Cash Out

by Greg Bardsley

  “Move,” I snap.

  Shakes her head no. “You think I can just stand there and let you get away when you have a human being in your trunk?” She raises the pan above her head, ready to whack me.

  Sirens getting louder.

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Oh, sure. I stuff people into my trunk all the time.”

  I slide Baldy’s wallet into my pocket. “C’mon.”

  Shakes her head. “You I can handle.”

  Probably.

  I shuffle toward her, cringe as I approach.

  She steps aside, yells a war cry, and whacks me hard across the face as I stumble out of the café and onto Union Street, where my Corolla skids to a stop.

  It’s getting dark.

  Kate’s driving, Rod is in shotgun, and Larry and I are in the backseat, the can of turpentine and the other “supplies” on the floorboard between us. We sit silent as Kate speeds us out of the city, onto 280 South, toward Daly City. “Tell me where to get off,” she says.

  Rod acts surprised. “You don’t know The Spot?”

  From the trunk, Baldy thumps against the backseat.

  “The Spot?” Kate repeats. “Is this another high school thing?”

  Rod turns back to me, releases the tightest of grins. Returns to her, says, “Take the John Daly Boulevard exit, head west, toward the ocean.”

  Kate gives me an unreadable look through the rearview mirror, her jaw taut. Is she pissed that I failed to take charge, watched as Rod did what I wouldn’t do? Did someone send her the butt-lover e-mail from FlowBid? Or does she know there’s more where that came from? Can she see it on my face?

  Rod looks out the window, smiles to himself. “Been a while since I’ve been to The Spot.”

  I glance at Larry, who seems to be in a trance, and close my eyes.

  The Spot. Late summer night, the eighties. What I’d give to go back to that moment, just for a sec.

  I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and I can almost hear Journey beating slowly on the boom box, can almost see the silhouettes around me, just as they were all those years ago, when we were thirteen and ready for high school, that night when Rod and I tagged along with my older cousin and his friends, ended up here on the bluffs over the Pacific, a girl in my arms in a very real and soft way for the first time in my life, dancing really close for the first time, a virtual stranger, the long bangs and nighttime dark shading her eyes and grin as “Feeling That Way” eases from the speakers, looking back to Rod and a girl, bumping into them and laughing, the older kids sitting on car hoods, talking softly, letting us be, the soft clank of beer bottles over easy talk about friends and surf, no one breaking our balls for being over here dancing and hugging, our cheeks sliding against each other ever so lightly, over and over, her body feeling so new and different against mine as Journey bleeds into “Anytime” and she lets me keep her close. I look over to Rod and his friend, realize they’re back with the others, leaning against my cousin’s AMC Eagle. Rod seems to be watching us a second before leaning in to his new friend in that flirtatious way, chuckling about something, and it occurs to me that I’ve never seen him happy this way, included, brought in from the cold.

  I open my eyes. It’s dark out, and we’re nearly there.

  Rod says, “You sure you want to do this, Katie?”

  Kate’s face tightens, nods.

  Rod glances back at me a sec and says to her, “Let me start with him. Okay?”

  She nods, looks like she’s about to cry.

  Larry stammers, strains to say, “He was mine.”

  Rod turns and looks back at him, grins, amused. “Oh yeah?”

  Larry says, “I need to rationalize him.”

  Rationalize?

  Kate says, “Is this it?”

  Rod nods, points to the far end of the gravel parking lot. “Take us over there.”

  When we come to a stop, Larry sits up. “He’s mine.”

  “He’s not yours, Larry.” Rod hardens. “We decide.”

  I rub my forehead. Shit, whatever happened to the cops? Then I think of my options, of all the dirt the geeks have on me, of that detective demanding a piece of the action.

  Just thirty-six more hours, Danny.

  Larry says, “He’s like a rag, engorged with the milk of data and background, and I can wring that rag in an effective, systematic manner that will extract every ounce of that milk into my chalice.” He stops, squints into space. “Our chalice.”

  Rod frowns, looks at Kate. “Chalice?”

