Cash Out (28 page)

“Okay,” she says. “I'm sorry, okay? I should have told you.” She sighs. “And I probably shouldn't have been e-mailing with him anyway.”

“He wants to meet you someplace, doesn't he?”

“Don't worry about that.” Annoyed. “Because I said no.”

I get light-headed. “He wants to fuck you, you know?”

“Stop it, okay? I told you everything. I just want you to listen, be there for me.”

And that's the problem, I decide. This fucking job of mine. This hyperventilating life in the valley. Nonstop. Unrelenting. Monster hours. When there are millions to be made, only the weak slow down.

“We cash out, I'll have more time, honey. More time for us. To be there for each other.” We hit Lombard, pull a right. “I know it. I know things will get better.”

She sits up and vomits into her bag.

A
t the nearly empty Mel's, Kate is in the restroom dry-heaving. I sit in our booth wearing her jacket, my bare chest and stomach exposed. I'm finger-padding my nose when my mobile rings. It's a private number I don't recognize.

“Yes?”

“Dan, it's Detective Bryant.”

“Working late, aren't you?”

“Looks like you are, too.”

The waitress delivers Kate's pancakes, slides a plate of grilled cheese and fries and a giant, perspiring, aluminum cup of vanilla milk shake in front of me. I nod thanks.

“Well,” I say, taking a fry. “Crazy time right now, I have to admit.”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. They had an impressive little car chase in San Mateo today, climaxing with a hit-and-run and some type of motorist abduction.”

My stomach tightens. “Oh yeah?”

“Wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

“I've been up here most of the day.”

“Dan, where's your Corolla?”

“What?”

“Your car. A witness gave a description of a car that fled the scene, scribbled down a few of the numbers on the plate—not all, but a few. They scanned cars registered in the area, sent us the matches in San Carlos, and I saw your name there.”

“Well . . .”

“So I came over to check you out, and you and your car are nowhere to be found.”

“Well, we're up in the city right now.”

“Can you come in to answer some questions?”

Kate returns, eases into the booth, stares at the pancakes.

“I'm sorry. I can't right now.”

“There's a man missing, Dan. This one isn't going away.”

Kate picks up a pancake with her hand, eats it like a tortilla.

“Well,” I snap, “I don't have him. I'm here in the city having a late dinner with my wife. And I'm getting on a plane for Florida first thing in the morning.”

Kate gives me a lazy sneer.

Bryant says, “The missing motorist is the guy we think attacked you at the Safeway. I thought that was an odd coincidence.” The sarcasm is heavy. “A guy named Anthony Altazaro.”

I play along. “That does sound odd. But, you know, maybe no one took that guy. Maybe he fled the scene. Maybe he didn't want to speak to the police. Maybe he was juiced up and ran away, wanted to avoid a DUI. You know that happens all the time. I covered a ton of those stories.”

He laughs. “Well, I still want to see your car.”

“Sorry,” I say. “My neighbor has it.”

“Larry? Would that be Larry?”

“Yeah.”

“That's funny, because a witness reports seeing—and I quote—‘a spry, bearded crazy man' darting around at the scene of the collision.”

Kate takes another bite.

“Hmmm. That's weird.”

“I've checked on Larry's place several times today. Can't find him.”

“Yeah, I don't know what to tell you, Detective. I think Larry might be on a road trip.”

He laughs. “With your car?” He laughs some more. “That's pretty good.”

I look at Kate. She's still staring into space, chewing slowly, the pancake still pinched between her fingers.

“Listen, sir. I need to get off—”

“Dan,” he whispers. “Remember our conversation. I can make all this hit-and-run shit go away. I just want a piece of the action.”

“Calling from a private line, are we?”

“I want a piece, Dan.”

“The action?”

“Whatever it is. Because I know there's something going on. I'm not an idiot.”

“Listen,” I say, biting my lip a second. “Listen, I'm getting closer, but I still don't know what this is about. If there is some action to ‘get into,' I'll let you know. Okay? Just so long as you keep me and Larry out of this hit-and-run thing.”

“I can do that,” he says, “as long as we know Altazaro is okay. I can't redirect a kidnapping investigation. Nor would I want to.”

“Good.” I dip my long spoon into the milk shake and pull out a dripping heap of vanilla. “Suppose someone called and said they saw this Altazaro guy flee the scene. It wouldn't be a kidnapping anymore, would it?”

“But I'll need to get that witness account, and I'd like to know Altazaro is alive and safe.”

“Well, what if I were to tell you that it
was
Larry and me in that chase, and that once the cars collided, this bald, beefy dude jumped out of the car and fled the scene, and that Larry and I were so scared, we took off? Remember, this is the guy who not only attacked me in the Safeway but also stalked my young children.”

