The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

Mama straightens and jabs him in the thigh. He cusses.

  “Does he look like he knows anything?” Mama snaps. “Who sent you boys?”

  “Mr. Flanduzi.”

  “Bobby Flanduzi? And what did he tell you to do?”

  “He told us to go to meet him tonight at his house, and that he’d give us that there red thing. And then we’d need to make the sale with Mr. Huloojasper. So we were scouting Mr. Flanduzi’s neighborhood—just to make sure we knew what to expect tonight—when you came out of his house with the red thing.”

  “Cooler.”

  “Whatever. And that’s when we saw that the . . .” He nods to Cujo and Ernie. “. . . Robards Syndicate was involved. So we call Mr. Flanduzi, and he says, follow them. So that’s what we did.” He sits back and chuckles to himself. “I don’t think Mr. Flanduzi is cut out for this type of thing.”

  Mama says, “I told Bobby Flanduzi that I’d handle the sale.” She looks down, sighs. “He said, ‘Absolutely not. You’re nuts, stay away from my family.’” Mama rolls her eyes at the memory. “But he and Linda have enough to deal with already, so I vetoed him there.”

  “No one told us they changed the meet-up time and place.”

  Mama frowns at a thought, sighs again. “I guess I didn’t. I guess I just got a little confused. When Dickie called this morning, I guess I thought we could do this at Dickie’s compound.”

  “I’m not Dick—”

  “Shut up.” Mama takes a breath, steadies herself. “Now, I want you boys to listen.” She taps the cooler with the prongs. “I know exactly how much Bobby Flanduzi wants for this.”

  “Look, Mama, we’re just the brokers here. You give us the cooler, we give you this bag here, and we give the cooler to Mr. Huloojasper.” He looks at his buddies, proud. “And Mr. Flanduzi pays us a transaction fee.”

  “Who’s Bobby Flanduzi?” I ask.

  Mama seems astounded. “You don’t even know your employees.”

  “And Huloojasper?”

  “We found him,” Nike Bag says. “We found the buyer, we did it all.”

  Mama says, “Okay, let me see the bag.”

  He lifts it, lowers it onto her lap. “Go ahead.”

  Slowly, her fragile fingers work the zipper. I feel everyone in the lobby watching as she pulls the zipper flap away. “Okay, let’s see,” she says as the contents become apparent to everyone in the lobby.

  Cash.

  Lots of cash.

  Bundles of twenties.

  Lots and lots of bundles of twenties.

  I’m hit by the ripe scent of well-circulated bills.

  “Forty-five thousand,” says Nike Bag. “Go ahead and have your Dickie count it.”

  The waiter returns with the bottle of champagne, a $485 selection that Nike Bag had made after a four-second review of the wine list. I reach to put the flap back over the cash, and Mama swats my hand. “Keep your greedy corporate paws off that.”

  Collin’s eyes enlarge, and he rasps, “Unbelievable.”

  The waiter notices the cash, acts like he didn’t see it, and presents the bottle to us. “Okay,” he says. “We have a Pol Roger brut, Sir Winston Churchill, 1999.”

  Nike Bag nudges the Clown sitting beside him, nods at the waiter, and grins.

  “If I could just get a credit card from the party.”

  Silence.

  The waiter glances at the bag on Mama’s lap. “Or if you’d prefer to pay in cash.”

  Mama turns to me. “Coming here was your idea.”

  Silence.

  All of this, so I can hold Audrey in my arms in the middle of an English Beat set? So I can take her home and start something special? So I can quit my job, house-sit a mansion, and ditch the rat race for two years? So I can write my book and perhaps save a generation from wasting thousands—no, millions—of hours in useless meetings? So I can show my troubled nephew that the Bob Watson can (and will) change his life?

  “Fine,” I snap and pull out my credit card. “Here.”

  “Should I keep it open?”

  “Sure,” says Nike Bag. “But before you crack that thing, can I take a look?”

  “Of course.”

  “I just want to make sure it’s what I ordered.”

  “Certainly.”

  Nike Bag takes the bottle and makes a big deal of inspecting the label, squinting as he runs a forefinger under the text, mumbling to himself. He tosses it a little, like he’s weighing it. “For buoyancy,” he informs.

  The waiter shifts and watches.

