Cujo chuckles, licks his lips quickly. “I do.”
“As much as he tries,” Collin announces, “the wild side still calls for him.”
“I tried,” Cujo says. “I really wanted to change.”
Collin yells, “Don’t apologize for your existence. If your kind needed to evolve, it would have happened a long time ago. If you weren’t equipped to survive, you would be extinct.”
“I appreciate that, little bro.” Cujo shakes his head and sighs. “I’m trying to settle down a little, trying to get off the streets, stop making a living off survival of the fittest and start earning a steady income.” He pulls at his jumpsuit and huffs. “Parole officer got me this gig. Some new ‘Invitation to Cooperate’ program for ex-cons. Okay, fine. Give it a shot. But now? Now that I’m here in this fucking uniform, all I can think is, This ain’t me. And the longer I live this life—the more I ‘cooperate’—the more I just want to hightail it back to those bushes and just be me.”
Collin sounds like he’s teaching a college course, presenting Cujo to his students. “The world has never understood your kind.”
“The fucking world wants to change me.”
“Dude,” I yell. “Language.”
“I’m a survival-of-the-fittest guy,” Cujo says. “Invitation to Cooperate? It’s more like Invitation to Lick the Warden’s Cornhole.”
Collin is aglow. “You want to do it the old way, don’t you? You know, caveman style.”
“Caveman style?” Cujo chuckles and looks down at Collin. “I like you, little bro.”
“Perhaps we can stay in touch. I’d like track your movements, your migration patterns, if you don’t mind. I mean, especially if you decide to go back to the caveman style.”
Cujo says, “Have you ever dropped some heat in the wild, dude?”
“Huh?”
My sister texts, Also feel free to practice math facts in Mandarin.
“You should try it,” Cujo says. “Shitting in the bushes is actually kinda cool. It’s like it’s my way of reconnecting with my wild side.” He raises an eyebrow. “The primal Cujo.” He fingers his beard and grins into space. “The Cujo that squats in a bush and does what comes natural.”
& please be open to giving him leadership opportunities. Great practice. Thanks ☺
Collin says, “But you guys can do anything we do. In fact, many of your kind mated with our kind. It’s just that you prefer to be wild.”
Cujo puffs his chest out, searches for the right words. “It’s like I’m a house cat, but kinda feral.”
Collin twinkles up at him. “You’re very self-aware.”
* * *
We’re sailing up 280 when my phone vibrates again. I brace for more Overachiever Fever insanity until I realize it’s actually a pic from Audrey. I tap on the thumbnail, and it blooms into full-screen wonderfulness. It’s a pic of her naked feet, crossed at the ankles, her lovely calves and lower legs showing, skin as smooth as the finest silk. Nothing risqué or exhibitionist, but sexy as hell and maybe a little flirty. And I wonder if it’s my man brain that is making this pic seem so sexy. It’s basically a pair of feet on some type of ottoman.
A caption comes in: Did my nails red and white, just like Beat colors ☺
I should have noticed, but I hadn’t. I look again, and indeed she’s got the colors of the English Beat (red, white, and black) on her nails—her big toes even bear the band’s signature checkered black and white pattern. How freaking cool is that? I tap back, Is this ur way of saying we’re on for 2nite?
My phone buzzes. No. . . . It’s my way of saying I’m pulling for u.
I stare at the pic some more. She’s killing me.
From the back, Cujo says, “Whoa.” His voice is nearly shaky. He slumps in his seat and swats Ernie on the knee. “Dude, check it out.” Ernie looks, sees what Cujo sees, and ducks, encouraging Collin to do the same thing.
Collin is popping, he’s so excited. “What is it?” he rasps.
Which is when I notice the Datsun 120y coupe and its occupants, coming up on our right. They’re wearing seafoam-green shirts. Long sleeves. Zip-ups, just like . . . Or, actually . . . Jumpsuits? My heart sinks as I give them another look, my mind scrambling for a reason—any reason—to believe that we’re not being tailed by a carload of conployees.
I give them one last look.
They’re smiling at us. But not really.
* * *
Mama says, “I thought I told you to stop hanging out with those boys.”
