Cash Out

by Greg Bardsley

  “He’ll get me fired.”

  “Danny.” He laughs. “You were getting fired anyway. I mean, you think I wasn’t going to fire you after this?”

  “You fire me in the next thirty-six hours, that tape goes public.”

  He quiets, finally says, “We’re coming.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just stay there.”

  “What are you—”

  “You’re on the beach. Across the highway, right?”

  I mumble, more to myself, “How’d . . .”

  “I can hear the cars, Danny, and the water. And you couldn’t have gone far.”

  I look around, see no one.

  “Just stay put, Danny. We’ll be there in a minute.”

  We?

  “Ed might get there sooner.”

  “Ed?”

  “Didn’t think I’d need anything like that down here, but I was wrong.”

  “Anything like what?”

  “Guys I can call. Guys who can solve problems.”

  I don’t want to believe it. “What?”

  “They said I could call him if there was trouble.”

  “They?” I rasp. “Who?”

  “Stanislau.”

  I shake my head, blink hard. “Stanislau? You know the people at Stanislau?”

  “Of course.” He mumbles, like it’s suddenly all so boring. “They work with the board.”

  “I know.” I’m panting. “But you’re in contact with them?”

  “No, they’re in contact with me.”

  I mumble, “Stanislau.”

  “They sent me a note this morning, said I should call Ed if I had any problems in Tampa, which I thought was odd . . .” He sharpens. “Until about twenty minutes ago.”

  I feel my stomach weaken, and I moan.

  “Just hang tight,” he says, his voice strangely cheery. “He’s on his way.”

  Which is when I see the large dark figure near the water.

  All I see is his silhouette—the outline of a massive, broad-shouldered man. A linebacker’s body. He’s pacing some two hundred feet away as I sit there in the sand, a cold sweat breaking, trying to come up with a plan. And failing.

  My cell flashes again. I keep an eye on the silhouette as I scoop the phone out of the sand and put it to my ear. “Call him off, Stephen.”

  The figure takes a few steps in my direction.

  “I mean it,” I say into the phone. “Call him off.”

  “I want my tape,” a voice snaps back. It’s High Rider, his voice sounding like an elf trapped in a can.

  “Dude, what are you doing in Tampa? This wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “Deal?” he snaps. “This was never a deal. This was a matter of me telling you what you’ll do and when you’ll do it.”

  The silhouette takes a few more careful steps.

  “So you came to spy on me.”

  A few more steps.

  “I came to protect our investment. I knew something would go wrong with you.”

  Closer still.

  “I spoke to Fitzroy,” I say. “He’s promising more money if I give him the tape.”

  “And you believe him?” High Rider chuckles and sighs. “You’re such an idiot.”

  More steps, less tentative.

  “Regardless,” I say, “I have a more pressing matter here.”

  He’s getting closer, and, God, he’s huge.

  “I want my tape.”

  C’mon, think of something.

  “You’ll get your tape,” I say. “Tomorrow at the airport—TPA. Be there by seven A.M., and I’ll call you, tell you where to go.”

  “But I make the calls,” he snaps.

  “You do?” I say, and hang up, because now the silhouette is running toward me.

  Sprinting, really.

  Tearing over the sand like it’s asphalt.

  The problem is, following exact sequences is hard for me, no matter how much I try. Tell me a joke, the next day I can’t repeat it to save my life. Ask me to sing my favorite song, I’ll never be able to nail the lyrics. And dancing? You ask me to follow along in a class or something, my feet will screw it up. Always.

  So you can understand that, despite more than a decade’s worth of Rod Stone trying to teach me submission holds, I’m helpless there too.

  Even so, I stand up, face the man, and try to channel Rod.

  He slows as he approaches. Shit, he’s gonna shoot me.

  Deep voice. Really deep voice. “Danny?”

  My breath is so shallow.

  Two big steps closer. “Danny,” he huffs, breathing heavy. “I’m Ed.”

  I take a step back.

  “Danny, I need that tape.”

  Another step back.

  “Danny.” He seems so calm. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I’m freaking so hard, I can’t feel my face. “I don’t have it.”

  He laughs, takes a step closer, and finally I can see his face: giant chin, straight nose, and a high brow. “Is that why you’re fiddling with something in your pocket there? Something that looks like a cassette tape?”

  I swallow hard. “I don’t have it.”

  He takes a step. “Danny, how do you want this to end?”

  I say nothing, take another step back.

  “Do you want to leave this beach upright, go back to California and see your wife and kids?”

  I take another step back, resist the urge to pull out the tape and throw it away from me.

  He takes a step, says ever so gently, “Do you want to see your children again?”

  My legs weaken.

  “I don’t think you know who—and what—you’re fucking with here, chief.”

  “I don’t—”

  He explodes for me, and I feel like a toddler—lifted off my feet so effortlessly, brought in the air for a moment, and tossed down onto the sand. I try to roll over and scramble away, but he grabs me by the ankles—again, so effortless—and yanks me back to him.

  He rolls me onto my back, raises a fist, and tightens.

  “Okay,” I say. “Okay.”

