Cash Out

by Greg Bardsley

“. . . with an ex doesn’t compare to . . .”

  “May I take your order?”

  “. . . boner and vagina talk.”

  Long silence.

  “Ummmm.” The attendant pauses. “Can you repeat that?”

  “Hold on,” I holler.

  I turn to her. “Have you seen him?”

  Her eyes closed. Annoyed. “No.”

  “So, what, you’re having one of those emotional affairs? Missing him or something?”

  The attendant says, “Sir?”

  “He’s just a friend.” Kate blows out a gust. “When there’s no one else who’ll listen. That’s the problem with you and me. Who am I supposed to talk to?”

  “Sir?”

  “Hold on. So you’re saying, because it’s not boner and vagina talk, that’s okay?”

  “Dan,” she gasps, quiet, “I’m not feeling so hot. Just get me something starchy.”

  “Sir?”

  “Obviously your little e-mail affair was wrong, too, or you would have told me.”

  Eyes closed. “Order the . . . fucking . . . food.”

  I order her a cheeseburger and fries, and a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese and fries for me. When we get to the window, the pimply-faced attendant acts like everything’s normal. Hell, at a late-night drive-through, maybe boner talk is normal.

  I can’t help myself. “Does he still have feelings for you?”

  “Oh God. I don’t feel—”

  Kate sits up, opens her door, leans out, and throws up onto the asphalt. The bitter, acidic stench cuts through the air.

  “Here.” I reach into the glove box, pull out the last napkin, hand it to her. “Hang in there.”

  She dips her head, groans.

  I rub her back. “It’s okay.”

  I turn to my left, and the attendant is handing me a hot bag of food. I look up to her and produce a happy, grateful smile.

  “Could we . . .”

  More retching and splatter.

  “. . . have some extra napkins.”

  The attendant smiles, turns away, and returns with a massive wad of napkins.

  Kate closes the door and releases a long groan as I ease away from the window. I hand her a few napkins. “We’ll turn out here and find a spot, get you cleaned up.”

  “Water,” she rasps.

  I turn onto Fillmore, hand her the water bottle from the cup holder between us. “I think . . .” She takes a sip. “. . . that food will come right back up.” She sighs hard. “All that grease.”

  Crap. She’s probably right. “You need something bland.”

  “Exactly.” She sighs, wipes her mouth. “Pancakes. No butter or syrup. Just pancakes.”

  I head north on Fillmore, toward Cow Hollow and the Marina. “There’s a Mel’s on Lombard.” I shove a bunch of fries into my mouth. “They serve breakfast.”

  “Fine.” She reclines her seat, closes her eyes, moans. “And no.”

  We cross Geary.

  “No?”

  “No.” Gasp. “I don’t have feelings for Alec.”

  That’s good to hear.

  “I’m just . . .” Her voice cracks. “. . . so lonely sometimes.”

  My heart sinks. “Lonely?”

  “It’s just nice to have someone to listen.”

  That hurts, like a sock in the gut. “I don’t listen?”

  She sniffles. “I can’t tell you anything negative—my concerns, my fears, my frustrations. You don’t like hearing that stuff.”

  “But I want to hear it, Kate. I do.”

  We cross Sutter.

  “I don’t want suggestions or solutions, but that’s what I get from you. I just want you to listen.”

  “Don’t I do that?”

  Shakes her head. “When I start talking about that stuff, your face says it all.” Sniffles. “You don’t even realize you’re doing it.”

  There’s nothing more maddening than knowing you’re hurting the one you love, but not knowing how you can change. We’ve gone through all this with the therapist, and it’s still a problem. How am I supposed to change my facial reactions when I don’t even know I’m having them? How am I supposed to know when Kate’s venting is just venting, and when she’s trying to tell me about her deeper problems? I want to be there for her—I do. I just need to figure out how to get there.

  “I want to get better, Kate. I want you to be able to share this stuff with me.”

