Cash Out

by Greg Bardsley

  He grunts.

  I can hear High Rider say something.

  Little Red growls, “Yes.”

  Something else from High Rider. Another yes from Little Red.

  I take the phone away. “So we’re back on?”

  “I was minutes away from distributing your instant messaging, Dan.”

  I know Little Red was never quite right, but now he’s even worse. He can’t stop twitching and blinking. Every time I try to inspect the marks and bruises on his body—the razor cuts on his shaven head, the welts on his legs, the hundreds of pinch marks over his chest and back, the Vaseline smears everywhere—he swipes at my hands like an angry kitten. Practically hisses.

  He keeps twitching.

  Damn, this isn’t right.

  “What did he do to you?”

  Just that snarl, then a twitch.

  “Do you need to see a doctor? Urgent care, maybe?”

  He bristles and twitches.

  Steam eases out of the bathroom.

  “Your buddy is coming with new clothes. Why don’t you take a shower?”

  He whimpers, turns and heads for the shower.

  My cell rings again. It’s Oscar, and this time I pick up.

  “Dude,” he says.

  “I know. Someone already told me.”

  With emphasis. “Dude.”

  “I heard it only went to the top floor.”

  “Three different people forwarded it to me, dude, and not one of them is on the third floor. It’s everywhere.”

  I’d figured as much, but hearing it from Oscar makes it real. Nausea washes over me, and I close my eyes.

  Oscar says, “I’m freaking, dude.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No,” he says. “About me. I’m freaking about me.”

  “No, you’re fine. There’s no risk.”

  “But Assathon dot-com? I sent you a ton of pics from Assathon dot-com.” He moans, worried. “Maybe I’m next.”

  I close my eyes tight. Fuck, my head hurts.

  “No, I don’t think it’s like that. This was just about me.”

  He sighs, relieved. Then, with a trace of amusement: “Dude, you’ve been busy.”

  “What does it say?”

  Extra slow. “There’s a list here, dude. Sites you’ve visited.”

  “Like what?”

  “Beach Butts dot-com . . .” He giggles, stops himself. “Camel Toes dot-com.”

  “Camel Toes?” I yell. “You sent me that one.”

  “Says you spent twenty-seven minutes there. So you can’t really blame me.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “There’s one here I’ve never heard of. . . . Rate My Ass dot-com.” He pauses. “Five hours.”

  “Nice.” I take a Modelo from the fridge, take a huge swig. “I’ll never enter that building again.”

  Another big sigh. “Dude, I have to tell you. This looks bad. Two more people just forwarded this list to me. It’s all over the place.”

  “Oscar,” I say, closing my eyes tight, “I need to get off the line. I can’t handle this anymore.”

  “Okay, dude. I’m gonna respond to these. I’ll say you told me it’s someone’s idea of a bad joke. That it’s all bullshit, not true.”

  I take another huge swig. “Thanks, man.” I feel my body sway. My mind is floating away, it seems, and maybe that’s not such a bad idea. “I gotta go.”

  We hang up, and my cell rings again. My head wobbles as I look at it. Another FlowBid number.

  Fuck it. Pick it up, Danny. Tell them it’s all a lie, some prick’s idea of a practical joke.

  “Yo?” I say.

  “Dan?”

  “Yo?”

  “Dan, this is Janice from Finance.”

  “Yo?” I press my butt against the fridge, let go, allow gravity to slide me down to the floor. Hard landing. “Yo, Janice.”

  That stops her only a second. “You don’t have time for P6s in the FOD, but you have time for three hours at Golden Buns dot—”

  “Listen for a sec, Janice.” I let the words slur a little. “That’s all bullshit. That’s all a lie.”

  “It looks pretty authentic to me, Dan.”

  “Well, it isn’t,” I snap. “And regardless, I’m never gonna do your goddamn P6s in the FOD.”

  She huffs. “Something’s not right.”

