Cash Out (11 page)

He whimpers.

She keeps the plunger over his face, pushes harder.

We all see his pickle.
Didn't need to see that. Really, really didn't need to see that.

With her free hand, she grabs the lapel of his robe, and yanks him forward. He loses balance and tumbles off the upper deck, crashes to the ground, a mound of whimpering jelly.

Kate takes the hard end of the plunger and jams it into his ribs. He stiffens in pain, yells out, “Mommy.”

Kate screams like she did when she was in labor with the boys. “Out!” Jabs him again, even harder, and he balls up. “
Out!
”

Rod takes Kate, and we lead her out of the bathroom.

Slowly, Calhoun rises from the floor, pulls up his orange boxers, closes his robe, and makes baby steps toward the hallway. He stops and looks at us, eyes hopeful.

“No Eggos?”

Four

I
won't describe the cleanup in too much detail.

Suffice it to say that it involved an old pasta strainer and yellow rubber gloves, and that I nearly threw up in the process. Suffice it to say that, when my work was done, Kate had me deposit the strainer into a triple-layered plastic bag system which then was dropped into a paper grocery bag, which then was stapled and walked directly to the garbage. And suffice it to say, it made for some really weird dreams during the fitful two hours of sleep that followed—dreams in which Detective Bryant is leaning over me, repeating, “I want a piece of the action,” and then he turns into Crazy Larry, who leans in closer and says, “You
will
tell Kate I said hi,” and I straighten up and tell Larry to go away, and I turn back to my work, only to find Little Red upper-decking on my tank, snickering and snarling, repeating, “Fat hookers, fat hookers,” until I swat him on the head, which is when High Rider comes from behind, his eyeglasses enormous, says, “You have three days to clean out that tank, otherwise we will be forced to . . .” and Rod comes in, squinting, announcing that Crazy Larry is slow-dancing with Kate in the hallway.

At which point, Harry bounces atop me, hollering, “Wake up, wake up.”

“Ah, Harry.” I open an eye and moan. “Come back in ten minutes, kiddo.”

Harry bounces harder. “No, Mommy said to get you up no matter what you say.”

“Oh yeah?” I groan. My temples constrict, my crotch aches, and my body begs for more slumber. “Just a minute.”

“No.” Harry is firm. “Mommy said she made a list for you, and that you need to
get crackin'
!” He claps, hard.

I push him off and sit up, run a hand through my hair. “List?”

“Yeah.” Harry is so fresh, so full of energy, and somehow seeing this makes me feel even more tired. “A list of things you need to do today.”

Actually, that sounds okay. My mind is reeling, I'm confused and overwhelmed. My writer brain can only take so much before it really starts freaking out, like a hose that's left spraying and flapping uncontrollably, chaos taking over. I need Kate's sharp mind, her ability to stay cool during crazy times, her gift of supreme executive function, all those first-class leadership skills of hers that I wish I had.

Harry looks at me. “Mommy says she's going to give you a list that'll make everything better.” He tenses, puts his hands out. “Stay right there.”

He bolts out of the room.

I wiggle to the edge of the bed. And then, out of nowhere, ripples of pain shoot down the insides of both legs, and up into my abdomen. I get a flash of Baldy kneeing me in the nuts at Safeway, that look on his face, those eyes too close together. I hiss and grunt as I ease my tighty-whities off, and let the gauze roll down my leg.
I'm way overdue to ice my crotch
, I think.
Guess I got sidetracked.

I don't want to look down, but I know I've got to. And when I do, I wince.

It's a trippy sight. I'm bald, like a boy, but my scrotum is purple with yellow swirls, and it's enormous. Testicles the size of peaches. I look away, but the damage is done. Nausea courses through my body; my head feels like it's floating.

I take two Vicodin, swallow them dry. “Honey, can you send Harry back with a bag of peas?”

She hollers back, “Okay.”

On the nightstand, my cell rings. I look at it; blocked number. Probably Fitzroy's office calling about his speech for Florida.

“Dan Jordan.”

