Cash Out

by Greg Bardsley

  Seven years later:

  ANNE: OMG, my face is so flushed right now

  DAN: That’s because you know I’m turned on

  ANNE: Well that and the fact I can’t stop thinking about you

  DAN: God, you are so bad

  ANNE: Whatev . . . ;)

  DAN: So did you think about me?

  ANNE: Okay, now my face is getting like cherry red

  DAN: Did you?

  [long pause]

  ANNE: Yeah

  DAN: The big moment

  ANNE: Yeah?

  DAN: Did you have one?

  ANNE: Um . . . yeah

  DAN: And were you thinking of me?

  ANNE: I can’t believe I’m telling you this

  DAN: You were, huh?

  ANNE: Uh-huh :)

  DAN: And??????

  ANNE: IT . . .

  ANNE: . . . WAS . . .

  ANNE: A

  ANNE: M

  ANNE: A

  ANNE: Z

  ANNE: I

  ANNE: N

  ANNE: G

  DAN: Whoa

  ANNE: It was like you were inside me last night

  DAN: Whoa

  ANNE: Uh-huh . . .

  DAN: God, I want you

  ANNE: Are you still hard, Dan?

  DAN: Oh, yeah.

  ANNE: Good :)

  My worst moment, hands down.

  God, I am scum.

  Driving home from the police department in the predawn mist, I’m thinking about it all, realizing how close I’ve just come to letting Kate down. Writing that crap with Anne. Soiling the spirit of my marriage. Jeopardizing a million dollars just to leak gossip to a reporter. Not to mention nearly getting locked up for assault and battery. I can’t imagine anything more destructive, anything that would destroy the trust Kate had developed over the past nine years, that would send my boys along the same damaging trajectory their mother experienced as a child.

  I need to keep my family intact. I just don’t know where to start.

  I open the front door a crack and peer in. The faintest hint of dawn has crept through the blinds, the colors muted. In the corner, in my leather armchair, is Rod’s silhouette, his heavy brow profiled prominently, his posture upright but relaxed, his legs planted open on the floor.

  “Hey.” I open the door a little more. “It’s me.”

  “No shit.” He doesn’t move. “Could hear your car two blocks away.”

  I have to admit, it feels good to see Rod in my front room. Rod is never afraid of anything, and being around that confidence, that strength and courage, is reassuring. These assholes, whoever they are—they’re in for a surprise if they haven’t accounted for Rod.

  He nods to the back of the house. “Go.” His voice is cool as granite. “I’ll pour you something.” He rises and strides toward the kitchen. “Coffee or a cold one?”

  I limp across the living room. At the hallway entrance I nearly trip on a toy motorcycle. My house is a freaking minefield of boy toys. Coffee sounds pretty damn good, but after everything that’s happened, all that’s racing through my mind, I know what I really want.

  “Cold one,” I whisper.

  In the boys’ room, I stand between their beds and gaze down at them. Ben is stretched on his side, twisted blankets snaking through his legs, his back arched dramatically, his belly coming through the pajamas, belly button showing, his chin up—just as he slept as a newborn. I squat down, bite my lip from the pain, and run the back of my hand along his cheek—smooth, warm, and perfect. He’s brought to bed a small truck, a plastic lion, and a framed photo of me from the living room. I kiss him lightly on the temple.

  My boy Benny.

  I turn and look at Harry—at his blond hair, fair skin like his mom’s—and start to tear up. I’ve come so close to scarring him. Daddy attacked a nice man at the sandbox. The thought makes my stomach turn.

  I gather myself in the hallway, taking deep breaths. I hear Rod opening beer bottles, the caps bouncing on my counter. I take another deep breath, exhale slowly. I hobble down the hallway to our bedroom, inadvertently kick a Hot Wheel down the hallway, where it slams against the baseboard. I look in; Kate is asleep, surrounded by extra pillows, the phone a foot away from her face.

  Loyal Kate. I back out, careful not to wake her.