Long pause. “I can work with that.” Another pause. “Only thing fishy is why you and Larry didn't stick around for the cops.”

“Hey,” I say. “We were scared.”

He chuckles. “Scared. Okay.” More chuckling. “But I'll need to know this Altazaro guy is okay. And we still need to press charges for the battery at Safeway.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “What if I assured you that someone will personally deliver Altazaro to you within forty-eight hours, safe and healthy?”

“And I get a piece of the action?”

“Yes, yes. You get a piece of the action.” I roll my eyes. “If there is any.”

“With people like this guy involved, there
has
to be action. Just has to be.”

We hang up, and I look over at Kate. She's still holding her pancake. “What the hell was that?”

“What?”

She closes her eyes. “You trying out a career in human trafficking?”

“Listen. I think I need to go home tonight, leave you with Rod and the boys.”

She takes a big bite, looks away, and chews. “Fine.”

“I don't manage this thing right, we'll have a kidnapping investigation on top of everything else.”

Still looking away. “
God.
”

“I just don't want Larry going overboard.” The thought makes me shudder. “We can't afford permanent maiming.”

“Nah,” she says. “Wouldn't want that.”

I watch the cars and trucks scream by on Lombard.

“Sure. Our marriage is flying out of control . . .” She yells into the air. “But Crazy Larry has gotten himself in trouble and the cops are calling. Better give
that
your full attention.”

We sit there awhile.

“I can stay with you guys tonight.”

“No.” She flicks the last bit of pancake into her mouth, allows a lazy glance in my direction. “This is better. This way, I can think.”

“Fine.”

“I'm thinking, maybe you need to find an apartment.”

“Apartment . . .” My face freezes. “What?”

She sits back, looks at me with that lazy cocked eyebrow. Her movements are slow and drunk, but her mind seems pretty clear. “You're having IM sex with PR sluts. I'm letting my stupid high school boyfriend flirt with me . . .”

I swallow hard, look away.

“. . . so maybe it doesn't make sense to cash out and buy a beach shack together. I mean, these kinds of problems . . .”

“Kate.”

“No, I'm serious. Buying a shack isn't going to change anything.”

“Kate. C'mon.”

“Dan . . .” She's about to cry. “Take me to Rod's.”

Eight

I
t's close to two in the morning when I finally roll up to our house. The whole ride down here, I've thought of nothing but that comment.

Maybe you need to find an apartment.

Was that real? Had my wife, my only true love, just told me to move out? Was it the Cuervo? The emotions of this one crazy night? The prospect of Alec, that smug-nosed little twerp?

Of course I have no defense—no one to blame but myself. If I'd done the right things all along—avoided the IM'ing with Anne, decided not to squeal to
BusinessWeek
, protected my equity in FlowBid—the geeks would've had nothing on me, and Kate wouldn't be hurt. Sure, we'd still have our issues, but our lives wouldn't be like houses teetering over an eroded beach cliff during a violent storm, seconds away from collapse.

Yeah, it's my fault. All of it.

Bare-chested once again, I ease myself out of the van, my midsection throbbing, and glance across the street to Larry's place. No sign of my Corolla. Larry's house is dark.

God only knows where he's—

Then, from his covered porch, a red ember.

I squint into the blackness. “Larry?”

The ember fades.

This is what Larry does most nights—turns off the lights and sits on his covered porch facing our house, smoking and drinking. You can't see
him
, just the glowing red ember of his pipe.

I start to cross the street. “Larry?”

Faint traces of Alvin and the Chipmunks slip from his garage, their high-pitched squealing just barely cutting the silence.

All around the mulberry bush,

The monkey chased the weasel

The monkey thought it was a joke,

Pop goes the weasel

I bite my lip, take a few more steps.

“Larry,” I whisper. “The detective called me.”

The ember glows.

From the garage, an electronic buzz-snap, followed by hissing and popping and the high-pressure release of liquid. Muffled distress.

“Larry?”

The ember fades.

“Larry?”

The ember glows. “Come here.” His voice is strong, like he's not asking.

Wet, squishy noises echo from the garage.

The ember fades.

I come closer, but I still can't see him.

“Larry.” I step closer. “We can't get too crazy with these guys.”

The ember brightens, and finally I see the outline of his face. Just a moment, a glimpse of his cheekbones, his brow, his chin, the contours of a mouth that seems paralyzed.

The ember fades, and he returns to darkness.

“Larry, listen. We need to cool it with these guys, okay?”

Nothing.

“I know you don't like people following you, and I know you hate big money. But if these guys don't come back fully functional, we're wearing orange jumpsuits for ten to twenty.”

Nothing.

“Plus, I think we'd regret it.”

“Daniel.”

“Larry?”

