Cash Out (16 page)

He hands it over. I pop the case open, glance at two discs. He's written,
Afro Cuban
across the top of each.

“Thanks, man. I love Afro Cuban.”

“Forty-seven tracks.”

“Forty-seven?”

He nods, grinning.

“That's a lot of Afro Cuban.”

“I've got a connection, dude. Guatemalan buddy of mine came into town last night, laid this music on me, blew my fucking mind.”

I hold the case with both hands to show my appreciation. “Aw, man. This is monumental.”

Oscar points at the case, raises an eyebrow. “This isn't poser shit, either.” He waits, for emphasis. “We're talking about original shit from the forties, fifties, sixties, and seventies.”

“Aw, dude. I can't wait.”

He's nodding to the disc. “There's Benny Moré in there.”

“Sweet.”

“Manny Oquendo.”

“Nice.”

“Ray Barretto . . . Pérez Prado . . . Willy Colón.”

“I can't wait, Oscar.”

“Tons of Africando, tracks like ‘Yay Boy.' ” He pauses, blinks hard, like he's taken a hit of Humboldt skunk. “Some really early Tito. I put some Cachao in there.” He lays the accent on, hard. “You know, ‘La Negra Tomosa.' ‘Son Montuno.' ”

With the exception of Tito Puente, Benny Moré, and Ray Barretto, I've never heard of these guys. Nor do I understand anything more than the very limited amount of Spanish my Mexican grandmother taught me as a kid. But it doesn't matter. I do love the music, love the way it makes me feel.

He slows down, takes a good look at me. “You don't look too hot, dude. You okay?”

“I've been—”

A heavily bearded man with thick eyeglasses pops his head in, releases an awkward smile. “Hey.”

“Hey, Roger.” Oscar nods to me. “You know Dan Jordan?”

We nod to each other.

“Roger's on the system design team, works around the corner.”

I nod. “Cool.”

Roger steps into full view, hands a DVD to Oscar. “Thanks, man.”

“You liked it? Told you that shit would blow your mind.”

“Loved it.”

“Music?” I ask.

“Documentary.”

Oscar says, “It's about the health care industry. PBS? The networks? They'll never have the balls to broadcast something like this, dude. You should take this home, too.” Classic Oscar.

“You got anything else like that?” Roger asks hopefully.

“I do,” Oscar says, stretching to finger through a stack of DVDs. He pulls out a disc, hands it to Roger. “This shit takes it to another level.”

“Yeah? More on health care?”

“Nah. The influence of peyote on twentieth-century California politics. I'm telling you, this shit will make you run for the mountains, dude.”

Roger looks like a kid on Christmas morning.

Afterward, Oscar says to me, “You're not okay, dude.”

“I'm not.”

“What happened?”

“Long story.”

“You look beat-up,” he says. “Worried.”

I laugh. “Well . . .”

“You need help?”

I look away. “I'm fine.”

“Just let me know, okay?”

“Of course.” After a moment, I say, “There is one thing I need help with—the IT guys.”

His eyes nearly pop out of his head. “IT guys did this to you?”

I shake my head, chuckle. “You remember that little guy with the high-rider pants?”

He squints, thinking about it. “Yeah, yeah. Serious little dude. Major high-riders. Got laid off with the others.”

“You remember his name?”

He thinks about it, sighs hard. “I can ask around.”

“No, please don't. Seriously.”

Studying me. Trying to figure me out. “Okay.”

“Yeah, it could get me in more trouble.”

He leans back, pinches his chin. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

“I'm fine. I just can't have High Rider know that I'm asking about him.”

We stare at each other.

“I'll explain more once I get through this. I promise.”

“Dan, I can get his name in a very casual way. You know, like I'll refer to him in conversation or something, say I forgot his name. Keep you out of it.”

“Thanks, Oscar.” I slip the Afro Cuban into my briefcase. “And if you get a name, don't call my cell or office line.”

He smiles at me, like I'm nuts.

“Just call my buddy Rod.”

“The cage fighter?”

“Exactly.” I scribble Rod's cell on a scrap of paper, hand it to him. “Call him here. Just avoid my numbers entirely.”