  He jerks it around, thrusts it up in the air, into the sunlight, and peers into the bottle. “Hmm.” He turns it upside down, then quickly right-sides it. “There’s something about this one.”

  “Would you like me to cancel the order?”

  “Sure,” I say, “maybe that—”

  “Nah,” says Nike Bag. “It’s probably just me.”

  The waiter turns and looks back to the bar, which is when Nike Bag gives the bottle a few quick shakes. When the waiter turns back to us, Nike Bag offers a sweet smile, his bad teeth showing.

  “Okay?” asks the waiter.

  Nike Bag hands the bottle back, so gentle. “Definitely okay.”

  “Shall I?”

  An unapologetic groan. “Please.”

  The Clowns and the boys scoot to the edges of their seats, eager. Nike Bag tells the waiter, “Back in the pen, where there are no ladies, you’d do just fine. You know what I mean, sweetie?”

  They giggle as they watch him untwist the wire casing.

  “There you go,” he says. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

  The waiter can’t suppress a laugh. “Okay, dudes.”

  “That’s good,” Nike Bag says. “Keep doing that there.”

  The waiter pulls off the casing, sticks out a foot, and begins to pull on the cork.

  Nike Bag says, “I think you got it.”

  Waiter keeps pulling.

  Someone moans.

  Mama lifts the prongs. “Boys.”

  “Here, sweetie.” Nike Bag stands and struts up behind him, his voice deep and throaty. “Let’s do this together.”

  “No, please take a seat.” The waiter pulls the cork off, and white foam shoots everywhere. Hundreds of dollars’ worth of aged champagne drips down the bottle and onto the table and carpet. The Clowns roar and oooh and ahhh, and the waiter stands back and chuckles, shaking his head.

  “Someone get this sweetie a towel.”

  What remains of the champagne, the waiter pours into our flutes. “I feel like I’ve just been in the weirdest episode of Scared Straight!” he says, laughing. “I don’t think I’ll even commit a parking violation.”

  Nike Bag lifts his flute toward Mama, says, “Good times.”

  Mama tries to move the bag to my lap but loses her grip, and cash pours out, tumbling onto the couch and floor. Ernie’s eyes bulge. Cujo announces, “Piñata time,” and drops to all fours in a mad crawl to the money. Collin and Ernie join him.

  There’s a loud murmur in the lobby as scores of young venture capitalists, silver foxes, and “gold diggers” watch us with strained, ashen faces.

  Nike Bag says, “Hand over the goods.”

  Cujo is at our feet, scooping up bundles and shoving them down his jumpsuit.

  “Cujo!”

  More scooping, until Mama reaches down, grabs him by the ear, and twists hard.

  He freezes. “Okay, okay.”

  Still gripping and twisting. “That’s Flanduzi family money.”

  “Okay, Mama. Okay.”

  She presses the prongs against his throat. “Dickie’s gonna count all of this right here, and if there’s even twenty dollars missing, it’s coming out of your allowance, wild child.”

  Allowance? No. That can’t be—

  “Okay, Mama. Please.”

  Collin and Ernie are frozen, watching.

  She lets go, and he rolls onto his butt. “Christ, Mama.” He rubs his ear, then begins to pull the bu
ndles out of his jumpsuit, throwing them at me, hard. I feel like a bad juggler failing to handle an incoming volley of balls. Breathless, I scoop up the bundles and shove them into the bag. People are watching. The murmuring gets louder, and soon a tall member of hotel security is standing before us. “I’m afraid we’ve received some complaints,” he says, eyeing the bag. “I think you may need to—”

  “Hey, dude.” One of the Clowns—another beefy bald guy, but with Prince Charles ears—stands up and stares him down. “You got a problem?”

  “We do have a problem.”

  “I’m about to have a problem, too.” Long stare. “With you. If you don’t leave.”

  The security manager backs away, whispers into a microphone on his lapel.

  Okay, five minutes before the first cop shows up.

  Mama yells, “Start counting, Dickie.”

  Crap. I take a bundle and start fingering the twenties.

  Nike Bag says, “Hand it over, Mama.”

  There’s fifty twenties in the bundle. I start to count the bundles, pulling them out of the bag and stacking them neatly on my lap, my knees closed tight. Collin and Ernie are kneeling at my feet, watching with wonder. I can nearly feel the eyes of forty additional onlookers.

