Cash Out

by Greg Bardsley

  This isn’t her city.

  During the holidays, Kate and I like to come to Cow Hollow because all these folks are back home with their parents in New Haven and Boston and Albany, which makes the parking a dream and the remaining population a complete delight.

  Betelnut is one of our favorite places—great Asian fusion, great vibe—and now I’m wondering why we agreed to meet here. Not the right kind of energy for Larry, I’m thinking, as I watch him circle the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.

  I lean against the wall. When Larry passes, I say, “Not a word from the trunk. Not even a kick.”

  Larry slows, looks down, and says, “I used the twine. I used all of the twine.”

  God, my head aches.

  “Yeah, but not even a moan or anything.”

  Larry looks into the air, says, “It’s amazing how one has so much less to say when one has a sock in one’s mouth.”

  My heart races. “Larry,” I whisper-yell. “He could be dead.”

  A passerby in a blue blazer glances at me and keeps walking.

  “He’s napping,” Larry says, the irritation high. “I know what I’m doing.”

  I hobble to the car, pull out my keys, and unlock the trunk. Crouch down, peer in. Can’t see a thing.

  “Daniel,” Larry says, like I’m a disobedient spaniel. “Daniel . . . Don’t you dare interfere with my work.”

  “I’m just checking,” I say, and open the trunk a little more, letting some light in.

  It would be impossible for someone on the sidewalk to see in my trunk, but I block the view anyway. I squat and squint into the trunk. There’s Baldy all wrapped up, twine everywhere, metal wire reinforcing everything, white masking tape wrapped around his jaw, allowing a black sock to hang out of the small opening in front of his mouth.

  And he’s snoring.

  Thank God.

  I straighten, look around, and shut the trunk door quickly.

  Larry smiles at me. I look down at his feet. One of his socks is missing.

  A yellow cab pulls up, double-parks beside my car. Kate steps out, and she’s beautiful—a trace of makeup to accentuate her eyes, that silky hair in a ponytail, her black leather jacket and tight jeans, and those boots I love.

  “Kate!” I sound like a restaurant greeter, forcing the happiness. “Perfect timing.”

  I glance at Larry, who has gone rigid, his body paralyzed, his mouth frozen into a smile.

  “Larry’s here, honey.”

  Kate looks down, her face taut, and steps past me. She stops a good distance from Larry, spins, and scans the neighborhood. “Okay, where are we doing this?”

  Perfect opportunity to steer them away from Betelnut. “How about La Boulange?” I say. “Just down the street.”

  Larry loosens, says, “Go for a little walk, Daniel. Give us a few hours.”

  Kate glares at me.

  “No.” I motion them toward La Boulange, a mellow café and bakery down the street. “Remember the agreement? I need to stay nearby.”

  Kate walks ahead of us, crosses the street.

  We stay on our side, watch her.

  Larry says, “You need to get your own table.”

  Kate reaches the other side, turns, and barks at us, “C’mon.”

  Larry steps onto Union without looking, causes an Audi to screech to a halt and lay on the horn.

  He doesn’t care.

  I wait a second, glance at my trunk, and limp after him.

  La Boulange is basically deserted. I’m in the corner nursing a grossly oversized cup of latte that looks more like a cereal bowl. Kate is at the other end watching Larry pull apart a cinnamon roll with two forks.

  Poor Kate.

  Her legs are crossed in that proper way—her hands resting on her lap, her back straight—as she watches him work the forks. He looks up at her a second, says something that makes her smile a little.

  I mean, to put her through this.

  He looks so earnest there with his forks, pulling the swirls apart, stabbing the soft dough, whispering one-off comments to Kate. And she’s forced to sit there and engage him with whatever insanity he dishes out.

  My wife doesn’t deserve this.

  I did this to her.

  To my relief, at least she doesn’t look pissed off. There’s a slight warmth to her expression—a kind of quiet amusement, maybe. She lifts her chin, her eyes trained on the forks, and says something to Larry. He stops, glances at her, and eases a forkful of cinnamon roll toward her mouth. She pulls back, nearly laughs. Shakes her head no.