  “Oh, really? You finally figured that out, Janice? Good for you. In fact, why don’t you enter that into your FOD?”

  I hang up as I lower my head to the kitchen floor.

  More freaky dreams.

  Crazy Larry escorting Kate down a busy San Francisco street in his Speedo. High Rider carrying Little Red in his arms like a sleeping toddler, leaving the house. Calhoun cradling me again, only this time he’s topless and trying to make me “latch” on to one of his tits, his nipple long like a pinkie, and I’m like a newborn, fussing and resisting.

  That wakes me.

  My cheek is wet from the drool.

  My cell is ringing. Damn . . . Modelo and Vicodin. Whoa.

  I pick up the cell. “Yo,” I slur. “It’s all bull. All a bunch of bullshit.”

  “Dan?” It’s Kate. “Dan, where are you?”

  Head bobbling. “Kitchen floor.”

  “Dan, are you okay?”

  “Now? Now, I’m just fine.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I yell, almost lazy. “Nothing. I’m fine. Just had a beer, okay? I’m just on the kitchen floor, if that’s okay with your sweet little face.”

  “Dan, I’ve been thinking.” She pauses. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “What?”

  “There’s more you’re not telling me.”

  “Stop it,” I slur.

  “I knew it. I mean, with all our problems, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Honey, enough.”

  After a long pause, she says, “You shouldn’t be there.”

  “I’m fine,” I slur, arching an eyebrow. “Fiiiiinnne. Fine.”

  She’s annoyed. “I can’t believe you’re drunk.”

  “I’m not,” I say, slow about it. “Just a Sierra, then a Modelo.”

  “Make yourself a coffee, take a shower, pack your things for the trip tomorrow, and when your head’s clear, get up here to Rod’s.”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Dan,” she says, softer. “Just keep it together a few more days, okay?”

  Staring at the cabinets, glazing over. “Yeah.”

  “I found an employment lawyer,” she says. “He was very helpful.”

  This clears my head a little. “Yeah?”

  “That BusinessWeek stuff gets out, you’re toast. The options are toast.”

  The news bounces off my face. “Okay.”

  “So we just have to hang tough a little longer, okay?”

  Staring at the cabinets.

  “Dan, just have that coffee and get up here, and we’ll get you ready. Okay?”

  “Honey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Honey, you have a date tonight.”

  She laughs. “Oh yeah?”

  “I’m serious. I’m bringing Larry. He has a date with you.”

  Silence.

  “You see . . .” I pause, arch an eyebrow, as I recall my predicament. “You see, honey, Crazy Larry? He wouldn’t let Little Red out of his garage. So I needed to ne-go-tiate with him.”

  Long silence.

  “Otherwise, High Rider would’ve released my info, all my info, and that would’ve been it for us.”

  Nothing.

  “But the deal is, he can’t be alone with you, and it’s just an hour . . .” I fail to suppress a burp. “. . . or something.
”

  Nothing.

  “Sorry, honey.”

  Silence.

  “The good news is, I got Little Red back.” I pull my head away from the cell, realize the shower is silent. “I think High Rider came and got him, carried him out like a baby,” I say. “Only I thought it was a dream.”

  Nothing.

  “You there, honey?”

  The cold shower clears my mind a little. The coffee steaming in my face helps, too. But the beer and painkillers still have me floating. It feels like I’m gliding through it all, like I can do anything I want.

  Like call my mom.

  For the first time in years.

  I stumble down the garage steps, cordless in my hand, as I thumb her number—same number for twenty-five years.

  Shit, I’m doing it.

  Ringing.

  I glide to the shelving, glance over my sander and power drill . . .

  Heart pounding.

  . . . past my dad’s shelf of old Yuban cans filled with nails and screws . . .

  Swallow hard.

  . . . and settle in front of the family Coleman. Dark green metal with white plastic trim, a chrome latch. Forty years old, easy.

  Ringing.

