Cash Out (34 page)

He tries to get up, but he can't, so he tries to roll out of it.

I hold on, tighten my legs and arms.

Finally, he gets his footing and tries to stand with all my weight on his neck.

Ain't gonna happen, dude.

He collapses to the sand, and I twist and tighten.

The fight begins to drain out of him. His hands flap for me to stop, and he gurgles—trying to speak, I guess, but there's no way anything's coming out of that throat right now.

I grimace and grunt. “Nighty-night, asshole.”

And with that he goes limp.

I keep the hold a little longer, just to be sure.

I
kneel over him, check his pulse and breathing. They're both strong, thank God; he's just choked out, as Rod would say. Soon he'll come to
,
groggy and weak, with no memory of what just happened
.
I peer down at him, thinking about it.

Might as well make it easier to lose this guy.

I roll him on his side, pull down on his chin to open his mouth, and shovel in a few handfuls of sand.
Coming to with a mouthful of sand. That'll slow him down.

Then I catch a clue and pull off my shirt and tie it around his wrists, tight.

Might as well relieve him of his wallet and shoes, really slow him down.

I stand there and look at him.

Wouldn't hurt to pull off his pants and underwear. A guy can't go too far naked.

I stop, scan the beach.

Which is when I notice the unmistakable outline some fifty feet away.

I drop Ed's ankles, think for a moment—then charge.

Stephen Fitzroy screams, turns, and runs for the hotel.

B
y the time he reaches the entrance, he's panting for help. I'm hobbling after him, sandy and bloody and shirtless, inventing curse words as we streak through the lobby.

“Help me,” he wheezes. “He's killed a man.”

I close in on him. “Fuckbung. You little fuckbung.”

The staff are frozen.

I finally reach him, bring him down, and land on top of him.

He gets his breath, screams for help.

I call him a smegma ball.

A woman yells, “There he is.”

I sit up, turn, and see Krista and the girls charging for me.

Gotta be kidding me.

I glance at the front doors, then at the charging horde.

Fitzroy lifts his head off the floor. “Ten thousand,” he yells. “Ten thousand to the girl who brings me that tape.”

They shift into high gear.

I roll off Fitzroy and bolt for the door, ignoring the searing pain in my groin.

“Stop him.”

They're too far behind to catch me. I grunt and hobble into the night, waving down a taxi parked fifty feet away.

From behind me: “STOP THAT MAN.”

I jump into the cab, tell the driver, “Two hundred dollars if you get me the hell out of here.”

Driver says in a heavy Indian accent. “Cash?”

The girls close in.

“Yes, cash. Just GO!”

We pull away from the curb.

I flinch. “Watch out for the girls.”

Casual: “They will scatter.”

And he's right.

But the huge, sandy naked guy stumbling out of the darkness? We have to swerve to avoid hitting
him
.

In his most pleasant tone, the driver says. “And where are we going, sir?”

If only I knew.

T
he taxi driver hums to himself as we roll through west Tampa.

I'm slouched in the backseat, barely able to see out the window. I pull out my cell and see I have a message—from Anne.

“Hey. Listen, your wife just called?”
What?
My scalp goes cold. “We just got off the phone. I guess you told her. Thanks for the heads-up, asshole. That was a fun surprise. Anyway, she wanted to know if there was anything more between us, and when I got over the shock, I said no—I think I called it ‘just some stupid horny talk'—and that the thought of hanging out with you literally repulses me. That seemed to make her even angrier. She called me a slut and hung up. So, um . . . Don't call me back—like, ever.”

Lovely.
I pocket my cell and slide even lower onto my seat.
Well, at least now Kate knows I was telling the truth about Anne.

The taxi driver says, “Perhaps you would enjoy a scenic tour of Tampa Bay, sir?”

I wiggle up a little, squint at the back of his head. “None of this seems a little odd to you? A pack of angry women chasing me out of a hotel? The fact I'm sitting here in your cab shirtless, caked in bloody sand?”