  Larry shrugs, slides it into his mouth.

  She glances at me, and I offer a see-this-ain’t-so-bad smile. She gives me a long, blank stare and returns to Larry.

  So much for our rekindled sex life, only a few hours old.

  I look at the black leather wallet resting beside my bowl-cup. Baldy’s wallet. Still haven’t opened it. Not sure why. I mean, hell, now I can find out who this guy is, maybe even who at the equity firm is paying him.

  And yet, I let it sit there, unopened. Maybe I’m just too tired. Maybe I’m afraid of what I’ll learn.

  C’mon, Dan. Get a grip.

  I stand up, wobble to the counter, look at the clerk—this twentysomething woman with short black hair and a pierced upper lip—and ask for a pen and piece of paper. She gives me a long look before turning and disappearing into the back area.

  Yeah, I know I look awful.

  Kate laughs, says to Larry, “Well, I bet.”

  I look over, and Larry is beaming. Kate’s body language is softening. Are they connecting? Is that possible? A well-adjusted mom and a crazy man? Connecting? At some level?

  And I realize, Of course it’s possible.

  “Sir.”

  I jolt, turn around. It’s the clerk, reaching over the counter with scratch paper and a pen. “Here you are.”

  I thank her and turn away.

  “Everything okay?”

  I stop, turn back. “Huh?”

  She glances at Larry and Kate, comes back to me. “Is everything all right?”

  “Oh yes.” I meet her eyes, smile. “I think so.”

  She’s looking at Larry and Kate again. “I’ve seen you and your wife in here before.”

  Embarrassment creeps in. I close my eyes a sec, smile. “Yeah, we love it here.”

  Still watching Larry and Kate. “I can call my manager, if you’d like, or—”

  “No, thanks. But—”

  “Or ask Johnny Two Forks over there to leave.” She glances at my table on the opposite end of the café. “You know . . .”

  Her concern softens me. “Thanks, but we’re fine.” I begin to shuffle back to my spot. “I’m sure it all seems weird, but believe me, everything is perfect.”

  Now that really sounded wrong.

  I’m lowering myself onto my seat when my mobile rings. It’s a 650 number. I stare at it, thinking maybe it’s one of the geeks. Maybe it’s another coworker calling to report that the entire Western world knows I’m a “butt man.” Hell, maybe it’s one of Baldy’s associates calling with a death threat.

  It’s Calhoun. Laughing so hard it sounds like panting.

  “How’d you get this number?”

  “Silly Mr. Danny. You think I can’t call FlowBid, ask for Pretty Boy Jordan, and jot down the cell number on your voice mail greeting?”

  I glance across the café. Larry sits back, straightens, and scratches his throat with one of his forks. Kate acts like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  “What’s up, Calhoun?”

  Larry continues with the fork. Kate is stoic.

  “I just thought you’d like to know I saw a big beefy gentleman walking around your house. And he doesn’t look like a policeman.”

  Larry p
uts his forks down and gazes at Kate.

  Kate motions for him to finish the cinnamon roll.

  “Really?”

  “He looks like he could be a friend of that mean little cuss.”

  “Friend? . . . Who?”

  “You know, that bald little cuss I belly-flopped.”

  Kate leans in, tries to stop Larry from lighting up his pipe.

  “And you’re sure he’s not a cop?”

  “No, those little rascals came for you earlier.”

  “Who?” I snap. “Who? The cop from before?”

  “He wants you to call him.” Calhoun affects a mocking tone in a low, guttural voice. “He said something about a hit-and-run in San Mateo.”

  Crap.

  I say nothing.

  In a low baritone: “He asked me about your little car.”

  “What?” My heart pounds. “What did he say?”

  “Oh . . .” Calhoun emphasizes the lackadaisical tone with a long, bored sigh. “He just wanted to know if there were any big dents in your car, and if I’d seen you driving away with—how did he put it?—an older, physically fit Caucasian man with sandy-brown hair.”

