Cash Out

by Greg Bardsley

  The slumber is so sweet.

  Until someone lifts me off the bed.

  I jolt awake, look at the clock. 4:57.

  A large figure twirls me in the air and crashes us into the wall. When I open my eyes, on my back, the shadow looms over me.

  “Where is he?”

  When I open my mouth, he forces his hand in, fingers my tongue, and pulls it out just enough to make me convulse.

  “Where is he?”

  My tongue twitches in his grip.

  “You’re gonna answer.” The shadow lets go, whips me around so my head is sticking out of two enormous, hairy, interlocked arms. “Where is he?”

  I feel absolutely helpless. Hell, I am absolutely helpless.

  “I am not going to ask you again.”

  “Where’s who?”

  The arms tighten. “I’ll take you . . .”

  I gurgle.

  “. . . and leave you where archeologists will find you.” He squeezes, and I moan. “A long . . . long . . . time from now.”

  I claw at the arms. “Please.”

  The arms constrict like a hairy boa, and I shut my eyes in overwhelming pain. “Please? That won’t buy you the morning paper, hotshot. Where is he?”

  “The bald dude?”

  The arms hold tight. “There you go. See, you do know who.”

  “I . . .” Tiny breath. “. . . don’t know.”

  “Oh yes, you do.” He squeezes harder, takes a breath. “You know exactly where he is.”

  I’m starting to feel dizzy. I’m not getting the air I need, and the pain is paralyzing. I gasp, “Please stop.”

  “You control that.” The arms tighten and bulge. “Where is he?”

  Saliva bubbles from my lips.

  The arms tighten. “Where—”

  Then, in a flash, some overwhelming force seizes control of both of us. Together we stiffen and shudder, frozen into paralysis. I feel his head jerking, his jaw shuttering, as a current of spiked pain shoots through my body and stays there, launching bullets of agony to the core of my chest.

  I can’t even moan or open my mouth.

  Finally, it ceases. He releases and topples over as I slide to the floor, my twitching limbs so heavy I can’t move. But I can smell something. That smoky hint of vanilla and rum. And then the cocoa-butter lotion. From my angle, I roll an eyeball for a view of the ember. The red ember brightening over us.

  Larry pulls the Taser probes off us. “There we go,” he says in a soothing voice.

  Larry cuffs my attacker and throws a pillowcase over his head. “The probes did not align,” he says.

  I whimper on the hardwood, try to get a look at my attacker. He’s massive—maybe six foot five, three hundred pounds—with hands the size of catcher’s mitts. His power had been overwhelming, but now he’s a mound of dead weight.

  “One probe landed on you, and the other on him. The current danced between you.” Larry reaches behind his jeans, pulls out an extra-large choke collar, something for St. Bernards. He pulls the pillowcase tight, collars his captive with the choke, and attaches a leash. It’s a move he’s obviously done before. He yanks on the leash, and his captive shrieks and scrambles to his knees. “A simple conduction of electrical current from his body to yours.”

  I roll on the floor, moaning.

  He says softly, “That was not my intention.”

  The smoky vanilla wafts through my room.

  He yanks again, and the captive follows. Larry leans against my dresser, and the captive settles at his feet like an obedient dog. “Some pets,” he says, looks down at the massive figure kneeling before him, “learn quite quickly.”

  I sit up. My skin feels like it’s on fire. I scratch uncontrollably. “Larry,” I rasp, and lower myself back to the floor. “How’d . . .?”

  “I’ve been watching him . . .” He pauses. “. . . watch you . . .” He produces a cloud, studies me through the haze. “. . . for hours.”

  I try to sit up again, decide against it.

  I moan, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Larry puffs, stares at me. “This is better.”

  “Larry, we need to think about this a second.”

  “I’ve decided.” Larry gazes down at me. “I’d like another date with Kate.”

  “Larry. A date? Larry, you’re not dating my wife.”

  He softens and whispers, “It would please me.”

  “Let’s just focus on the matter at hand.” I nod to Larry’s captive and shudder at what I’m about to ask. “You have room for him, Larry?”