  “I guess I don’t feel so bad about Alec anymore.” She pauses. “Considering your sex-talk buddy.”

  “That was just . . . so fucking stupid.” My throat weakens. “And I’m so sorry.”

  She thinks about it, starts to cry. “You slept with her, didn’t you?”

  “Oh my God. Honey. I never even kissed her.”

  “How am I supposed to know?” She sniffles. “For sure?”

  “And how can I know for sure whether you haven’t met up with Alec?”

  We hit the top of the hill, surrounded by mansions, and start coasting down toward Lombard.

  “Okay,” she says. “I’m sorry, okay? I should have told you.” She sighs. “And I probably shouldn’t have been e-mailing with him anyway.”

  “He wants to meet you someplace, doesn’t he?”

  “Don’t worry about that.” Annoyed. “Because I said no.”

  I get light-headed. “He wants to fuck you, you know?”

  “Stop it, okay? I told you everything. I just want you to listen, be there for me.”

  And that’s the problem, I decide. This fucking job of mine. This hyperventilating life in the valley. Nonstop. Unrelenting. Monster hours. When there are millions to be made, only the weak slow down.

  “We cash out, I’ll have more time, honey. More time for us. To be there for each other.” We hit Lombard, pull a right. “I know it. I know things will get better.”

  She sits up and vomits into her bag.

  At the nearly empty Mel’s, Kate is in the restroom dry-heaving. I sit in our booth wearing her jacket, my bare chest and stomach exposed. I’m finger-padding my nose when my mobile rings. It’s a private number I don’t recognize.

  “Yes?”

  “Dan, it’s Detective Bryant.”

  “Working late, aren’t you?”

  “Looks like you are, too.”

  The waitress delivers Kate’s pancakes, slides a plate of grilled cheese and fries and a giant, perspiring, aluminum cup of vanilla milk shake in front of me. I nod thanks.

  “Well,” I say, taking a fry. “Crazy time right now, I have to admit.”

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that. They had an impressive little car chase in San Mateo today, climaxing with a hit-and-run and some type of motorist abduction.”

  My stomach tightens. “Oh yeah?”

  “Wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “I’ve been up here most of the day.”

  “Dan, where’s your Corolla?”

  “What?”

  “Your car. A witness gave a description of a car that fled the scene, scribbled down a few of the numbers on the plate—not all, but a few. They scanned cars registered in the area, sent us the matches in San Carlos, and I saw your name there.”

  “Well . . .”

  “So I came over to check you out, and you and your car are nowhere to be found.”

  “Well, we’re up in the city right now.”

  “Can you come in to answer some questions?”

  Kate returns, eases into the booth, stares at the pancakes.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t right now.”

  “There’s a man missing, Dan. This one isn’t going away.”

  Kate picks up a pancake with her hand, eats it like a tortilla.

  “Well,” I snap, “I don’
t have him. I’m here in the city having a late dinner with my wife. And I’m getting on a plane for Florida first thing in the morning.”

  Kate gives me a lazy sneer.

  Bryant says, “The missing motorist is the guy we think attacked you at the Safeway. I thought that was an odd coincidence.” The sarcasm is heavy. “A guy named Anthony Altazaro.”

  I play along. “That does sound odd. But, you know, maybe no one took that guy. Maybe he fled the scene. Maybe he didn’t want to speak to the police. Maybe he was juiced up and ran away, wanted to avoid a DUI. You know that happens all the time. I covered a ton of those stories.”

  He laughs. “Well, I still want to see your car.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “My neighbor has it.”

  “Larry? Would that be Larry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s funny, because a witness reports seeing—and I quote—‘a spry, bearded crazy man’ darting around at the scene of the collision.”

  Kate takes another bite.

  “Hmmm. That’s weird.”

  “I’ve checked on Larry’s place several times today. Can’t find him.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you, Detective. I think Larry might be on a road trip.”