Cujo slides a little lower, and Ernie grips his prongs.
Collin whispers excitedly, “Who are they?”
“Did you hear me?”
The Datsun is loaded down with so many conployees, the rear bumper is inches from scraping the road. I don’t want to look over, but I do for one final assessment. Of course, they’re all staring at me, and I jerk away, but the vision sizzles.
Shaved heads, with lots of ink work.
Expectant eyebrows.
Steady eyes.
Toothy grins.
My scalp tingles, and my face flushes. “Hit the gas, Mama,” I say. “Let’s lose these guys.”
Mama huffs. “I’m not running away from a bunch of overgrown burnouts.” She frowns, glances at me. “What kind of example is that for the boys? Letting their bully friends dictate what we do, letting them have control over our lives?”
Cujo says, “C’mon, Mama. Listen to the Warden. Let’s lose these guys.”
“I told you to stop associating with these losers.”
Collin reddens. “Neanderthals are not losers.”
“Mama, you don’t understand.” Cujo twirls his beard and nearly whispers. “At Robards, these guys kind of run the show.”
She laughs. “Is that true, Dickie?”
“I—”
“No,” Cujo says. “I mean, they run the sideshow. Not like the Warden and his suits run the office shit. I mean these guys kinda run the side businesses in the Little Big House.”
“The what?”
“You know, the Little Big House. The conployee building at work. It’s like a little big house—you know, a little prison—on account of all the ex-cons working there. For a lot of guys, it kinda feels like the old days in prison. You know, with gangs and posses and guys who call the shots inside.”
Collin says, “We always figured they had a hierarchical social structure, but now I have documentable proof. Uncle Rick, did you bring our field log?”
We approach the Sand Hill exit, and I motion for Mama to take the exit.
“So these guys run the show amongst the cons?”
Cujo says, “They run the show for one of the crews in the Little Big House.”
“And you and Ernie don’t play with these boys?”
“Nah.” Cujo kinda mumbles. “We’re friendly with the Robards Syndicate. But these guys here are the Robards Clown Posse.”
“Interesting,” Collin says, more to himself. “They don’t have the classic look—the pronounced brow and massive bone structure—that we see here in my new best friend, Cujo.”
Mama takes the Sand Hill exit, and the Robards Clown Posse falls in behind. “Cujo, your father and I want you to be one hundred percent honest with us.”
Silence.
“You hear me?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Why are these boys following us?”
“Mama, I swear. I don’t know.” Cujo leans forward, as if to punctuate the point. “Ernie and me, we kinda keep it low-profile. We don’t run any action in the Little Big House. Not like the Robards Clown Posse.”
Mama scoots up on her seat, bites her lip. “Where am I going, honey?”
I squint into the side-view mirror, and the Robards Clown Posse is right up on us, the Datsun nearly kissing Mama’s bumper. “Okay, pull a right here.”
“Where in the hell am I going?” she yells.
“Take this right,” I snap. “Right here.”
Mama growls. “These b
oys are really starting to piss me off.” She guns the Fleetwood, and we jerk forward. “Who do they think they are?” Another growl. “No respect.”
We’re on the four-lane Sand Hill Road. “Stay in the right lane here, Mama.”
The Datsun dives into the left lane and makes a run up on us. Mama cusses and jerks the Fleetwood to the left. The Datsun skids and veers farther left. “Little punks,” she mutters and keeps the Fleetwood over the lane dividers.
“Mama,” Cujo says. “I wouldn’t piss these guys off.”
Collin suddenly looks a little scared.
“I thought I told you,” she roars. “I don’t tolerate bullies. And neither should you.”
We come up on the first light, and I say, “Turn in here.”
“Where?”
“Take a right,” I snap. “Here. Right here.”
Mama pulls a sweeping right, with no brakes, and the Fleetwood screeches and grazes the corner curb. “How many times have I told you I’m not a goddamn mind reader?” she says. “Some things never change. Where in the hell am I?”
The Datsun is right behind us.
“Rosewood Sand Hill.”
“What?”
I yell into her ear, “The goddamn Rosewood Sand Hill.”