  He allows the slightest of nods. “I can introduce him to . . .” His eyes seem to moisten. “. . . Mr. Wetty.”

  From under the pillowcase: “We can pay you. A lot.”

  Larry stiffens, looks at me and yanks the leash as he turns toward the hallway. “I do not like . . .” He yanks again, harder. “. . . big money.”

  “Larry.” I sit up, rub my face. “We’ll need him back.”

  Larry hums his little snippet of Bach as he leads his captive down the hall.

  “Larry,” I snap.

  Distant humming. I hear the door open, the choke collar snap.

  “I need all those guys back, Larry.”

  The door clicks shut.

  I squint at the clock. 5:12 A.M. My head throbs, my left eye twitches; my energy is at an all-time low. I crawl back into bed, every inch of me aching, and let my head sink back into the pillow, thinking, Two more hours of sleep before I really need to get up. And realize—for a millisecond—the absurdity of it all, that I’ve grown so comfortable with all this insanity that I’m able to drift off just minutes after getting Tasered. But the thought vanishes as the absolute requirement for sleep dismisses all analysis in short order.

  A sing-songy whisper. “Rise and shine, Mr. Danny.”

  It pulls me out of the slumber. I am so tired—my head throbbing, my eyes burning, my limbs heavy. I open an eye, look up . . . to Calhoun’s puffy, pink face. He’s curled around me, stroking my arm. “There’s my sleepyhead,” he soothes in full-on baby talk. “There he is.”

  I scramble out of his embrace. Daylight is streaming through the blinds. Holy shit. My heart hammers. I’ve overslept. I look at the clock, squint—7:45 A.M.—and exhale. It takes a few seconds for my brain to unscramble the confusion. Just fifteen minutes late. Okay. I can make that up. Just need to be at the jet center by nine. I can do that.

  Calhoun bounces off my bed, straightens his robe. “I made you waffles.”

  “Calhoun.” I scratch my head, glance at him. “What are you doing?”

  Calhoun mocks offense. “Your little lover sent me.”

  “Kate?”

  “She tried calling you this morning, to wake you for your little plane ride. I guess she thought little Danny Boy might be so tired that he’d oversleep. But it seems like someone cut Mr. Danny’s phone lines, and his little cell-phone battery was dead because her wakeup calls kept going straight to Mr. Danny’s voice mail.” He looks at me, does the silent laughter thing that makes his tits shake and quiver. “So Kate called sweet ol’ Calhoun to the rescue.”

  I rub my face, think about Larry leaving my house with the big guy. “Was the front door unlocked?”

  Silent laughter. “Yes,” he wheezes, “which gave me the opportunity to start charging your cell phone and make some big, fluffy, juicy waffles for my Mr. Danny.” He tiptoes to me, slaps me on the butt, and gives me his side. “You go get ready, and Uncle Calhoun will keep those waffles warm.”

  I head to the bathroom, but the entire middle region of my body—from thighs to abdomen—feels about as flexible as a two-by-four. So I shuffle into the bathroom, search for my Vicodin. “Fine, fine. Waffles. Fine. I just need to be in the car in twenty minutes.”

  Calhoun jumps for joy and dances
down the hallway singing in baritone, “Danny’s gonna get his waffles on,” then in a high tenor, “Danny’s gonna get his waffles on.”

  The thing about showering when you’re severely sleep-deprived: It takes longer. Your brain is slower, and your body works at half speed, which you really can’t afford, because if you didn’t have to be up showering, you’d be back in bed with your head in a fluffy pillow. Today I shower in cold water, yelping and yipping and shuddering as I race through the routine.

  When I open the shower door, I’m confronted by an enormous wedge of moist waffle, dripping long strands of buttery syrup. Calhoun makes an airplane noise, says in the baby voice, “Open wide for Mr. Waffle.”

  Either I open wide, or my face is smeared in syrup. I choose the former.

  Calhoun pads closer with his waffle plate. “Tell me it’s not absolutely delicious.”

  I snatch my towel, wrap myself up and swallow. “Just give me a second.”

