Cash Out

by Greg Bardsley

  I don’t think I’ve ever landed a punch on Rod. “I’m too old for this,” I say.

  He laughs, slaps me on the back, and brings me in. “I love you, Danny.”

  “Love you, too, man.” I swallow hard. “Just glad you’re here.”

  He looks away and nods. “Come on,” he says, “we need to meditate.”

  We’re sitting cross-legged in a field of toy trucks, plastic T-Rexes, and a dozen Wiffle balls. Rod’s eyes are closed, and it looks like he feels The Light: head cocked, an eyebrow arched, corners of the mouth up, eyelids nearly fluttering.

  “Just listen to the nature.”

  Rod isn’t someone who’s always loved animals, insects, and plants. I have friends like that, people who’ve been true naturalists since grade school, guys who’ve been camping and fishing all their lives. Rod, on the other hand, is a relative newcomer, which is fine with me because he’s not doing it to be cool. He’s doing it because he really feels it at the core of his heart. And yet something saddens me about Rod’s newfound love for nature, about his determination to find authenticity and meaning.

  Rod says, “I want us to think about this bald guy.”

  My eyes are closed, and Baldy’s big nose and narrow-set eyes flash before me. I breathe out hard. “I don’t know, man. This is . . .”

  “Trust the Zen process,” Rod says. “Find your answers within.”

  I try my best to let go, the Zen meditation way. At first I keep getting the same images: Baldy kneeing me in the frozen-food section; playing with my kids; pulling a knife on me.

  “Try to imagine him as a little boy, a kid someone loved.”

  I try, and all I get is the image of Baldy’s adult head on a child’s body, pushing another boy around. I shake my head and try to let go, and just like that I get an image of a little boy cuddling with his mother. Within seconds, I can actually feel the love coursing through my veins. I feel like I’m about to cry. I see a woman’s hand stroking a boy’s arm. I shudder, and a blast of cold shoots through my body.

  I feel Rod’s hand on my foot. “We ask for wisdom in this bald man’s life.”

  I know it’s supposed to be a meditation, not a prayer. It’s just that Rod likes to fuse things. He’s Californian; it’s what we do.

  It’s hard to pray for Baldy, but I get it.

  “We ask for clarity and meaning in our lives.” Rod’s resolute voice gives me comfort. “And we ask for wisdom.”

  In front of my house, a van door rolls open.

  Rod’s eyes are closed. Mine aren’t.

  “Listen to the birds,” Rod whispers. “The scamper of squirrels in your pines.”

  I hear the sounds of a van door slamming shut.

  “Imagine you’re inhaling the serenity.”

  I whisper. “Rod.”

  He’s practically humming. “Can you feel the harmony?”

  “That car out there?” I pause, listening for more. “I think those are the geeks.”

  His eyes fly open, and he jumps to his feet. “Who?” He stretches his neck and listens for more. “The guys who jumped you after the snip job?”

  My heart pounds. “This hour, who else could it be?”

  And just like that Rod is striding to the side of the house, headed for my driveway. “Geeks?”

  I hobble after him, whisper-yelling. “Wait . . . wait.”

  Rod opens the side gate, squints, and points at someone. “Hey,” he snaps. “Stay there.” He explodes out of view, and I hear a body slam against the van.

  A high-pitched moan, an even higher-pitched shriek.

  I limp around the corner, and sure enough, it’s the geeks. Rod has the muscular guy, Little Red, against the van, one hand pinning his neck against the sliding door, the other holding a chrome revolver by the barrel. Little Red is wide-eyed, struggling to breathe. I look for his sidekicks and finally spot High Rider curled up inside the van on the floorboard, shotgun side. No sign of Star Trek.

  Rod says, “You some kinda tough guy?”

  Little Red gurgles.

  Rod whips the butt of the revolver straight into his nose. Blood sprays onto Rod’s face. High Rider tries to suppress a yelp. Little Red is heaving now.

  “Hold this.” The revolver flies toward me, hits me square on the chest, and I manage to grab it before it hits the ground. It’s cold and heavy, and I don’t know what to do with it, so I shove it down the back of my sweats like I’ve seen in the movies.