  All those family vacations at the beach. Pajaro Dunes. Every summer. Sweet and gentle times, in a simpler world. Feels so long ago, I wonder if it ever even happened. Or was it a fantasy? But here’s the proof—the Coleman. Spent all those days sunken crookedly in the sand, full of Welch’s Grape Soda and Coors and pretzels and oranges and PBJs.

  So long ago. And yet here it is.

  “Hello?”

  Bet I could find sand under the plastic trim.

  She clears her throat. “Kate?”

  “Mom?”

  “Danny?”

  It’s been two years.

  A lump forms in my throat. “Mom, I miss you.”

  She starts to cry, and I let her.

  “I love you, Danny.”

  “I know I haven’t called.”

  “Oh, Danny.” She sobs, fights to control herself. “It is so nice to hear your voice.”

  And to hear hers brings back a thousand memories, all of them washing over me in a warm rush, all at once. I start to cry.

  “Kate calls me,” she sniffles. “And Rod. They tell me you’re okay, but I worry.”

  I wipe a tear. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  She cries, “I’m sorry, too.”

  After a while, I say, “How did it get this bad?”

  “We say too much, you and me. We say way too much.”

  I know she’s right. My mom and I, we’ve always said too much, hurt each other too deeply. And it’s always about the heaviest stuff, too—who did who wrong all those years ago, who didn’t do enough during my dad’s last days, when he was withering away from cancer. And the words, they crush.

  The truth is, we both cared so much.

  “Are you okay?” she says. “Why are you at home in the middle of a workday?”

  I’m staring at it, swaying just a little. “You remember all those times at Pajaro?”

  “Of course,” she sniffles, her voice weakening. “Those were the best days of my life.” And they were. The three of us, together and happy. With the Yakamotos, the Piersons, Tommy and Betty Sims. I reach out and touch the cooler, just glance it with the back of my index finger. “You ever go back there?”

  “No.” She sighs, her voice so soft. “No, I can’t. It would just—”

  “Mom, we’re going to move there, or somewhere nearby. As long as I can hang on a few more days.”

  “A few more— You’re moving?”

  “And I want you to come visit us. And we’ll go to the beach, and we’ll pack some stuff in the cooler, spend all day on the beach, play with the boys. Like old times, okay?”

  She clears her throat, sighs. “Are you okay, honey?”

  “Promise you’ll come.”

  “Of course, I’ll come. But you don’t sound—”

  “Mom, I just wanted to let you know I love you.”

  “Danny—”

  “And that we need to start making new memories, and just let go of that other crap.”

  I can hear my doorbell ring. I know who it is.

  “Danny, tell me what’s—”

  “Mom, Crazy Larry’s at the door. I need to take him to the city for his date with Kate.”

  Damn, that—

  “Danny, are you okay to drive?”

  If only I could worry about that.

  Larry actually looks pretty decent. Light brown hair washed and blown. Nice pair of black slacks, solid-blue collar shirt opened to reveal puka shells against honey skin. Black leather shoes, unscuffed.

  “Whoa. Larry.”

  His eyes are serious. “I’ll drive.”

  In a car? With Larry?

  I scratch my head, look away. “You know, actually . . . We should take our own cars, because I’m gonna stay up there tonight and then head straight to the airport tomorrow.”

  Larry blinks hard. “Your car. I’ll drive.”

  “Yeah, but you need to get home tonight.” Translation: There’s no chance in hell you’re staying with us.

  He turns and walks away. “I’ll be waiting in the car.”

  “Okay, Larry.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “Well, we’ll see, Larry, we’ll see.” I pause. “I mean, maybe I should drive.”

  He stops and turns back, gazes at me, his eyes hardening. “I’ll drive.”

  I try to maintain the eye-lock, try to let him know I can’t be bossed around. He stares back, his smile freezing. And I realize, number one, that I probably am too buzzed to drive. And, number two, that Larry can—and will—do this all day.