“Dan, this is Janice from Fi—”

“Janice, I need to call you back.”

Long pause. “Dan, I have some special instructions for how you need to execute the L18 as it relates to putting the P6s into the FOD.”

“Janice, I'll talk to you later,” I say, and end the call.

I put the gauze back in place, pull up my tighty-whities, moaning through gritted teeth.
Holy shit
, I think.
Thank God for Kate and her list, whatever it is.

A minute later, Harry returns with a bag of peas under an arm, holding a pint glass of café latte in both hands, biting his lip as he stares at his payload.

“Just what I need.” I bring him in and kiss his forehead. Love that kid.

“Mommy says drink up and take a shower, then come out to the kitchen.”

“Thanks, honey.” I take the glass, and its warmth soothes me. The aroma steams my nose, and I take a sip.

He watches me. “Daddy? What are those red lines on your eyeballs?”

“Don't worry about that, honey. That just means I'm really tired.”

He studies my face. “You look like you did when Ben was born.”

I put the latte on my nightstand. “Let me see those peas, kiddo.”

Harry hands them over, sticks a lip out, pouting hard.

“Daddy?”

“You okay, kiddo?”

“I'm sad.”

He holds his arms out for a hug, and I drop the peas and grab him. I
knew
that whole Daddy-in-the-squad-car scene would be too much.

“What's going on?”

“No one's letting me be me.”

Huh?

“What do you mean, kiddo?”

“Like Mom . . . the other night . . . not letting me . . .” Harry buries his face into my chest and mumbles, “pick my nose.”

“Harry. That was at the dinner table. You can't pick your nose at the dinner table.”

He pulls his face off my chest, looks at me. “Why not?”

“I'm not having this conversation with you.”

We hug a little more, and then I ask, “Who else is not letting you be you?”

He tells me about school. Apparently, some of the rules and procedures and curricula don't jibe with my expressive, language-oriented, naturalist son.

Penmanship? The banal work of simpletons who obviously don't care about more important things, like how volcanoes happen or how his “bug club” might someday be able to undermine the insecticide industry.

Math? Don't even go there.

He says, “I wish school had just two subjects: talking and reading.”

I nod in concession. He's right—that would be nice.

T
he caffeine and Vicodin kick in, and the shower feels great. I put on my FlowBid clothes—“hip jeans,” as Kate calls them, with a collar shirt tucked in—and reach for the peas.

“Wait a second.” It's Kate in the doorway, arms folded. “Maybe I should see how things are down there.”

“You can't be serious.”

She closes the door and approaches with a straight face. “Let's see what the fuss is about.”

“Believe me. It's not something you want to—”

“Sshh.” She's already unbuckling me, her hips easing forward. “I was thinking, if it's too nasty, I should call the doctor.”

“No doctors,” I say. “Just peas and Vicodin.”

She squats, pulls down my briefs, and gasps. “Oh . . . you poor thing.” After the initial shock wears off, she begins to inspect me like a concerned lab scientist—lifting, analyzing, craning for a closer look. “Does it hurt?”

“Not right now, thanks to the Vicodin.”

Still inspecting. “Maybe I should call the doctor.”

“Honey. There's no time for doctors.”

She's so gentle. “You poor thing.”

After a while, I say, “You keep doing that, and I'm gonna get—”

But it's too late. My transformation has begun, and Kate shakes her head with a chuckle. “Oh yeah,” she mocks. “You're
really
hurt down here. I can see that.”

“You know it's got a mind of its own.”

I pull her up to me, fumble with her jeans. She laughs, grabs my hands. “No way.”

“Honey,” I plead.

Her lids are lower, and she's looking at my hair, then my chin. “You're a piece of work, you know that?”

I laugh. “And what about you? This little inspection?”

“I was worried about you, and
this
is what I get.” She pushes away, but lets me pull her back in.

“Honey. C'mon.”

She laughs, then whispers, “You're awful.”

I return to her belt buckle. “Don't mess with the bull if you can't handle the horns.”