She skids the Fleetwood to a halt, and the Datsun swerves to avoid slamming into us. She turns and lowers her head as she glares into my eyes. “Don’t you dare yell at me. How many times have I told you?”
I deflate, look away. “Sorry. I’m just worked—”
“What an awful example for the boys.”
“I know. I’m just—”
“To speak to the mother of your children that way.”
Okay, this is getting really weird.
I close my eyes a moment. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
She jerks the Fleetwood forward, and the Datsun self-corrects and follows.
Softly, she asks, “Now, where are we?”
“A very fancy hotel.” I motion for her to roll into the front check-in area, where bellhops are waiting. “Just pull in here. I’m sure there are cameras everywhere.”
“Yeah, they won’t try anything here,” Cujo says and glances back at the Datsun. “Not with all this security.”
I know we are quite the scene here. The Rosewood Sand Hill has become the meeting place for venture capitalists, billionaires, and all other types of Silicon Valley elites and their associated ecosystem. Situated in the rolling foothills of Menlo Park, the Rosewood is where one might hook up with a rich sugar mama or daddy. Where one may gawk and play rich. Porsches and Teslas and Fiskers populate the valet parking areas.
And here we are—our motley crew—pulling up in a forty-year-old station wagon, followed by a Datsun packed with inked-up ex-cons. For a moment, the Rosewood staff seem a bit baffled—just standing there, staring at us—but they recover and spring into action, gliding toward us, smiling, ready to open doors.
“Now,” Mama says, “I want you boys on your best behavior.”
A happy young man opens her door. “Welcome to the Rosewood.”
Mama looks to me. “What the hell are we doing here? We have to get the merchandise.”
Another man opens my door, and I say to Mama, “Let’s go into the lobby. They aren’t going to screw with us here. I’ll get you guys situated, then I’ll take the Fleetwood to Collin’s school so he can get his things and pull a Bob Watson.”
Mama looks into the rearview mirror. The Robards Clown Posse are piling out of their car, stretching and straightening out their seafoam-green jumpsuits. One of them tosses the keys to a bellhop. “And what about these boys? You expect me to handle these clowns while you and the runt enjoy a Sunday drive to the school?”
“No. Let’s all go the lobby, have a seat, and figure this thing out. Then Collin and I will go to the school. You and the boys can have a drink, and we’ll come back and pick you all up.”
The Clown Posse has fanned out and circled the Fleetwood, and one of the bellhops has tucked his chin into his lapel, whispering into a tiny microphone, his jaw tight.
“Fine.” Mama shuffles to get out of the wagon. “Cujo, be a good helper boy and get Mama that little orange cooler from the back.” Cujo twists, reaches, and turns back with the cooler. “Thank you, sweetie,” Mama coos, and Cujo swings it over the front seat and into her lap. “Now you boys do as I say, okay?”
“Yes, Mama.”
We step out of the wagon, and a large, well-dressed man from the hotel approaches with a grimace. He’s wearing an earpiece, and he’s scanning the Clown Posse. “Welcome to the Rosewood.”
“Thanks.” I pull out my wallet and finger through my bills. The smallest is a twenty. Oh, what the hell? I hand it to him. “We’re just having a drink in the lobby. And oh . . .” I turn to the bellhop on the driver’s side. “. . . I’ll be back out in a few minutes, so you may want to park it nearby.” I nod to the collection of polished roadsters and sedans on display forty feet away, failing to suppress a grin. “That cool?”
“Certainly, sir.”
One of the Clowns steps forward, his eye gleaming. He’s got a small black Nike bag slung over his shoulder, and his jumpsuit is partially unzipped, revealing a massive, heavily inked chest. “Same with us.” My God, his voice is gravelly. He sounds like Wolfman Jack with a touch of Larry King. “We’ll be quick,” he adds, and his buddies chortle, puffing their chests out and grinning.
I say, “I think we can be professional about this, guys.”
Nike Bag gives me a long look, and his face softens. He turns to his buddies, whispers something, and they turn back to me with true fear on their faces. “Mr. Warden,” he says, startled. They back up, and he points over his shoulder with a thumb. “We can take off, Mr. Warden. I mean, we didn’t know you were involved.”