  Mama takes the cooler and lowers it onto the table.

  Okay, forty-five bundles, times a kilobuck a bundle. That’s forty-five K.

  “It’s all here,” I announce, and I have to admit it feels good to say it.

  “Put it back in the bag, honey, and zip it up.” She nods to the cooler and frowns at Nike Bag. “I want you kids to open that up. I don’t want anyone saying we didn’t deliver the goods.”

  I bag the cash, catch the waiter’s eye, and wave him down. “Just go ahead and close the tab,” I say. “And add fifty as a tip.”

  Nike Bag says, “Mr. Huloojasper said no tampering.”

  “Too bad,” Mama says. “Open it, confirm it’s all there.”

  Prince Charles Ears says, “That’s not how it’s done in white-collar business.”

  “Dude, in white collar, it’s all digital and shit.”

  And I hear myself say, “Someone trusted you guys with forty-five K in cash?”

  Mama’s losing patience. “Open the goddamn cooler, boys.” She points the prongs at me. “And use that cordless telephone of yours.”

  “Huh?”

  “Take a photograph with your cordless telephone.” She’s yelling now. “A photograph of the Clown boys with the contents.”

  The waiter delivers the bill, with the credit card already run through. I sign the charge slip and take the card.

  Nike Bag stalls.

  “C’mon, boys.”

  “Mr. Huloojasper said—”

  “You can tell Mr. Huloo-what’s-his-name that this deal is off unless we can prove this transaction was completed fully and that we did give you Clowns the goods.”

  He sits there, looking to his colleagues for direction.

  “Here.” Mama is on her feet, shuffling around the coffee table. “I’ll open it. Give that to me.” He looks to me. “Honey,” she snaps, irritated. “Get your telephone camera ready.”

  By the time I am ready to click off a few shots, we’re surrounded by a small audience of silver foxes, hotel staff, and even our waiter. It reminds me of one of those scenes in the movies when someone’s hot at the craps table and has begun to draw a crowd. I step closer and squat to get a better shot. “Okay,” I announce, and Mama reaches down and flips open the tiny lid.

  Everyone’s silent, staring at the contents. I snap off a few shots.

  Cujo breaks the silence. “Forty-five K?” He fingers his beard, thinking, staring. “For those?”

  Mama looks at me. “Honey, you better get Collin to school.”

  Shit, she’s right. I pat my pants, checking for my keys and wallet.

  “Just give me your telephone,” she says. “In case I need to call your tramp. Or maybe even your sister.”

  I hear myself laugh. “Um . . . No.”

  Mama says, “Um . . . Yes.”

  “Mama, I don’t think you want to have the phone.”

  She squints at me, waiting for more.

  “The cops will be tracking that phone soon. That phone is probably already connected to an assortment of felonies that have happened today. Break-ins. Car chases. Kidnapping—me. Illegal cash transactions. Phone calls with the loved ones of your victims. You’re leaving digital fingerprints everywhere.”

  Her face deflates. “How does that work?”

  “Why don’t I keep it?” I say. “I wouldn’t want anyone to find you with this phone.”

  Mama straightens and folds her arms.

  “Think about it, Mama.”

  “Dickie,” she says. “Would you like to meet my friend Sabine?”

  I roll my eyes, defeated, and nod.

  “Then give me the fucking telephone.” She puts out a hand. “Now.”

  “It’s gonna get your arrested,” I say. “And the boys are gonna lose their parole.”

  Mama says, “Last chance for Sabine.”

  Fine. I hand it over.

  “Take the wagon,” she says, irritated. “And Cujo, too.” She shuffles back to her seat, oblivious to the dozens of people staring at her. “Ernie and I will stay here with the money.” She takes a few big breaths as she lowers herself back onto the couch. “The Clown boys are going to take Mr. Huloo-guy’s purchase and leave us before the cops show up.” She gives them the don’t-you-get-it-eyes. “Right, boys?”

  “Fine. C’mon, Collin and Cujo. We’re gonna do an errand.”

  Collin gets up, but Cujo doesn’t move. He’s still looking into the cooler on Nike Bag’s lap. “Cujo,” Mama snaps. “Stop staring at the monkey drool and go.”

  Still staring.