  When I get the kitchen, Rod is sitting at the table, nursing a Modelo. When he sees my eyes, he walks over, grabs my shoulders, and shakes me. Affection, Rod Stone style. “It’s gonna be all right, Danny.” He shakes me harder and brings me in for a hug—an awkward man-hug, chests pushed out to limit the intimacy, big hard thumps on the back. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out.”

  We sit down and take our beers, leave the lights off. A sliver of sunlight streaks through the kitchen blinds and crosses his face, illuminating a gray eye and the scar on his left cheek. I take another deep breath, trying to regain my composure. He takes a swig and studies me, eyes narrowing, neck and head going rigid, as if he’s saying, Who did this to my buddy?

  Of the many times I’ve seen Rod fight, one of the few times I’ve seen him get emotional was in high school, more than twenty years ago.

  It was actually one of my fights.

  Ninth grade. I’m a lowly freshman still getting lost trying to find my locker. Two juniors sneak up behind me, lift me up by the legs, laughing. A longhair with tinted glasses keeps yelling, “Freshman . . . freshman,” like he’s proclaiming me to the school. They’re laughing, I’m laughing, students are laughing. Not a big deal. Easy hazing. Until I lose my balance, grab for leverage, and end up stabbing my No. 2 pencil into the forearm of the longhair. Unintentionally.

  “What the fuck?” The longhair looks down at me and pushes me hard, bringing his fists up. “Fucking stabbed me, you little fuck.”

  Kids swarm around us. My heart spasms.

  Oh fuck.

  An English teacher with a surfer cut saunters to his door, leans against the frame, and watches, arms folded. Guys are hollering, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Big circle around us. Pretty girls watching from a distance.

  “Dude, it’s cool.” My heart is pounding. “I don’t wanna fight. It was an accident.”

  “Like hell it was.” He comes toward me, and I back up. “Fucking stabbed me.”

  FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

  “Little fucking new-wave piece of shit.”

  FIGHT . . . FIGHT . . . FIGHT.

  “Hit him.”

  “Waste him, Mark.”

  He charges and takes a swing, and I duck. He misses badly, and I roll behind him on the asphalt, scramble back up. I feel like I’m about to cry, but I can’t.

  God, please don’t let me cry.

  People are screaming, happy about the excitement. Longhair turns around and comes after me, at which point someone yanks me back. It’s Rod, my best buddy. Goes straight for Longhair, swipes away a punch, lands a right into his glasses, cuts the guy in the eye, sends shards of tinted lens into his brow, grabs and slams him onto the ground. Place goes silent as my freshman buddy Rod puts this junior into an “arm bar,” ready to make his elbow do unnatural things.

  Longhair groans and struggles.

  Rod’s eyes are wild. I’ve never seen him so angry. “Say you’re sorry, burnout.”

  Longhair struggles again.

  Rod applies more pressure. “Say you’re sorry.”

  Nothing.

  Snap.

  It took three minutes for the English teacher and two seniors to pull Rod off the screaming Longhair. And when they did, all Rod could say was, “My family.”

  I was Rod’s family. No one else. Just me.

  I’ve just told Rod the whole story. He’s walking back to the fridge, fingering two more Modelos. “I know a guy at the gym.” He pops the cap
s. “Does some side work for the suits. You know, security.”

  Rod himself used to do that kind of work. He had a nice gig doing weekends for some of the biggest names in technology and venture capital. Easy work. But it wasn’t him. Now he’s a full-time mixed martial artist signed to a six-figure contract with the UFC—a premier athlete training with some of the best MMA fighters in the world.

  Rod glances at the clock on my microwave. 6:10. “I’ll call my buddy later this morning.”

  I take a sip. The alcohol and the Vicodin seem to be mixing nicely because my crotch feels okay for the first time in nearly a day. “What are you thinking?”

  Rod looks out to my backyard. The lawn is littered with toy trucks, balls, and plastic dinosaurs. “I’m thinking, this bald guy? Probably has some connections to the security crowd, and someone in that circle is paying this guy to fuck with you.” Rod pauses, thinks about it. “Doesn’t sound like an amateur.” He glances at me, stoic, and returns his gaze to the yard. “You got lucky, Danny. Real lucky.” He shakes his head, exhales hard. “Never do that again.”