  Calhoun follows me as I put a dab of gel in my hair, slide on some deodorant, and waddle back to my room. I slowly step into a pair of black slacks, pick myself out a pair of black leather shoes and a dark blue dress shirt. I grab my blazer, pull a huge wad of cash from my cedar money box on the dresser, and scan the room for my travel bag and the recording device it contains. Oh yeah. Left it in the van out front.

  Calhoun darts up to me, shoves waffle into my mouth.

  “Cahouuu.” I grab my suitcase, look for my keys, try to swallow. “Enoughh.”

  My cell rings in the front room. Calhoun darts out of the room, slams into something, and gallops back with the phone. I take it, look at the screen. It’s Fitzroy.

  “Hi, Stephen.”

  “You okay for this trip, Danny?”

  “Of course.”

  Calhoun gets closer, giggles to himself, and shoves waffle into my mouth.

  “I’m not so sure.”

  I chew hard, swallow. “No, I’m fine. It’s just been—”

  “I looked at what you did for this pitch tomorrow.”

  Calhoun presses his face up to mine, makes the airplane noise as he forces another piece in.

  “Mmmm-hmmm.”

  “And I don’t like it.”

  Calhoun watches me, laughs through a closed mouth, his tits shaking.

  Big swallow. “Okay, we can—”

  “It’s not the right pitch.” His voice is rising, the irritation heavy. He always gets this way before a speech. “These guys are expecting thought leadership, not the same old babble.” He pauses, collects himself. “Let’s dope it out on the jet with the new guy. He’s got some new ideas we can use.”

  New guy. That’s right. The new guy.

  “Okay, Stephen. I’m sorry about this. We’ll get it right on the plane.”

  Calhoun comes at me with more waffle. I swat it away, send everything sailing across the room. Calhoun stomps a foot, blows a raspberry at me, and giggles.

  Amusement in Fitzroy’s voice. “But if you’re not doing well—you know, if you’re dealing with some issues at home after yesterday’s fiasco—you can skip this trip, Danny. The new guy and I can dope this thing out on the flight.”

  “No, I’m goo—”

  “Okay,” he mumbles, and hangs up.

  Calhoun dances toward me, forces me into a corner, fingering a piece of waffle. “You’re not getting away this time . . .” He scrunches his face in mock annoyance. “. . . you little pistol.”

  I grimace and grunt to the van.

  Larry lazes on his porch, nursing a coffee, observing me.

  I throw my stuff into the van, cross the street to Larry. Streaks of water darken half his driveway as tiny ripples escape from under the garage door. I glance at the garage as something inside hisses and pops and sprays; a larger ripple of water eases from under the door and down the driveway.

  Larry sips his coffee, gazes into space.

  “Hey, Larry.” I make it pleasant, as if he hadn’t been in my bedroom and Tasered my home invader. “Still at it with Mr. Wetty?”

  Larry looks up at me, thinking, his mind a thousand miles away.

  “Listen, Larry, I can’t emphasize this enough. Those guys in there? I’m going to need them back. I mean, in about twenty-four hours.”

  Larry says, “We’ll release them in the high country.”

  I think of park rangers tranquilizing a bear and relocating it hundreds of miles away.

  “Well, maybe it’s time to give Mr. Wetty a rest.”

  Larry shifts, sips, and squints into space.

  “Larry?”

  Slowly, his eyes turn to me. They seem hollow.

  I look at my watch, realize I need to hit the road. I can’t worry about Mr. Wetty. But I’m hoping he can help me with one last thing.

  “Larry, you said you extracted the details out of that little guy.”

  Still staring at the ground, thinking.

  “It’d really help me if you told me what he said about Tampa. So I’ll know what I’m walking into out there.”

  Still staring.

  “Larry?”

  Stroking the whiskers.

  “Larry,” I snap, “tell me what that guy said about Tampa.”

  He stands up, glances at my shoes. “Just do as they told you.”

  “They?”

  “The little people.”

  “Larry. C’mon. I need more than that.”

  Larry opens his front door, then turns and looks me over one last time, nearly deflated. “I have work to do,” he says, and shuts the door.

  No matter how many times I fly with Stephen Fitzroy, the spectacle never ceases to strike me.