  He laughs. “With your car?” He laughs some more. “That’s pretty good.”

  I look at Kate. She’s still staring into space, chewing slowly, the pancake still pinched between her fingers.

  “Listen, sir. I need to get off—”

  “Dan,” he whispers. “Remember our conversation. I can make all this hit-and-run shit go away. I just want a piece of the action.”

  “Calling from a private line, are we?”

  “I want a piece, Dan.”

  “The action?”

  “Whatever it is. Because I know there’s something going on. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Listen,” I say, biting my lip a second. “Listen, I’m getting closer, but I still don’t know what this is about. If there is some action to ‘get into,’ I’ll let you know. Okay? Just so long as you keep me and Larry out of this hit-and-run thing.”

  “I can do that,” he says, “as long as we know Altazaro is okay. I can’t redirect a kidnapping investigation. Nor would I want to.”

  “Good.” I dip my long spoon into the milk shake and pull out a dripping heap of vanilla. “Suppose someone called and said they saw this Altazaro guy flee the scene. It wouldn’t be a kidnapping anymore, would it?”

  “But I’ll need to get that witness account, and I’d like to know Altazaro is alive and safe.”

  “Well, what if I were to tell you that it was Larry and me in that chase, and that once the cars collided, this bald, beefy dude jumped out of the car and fled the scene, and that Larry and I were so scared, we took off? Remember, this is the guy who not only attacked me in the Safeway but also stalked my young children.”

  Long pause. “I can work with that.” Another pause. “Only thing fishy is why you and Larry didn’t stick around for the cops.”

  “Hey,” I say. “We were scared.”

  He chuckles. “Scared. Okay.” More chuckling. “But I’ll need to know this Altazaro guy is okay. And we still need to press charges for the battery at Safeway.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “What if I assured you that someone will personally deliver Altazaro to you within forty-eight hours, safe and healthy?”

  “And I get a piece of the action?”

  “Yes, yes. You get a piece of the action.” I roll my eyes. “If there is any.”

  “With people like this guy involved, there has to be action. Just has to be.”

  We hang up, and I look over at Kate. She’s still holding her pancake. “What the hell was that?”

  “What?”

  She closes her eyes. “You trying out a career in human trafficking?”

  “Listen. I think I need to go home tonight, leave you with Rod and the boys.”

  She takes a big bite, looks away, and chews. “Fine.”

  “I don’t manage this thing right, we’ll have a kidnapping investigation on top of everything else.”

  Still looking away. “God.”

  “I just don’t want Larry going overboard.” The thought makes me shudder. “We can’t afford permanent maiming.”

  “Nah,” she says. “Wouldn’t want that.”

  I watch the cars and trucks scream by on Lombard.

  “Sure. Our marriage is flying out of control . . .” She yells into the air. “But Crazy Larry has gotten himself in trouble and the cops are calling. Better give that your full attention.”

  We sit there awhile.

  “I can stay with you guys tonight.”

  “No.” She flicks the last bit of pancake into her mouth, allows a lazy glance in my direction. “This is better. This way, I can think.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m thinking, maybe you need to find an apartment.”

  “Apartment . . .” My face freezes. “What?”

  She sits back, looks at me with that lazy cocked eyebrow. Her movements are slow and drunk, but her mind seems pretty clear. “You’re having IM sex with PR sluts. I’m letting my stupid high school boyfriend flirt with me . . .”

  I swallow hard, look away.

  “. . . so maybe it doesn’t make sense to cash out and buy a beach shack together. I mean, these kinds of problems . . .”

  “Kate.”

  “No, I’m serious. Buying a shack isn’t going to change anything.”

  “Kate. C’mon.”

  “Dan . . .” She’s about to cry. “Take me to Rod’s.”

  Eight

  It’s close to two in the morning when I finally roll up to our house. The whole ride down here, I’ve thought of nothing but that comment.