  She shrugs, looks away.

  Larry draws a breath. “Our chalice of knowledge, our chalice of . . .” Slowly, he exhales. “. . . intelligence.”

  Rod and I glance at each other.

  “I’ve already wrung the milk out of the diminutive individual who tried to follow me this morning.”

  Ah, Little Red.

  And then it clicks. Crazy Larry wasn’t simply “playing” with Little Red in his garage; he was “extracting” background, getting to the bottom of it all.

  “You know, don’t you?” I grab Larry’s arm, squeeze. “You know why Little Red and his buddies are harassing me?”

  Larry cocks his head like he’s picking up an irritating, high-pitched noise. “Not harassment,” he snaps, his voice crisp. “Forced collusion.”

  “But you know everything?”

  He turns to me, narrows his eyes. “I had him for hours.” His voice softens, goes extra delicate. “I wrung out every droplet.” He thinks about it, hums and whispers. “A thorough wringing. Or, to use an agricultural euphemism, a harvest.”

  “Larry,” Kate snaps, “just tell us what you know.”

  His voice crackles. “All you had to do was ask,” he hums, and motions his head toward the trunk. “But I wouldn’t want our new friend to hear.”

  I whisper, “He’s not in cahoots with the geeks?”

  Slowly shakes his heads no.

  Rod rumbles, “Then what’s his deal?”

  “And that is the question.” Larry’s voice drips with want. “Which is why I’d like to take him home and . . .” He hums to himself—Chopin, I think, or maybe Bach. “. . . and harvest the knowledge.”

  “Nah,” Rod says, opens the door, and gets out. The cold Pacific blasts in, digs under my shirt, jolts me, and I hunch my shoulders and shiver. “Nah, we’ll take care of this right here.”

  Kate retrieves my flashlight from the glove compartment and steps out, too. “I’ll start with him.”

  “Let me start,” Rod says. “I need to make sure he and I . . .” He loosens his neck like he’s about to step into The Octagon, cracks his knuckles. “. . . understand each other.”

  Before I follow them, I lean over to Larry and whisper, “What’s their deal?”

  Larry turns to me, squints like I’m an annoying noise.

  “The geeks,” I snap. “The geeks. Why do they want me to tape Fitzroy? You know? In Florida.”

  Larry examines my face, his eyes settling on my chin. “People.” He opens his door, turns to get out. “It’s about people.”

  I reach to grab his shoulder but think better of it, pull my hand back. “But what is it? What is it they want me to tape?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  Same thing the geeks told me.

  “But, Larry—”

  He turns, faces me. “I told you.” His eyes go dark, seem to sink deep into his sockets. “I told you I don’t like big money.”

  “But—”

  “Listen to the little people, and do as they say.”

  I nod to the trunk. “But what about this guy?”

  Larry touches my hand softly. “You tell your cage fighter to retreat, and I will take him to my place and harvest the intelligence.”

  “No more garage time, La
rry.”

  I step out into the frigid cold. The fog has come in, dimming the moonlight and distant parking lot lamps, seeping under our collars, shooting down our backs, chilling us. I look around and listen—nothing but the cold wind, the crashing of the waves, and the fog making the night even darker. I hug myself and hobble to Kate and Rod behind the car, grimacing with each step as bolts of pain shoot through my crotch and stomach.

  Rod looks at Kate, then me. “I need to know.”

  “What?”

  He eases closer. “Before I pop that trunk, I need to know how badly you need this info.”

  Kate says, “Rod, it’s important. We hold on another day and a half, we can walk away forever.”

  Rod says, “A lot of coin? Life-changing coin?”

  “For us, yes.” I look around, step closer. “If I screw up these last thirty-six hours, Kate and I lose everything. So I just need to play along a couple more days.”

  Rod nods, looks away.

  “And this guy?” I nod to the trunk. “It’s like he wants to stop me. And if he succeeds, we lose it all.”

  Rod whispers, “We’re talking about a lot of money?”

  Kate says, “Rod, we last a couple more days, we can live the way you’ve always wanted us to live.”