  Too late. He lands an elbow across my face. It feels like a wall of wood has slammed my entire head. I taste blood in my mouth, roll my head to avoid the next blow, but still catch it behind the ear.

  I try to move, but can’t.

  Fuck, he’s huge.

  The calm voice is gone. He rumbles, “You wanna do this?”

  “No,” I gurgle. “Please.”

  He scoots off me, lets me get to my knees, reaches for my front pocket. “Cough it up. Before I get angry.”

  And just like that, I can’t believe it: I’m actually seeing an opportunity. That’s what Rod Stone calls it—an “opportunity”—when an opponent opens himself to a particular submission. Ed is crawling toward me, reaching for my pocket, never thinking for a second that my best friend, a professional cage fighter, has been catching me in this very same position over and over the past fifteen years, and making me pay the price. I just might be able to resist my freestyle ways long enough to remember the moves—the sequence of steps necessary to secure a Peruvian Necktie.

  “C’mere,” he grunts.

  I gasp under my breath, “Here we go.”

  He reaches for my pocket, growls, “Where is it?”

  Now or never.

  “You wanna leave this beach?” he yells, and shoots for my legs.

  And just like that I slip into a zone I never thought I could reach, letting my unconscious take over, letting my body set it all up, my brain go blank. I push his head to the sand, slip my left arm under his throat and across his chest, reach over with the other and lock hands, and stand up. He tries to twist away, but I’ve got him. I’ve really got him. I step over
his shoulders and pull up, pressing his head against the back of my leg, and fall back at an angle, pulling him with me and twisting, landing on my back and wrapping my legs around him.

  All of it mindless, all of it deep-seated muscle memory I didn’t know I had.

  His head is torqued under my legs, his chin pressed hard against his collarbone, cutting off all blood flow to his brain.

  He tenses.

  I tighten for the ride, ignore the pangs in my groin.

  He tries to get up, but he can’t, so he tries to roll out of it.

  I hold on, tighten my legs and arms.

  Finally, he gets his footing and tries to stand with all my weight on his neck.

  Ain’t gonna happen, dude.

  He collapses to the sand, and I twist and tighten.

  The fight begins to drain out of him. His hands flap for me to stop, and he gurgles—trying to speak, I guess, but there’s no way anything’s coming out of that throat right now.

  I grimace and grunt. “Nighty-night, asshole.”

  And with that he goes limp.

  I keep the hold a little longer, just to be sure.

  I kneel over him, check his pulse and breathing. They’re both strong, thank God; he’s just choked out, as Rod would say. Soon he’ll come to, groggy and weak, with no memory of what just happened. I peer down at him, thinking about it.

  Might as well make it easier to lose this guy.

  I roll him on his side, pull down on his chin to open his mouth, and shovel in a few handfuls of sand. Coming to with a mouthful of sand. That’ll slow him down.

  Then I catch a clue and pull off my shirt and tie it around his wrists, tight.

  Might as well relieve him of his wallet and shoes, really slow him down.

  I stand there and look at him.

  Wouldn’t hurt to pull off his pants and underwear. A guy can’t go too far naked.

  I stop, scan the beach.

  Which is when I notice the unmistakable outline some fifty feet away.

  I drop Ed’s ankles, think for a moment—then charge.

  Stephen Fitzroy screams, turns, and runs for the hotel.

  By the time he reaches the entrance, he’s panting for help. I’m hobbling after him, sandy and bloody and shirtless, inventing curse words as we streak through the lobby.

  “Help me,” he wheezes. “He’s killed a man.”

  I close in on him. “Fuckbung. You little fuckbung.”

  The staff are frozen.

  I finally reach him, bring him down, and land on top of him.

  He gets his breath, screams for help.

  I call him a smegma ball.

  A woman yells, “There he is.”

  I sit up, turn, and see Krista and the girls charging for me.

  Gotta be kidding me.

  I glance at the front doors, then at the charging horde.

  Fitzroy lifts his head off the floor. “Ten thousand,” he yells. “Ten thousand to the girl who brings me that tape.”

  They shift into high gear.

  I roll off Fitzroy and bolt for the door, ignoring the searing pain in my groin.

  “Stop him.”

  They’re too far behind to catch me. I grunt and hobble into the night, waving down a taxi parked fifty feet away.

  From behind me: “STOP THAT MAN.”

  I jump into the cab, tell the driver, “Two hundred dollars if you get me the hell out of here.”

  Driver says in a heavy Indian accent. “Cash?”

  The girls close in.

  “Yes, cash. Just GO!”

  We pull away from the curb.

  I flinch. “Watch out for the girls.”

  Casual: “They will scatter.”

  And he’s right.

  But the huge, sandy naked guy stumbling out of the darkness? We have to swerve to avoid hitting him.

  In his most pleasant tone, the driver says. “And where are we going, sir?”

  If only I knew.

  The taxi driver hums to himself as we roll through west Tampa.

  I’m slouched in the backseat, barely able to see out the window. I pull out my cell and see I have a message—from Anne.