  I feel my latte surge. “What’d you tell him?”

  “Well . . .” He giggles like a baby, milking it for all he can.

  “C’mon,” I snap, earning a glance from the clerk. “What’d you tell him?”

  “Well, first, I would like to talk with you about some investment opportunities. I can help you, Mr. Daniel. My friend Michael is funding another start-up, and they’re accepting buy-ins.”

  “Calhoun,” I snap, “the cop. What did you tell the cop?”

  “I’m going to invest in a few of these little companies, and I really think you should consider the same, Mr. Daniel. Michael swears by these kids.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Calhoun, the cops.”

  “Fine,” he snaps, exaggerating his annoyance. “Little Danny doesn’t want my investment tips. Fine.”

  “Later, Calhoun. Seriously. Just tell me what you told the cops.”

  “What do you think I told him, you silly little cuss? I told him nothing. I told him I saw nothing. And I said not one peep about you and Mr. Larry leaving in your little car.”

  Larry produces a cloud of smoke, and Kate pushes her chair back. I glance at the counter, where the clerk offers a why-me? look.

  “Thanks, Calhoun.”

  The clerk is coming toward me, scowling, pointing a thumb at Larry.

  “Gotta go, Cal—”

  “Remember what I said, Mr. Danny. Paradigm shift. You need a paradigm shift.”

  “Bye,” I say, and end the call.

  The clerk leans in, motions to Larry, says, “Can you help me with this?”

  A voice rumbles, “I’ll take care of it.”

  It’s Rod Stone, standing behind me.

  The clerk takes Rod in, wide-eyed. And can you blame her? He’s quite a sight, the kind of guy who looks amazing in old, raggedy clothes, which he’s wearing today—gray threadbare T-shirt, brown thrift-store pants, and worn-in Docs. Seeing him makes you want to try the same look, but you know those old clothes would look awful on mere mortals.

  “Thank you,” she says, her eyes gleaming, and heads back to the counter.

  I look up at him, squinting into the sunlight shining over his shoulder. “How’d you find us?”

  “Dude, we need to take charge here.” Rod is glaring across the café. “This is ridiculous.” He glances down at me. “You’re letting that guy have a date with your wife?”

  I look away, nod in concession.

  “And why?”

  “Well,” I say, looking up at him again. “Crazy Larry had Little Red in his garage, and High Rider got—”

  “Dude.” Rod takes my shoulder, squeezes it. “Dude, you need to take charge. I know you need to play nice a few more days, but this is insane.”

  “Okay,” I say, and stand up with a grimace. “You’re right.”

  The clerk stares from behind the counter.

  “C’mon.” Rod starts for Larry, but I stop him.

  “Just one more thing.”

  He turns, squints at me. It’s that look he’s always made when I disappoint him, when I fail to live my values. It’s like he’s trying with all his might to stay positive and understanding.

  I get closer. “You know Baldy, the guy who kneed me in the Safeway, threw me into the Eggos, found Harry and Ben at the park?”

  He nods. “Yeah, the guy who could’ve killed you, if not for Calhoun.”

  I glance at the clerk, whisper, “He’s in my trunk.”

  Rod stiffens and squints. “What?”

  “Baldy,” I say. “Larry put him in my trunk.”

  “In your trunk?” Rod says, a little too loudly. “Is he alive?”

  “Shshhh,” I snap, and glance at the clerk, who’s suddenly lost her smile. “Watch it.” I stop, look around for eavesdroppers. “Of course he’s alive.” I look around again, whisper, “Larry just put him down for a nap.”

  Rod sighs and shakes his head.

  “Rod, he was chasing us. We crashed and I got knocked out.”

  Rod examines my face, focuses on the shovel marks on my brow, the bruise on my left temple, which I must have gotten when we slammed into Baldy’s car. I can only imagine what he’s thinking.

  My eyes are saying, Help me . . . Please.

  Then Rod says to the clerk, “Throw me that wet rag, will you?”