“What are we, in a movie here, dude?”

I chuckle. “I promise I'll explain when I can.”

“No worries.”

I back out of his office. “I better jet.”

“You headed for the airport?” Then he throws a hand into the air. “Not that you have to tell me.”

“Nah, I have to go home, find Crazy Larry.”

Now he's really studying me. “Crazy Larry?” He laughs, pauses. “You need to go find someone named Crazy Larry?”

“Long story, but basically I think Crazy Larry has Little Red.”

He laughs again. “Crazy Larry has Little Red?”

I nod. “So now, if I disappear, you'll know who to mention to the cops.”

“Yeah, Crazy Larry, Little Red, and High Rider.”

He laughs and I laugh with him. Till the tears are rolling down our cheeks.

Finally, Oscar takes a deep breath, sighs hard. “Seriously, dude. You go home, you may wanna take a nap.”

I
stand in front of Larry's house. No station wagon. The street is empty.

Where is everyone?

I look back at my house. By now, Kate and the kids are in the city, safe with Rod, but just about anybody could be in that house waiting for me. Baldy? Shovel Man? Crazy Larry? Crazy Larry with Little Red? Someone new?

I feel myself swaying.

Oscar is right, I do need a nap.

And, fuck, do my balls ache. My whole midsection aches.

Something's screwed up down there. For sure.

I reach into my pocket, pull out the bottle, pop another Vicodin, stare at Larry's garage door, squint at the knife marks. Crazy Larry. If he goes wacko on me today, in my current state, there's no way I can handle him.

All of a sudden, I hear an electronic buzzing and snapping coming from Larry's garage.

Fuck, is that him in there?
With Little Red?

I pull my hair back, look around the neighborhood, try to think. I need a plan. I walk across the street, hear the tap of a hammer, metal rustling, heavy panting. Then that buzz-snap sound again.

Faint trace of someone growling.

Something rushes up behind me, gives me a hell of a jolt. I yelp and turn, realize it's little Luke Burns, the nine-year-old from down the street, zipping up on his Razor scooter, big head of blond hair shooting in all directions.

“I wouldn't stand there.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “Why's that?”

Luke steps off his Razor, leans in, whispers. “Larry.”

“Yeah?”

Luke looks around, adds, “Extra cuckoo today.”

“Yeah? Tell me.”

“I was playing out front when Larry pulled up in his station wagon.”

“Uh-huh?”

“But it was weird.”

“Weird?”

“The back windows were covered with cardboard.”

“Yeah, that's odd.”
Did he have
Little Red back there?

“And then he backed it into his garage.” Luke stops, looks at me with some serious eyes. “Larry never backs his car into the garage.”

He's right.

“Did Larry see you?”

Luke nods. “He saw me, but I kept watching, and he lowered his head like this and glared at me. So I say, ‘Bye,' and he says, ‘Yes, that's right, bye-bye.' ”

“Did you go tell your mom?”

Nods. “She said Larry's just being Larry, and to leave him alone.”

“Wise advice, Luke. Listen to your mom.”

“But I was riding around later, and he came out, so I rode by and he was just squinting into space with this weird smile, like his mouth was just pretending to be happy.”

“Did he say anything?”

Luke nods. “He asked me about the ‘scent of bacon frying in the wild.' ”

“Bacon?”

“He said, ‘Does that affect you, Luke?' And I said no. And he said. ‘Bacon scent in the woods drives me nuts.' Then his arms and legs got all tight, like this.” Ben shoots his arms out, crosses his eyes. “I didn't know what to say, so I just said, ‘I like bacon.' ”

“Good for you, Luke.”

“And Crazy Larry says, ‘Well, I think I smell bacon.' ”

“So then you left?”

Big nod, serious eyes. Whispers, “If Crazy Larry smells bacon, I don't think it's a good thing.”

“You're probably right, Luke.”

“But after a while I came back.”

“You should keep clear of him, kiddo.”

He shrugs. “He didn't even notice me. It was like he was in his own world.”

“Did you see anything else?”

“He opened the garage door, pulled his station wagon out, and went to the store.”