  I take a pull off my Modelo. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “You’re lucky your friend Calhoun was there.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Screwed things up for you, but probably saved your life.”

  It’s hard to accept it, but I’m starting to realize: No Calhoun there, it would have been just me and Baldy, and chances are I would’ve been pounded to jelly.

  “Guess I can’t blame you.” He takes a swig, keeps his gaze on the yard. Rod loves my boys—more than anything, maybe. “I’d have killed him.”

  “So I’m not crazy.”

  “ ’Course not.” He sighs. “Problem is, with a guy like that, if he’s what I think he is—a pro? If you redid that sandbox fight twenty times, he would’ve killed you the other nineteen.”

  My stomach sinks.

  “I mean, the guy pulled a knife. But, hey.” He lifts his Modelo toward me. Instinctively, I clank my bottle with his. “You took care of your people, and he’s beat up.”

  My mind is swimming, but I have to admit it’s satisfying, knowing I got the best of him.

  Rod says, “What about the guys at FlowBid?”

  “Which guys?”

  “The security team for Fitzroy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You think you could trust them? Maybe they’d tell you if they’re having problems on their end.” He pauses. “You know, if someone sent a guy like that asshole after you, what are they pulling on the big cheese himself?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. Fitzroy’s security team consists of two relentlessly congenial guys with law-enforcement and military backgrounds. I’ve always joked to Kate that they’re the nicest guys you’ll ever meet . . . who are ready to break your neck should you endanger the merchandise, i.e., Fitzroy. I’ve never witnessed one incident that even remotely required their services, but ever since we went public and amassed those billions, the FlowBid board of directors has required the security detail. Unlike other companies with deeper “bench strength,” FlowBid is seen by many analysts as a one-man show. In other words, if Fitzroy bites the dust, so will the company’s market cap, not to mention the investments of all our shareholders, which includes a handful of very heavily invested (and rich) people. Regardless, the fact that the board thinks Fitzroy needs security always gave me a chuckle. Until today.

  “Check them out,” Rod says. “See what kind of information they volunteer. Hell, maybe you’ll feel safe telling them about this bald guy.”

  I shake my head. “Can’t do that.” I almost laugh, because I don’t think Rod realizes how easily rumors travel in corporate. “I have to last two more days without creating a stir. Those guys hear about Baldy, the fact I attacked a man? . . . No way.”

  Rod frowns, and a deep growl rumbles inside his chest. “So that’s what this is about—money. That’s the problem with this place. Everyone is obsessed with money.” He glares at me, looks away. “What the fuck happened to you, Danny? What the fuck happened to the guy who just wanted to chase the truth? The guy who wouldn’t get caught dead in a suit? Now you’re playing games with millionaires and hired security pros.” He pauses and shakes his head. “Taking huge risks with your family.”

  I put the Modelo down a little too hard. “Don’t give me that again,” I say. “It’s easy to be idealistic when all you have to worry about is yourself. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve given up, it’s been for Kate and the boys. Even now, it’s for the family.”

  “You mean, for the money.” He glares at me again. “You realize how fucked-up that is? One screwup, and Kate and the boys are in serious danger.” He thinks about it. “Must be a lot of coin.”

  There’s no way I’ll tell him how much.

  “What am I supposed to do, Rod? You think telling those cops would accomplish anything more than getting me fired, maybe even killed, depending on who’s behind this thing?” I take a sip. “You think those IT guys in the van aren’t ready to destroy my life if I don’t play along?” I wait a second. “You understand the pressure I’m under to provide for my family? Mortgage? Medical? Schools? Food? Safe neighborhoods? You understand how much I’ve given up to get here, to be just days away from our cash-out?”

  He grumbles and looks away.

  “Two more days. Then I change my life.”

  He looks disgusted. “Well, then, until this shit blows over, I want Kate and the boys up at my place.” Rod lives twenty-five miles away in an oversized flat in San Francisco, in the gritty, industrial-bohemian neighborhood south of Market. “There’s no way they’re staying here.”