  The rag comes flying, and Rod turns and snatches it out of the air. “We’re taking charge, right now,” he rumbles.

  “Rod,” I whisper. “Watch it!”

  He turns, looks at me, stoic.

  “That’s Crazy Larry,” I say.

  “Is he carrying anything?”

  “Buck knife in a shin holster.”

  We look at the clerk, who’s watching Larry, her arms crossed over her chest, her teeth biting into her lower lip.

  I follow Rod to their side of the café.

  “Okay,” Rod says, his voice hard. “Date’s over.”

  Larry examines him through the smoke.

  “Thank you,” Kate says, and stands up to leave.

  Rod takes the pipe out of Larry’s hand, covers the bowl with the rag, looks down at him. “All right, dude. Let’s go.”

  Larry stares at the pipe and rag, looks around the café, leans forward, and drops his right hand. His other hand grips a fork, ready for attack.

  Kate says, “Rod? Umm, who’s with the boys right now?”

  Rod watches as Larry’s hand slides closer to his left shin, where the knife holster should be. “They’re still at my place,” Rod says, easing me out of the way. “Damian and his sister came over to watch them.” He stares at Larry, his jaw tightening. “And we’re going to take you back there now.”

  Larry lowers his hand a little more.

  I feel myself back up.

  Get ready.

  “Larry,” I say, “you better watch it with Rod here.”

  Kate says, “How’d you find us?”

  Rod waves her off, keeps his eyes on Larry.

  “Larry,” I say, “I told Rod about our friend in the trunk.”

  Rod steps closer, towers over him, and drops the pipe onto the table, lets it bounce. “And we’re gonna take care of that right now.”

  Larry scratches at his left pant leg.

  Rod says, “Where’s your restroom, miss?”

  The clerk, her face pale, motions to the back hallway.

  “Thanks,” he says, and turns to Kate. “Excuse us a second.”

  Larry fumbles with his pant leg.

  Rod reaches down, grabs his arm, and spins him off his chair. In a second, the fork sails across the café a
nd Larry is immobilized in one of Rod’s mixed-martial-arts holds, his arms helpless, pointing in unnatural directions. Rod kicks Larry’s leg, and the buck knife clangs to the floor.

  “Get that, would you?”

  I obey.

  Rod rushes Larry down the hallway into the restroom.

  The buck knife is heavy and cold. I look around, decide to wrap it up in the dish towel, and clamp the whole thing under my right arm. I meet eyes with the clerk, who’s backing up slowly.

  From the restroom, hard thuds and muffled grunts.

  From behind the counter, the clerk picks up the phone, dials three numbers.

  Nine-one-one. Fuck.

  Kate grabs my arm, tugs. “C’mon. Let’s get the car.”

  The clerk whispers into the phone. Great—squad cars will be here in minutes.

  “Rod,” I holler. “Time to jet.”

  The door pops open, and Larry walks out gingerly, his movements a little disjointed, his head a little wobbly, his shirt stretched and torn. Rod strolls after him, says, “I think we understand each other now.”

  Sirens in the distance.

  Kate is gone.

  “C’mon.” I walk to the counter, drop two twenties into the tip jar, and point Rod and Larry to the street. “We’re here when they show up, they make us pop the trunk.”

  Suddenly, Larry quickens the pace.

  Rod strides past me, looks straight ahead, says, “Take us to The Spot.”

  “The Spot?”

  Sirens getting louder.

  He stops, looks back, and nods.

  “You sure?”

  He leads Larry down the street, to my car. I follow them, the San Francisco breeze cooling my skin.

  “You think that makes sense?”

  “This guy in the trunk. He got a name?”

  I stop short. Crap. The wallet.

  I turn and run back into the café, knock over two chairs in my scramble to my table, snatch the black leather wallet, and pivot back toward the entrance.

  The clerk is waiting, a baking pan in both hands.

  Sirens a little closer.

  “C’mon,” I plead.

  Shakes her head no. “You have someone in your trunk. I heard you.”