He's silent.

“The fact you had to swerve to avoid hitting a large, disoriented, naked man?”

In that rich accent, he says, “I do not worry about these things, sir.” After a pause, he adds, his voice calm and sweet, “Perhaps you would like me to take you to a reliable automatic teller machine at a safe location, away from the naked man and the angry ladies.”

I sigh and rest my head against the door. I close my eyes. “Fine.”

“Because, as I indicated earlier, I am afraid we must transact our business through cash tender.”

“Fine.”

I close my eyes. He hums.

I
take out four hundred dollars, the maximum allowed, and give my driver half.

“I'll give you the other half if you help me find a shirt and get me to the airport.”

He hums as we pull out of the empty bank parking lot. “There are several Walgreens establishments in Tampa, sir. They are open all night. Perhaps they offer a shirt that will please you.”

“Fine, let's do that. Just find us a store away from the hotel.”

Humming. “Of course, sir.”

“And then you can drive me around until my two hundred dollars runs out.”

“Have you decided on your ultimate destination, sir?”

“The airport.”

He waits awhile. “You do understand that the airport is very close to the hotel out of which you came running and screaming?”

“I'll have to take my chances.”

“Two hundred dollars will give you three hours in this cab, sir. That will bring us to about three
A.M.
”

“Okay.”

“Perhaps at that time, you will choose to retrieve additional funds from another automatic teller machine.”

I meet his eyes through the rearview mirror.

“How much to stay in this cab until the airport opens?”

“That would be six
A.M.
, I believe.”

“Which would cost me?”

“Three hundred dollars, sir.”

Give me a break.

I sigh and rub my forehead with the palm of my good hand. “Maybe after this two hundred runs out, you can find me a nice bush out near the airport.”

So calm and sweet. “It would be my pleasure, sir. There are several large foliated areas near the airport that would be ideal for you, I believe.”

I
limp into the Walgreens shirtless and woozy. It's past 2
A.M.

The staff and customers (and there are more than I'd expected) act like I'm an everyday sight. I find a bespectacled, middle-aged clerk stocking shelves in the personal hygiene section; he regards me with a quick glance as he loads adult diapers onto the upper shelf. “First aid kits, disinfectant, and bandages are on aisle seven.”

I try to balance myself. “Looking for clothes, actually.”

He doesn't look up. “We only have children's T-shirts right now. We'll get a new stock of adult garments next week.”

I close my eyes and cuss under my breath.

“Aisle two.”

What choice do I have? And then I realize: bandages and disinfectant probably make a ton of sense at this point.

And aspirin.

And Neosporin.

And a bag of frozen peas.

H
alf a mile from the terminals, my driver pulls up to a series of large bushes pressed against a cyclone fence. It's exactly 3
A.M.

“I have a newspaper for you.” He peers at me through the mirror, his eyes wide and innocent. “You can sleep on it, in your bush as you wait for daylight. It will keep your new shirt clean.”

Yeah, my new shirt. My pink Hannah Montana “Butterfly Girls” T-shirt, featuring the child star posing in front of a giant, girly butterfly. Children's extra large, but not nearly large enough for me: the shirt ends well above my navel, binds my chest, and digs into my armpits. I'm sure I look like a fool, but I need this shirt. Once the airport opens, I can find a shop, buy a men's shirt for some exorbitant price, and head to the ticket counter, where I'll happily pay top dollar for the first flight to San Francisco or San Jose. Until then, I'll make do with my little T, and stay out of sight.

I give him the rest of my cash and he hands me the newspaper.

I open the door and get out, the humidity hitting me even at this hour. I turn back and peer in. “You're not gonna tell anyone where I am, are you?”

He shakes his head. “Go into your bushes and curl up on your newspaper. You'll be safe. I'm going home.”

I only hope I am, too.

I
cry in the bushes.