  Rod puts Little Red in an upright choke hold, from behind, and whips him toward the side gate. “Backyard,” he snaps. “Danny, get the other guy.”

  And then I notice my next-door neighbor, Louis, standing beside his midnight-black Saab, briefcase slung over his shoulder. Staring at us.

  Louis is a few years older than me. He does product marketing at NetApp—he’s worth millions now, no doubt—and has managed to avoid eye contact with me for the better part of four years. I give him a stoic hey-dude nod and grab High Rider by his collar shirt, yanking him out of the van. I look back at Louis one more time and realize he’s hypnotized by the revolver sticking out of my sweats.

  The rising sun warms us.

  We’ve got High Rider and Little Red sitting cross-legged on the grass. Rod is squatting in front of them, holding the revolver. Little Red has blood running down his lip. He nods to the revolver. “I didn’t pull that on you.”

  Rod snorts. “I don’t like pricks who reach behind their backs when I’m talking to them.”

  High Rider glares at Rod. “If either one of you ever touches us again, we’ll release the details of Dan’s terminable offenses.”

  Rod straightens. “You screw up my friend’s life, I’ll release myself on you.”

  High Rider looks at Rod, then at me. “We instructed you to tell no one.”

  “Hey,” Rod snaps, “do you have any idea what’s happened to this man since you took him for that little joyride?”

  They look back, waiting.

  “Danny here had some asshole attack him at a Safeway. Then the same prick pulled a knife on him a few hours later.” He pauses. “In front of his kids.”

  Little Red loses his smirk, and High Rider goes pale. And I’m thinking, either these two are great actors or they have nothing to do with Baldy.

  “Yeah, that’s right. We have a problem.” Rod glares at them. “And it’s your problem.”

  High Rider says, “We don’t know this individual.”

  I ask, “What are you doing here?”

  “We told you we’d come with action items.”

  “C’mon, out with it.” I think of my neighbor Louis, who’s probably dialing 911 right now. “Quickly.”

  High Rider nearly closes his eyes. “Tomorrow night your CEO will arrive in Tampa, Florida, for a speech he will deliver the following morning. As you know, he will speak to an audience of investors and analysts.” There’s pleasure in High Rider’s voice. “Currently, you are not scheduled to join him, on account of your recovering testicles.” He pauses an extra-long time. “You will rectify that.”

  Rod leans back and rolls his eyes.

  My heart sinks.

  “You need to be on that jet tomorrow morning. Find a reason; it shouldn’t be hard. And you need to be with Stephen Fitzroy the entire evening preceding the speech.” He looks over at Little Red, who’s grinning. “Mr. Fitzroy will be staying in an executive suite at the Grand Hyatt Tampa Bay.” High Rider’s upper lip curls; his eyebrow arches. “It’s going to be interesting.” He looks at Little Red and snickers as he reaches into his pants pocket. “You will find a way to be with Stephen Fitzroy that evening, and you will have this on your person.”

  He pulls out a small black box tangled in wires, slings it onto my lap. I squint at the contraption; one wire is attached to the box, and another is attached to a black shirt button. Rod
leans over, gives it a look. “Micro video camera,” he announces, glancing at me. “They want you to tape him.” He squints at High Rider. “What’s happening in Tampa?”

  High Rider is stoic. “You don’t need to know that.”

  Little Red widens his eyes and smiles. His eyes are huge behind those glasses.

  I look at the camera and sigh. How in the hell am I gonna pull this off?

  “What are you gonna do with the tape?”

  High Rider says, “Again, you don’t need to know.”

  Rod turns to me, squints. “Well, their motivation has to be either blackmail or some kind of humiliation.”

  High Rider smirks. “Don’t hurt your little walnut trying to figure it out.”

  Little Red snickers.

  “All you need to know is that Mr. Fitzroy won’t know about the footage until after Danny’s precious options vest. It’s only fair.” He turns to me, narrows his eyes. “And if you do this right, he’ll never know it was you.”