  I leave my tiny peninsula house of chipped hardwood floors and battered, stained furniture; step into my old Corolla and merge into the hordes of commuters on U.S. 101; pass the long-term parking at SJC and drive to the opposite side of the airport, to another world. I park the Corolla in front of Atlantic Aviation, the operator that provides support services to the dozens, if not hundreds, of private jets that fly in and out of San Jose each day. And just like that I’m in another world, one I never thought I’d see.

  I waddle through the doors, nod to the familiar faces.

  “You can join the others on the plane if you’d like, Mr. Jordan.”

  My heart stops. I turn to the young attendant with her fresh face, her freckles and giant green eyes. “He’s here? Don’t tell me he’s here.”

  She smiles, her pleasantness unflappable. “No, he’s not here.”

  “Thank God.” I push through the doors and begin to waddle across the tarmac, headed for Fitzroy’s Gulfstream 5, enormous and gleaming, the morning sun giving it a glossy blue-and-white sheen, its engines idling in a high-pitched purr. A smiling male attendant in a dark blue windbreaker takes my bags and walks me to the jet, which always gets me—I’m not some fancy boy who needs someone taking my bags and treating me like royalty—but I know it’s his job, and the last thing I want to do is come off as an unappreciative prick.

  “How are you today, sir?”

  I make eye contact with him, nod and smile. “I’m doing great.” A flash—Larry lazing on his porch this morning, gazing into space. “Beautiful day for a flight.”

  He nods eagerly. “A perfect day, sir.”

  As we approach the G5, the engines drowning our voices, I think about the family van just fifty yards away with the ripped seats and sun-bleached dashboard, think of my simple little house on my modest little street, and shake my head in disbelief.

  How in the hell did I get here?

  I climb the stairs, greet the pilots—Jim and Earl, Fitzroy’s own—and turn into the cabin. Everything here is beyond luxurious: leather recliners, polished cherry paneling with recessed lights, gleaming tables offering fruit, coffee, tea, and the morning papers, a dining area and a lo
ng couch that turns into a bed.

  Beth Gavin is seated in the second most prestigious spot on the plane—the left-front, forward-facing chair, directly across from Fitzroy. She’s bent over her cell phone, punching numbers and listening to voice mail through an earpiece, scribbling onto a notepad, probably recording the very latest adjustments to Fitzroy’s schedule—or, as I sometimes suspect, listening to old messages to make herself seem busy and important. Hell, I’ve felt that urge.

  She doesn’t look up.

  Facing her is the new guy. Shiny black jeans and a skin-tight, solid-black, cotton long-sleeve, dark shades still in place, dark brown hair wavy, and extreme, lean, veiny hands covering his knees.

  I look down at him and nod, no idea if he’s staring straight ahead or even awake. Finally, he looks up at me, betrays his stoic look with the smallest of grins. “Ah . . .” The grin widens a little, nods slowly. “The lover of the buttocks.”

  I shrug, roll my eyes.

  Beth looks up from her phone, glances at me, then at the new guy. “That e-mail was disgusting.” She looks at me a split second. “If you reported to me, you’d be fired.”

  The new guy pulls his head back, puckers. An eyebrow rises from behind the shades.

  I stop, lower myself to Beth’s level, let her see how red and saggy and tired my eyes are. I stay there a second, stare at her wide mouth and long teeth, allowing the disgust to contort my face, and harden my stare. “Let me tell you something, Beth. I will never, ever report to you.” I study her wide-eyed reaction. “Ever.” Her face darkens as I get up and walk away.

  I head for the dining table, where I plan to set up—we always leave the seat opposite Fitzroy open, to give him leg room.

  The new guy smiles wide, gets up and follows me. He comes in close, slaps an arm around me, and whispers into my ear, his breath like fresh pine. “There are worse fates than being an ass lover.” He pauses, shakes me around for emphasis, and nods to the back of Beth’s head. “You like her ass?”

  “It’s got no personality,” I mumble. “Just like the rest of her.”

  The new guy grins, nods to himself. “Speaking of no personality, we need to pull that speech apart and rewrite it completely. I spoke to Fitzroy about it.”