  Rod sways to the trunk, looks back at us. “You’re cool if this has to get ugly?”

  “Rod, this guy was following my boys.”

  He’s lingering over the trunk lock, fingering through my key chain. Kate steps closer, clutches the unlit flashlight.

  Larry joins us with the can of turpentine.

  Rod gets the key in, prepares to pop the trunk, motions to the flashlight in Kate’s hand. “Get that ready.”

  Larry lifts the turpentine, steps forward.

  “Hey,” Rod says, putting a hand out. “Cool it.”

  Larry stops.

  Rod whispers, “Me first,” and pops the trunk.

  Door eases up in silence. Nothing but the scent of turpentine.

  Kate flips the light on, shines it into the trunk. Baldy is still curled into his forced fetal position, constrained by the metal wire, the sock still hanging out of the slit where his mouth should be. His eyes are wild, his chest rising and falling. He looks exhausted and terrified, but his vitals seem fine. I sigh in relief.

  Rod snarls, reaches in with both hands, rips the tape off Baldy’s face, and pulls out the sock. Baldy heaves and spits, sucks in big breaths, his eyes still wide in fear. He convulses once, then moans and shudders.

  Rod takes the flashlight from Kate and puts it under his chin.

  “You see this face?”

  Baldy looks, his eyes in terror, and nods.

  “Is this the face of someone who plays games?”

  Baldy shakes his head no.

  Rod plows his elbow into the trunk, getting Baldy in the mouth. Brings it up again, drops it again, into Baldy’s nose.

  “You fucked with the wrong people, asshole.”

  Baldy cries no.

  Rod puts the light on his face again, smiles. “I’ll fucking maim you, brother. I’ll maim you for life.”

  Baldy sputters. “No, it’s just— Let’s try to—”

  Rod drives his right fist into Baldy’s throat.

  Baldy stiffens, chokes, spasms.

  “You think you’re some kinda tough guy?” Rod’s jaw juts out. “You think you scare us?”

  Kate creeps forward, touches Rod’s shoulder. He eases her back.

  Finally, Baldy regains his breath, starts to whimper. Never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. Baldy the bulldog, the guy who decked me at Safeway just yesterday, is now tied up and whimpering in my trunk.

  “It doesn’t have to . . .” He gasps. “. . . end this way. I have money.”

  “Money?” Rod lowers his head into the trunk, yells, “You think I want money?”

  Baldy winces, preparing for impact.

  “Give me his wallet, Danny.”

  I dig into my front pocket, hand it over. Rod opens it, pulls out the driver’s license, eases it under the light, leans in and squints. “Anthony Altazaro.” He pauses, looks into the trunk. “Of Brisbane.” He fans through Baldy’s credit cards and IDs. “This is perfect, Anthony. Or can I call you Tony?”

  Silence.

  “Regardless, this is everything I need to destroy your life, and those of the ones you love. Assuming you’re capable of love.” He stands there, thinking about it, jutting his jaw out again. “Assuming you get through this.”

  Baldy spits more cotton.

  “You want to live?”

  Baldy nods.

  “Then tell me why you’re harassing my friend and his family. And if you lie, I will find out. I have all your info. And I will—God as my witness—fucking kill you.”

  Long silence. “Not here.” He sighs. “Not like this. I want guarant—”

  Rod slams the trunk lid down, hollers at it. “It’s about to get much worse, Anthony.” He waves Larry over. “Your turn, Larry.” Then, to the trunk: “You remember Larry from earlier, don’t you, Anthony?”

  A distress call from the trunk.

  Rod mumbles to Larry, “Do your thing.”

  Larry twists off the cap, pours the turpentine into the knife hole, then stops and waits.

  From inside the trunk: “Hey. Hey!”

  Larry pours more in.

  Coughing. “Okay, okay.”

  Rod stops him, pops the trunk. Baldy gasps for fresh air, spasms again.

  Rod grabs Larry, pulls him to the maw of the trunk, shines the light above his face, illuminating his beard and nose, leaving his eyes in shadow. Baldy glances up at him, screams.