  “Cujo,” Mama roars, leans over and stabs him in the shoulder with the prongs.

  He blinks hard, shakes his face, snapping himself out of it. “Huh?”

  “Go with Dad.”

  The Clowns are mobilizing. They head toward the exit, champagne flutes in their hands, the cooler of “monkey drool” in the protective clutch of Nike Bag.

  Cujo turns to Mama, confusion in his eyes. “Dad?”

  “Dickie,” she snaps. “Go with Dickie and the kid, and make sure he comes back.”

  Cujo releases a plaintive moan. “Me? Why not Ernie?”

  We look at Ernie, who seems to have gone into a trance as he stares at the ceiling.

  “I want you to go.”

  “Ah, c’mon, Mama.”

  “Don’t you dare argue with me, mister.”

  “Fine.” Cujo gets up, his body deflated. “I get all the boring chores.”

  She turns to me, says quietly, “We’ve spoiled them, haven’t we?”

  “That’s what I wanted to do,” Cujo moans. “I wanted to stay here with the monkey drool.”

  Mama stiffens. “The monkey drool’s gone. The Clown boys just left with it.”

  Cujo pouts. “Or at least stay here with the forty-five K.”

  Collin squeaks, “Me, too.”

  “Listen.” Mama stands up and points the prongs at Cujo. She’s yelling again. “Go take the fucking kid to school. The forty-five K isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Whatever.” Cujo heads toward the exit. “C’mon, Warden. Let’s do this fast and get back to the cash.”

  From behind us, the sound of a dog clicker. Cujo turns just in time to snatch a mini of Thunderbird out of the air. He stops, twists off the cap, and makes a big show of pouring the liquor into his mouth, lifting the little bottle high into the air, creating a long stream. When he’s done, he straightens, swallows, and allows a contented sigh. He tosses the empty to a passing bellhop, who fumbles with it before it tumbles down the hallway. “Okay.” He pushes out a tiny burp. “Let’s do this.”

  Collin looks up at him in wonder.

  Onlookers provide a wide clearance.

  “So, Mr. Warden,” he says and unzips
his jumpsuit a tad, revealing more body fur.

  “I’m not the Warden.”

  We turn the corner and see that the bellhops somehow already have Mama’s wagon pulled up, doors open. It strikes me, this metallic-blue relic “popping out” in stark contrast to nearly everything else here at the Rosewood, a defiant artifact nearly aglow in this citadel of polished, sparkling newness. Collin releases my hand and bolts for the wagon, squealing as he dives into the backseat.

  “What’s the deal with this kid?”

  “He’s my nephew.”

  “Oh.” Cujo sounds mildly surprised. “I figured he was yours.”

  Maybe it’s the moment. The wild moment that has me off guard. Or maybe it’s the half glass of champagne on an empty stomach. Whatever the reason, I hear the words tumble out of my mouth. “Oh, no. I could never have a kid. Not after what I did.”

  Cujo stops abruptly. He turns, grabs my shirt, and looks into me, and I notice a depth in those eyes—could it be warmth, or even compassion?—that I hadn’t seen before.

  “So . . .” His voice is suddenly so gentle. “Was that really monkey drool?”

  Bob Watson Step No. 9:

  Get Sidetracked

  The Halvaford School in Menlo Park boasts the highest percentage of “alumni” who eventually end up at Stanford or an Ivy League school. According to its website, admission for the incoming kindergarten class requires an IQ test, five letters of recommendation, a $2,000 application-processing fee, and four panel interviews (one for the parents, three for the kid). Tuition is $36,500 a year, but that does not include the annual field trips, which start with the Galápagos for the kindergartners and climax in eighth grade with a weeklong “internship” with White House mentors in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building.

  I park the wagon in front of the campus and turn to the backseat, where Collin and Cujo are buckled in. Collin pulls his eyes off Cujo and says to me, “Suddenly, SAT Prep doesn’t seem very important, Uncle Rick.”

  Cujo stiffens, grimaces, and pushes out a tiny fart.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you.” I turn a little more so I am eye-to-eye with Collin. “Do you enjoy school?”

  Collin looks at me like I’m nuts. “Enjoy? Kids who want to get into a good college don’t ‘enjoy’ school, Uncle Rick. They dominate school.”

  “I dominated school,” Cujo says, “on the playground.”