  “Hey. Listen, your wife just called?” What? My scalp goes cold. “We just got off the phone. I guess you told her. Thanks for the heads-up, asshole. That was a fun surprise. Anyway, she wanted to know if there was anything more between us, and when I got over the shock, I said no—I think I called it ‘just some stupid horny talk’—and that the thought of hanging out with you literally repulses me. That seemed to make her even angrier. She called me a slut and hung up. So, um . . . Don’t call me back—like, ever.”

  Lovely. I pocket my cell and slide even lower onto my seat. Well, at least now Kate knows I was telling the truth about Anne.

  The taxi driver says, “Perhaps you would enjoy a scenic tour of Tampa Bay, sir?”

  I wiggle up a little, squint at the back of his head. “None of this seems a little odd to you? A pack of angry women chasing me out of a hotel? The fact I’m sitting here in your cab shirtless, caked in bloody sand?”

  He’s silent.

  “The fact you had to swerve to avoid hitting a large, disoriented, naked man?”

  In that rich accent, he says, “I do not worry about these things, sir.” After a pause, he adds, his voice calm and sweet, “Perhaps you would like me to take you to a reliable automatic teller machine at a safe location, away from the naked man and the angry ladies.”

  I sigh and rest my head against the door. I close my eyes. “Fine.”

  “Because, as I indicated earlier, I am afraid we must transact our business through cash tender.”

  “Fine.”

  I close my eyes. He hums.

  I take out four hundred dollars, the maximum allowed, and give my driver half.

  “I’ll give you the other half if you help me find a shirt and get me to the airport.”

  He hums as we pull out of the empty bank parking lot. “There are several Walgreens establishments in Tampa, sir. They are open all night. Perhaps they offer a shirt that will please you.”

  “Fine, let’s do that. Just find us a store away from the hotel.”

  Humming. “Of course, sir.”

  “And then you can drive me around until my two hundred dollars runs out.”

  “Have you decided on your ultimate destination, sir?”

  “The airport.”

  He waits awhile. “You do understand that the airport is very close to the hotel out of which you came running and screaming?”

  “I’ll have to take my chances.”

  “Two hundred dollars will give you three hours in this cab, sir. That will bring us to about three A.M.”

  “Okay.”

  “Perhaps at that time, you will choose to retrieve additional funds from another automatic teller machine.”

  I meet his eyes through the rearview mirror.

  “How much to stay in this cab until the airport opens?”

  “That would be six A.M., I believe.”

  “Which would cost me?”

  “Three hundred dollars, sir.”

  Give me a break.

  I sigh and rub my forehead with the palm of my good hand. “Maybe after this two hundred runs out, you can find me a nice bush out near the airport.”

  So calm and sweet. “It would be my pleasure, sir. There are several large foliated areas near the airport that would be ideal for you, I believe.”

  I limp into the Walgreens shirtless and woozy. It’s past 2 A.M.

  The staff and customers (and there are more than I’d expected) act like I’m an everyday sight. I find a bespectacled, middle-aged clerk stocking shelves in the personal hygiene section; he regards me with a quick glance as he loads adult
diapers onto the upper shelf. “First aid kits, disinfectant, and bandages are on aisle seven.”

  I try to balance myself. “Looking for clothes, actually.”

  He doesn’t look up. “We only have children’s T-shirts right now. We’ll get a new stock of adult garments next week.”

  I close my eyes and cuss under my breath.

  “Aisle two.”

  What choice do I have? And then I realize: bandages and disinfectant probably make a ton of sense at this point.

  And aspirin.

  And Neosporin.

  And a bag of frozen peas.

  Half a mile from the terminals, my driver pulls up to a series of large bushes pressed against a cyclone fence. It’s exactly 3 A.M.

  “I have a newspaper for you.” He peers at me through the mirror, his eyes wide and innocent. “You can sleep on it, in your bush as you wait for daylight. It will keep your new shirt clean.”

  Yeah, my new shirt. My pink Hannah Montana “Butterfly Girls” T-shirt, featuring the child star posing in front of a giant, girly butterfly. Children’s extra large, but not nearly large enough for me: the shirt ends well above my navel, binds my chest, and digs into my armpits. I’m sure I look like a fool, but I need this shirt. Once the airport opens, I can find a shop, buy a men’s shirt for some exorbitant price, and head to the ticket counter, where I’ll happily pay top dollar for the first flight to San Francisco or San Jose. Until then, I’ll make do with my little T, and stay out of sight.

  I give him the rest of my cash and he hands me the newspaper.

  I open the door and get out, the humidity hitting me even at this hour. I turn back and peer in. “You’re not gonna tell anyone where I am, are you?”

  He shakes his head. “Go into your bushes and curl up on your newspaper. You’ll be safe. I’m going home.”

  I only hope I am, too.

  I cry in the bushes.

  No tears, really. Just dry sobbing and moaning as I lay flat on my back, atop the newspapers, bag of frozen peas held in place by my aching hand, and gaze up at the moonlight slicing through the leaves. I want to call Kate so bad, but it’s midnight back in California, and I can’t make it any worse on her. So I imagine her on the phone consoling me.

  Did you have a bad night, honey?

  “Uh-huh,” I sniffle.

  Things didn’t work out as well as they could have, did they?