  “So you do remember Larry?”

  Larry says, “I need my pliers.”

  A whimper.

  “Larry would like to take you back to his place and—what was that word?—wring . . .”

  Larry coos, “Or harvest.”

  “. . . the details out of you.”

  Baldy squirms.

  “Point is,” Rod says, “I don’t think he’s gentle like me.”

  Larry hums and crackles. “I’ll take him.”

  “Or we can pick you up as you are—all tied and restrained, compliments of Larry here—and drop you off at the pool, so to speak.” He nods to the black expanse before us, cups his hand to his ear, listening to the waves. “It’s your choice.”

  Baldy coughs, gasps, “Give me a second.”

  Rod slams the trunk shut, nods to Larry.

  More turpentine. More shouts from the trunk.

  Larry hums another classical melody—Bach?—as he continues to pour.

  Kate says, “Pop the trunk.”

  “But—”

  “Just pop the fucking trunk.”

  The trunk door rises again. Kate snatches the flashlight from Rod and climbs into the trunk, squats over Baldy. “Listen, you little fuck,” she growls. “You beat up my husband, you come after my boys, and now you think you can follow us?”

  He looks away, cowers.

  “Either you start singing, or we drag your pathetic face down to the water.” She climbs out of the trunk. “Starting now.”

  Baldy rasps, “It’s not that simple.”

  “Oh yes, it is,” she snaps, and turns to us. “Guys, let’s take him for a dip.”

  The roar of the surf drowns out his screams.

  As Baldy rolls around in the ankle-deep water, pleading for his life, Larry and Rod stand over him arguing.

  “Let me harvest,” Larry snaps. “In my lab.”

  “He’s not going to your garage, Larry. Too much evidence.”

  Baldy yelps and tries to rock himself to dry sand. Rod puts a foot out, pushes him back into the froth.

  “If I g
et him to my lab, I can harvest the intelligence. Every last droplet.”

  Rod turns, squats down to Baldy, tries to make eye contact with him. “Plus, we don’t have the time.”

  Baldy coughs on icy seawater.

  “C’mon, c’mon.” Kate paces, squinting into the fog, looking for witnesses. “Let’s do this already.”

  “Kate’s right,” Rod says. “It’s time to roll.”

  He rolls Baldy farther into the water. Baldy screams.

  Kate takes my arm, pulls me back. Concern in her eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” I whisper.

  Rod rolls him deeper, until a wave crashes over them, submerging Baldy. When the wave recedes, Baldy is rocking back and forth, heaving and gasping for air. Giant breaths.

  “Oh,” Rod says, backing up. “Here comes another one.”

  The wave breaks, sending a wall of white water toward Baldy.

  Rod sings, “Incoming.”

  The water submerges Baldy.

  This time, for longer.

  The water recedes again.

  More spasms and choking and gasping.

  Rod squats, rolls him toward the water, looks up. “Oh Lord. This one’s a big boy.”

  Rod backpedals.

  The wave engulfs Baldy, pulls him out a little more.

  I can’t see him. Holy shit, I can’t see him.

  I pull off my shoes and socks, bolt into the water, frantic, my crotch exploding.

  “Don’t worry,” Rod says, pointing to a blotch of black in the foam. “He’s right there.”

  The wave recedes.

  Baldy is rocking violently, trying to roll away from the water. More heaving and spasms.

  “Please,” he chokes. “Please.”

  Rod walks over, squats down, “You feel like talking now, Tony?”

  “Yes, please,” he cries. “Please.”

  Rod motions for me to help roll him to higher ground.

  “He feels chatty now, Danny.”

  Baldy cries.

  Larry emerges from the fog. “I get him after you.”

  Rod says, “Just make sure no one comes over here.”

  Larry disappears into the fog.

  We roll Baldy so his face is up. The bone-chilling water has drenched him. With the sharp gusts blasting us, he’s shivering uncontrollably, his whole body vibrating, his teeth chattering like a cartoon. “Puh-puh-puh . . . p-p-p-p-p-puh-lease.”