  I nod, and I feel better already.

  “But first . . . it’s dawn.”

  Oh, fuck. That’s right. It’s dawn, and I’m with Rod.

  Rod gets up, pours the rest of his beer into the sink, opens the door to our backyard, glances at me, still frowning. “Come on, bub. It’s dawn.”

  “Yeah, I heard you.”

  “You know the routine.”

  I do.

  It started the summer before our junior year in high school. Rod was already fully obsessed with martial arts, and I just couldn’t say no to my best friend. So every Friday at dawn, Rod would run to my house, crawl through my window, pull me out of bed, and drag me out to the football field a few blocks away, where he’d slap me around till I’d start yelling to “fucking stop it.” Even as I was protesting, though, I knew what it meant to him—hell, Rod was out there solo the other six days of the week. And once I got my blood rushing, I loved it. The fresh air, the surrounding silence, the reminder that we were doing something special.

  Every Friday at dawn, until I left for college.

  Rod never stopped, but over the years the routine has evolved with him. Physically, it’s become more intense; he continues to push his body and self-discipline to new heights. But it’s also come to reflect his own evolution. Where the Rod I knew back in school couldn’t care less about the harmonic balance of nature and its creatures, Rod the adult integrates his newfound love for all things natural into his routine. He’s also developed an interest in spirituality, with an emphasis on Zen Buddhism. He insists that “the complex duality of the universe” allows him to pursue both spirituality and cage fighting.

  My best friend, the Zen Buddhist cage fighter.

  Between the beer and the Vicodin, I’ve almost forgotten my vasectomy. “Go easy on me.” I widen my legs and square myself. “I’m not exactly sure this is a good idea.”

  Rod squints. “I’ll be gentle.”

  “I really don’t think—”

  He explodes toward me, flips me over, and sprawls across my body, his armpit covering my face, his upper body weighing me down. The impact knocks the wind out of me.

  Rod chuckles. “Trying to stay clear of you down there.”r />
  Finally I get a lungful of air. I struggle to get out from under him, but it’s hopeless. He swings around, his knee brushing against my nose, my eyes suddenly watering. I struggle to my knees, at which point he slides me into a Peruvian Necktie, my neck trapped in a constricting mass of legs and arms. My defense instincts take over, and I flail my arms, trying to hit him.

  He laughs. “There we go,” he says. “That’s what we want.” He releases me, and I gasp for air. I stagger to my feet, the anger from yesterday surging like an electric current into my arms and legs, taking control.

  “Hit me,” he pants.

  This is what he wants. He wants me to take a swing. This is what he had me do all those years on the football field. It’s what they pay his sparring partners to do all day at his gym.

  I’m practically wheezing, and suddenly I feel the pain in my crotch. It’s like someone snaked barbed wire through my scrotum and down my legs. God almighty.

  He snarls. “Just hit me.”

  The anger has my chest heaving. In my mind I hear Dr. Heidi’s voice: Are you acting like a man, Dan? I see Detective Bryant yelling at me in the interrogation room, calling me scum. I hear the laugher of the geeks. I see that look on Baldy’s face just before he knees me in the crotch. I’m ready to explode, and I know Rod won’t let me go until I let it out, so I throw a hard right. He deflects it, slaps me hard across the face, picks me up and body slams me onto the grass. My insides rattle.

  He growls. “Faster next time.”

  We get back up, and I know what I have to do. He won’t stop until I do it.

  “No more half speed,” he snaps. “Faster.”

  I go for it. I throw everything I have at him. Rights. Lefts. Kicks. He deflects the punches, steps away from the kicks. Finally, he catches my left foot and spins me off-balance, and doesn’t let go until I’ve crashed to the ground. He comes at me with a cocked fist, stops, opens his fist, and slaps me hard on the face, grinning.

  I’m panting so hard, I see stars.

  “God, that brings back good memories.” His eyes water as he pulls me back up. Sniffles. “Remember how hard you’d work just to land one punch?”