Jordan is crapping mass volumes of pellets and spying on people from bathroom stalls. If only I had the time to care.
I hobble toward Fitzroy's office until Danzig from PR comes up behind me and grabs my shoulders, scaring the hell out of me. “You gotta see this,” he says. “The new guy's putting on a show in the break room.”
“Wish I had time for it.”
“You won't believe it, Danny. The guy's eating a rat on a stick.”
That gets me. “Rat?”
“Like a kid at the fair polishing off a corn dog.”
“A
rat
? You sure?”
Danzig leans in; his breath is like sour milk. “Dude, it has legs. And the new guy's eating it. Fitzroy's new genius.”
I press forward, toward Fitzroy's office. “That's some trippy shit.”
Finally, Danzig says, “Ask Fitzroy about that guy, dude.”
People always want me to do things like that, but I never do. I hate office politics. Plus, the minute I start passing along comments from Fitzroy is the minute my reputation tanks.
Danzig grabs my shoulder, stops me. “At least come check out the new guy. You'll never see anything like it again.”
He has a point.
T
he new guy is, indeed, sitting in the break room poking his tongue through a rat on a stick. Just like Danzig said, and it's pretty disgusting. Carlie from Legal walks in, gives him a double take, drops her Swedish meatballs, and trots away. We can hear her retching in the restroom.
We watch him from afar, through the glass. And I suddenly wonder if this new guy possibly could have something to do with the upheaval in my life. I mean, what are the odds of all these crazy things happening at once?
“It's a stunt,” Danzig says. “He's trying to psych us out.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not.”
“Oh, c'mon, you think he just loves rat?”
More people join us. Gasps abound.
“Well,” I say, “in Africa, a field rat is a real treat. Millions of people eat them.”
“But this guy isn't African.”
“So you're saying only Africans can eat rats?”
Carol from the second floor says, “But Fitzroy loves him.”
Barbara from Analytics joins us and squints into the break room. “That's Fitzroy's new guy.” She watches him. “Some kind of rugged genius.”
Danzig snaps, “Genius? Who said that?”
“Well . . .” Barbara watches. “They say Fitzroy loves him.” And then after a pause she asks, “What's he eating?”
“Rat.”
“Rat?” Barbara straightens her blazer and clears her throat. “We'll see about that.”
She charges in. We all look at each other and decide to follow.
“So you're the new guy,” she says, hands on her hips.
The new guy looks up, licks his teeth, and grins. “Yeah,” he says, nice and slowâlazy-California-surfer style. “That's right.”
Barbara seems unfazed by the glistening rat skeleton on the napkin in front of them. “Where are you from?”
The new guy pulls his head back, grins. “All over.”
Barbara frowns. “No, I mean, where were you working before this?”
The new guy grins wider. They're nice teeth. “Long story.”
I like this guy. It's like he's saying,
Fuck you, lady
, smiling nice and easy the whole way.
Standing behind me, Danzig must be feeling brave. He leans in and says, “So what's the deal with the rat?”
New guy turns and looks up at Danzig. Long silence.
“Well . . .” The new guy waits a long beat. “What do you think?”
Danzig studies him. His voice is high from the stress. “They say you're some out-of-the-box thinker.”
He smiles and nods, like he's saying,
Okay, man, it's cool. I hear you.
Barbara bursts out, “What are you going to do here?”
Slowly, the new guy turns to her. “Are you familiar with the California stink beetle?”
Barbara squints. “What?”
“Well, the stink beetle can thrive in some of the world's harshest environmentsâlike the world's toughest desertsâeven though it's this big, juicy insect. So the question one might have is,
What gives?
How can this black beetle thrive in a place like that?”