  I feel blood rushing to my face, my breathing getting shallow. I close my eyes, count to five, and open them. “You understand that if something bad gets out, it could destroy the dreams of thousands of hardworking people?”

  High Rider puts his hand up. “We’re not doing that,” he intones. “This is not about destroying livelihoods.” He waits, narrows his eyes. “But of course, the dreams and livelihoods of these hardworking colleagues were hardly a concern when you leaked all that damaging background to BusinessWeek.” Long pause. “You sound like a hypocrite, Mr. Jordan.”

  My heart sinks. Shit. He’s right.

  Rod says, “If it’s not about blackmail, then what is this?”

  “Again, it’s not your concern.”

  I’m staring back at High Rider, wondering what they want from Fitzroy. Money? A favor? A change in corporate strategy? Ethical business behavior? A cancellation of his outsourcing and offshoring policies that got these guys laid off? Something else that I couldn’t possibly imagine?

  “Any chance that some third party is monitoring you guys?”

  They look at each other, pause, and burst out laughing.

  “Impossible.” High Rider beams with pride. “No one is monitoring us. Nobody hacks our systems.”

  Impossible? Arrogant prick. When it comes to hacking, nothing is impossible.

  High Rider reaches over, grabs the black box, flips it over. “This red switch here activates the power.” He points to an orange button. “This activates the recording mode.” He points to a black button beside it. “And this stops the recording.” He pauses, looks at Little Red, who nods. “The unit is fully charged. The batteries will last ninety minutes, the tape will last thirty.”

  Rod’s face is contorted. “What’s he going after?”

  “Before the night is over, he’ll know,” High Rider says. “We want nice, clear footage of that mucus plug you call a leader.” He turns to me. “And if you return with poor material, you know what we’ll do.”

  I look at him.

  “All that IT history goes public.”

  Little Red adds, “And you can say bye-bye to all your big ladies of the night.”

  High Rider turns, squints at the grass, and snaps, “Stop it.”

  Little Red glows. “You never know.”

  High Rider mumbles, “You and your big ladies.” Then to me, he says, “The lens in that shirt button is wide-angle. It’ll capture anything within ten feet. Be sure it’s installed correctly, preferably in a black collar shirt, and make sure it’s not pointing up or sideways. The best way to ensure a good shot is to stay as close to Mr. Fitzroy as humanly possible.”

  I exhale, heavy. How the hell am I gonna do this?

  “When you return to your room that night, you will remove the cassette, deposit it in your briefcase, and place the button camera and recording pack into a plastic bag. You will take that bag with you on a late-night stroll near the hotel, during which time you will dispense of the camera in a trash receptacle.” He pauses for effect. “We will know if you don’t follow this procedure.”

  Rod looks at me, shakes his head, and chuckles. He leans over, reaches around me, and snatches the Modelo bottle I never finished. He glares at the geeks and takes a long swig.

  “The following night, at six-fifteen, the jet is scheduled to land in San Jose.” High Rider is gazing into my eyes. “You will deplane at the corporate jet center, get into your Corolla, and start driving north on U.S. 101, as always. At six-thirty, you will receive a call in which you will be instructed to proceed to a specified location. We will be waiting at this location, in the van, where we will review the footage.”

  I think of my future life on the other side of the hills: my beach-shack life, now just two days away. I think of being able to get the hell out of here, away from all the money people, away from all the opportunists like these guys, all the people who want to clamp on to the Stephen Fitzroys of Silicon Valley and suck something out of them.

  “One last thing.” High Rider points at me, then at Rod. “We’re watching. We’re monitoring your call records, your e-mails, your Web browsing—everything.” His eyes widen. “If we see that you’ve told anybody else about this, the deal is off.”

  Rod gets up, shoves the revolver into the back of his army surplus pants, takes another swig of Modelo, and motions for them to follow. “I want you guys to leave,” he says, “before I do something we all regret.”

  Rod opens the side door to the van and shoves both of them in. High Rider yelps and scampers to the driver’s seat. Little Red points at Rod and growls, then slinks further into the van.