“I’m not the Warden, guys.”
“Of course he’s the Warden,” Mama says. “You’ve seen his picture.”
I feel my chest rise. “I’m Rick Blanco, and all I want to do is go to the Greek with my nephew’s nanny.”
Their worried eyes tell me they don’t believe.
“We’re sorry, Warden. We didn’t know this was your side action. We thought this one was fair game. I mean, like you say in those videos, the company wants us to show our entrepreneurial side.”
“Entrepreneurial side for Robards International,” I say. “Not yourselves.”
“Yes, Warden. You’re right. Well, maybe we could give you—er, I mean Robards—a part of our cut.”
“The Warden doesn’t want a part of your little cut,” I snap, marveling at how easily all of this is spilling out, how easy it is to be Dick Rayborne, EVP of Human Resources at Robards International. “The Warden makes tens of millions of dollars a year. Do you think the Warden cares about your side action?” They step back, listen intently. “The Warden cares about lowering the cost of total head count.”
Nike Bag puts his palms out. “Whatever the Warden wants to do, we’re cool.” He tries to gauge my eyes. “If the Warden would prefer we just got back in our car and returned to work, that’s fine with us, too.”
“Guys, let’s just go inside and figure this thing out. Whatever ‘this thing’ is.”
Nike Bag is so pleasant. “Whatever the Warden wants.”
Cujo approaches from behind and puts a huge arm around me. “You probably can tell already.” He squeezes. “The Warden’s a doofus.”
The Clowns ease up, crack a few smiles, and exchange a few more whispers.
Mama yanks the barbecue prongs from Ernie’s grasp. “Boys,” she barks. “Come with me. All of you.” She marches into the hotel, her head down, clutching the cooler in one arm as she lifts the prongs into the air and points forward. “We’re gonna straighten this out right now.”
* * *
We’re seated across from the Robards Clown Posse, which is squeezed into a lobby sofa. Three Clowns are trying to stare me down, trying to get under my skin as they whisper things to each other
while never breaking eye contact. A fourth Clown, his eyes too close together, is leering at two lovely young women seated across the lobby. I keep Collin at my side, my left arm firmly around his waist, and he scoots closer.
A young waiter arrives with a tray of champagne flutes. “Okay,” he says, not unlike a kindergarten teacher. The Clowns scoot up to make eye contact, trying to intimidate him. He’s of course unflappable, his pleasant face unwavering as he places flutes on the coffee table between us. “I’ll be right back with the bottle.”
He hurries away, and the Clowns snicker.
Mama raises the prongs. “Okay, boys,” she snaps and jabs the Nike bag guy in the pecs. “Enough bullshit.”
Collin and the boys giggle, and Nike Bag rubs his chest. “Hey, watch it with that, lady.”
She jabs him again. “Don’t you ‘lady’ me.”
I notice a security detail gathering, eyeing the prongs.
She jabs him again, in the knee.
“Hey, c’mon.”
“I’m your elder.” Then she softens at a nice thought. “You can call me Mama.”
“Fine.” Nike Bag rubs his chest. “Damn.”
“Now.” She straightens a bit and stares at him. “What do you punks want with my boys?”
Nike Bag chuckles. “Lady—” Mama raises the prongs, and he jerks back, palms out. “I mean, Mama. . . . Mama, we don’t want nothin’ with the Robards Syndicate. I swear. We don’t need no more riots in the Little Big House, or anything like that. The Clown Posse is all about becoming businessmen.” He nods at the cooler between Mama’s feet. “Which is why all we want is that thing there.”
Mama leans forward and looks into his eyes. “And how do you know about this thing here?”
“Mr. Flanduzi gave us specific instructions.” He frowns. “You ain’t the seller?”
Flanduzi? Who in the hell is Flanduzi?
Mama says, “I’m the helper, you nitwit. So is Dickie here.”
“Helper? We don’t care about no helpers. We’re representing the buyer, Mr. Huloojasper.” He reaches down and pulls a slip of yellow paper from his shoe. He unfolds it carefully, looks at me, and returns to the scribble on the paper. “You don’t know Bobby Flan—— . . . Flan . . . duzi?”
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