“The store? How do you know he went to the store?”

Luke huffs and throws his hands into the air. “All the stuff he came back with. Duh.”

“Stuff? What kind of stuff?”

“All kinds of stuff. Big metal bars, chicken wire, a whole bunch of twine, propane canisters—the kind my dad uses for the barbecue.”

I mumble, “Wow.”

“Those big cement square things.”

“Foundation blocks?”

“I think so. Oh, and then a big bag of cotton balls, a bunch of that silver tape, and a bunch of buckets with some kind of dark wet stuff inside.”

“Wow.”

We stand in silence a second as Luke squints into the air. “Oh, yeah, he had car batteries and those thick wires for when your car is dead.”

“Jumper cables?”

He nods. “And then a roll of fabric, an ironing board, a power drill, I think, and a bunch of beer.”

I laugh.

Still squinting into air, thinking about it. “Oh, and on the sidewalk he left a can of shaving cream, a thing of Vaseline, and some cans of WD40. That stuff's awesome.”

“Don't play with WD40, Luke.”

“I know.” Then he brightens. “But Larry does.”

“But you don't want to be like Larry, do you?”

He concedes the point, his eyes serious.

“Did you see anyone else with him? Maybe a little man with really red hair?”

Thinks about it, shakes his head no. “But he did say something else weird.”

“What's that?”

“The last time he came out, I asked what he was doing, and all he kept saying was, ‘Larry needs some time to himself.' ”

“Hmmm.” We stand there awhile. “Last question, Luke.”

He peers up at me.

“Do you swear you're telling me the truth?”

“Totally.” His blue eyes pop. “It's totally true.”

“Okay, I believe you.”

He nods to Larry's house, smiles with hope. “Are you gonna sneak in there?”

A loud buzz-snap from Larry's garage.

“Um, don't think so. If I need something from Larry, I'll just knock on his door.”

Luke fails to suppress a grin. This astute little guy knows I'm full of shit.

I
open my garage door, grab Harry's aluminum baseball bat, and enter the house through the kitchen, ready to take anyone's head off.

And what do you know?

No one.

Windows locked. Everything secure. Peaceful silence. In my house.

At this moment in my life, how rare.

I return to the kitchen, lean against the counter. I'm so tired my eyelids hurt. My mind is swimming. I need a beer. That'll settle me down, add a little juice to the Vicodin, put me on course for a much-needed nap, a sweet block of blackout thirty minutes from now.

Assuming that's enough time to figure out the Crazy Larry situation.

I limp to the fridge, finger a bottle of Sierra Nevada, pop the cap, and pour it into a pint glass. Call me a fancy boy, but that beer is so much better in a glass—tastes better, looks better, sounds so lovely going into the glass. I stand in the kitchen, look out to the backyard as I take a sip.

Ah, man. Just perfect.

Say to no one, “Damn, that's good.” Take another sip, feel it settle in my stomach.

Go sit on the front porch and keep an eye on Larry. That's what I'll do.

I bring the bat with me, use it for leverage as I lower myself onto the front step of my porch, put the pint down beside me. The beer and Vicodin start mixing nicely, and I find myself gazing skyward as I listen to the odd noises coming from Larry's garage—the hammering, the buzz of a saw or drill, those periodic buzz-snaps.

And I realize that I probably look pretty crazy myself about now.

From Larry's garage, a wet slap against the pavement.

My cell rings.

“Yo.”

It's High Rider. “Do you have an update?”

“I do.”
Am I slurring?
“I talked to Kate. She hasn't seen your buddy, I'm afraid. And Rod's with them, so . . .”

“Anything else?”

“How about you? Why don't you admit it was you who sent Shovel Man into my garage this morning, tried to plant something under my wife's minivan?”

Long silence.

“C'mon. Fess up.”
Oh yeah, I'm buzzed.

Finally, he says, “It was you who removed the tracking device.”

I imagine High Rider in a dimly lit basement, placing a trembling finger over the Enter button of his keyboard, ready to destroy my life.

“Now, wait,” I say. “We thought it was someone more powerful, someone connected to the guy who attacked me in the Safeway.”