Cash Out

by Greg Bardsley

My cell rings again, and I turn it off.

  “FlowBid, right?”

  Rod huffs and leans in, bringing the beer bottle to eye level. “Listen, asshole.” He presses the tip into Louis’s doughy cheek. “What part of Mind your own business and fuck off don’t you understand?”

  The trembling intensifies. I swear there’s a whimper.

  I wave Rod off. He withdraws the bottle. Then something catches his eye outside.

  “Freak show at one o’clock.”

  I look up, and there’s Calhoun in his dirty-white terry-cloth robe—dingleberries everywhere—barefoot, hair pointing in all directions, eyes puffy. Huge stupid smile on his face.

  “Ah, shit.”

  He’s pretending to tiptoe toward us, shoulders hunched, hands under his chin exaggerating each step. So happy with himself.

  Louis squirms, mumbles under his breath.

  “That’s Calhoun, by the way.”

  Calhoun, still on tiptoe, getting closer, laughing.

  Rod straightens, jerks around to look at me. “This is the guy who saved your life?”

  I close my eyes, nod.

  Calhoun goes to Louis’s side and presses his face against the glass. Louis looks straight ahead, slumps a little more.

  Light finger tapping on the glass.

  “Yoooooo-hoooooooooooooooooooo?” Laughter and giggling.

  Rod says, “Open the window.”

  The window descends.

  Calhoun sticks his head through, nearly touches Louis’s nose, offers a wide-angle view of his tits. His trademark scent wafts in.

  “When the Saab’s rockin’ . . . I do come knockin’.”

  Rod laughs, says, “You saved my best friend’s life yesterday.”

  Calhoun beams. “Even more reason to invite me in.”

  “Well, I wanna thank you.”

  Calhoun nods, glances at Louis. “I see you’re getting to know Mr. Precious here. A real down-to-earth guy, don’t ya think?” He giggles. “A real charmer, so full of—what’s the word?—humility.”

  He laughs.

  Louis sinks lower.

  Rod says, “Calhoun, I have a favor to ask.”

  Mock surprise. “From me?”

  Rod nods. “Calhoun, would you mind keeping an eye on this guy?”

  A squeal. “You mean, like, house visits?”

  “Exactly. I was hoping you could keep him out of trouble.”

  Louis moans.

  “Oh, yes.” Calhoun inches closer to Louis’s face. “You play Risk, Mr. Louis?”

  Louis pulls back.

  “Because I’m a tournament champion.”

  Rod says, “Okay, buddy. Sounds like a plan. Now, can we have a few more minutes with your new friend here?”

  “Fine.” He blows a playful raspberry at Rod, sprays Louis. “Little party pooper.” Pulls his head out, starts to walk away, arms folded. “Car’s not big enough for another stud, eh?”

  Rod turns to Louis. “So, I guess you could say we’ll be watching you.”

  Louis is staring at his dashboard.

  “Listen, Louis.” I hope he can tell I’m still a rational guy. “We just need you to be cool about this, okay?”

  Rod bristles. “You think this guy understands cool, Danny?” He sighs, annoyed. “I don’t think this asshole would know cool if it got him drunk and fucked him.”

  Louis straightens, fiddles with the leather lining of his steering wheel. “Nah, I’m cool, guys. I mean, I . . . You know, I saw nothing. Really. And I’ll just keep this—”

  “You know what?” Rod is looking at him, nearly amused. “I’d really like you to stop talking.”

  “Okay, I’ll just . . .”

  And he’s wise to stop right there.

  Rod 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.

  All 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.

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

  Then a gurgling noise. The sound of thick liqu
id. 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.”

  The 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

  Bryant 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 i
t.”

  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.