  Maybe you need to find an apartment.

  Was that real? Had my wife, my only true love, just told me to move out? Was it the Cuervo? The emotions of this one crazy night? The prospect of Alec, that smug-nosed little twerp?

  Of course I have no defense—no one to blame but myself. If I’d done the right things all along—avoided the IM’ing with Anne, decided not to squeal to BusinessWeek, protected my equity in FlowBid—the geeks would’ve had nothing on me, and Kate wouldn’t be hurt. Sure, we’d still have our issues, but our lives wouldn’t be like houses teetering over an eroded beach cliff during a violent storm, seconds away from collapse.

  Yeah, it’s my fault. All of it.

  Bare-chested once again, I ease myself out of the van, my midsection throbbing, and glance across the street to Larry’s place. No sign of my Corolla. Larry’s house is dark.

  God only knows where he’s—

  Then, from his covered porch, a red ember.

  I squint into the blackness. “Larry?”

  The ember fades.

  This is what Larry does most nights—turns off the lights and sits on his covered porch facing our house, smoking and drinking. You can’t see him, just the glowing red ember of his pipe.

  I start to cross the street. “Larry?”

  Faint traces of Alvin and the Chipmunks slip from his garage, their high-pitched squealing just barely cutting the silence.

  All around the mulberry bush,

  The monkey chased the weasel

  The monkey thought it was a joke,

  Pop goes the weasel

  I bite my lip, take a few more steps.

  “Larry,” I whisper. “The detective called me.”

  The ember glows.

  From the garage, an electronic buzz-snap, followed by hissing and popping and the high-pressure release of liquid. Muffled distress.

  “Larry?”

  The ember fades.

  “Larry?”

  The ember glows. “Come here.” His voice is strong,
like he’s not asking.

  Wet, squishy noises echo from the garage.

  The ember fades.

  I come closer, but I still can’t see him.

  “Larry.” I step closer. “We can’t get too crazy with these guys.”

  The ember brightens, and finally I see the outline of his face. Just a moment, a glimpse of his cheekbones, his brow, his chin, the contours of a mouth that seems paralyzed.

  The ember fades, and he returns to darkness.

  “Larry, listen. We need to cool it with these guys, okay?”

  Nothing.

  “I know you don’t like people following you, and I know you hate big money. But if these guys don’t come back fully functional, we’re wearing orange jumpsuits for ten to twenty.”

  Nothing.

  “Plus, I think we’d regret it.”

  “Daniel.”

  “Larry?”

  “Daniel, I have never regretted anything.” The ember brightens, then fades. “Ever.”

  The sound of splashing in the garage.

  I look back at my house. It seems so sweet and cute from Larry’s place, the porch light on, the bushes trimmed. “Calhoun said some shady characters were snooping around my place. Maybe Baldy’s buds. Did you see anyone?”

  Silence.

  “Go easy on ’em, Larry. I mean it.”

  Larry says, “It’s been a while.”

  “While? What while?”

  “Since Mr. Wetty has had visitors.”

  “Mr. Wetty?” My heart thumps hard. “You have someone in there with them?” My breathing goes shallow. “We can’t have more people in on this, Larry.”

  The ember brightens. “Mr. Wetty is an Adirondack.”

  “A chair?”

  “Mr. Wetty likes visitors, and he likes to get wet.”

  “Larry?”

  “So I think he was quite pleased to have company tonight.” The ember fades. “Which is why it will be my pleasure to give the boys turns on Mr. Wetty.”

  Okay, maybe I don’t want to know this.

  “Larry?”

  Silence.

  “Larry, where’s my car?”

  The ember glows.

  “Larry?”

  Finally, peace.

  My face has melted into my pillow. A warm blanket of black comfort, this sweet nothing, seeps through my skull and soothes my brain. It’s thick and black and solid, and it halts everything—dreams, radiating aches from my nether regions, outside stimuli.