No tears, really. Just dry sobbing and moaning as I lay flat on my back, atop the newspapers, bag of frozen peas held in place by my aching hand, and gaze up at the moonlight slicing through the leaves. I want to call Kate so bad, but it's midnight back in California, and I can't make it any worse on her. So I imagine her on the phone consoling me.

Did you have a bad night, honey?

“Uh-huh,” I sniffle.

Things didn't work out as well as they could have, did they?

“No.”

You feeling a little beat-up?

“Maybe,” I say, asking for mercy.

Did those college girls hurt you?

I nod.

Bad, huh?

“There was this one. Burly Buns.” My voice is weak. “She hurt me bad, babe.”

I see. Well, have you come to any conclusions tonight in Tampa? Lying there in your bush?

I whimper. “Maybe.”

Well, what about flirting with sluts at the office? How did that work out for you?

I pause a moment. “Not too good.”

No, not too good at all. And what about looking at porn at work? Did that turn out well?

“No.”

And what about gossiping to the press about your CEO? Are you happy with that decision?

I sigh long and hard. “If I hadn't . . .”

But I can't say it, so Imaginary Kate says it for me.

If you hadn't flirted with that slut—

“She's not a slut, Kate.”

. . .
or leaked gossip to the press, or spent countless hours looking at ass pics, maybe you wouldn't be so miserable right now, would you?

“But I still have it, honey. I still have the tape. Our million is safe.”

Must be a proud man
, she says, and hangs up.

That hits me hard. It takes a long time before I can close my eyes, listen to the intermittent traffic, and let my mind float into darkness, waiting for dawn, my good hand in my pocket holding my cash-out tape as I drift away.

T
he roar of jet engines jolts me upright.

Holy shit. That's some alarm clock.

I rub my eyes, trying to remove the grogginess, and look around. A trace of dawn creeps through the leaves; the cars are purring past at a steadier rate. I pull my mobile out of my other pocket, glance at it. The battery is dead.

Lovely.
Now I'll need to find a kind soul to let me borrow a charger, or I'll have no way of arranging an exchange with High Rider. I gather my things—my dead cell, my muddy newspaper bed, and my plastic Walgreens bag of bandages, aspirin, and disinfectant. I'm getting ready to leave when I realize that my entire crotch is wet. The peas have thawed and moistened, leaving a giant dark circle on the crotch of my pants.

Can't worry about that now. Just need to get into that airport, find a California flight—any flight, really—buy the ticket, get some new clothes, recharge the mobile, call High Rider, set a time and place for the exchange, and board before the college girls—or, worse, Ed—manage to find me.

I emerge from the bush, straighten, and proceed along the curb like it's the most natural thing in the world.

F
ind a flight
, I'm thinking.
Just find a flight that leaves in an hour.

Then I see myself in the reflective doors.

I look like a wandering crazy man, stooped over in pain, hobbling along on some quixotic journey only he understands, clutching a muddy Walgreens bag as a Hannah Montana shirt three sizes too small rides up his belly. A dark wet spot circles around the crotch; his face and throat are covered with cuts, scratches, and bruises, his upper lip curled back revealing blood-lined teeth. Eyelids dark and heavy. Eyeballs wild.

No wonder everyone's keeping their distance.

It's 5:45. Businessmen whiz past me as I wander around the terminal looking for a shop that's open this early. Nothing but Starbucks. Finally, I see a Ron John Surf Shop, hobble that way until I see it's closed, too. Sign says it'll open at seven.

I look around, trying to think.

Fuck.

I turn and shuffle to the ticket counters.

Okay, buy a ticket. Any ticket.

When I reach the United counter, a young ticket agent studies me skeptically.

“Any seats left for the seven-thirty flight to Boise?”

She glances at my shirt, studies the scratches on my throat, and turns to her computer. “Only first-class, sir.”

I turn and look for enemies. “Fine.”

“One-way, sir?

Still scanning the faces. “Sure.”