“I was thinking . . .” She grins to herself, then looks me in the eyes again. “What if I told you I kind of liked that?”

“Liked what?”

She lets me pull her jeans down and loop my fingers under her panties. “That badass side of you.”

“Huh?”

I tug at her panties, and she slaps my hands away.

“What if I admitted I kind of liked that? The fact you beat up that tough guy? Protecting me and the boys?”

I stand there, dumbfounded. All that time and money spent on Dr. Heidi Douglas, when all I had to do was beat up a hard man.

“You sure this won't hurt?”

Okay, maybe it hurts a little. But do you think I'll tell her?

A
fterward, in the kitchen, Kate gives me a spoonful of cod liver oil. “For that extra juice,” she says, and drops a handful of vitamins into my hand. “You'll need every bit of it today.”

“Where's Ben?”

“I gave him some Motrin, and he's napping. Just a little fever. And I'm keeping Harry home from school so we can leave for Rod's place.”

I lower myself onto a chair like a ninety-eight-year-old man. Not that the sex wasn't worth it, but now that it's over, things hurt more than ever. “So you have a list?”

Kate spoons protein powder into a bowl of Raisin Bran. She turns and hands it to me. “Have that, and I'll debrief you.”

“Thank God,” I sigh, looking out to our backyard. “I don't know where to start.”

“I know.” From her back pocket Kate pulls out a three-by-five card, hands it to me. Her handwriting is perfect. “This is what you're going to do, okay?”

I glance at the card, then at her. I think about what we just did in the back room, and I guess my face shows it.

“Dan, stop thinking about that. It's time to get cracking. Dan, listen to me. I'm making it really simple.” She flips the card over so I can't read it. “Just listen to me first, okay?”

I nod again.

“Here's the thing, Dan. I want you to focus on taking care of the work stuff. Get yourself on that flight tomorrow, keep that job for another two days. And if you have time, look into this Stanislau place. But that's it.”

“But what about—”

“Don't worry about the other stuff. I'm handling it.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

“I mean, how—”

“Dan,” she soothes. “Just worry about those two things. First, your job. Second, Stanislau. That's it.”

“What about all the other stuff?”

“I'm handling it,” she says.

“Baldy and the shovel guy?”

Stoic face. “Handling it.”

“Employment lawyer?”

“Handling it, and I won't be going to Crazy Larry for a reference.”

“But what about the geeks? How am I supposed to find out why they want me to tape Fitzroy in Florida?”

“I'm looking into that,” she says, unnervingly calm. “All you need to do is focus on your two items.”

I can do that. I really think I can. It's like someone's taken a sack of sand off my shoulders.

“I feel guilty.”

“Don't feel guilty,” she says. “Feel smart.”

I nod, but I don't feel smart.

“We need to work as a team, Dan. None of this macho I'll-do-it-myself crap, okay?”

How I wish I have what Kate has—that ability to multitask effectively, to be a field general in a crisis, to make valid assessments and set a course of action. I could live a thousand years and never be able to handle so much so gracefully—to be the badass that is Kate.

The kitchen door opens, and I jolt.

“Relax.” It's Rod coming in from the garage, holding a black metallic box no bigger than a deck of cards. “After finding that guy in there, thought I better scour the garage.”

“Shovel Man?”

He nods. “Looks like he came in through the window. Found him on his knees near Kate's minivan.”

I nod to the device in Rod's hand. “What'd you find?”

“This was under the right front fender.” He flips it over, brings it closer so we can look. “Magnetic plate on this side.” Flips it over again, shows us a rubber protuberance. “Antenna on this side.”

Kate and I glance at each other. The first thing I think is,
Remote-controlled bomb
, and a cold chill hits my extremities.

Kate says, “Tracking device.”

“Exactly,” Rod says.

Oh.

“Mommy, Mommy.” Harry darts in, slides to a stop in his socks. “Crazy Larry is throwing his buck knife again.”

“Okay, honey.”

Hopeful eyes. “But don't you wanna see? We always watch.”