  “Okay, Larry, you’ll drive.”

  Five minutes later, I’m holding on for life.

  “Slow down, Larry.”

  We weave in and out of traffic on northbound 101.

  “This is a necessity.” His voice is so soft. “It’s calming.”

  He takes the Ralston Avenue exit, hits the brakes hard, considering the fact we’re going ninety-five.

  “What are you doing? Why’re you getting off?” My voice hardens. “Pull to the side here, Larry, I’m driving.”

  He drives us over the overpass, takes the southbound on-ramp, hits the accelerator. The engine reaches a high pitch.

  He soothes, “I’m getting centered.”

  My cell rings. Fuck. It’s Fitzroy. I pick up.

  “Danny?”

  “Hi, Stephen.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m just—”

  “You making margaritas, Danny? I hear a blender.”

  “Oh, that’s just my—”

  “You okay, Danny?”

  Larry jets around a Range Rover, sends me against the door.

  “I’m fine, sir. I’m just—”

  “I got this e-mail, Danny.”

  “Oh, that’s—”

  “I thought you told Beth you’re busy.” He sounds amused.

  “Sir, that e-mail is a bunch of BS. I think IT is investigating who sent that out.”

  Larry tails a Hummer, bangs on the horn.

  “That you, Danny?”

  “Yeah, that was just—”

  “No need to turn to road rage, Danny.”

  “No, I’m just—”

  “Danny, I’ll see you on the jet tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Unless you need to take some time off, to get your personal life in order.”

  “No, sir. I’ll be ready.”

  “And Danny?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re taking the new guy.”

&
nbsp; “New guy?”

  “Yeah, the rat eater.”

  “Oh, the new guy. Okay.”

  “He’s got a lot of ideas, Danny. Out-of-the-box thinker. He wants to join us, so I’ll have you guys dope out this pitch.”

  The only thing I can think to say is “Sounds interesting.”

  Larry takes the Holly Street exit, hits the brakes, launches me into the dashboard.

  “And Danny?”

  “Yes, Stephen?”

  “You’re not alone.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’re not alone.”

  I wait, unsure where he’s going.

  He pauses for effect. “I’m one, too.”

  “And what is that, sir?”

  “An ass man, Danny. Just like you.”

  The line goes dead.

  Larry takes us over the overpass, gets on the northbound on-ramp.

  “Larry, what is this?”

  “This . . .” He hits the gas hard, bangs on the horn, and speeds onto the northbound lanes. “. . . is how I attend to my frequency.”

  Oh yeah. He did this earlier today, when the geeks were tracking him. They’re like warm-up laps, only it’s more like wind sprints up and down the 101.

  “I want to hit the right frequency,” he says, staring at the road. “For my date.”

  I grip the side handle and slide down as he executes a dramatic lane dive. My stomach rises, and my crotch aches with each jerk.

  “Larry,” I say, “I’m sorry, but it’s not a date.”

  Larry’s silent until we reach the Ralston exit once again. “No . . .” We speed over the overpass, coast onto the southbound on-ramp for another lap. “No, it’s a date.”

  This could be a while.

  I look at my briefcase, then at the CD player on the dashboard, and figure, Might as well put on some Afro Cuban.

  In all, we do eight laps until Larry finally slows to a tolerable speed and we coast past the Ralston exit. I loosen my grip and ease up, whispering, “There we go.”

  The car beats with Africando’s “Yay Boy.”

  Larry gazes at the road with this frozen look, the slightest of grins, an eyebrow arching.

  “You centered now, Larry?”

  Voice so soft. “Yes.”

  I pull out my mobile. “I’ll tell Kate we’re on our way.”

  He nods, pulls out his pipe from his shirt pocket, then a yellow lighter. He uses his knees to steer as he lights his bowl, gets a good smoke going. “Tell her I knew this day would come,” he says, and blows out a cloud.