  Rod steps back, takes another swig of beer, and squints at them. With his other hand he reaches behind his back, pulls out the revolver, and empties the rounds onto the sidewalk, six brass bullets bouncing over his flip-flops. He throws the gun to Little Red, a little too hard. “Bring live rounds to my friend’s house again, you’ll eat them.”

  Little Red sneers and slides the door shut as High Rider speeds the van away. I have the button-camera contraption in one hand as I squat to pick up the bullets, thinking, Geeks who pack heat?

  Rod is pointing. “I think we’ve got another visitor.”

  I jolt. What now? Detective Bryant? Baldy?

  “Isn’t that your neighbor?”

  I look up, and there is Louis, frozen in the driver’s seat of his parked Saab. He’s parked away from his house, down the street, maybe hoping we wouldn’t see him. He must have driven around the block and returned, parking where he’d have a better vantage point, and by the looks of him I’m guessing he’s never been this scared. He reminds me of a toddler trying to poo: teeth gritted, jaw strained, brows asking for charity.

  We move toward him.

  He fumbles with his cell phone.

  Rod breaks ahead, pointing at him. “Get off the phone, hotshot.” When he gets to the driver’s side of the Saab, the doors lock in a muffled click of Swedish precision. Louis lowers the cell and peers up through the window, his gaze weak, as Rod knocks the bottom of his beer bottle against the glass.

  “Open the goddamn door.”

  Louis has these droopy eyes. They were the first thing I noticed about him the day he moved in. After the movers had left, I’d walked over and found him in his garage. Introduced myself. He glanced at my high-tops, mumbled, “Yeah, hi,” ignored my outstretched hand (strike one), popped the trunk of his Saab, pulled out his golf clubs (strike two), and asked, “What do you do?” Not Glad to meet you? Not Thanks for coming by. Not Hi, I’m Louis.

  Strike three.

  We’re in the Saab now—me in the back, Rod riding shotgun, crowding Louis’s space. In this intimate setting, it’s clear just how imposing Rod is to someone like Louis: Rod isn’t huge, exactly, but he makes the car a lot smaller. I look at his glinty eyes, his cauliflower ears, his giant hands, the sca
r on his cheek, and it all makes me feel like some kind of country-club dandy.

  Louis has his head half bowed before Rod, eyes down, hands in his lap. It’s the first sign of respect I’ve ever seen from him.

  Rod reaches over and taps the cell phone with his Modelo. “Who were you calling?” His voice is hard and even.

  “What? It’s just that . . . Well, you see, I just . . .”

  Rod’s voice gets darker. “You were gonna call nine-one-one.”

  Louis looks down and nods, real slow.

  “I want you to stay out of my buddy’s business.” Slowly, Rod reaches over and takes the cell out of Louis’s hand, holds it as if he’s weighing it. Louis shrinks further into his seat, wincing. “If I see you getting involved, watching that house over there, calling the police, or anything I don’t like, I’ll come back for you.” He pauses, leans back, looks out the window. “And I will cram this piece of shit down your throat.”

  Long silence.

  Still gazing out the window. “You hear me?”

  Eyes still down. “Yes.”

  Seeing how much Louis is trembling, I see a great opportunity.

  “Do you know those guys, Louis?”

  Shakes his head no.

  “So you were just parked here watching?”

  Louis glances at Rod. “When they showed up, I saw you with the gun. . . . I mean, it was just a—” His voice cracks. “I didn’t know what to think.”

  Rod squints, his jaw out. “That’s not your job. Your job is to be the arrogant prick who lives next to my best friend.”

  Louis glances at the beer bottle, nods slowly.

  I wave Rod off. “You don’t need to worry about this, Louis. Seriously.”

  My cell rings, the number blocked. Rod turns and frowns. “Who’s calling you at this hour?” He nods at the cell. “Pick it up. Maybe it’s your baldy.”

  I take the call.

  “Dan, this is Janice from Fi—”

  I hang up. “False alarm.”

  Louis mumbles, “You’re a speechwriter, right?”

  “I am.” I sigh.