“Daniel, I have never regretted anything.” The ember brightens, then fades. “Ever.”

The sound of splashing in the garage.

I look back at my house. It seems so sweet and cute from Larry's place, the porch light on, the bushes trimmed. “Calhoun said some shady characters were snooping around my place. Maybe Baldy's buds. Did you see anyone?”

Silence.

“Go easy on 'em, Larry. I mean it.”

Larry says, “It's been a while.”

“While? What while?”

“Since Mr. Wetty has had visitors.”

“Mr. Wetty?” My heart thumps hard. “You have someone in there with them?” My breathing goes shallow. “We can't have more people in on this, Larry.”

The ember brightens. “Mr. Wetty is an Adirondack.”

“A chair?”

“Mr. Wetty likes visitors, and he likes to get wet.”

“Larry?”

“So I think he was quite pleased to have company tonight.” The ember fades. “Which is why it will be my pleasure to give the boys turns on Mr. Wetty.”

Okay, maybe I don't want to know this.

“Larry?”

Silence.

“Larry, where's my car?”

The ember glows.

“Larry?”

F
inally, peace.

My face has melted into my pillow. A warm blanket of black comfort, this sweet nothing, seeps through my skull and soothes my brain. It's thick and black and solid, and it halts everything—dreams, radiating aches from my nether regions, outside stimuli.

The slumber is so sweet.

Until someone lifts me off the bed.

I jolt awake, look at the clock. 4:57.

A large figure twirls me in the air and crashes us into the wall. When I open my eyes, on my back, the shadow looms over me.

“Where is he?”

When I open my mouth, he forces his hand in, fingers my tongue, and pulls it out just enough to make me convulse.

“Where is he?”

My tongue twitches in his grip.

“You're gonna answer.” The shadow lets go, whips me around so my head is sticking out of two enormous, hairy, interlocked arms. “Where is he?”

I feel absolutely helpless. Hell, I
am
absolutely helpless.

“I am not going to ask you again.”

“Where's who?”

The arms tighten. “I'll take you . . .”

I gurgle.

“. . . and leave you where archeologists will find you.” He squeezes, and I moan. “A long . . . long . . . time from now.”

I claw at the arms. “Please.”

The arms constrict like a hairy boa, and I shut my eyes in overwhelming pain. “
Please?
That won't buy you the morning paper, hotshot. Where is he?”

“The bald dude?”

The arms hold tight. “There you go. See, you
do
know who.”

“I . . .” Tiny breath. “. . . don't know.”

“Oh yes, you do.” He squeezes harder, takes a breath. “You know exactly where he is.”

I'm starting to feel dizzy. I'm not getting the air I need, and the pain is paralyzing. I gasp, “Please stop.”

“You control that.” The arms tighten and bulge. “Where is he?”

Saliva bubbles from my lips.

The arms tighten. “Where—”

Then, in a flash, some overwhelming force seizes control of both of us. Together we stiffen and shudder, frozen into paralysis. I feel his head jerking, his jaw shuttering, as a current of spiked pain shoots through my body and stays there, launching bullets of agony to the core of my chest.

I can't even moan or open my mouth.

Finally, it ceases. He releases and topples over as I slide to the floor, my twitching limbs so heavy I can't move. But I can smell something. That smoky hint of vanilla and rum. And then the cocoa-butter lotion. From my angle, I roll an eyeball for a view of the ember. The red ember brightening over us.

Larry pulls the Taser probes off us. “There we go,” he says in a soothing voice.

L
arry cuffs my attacker and throws a pillowcase over his head. “The probes did not align,” he says.

I whimper on the hardwood, try to get a look at my attacker. He's massive—maybe six foot five, three hundred pounds—with hands the size of catcher's mitts. His power had been overwhelming, but now he's a mound of dead weight.

“One probe landed on you, and the other on him. The current danced between you.” Larry reaches behind his jeans, pulls out an extra-large choke collar, something for St. Bernards. He pulls the pillowcase tight, collars his captive with the choke, and attaches a leash. It's a move he's obviously done before. He yanks on the leash, and his captive shrieks and scrambles to his knees. “A simple conduction of electrical current from his body to yours.”

I roll on the floor, moaning.

He says softly, “That was not my intention.”

The smoky vanilla wafts through my room.

He yanks again, and the captive follows. Larry leans against my dresser, and the captive settles at his feet like an obedient dog. “Some pets,” he says, looks down at the massive figure kneeling before him, “learn quite quickly.”

I sit up. My skin feels like it's on fire. I scratch uncontrollably. “Larry,” I rasp, and lower myself back to the floor. “How'd . . .?”

“I've been watching him . . .” He pauses. “. . . watch you . . .” He produces a cloud, studies me through the haze. “. . . for hours.”

I try to sit up again, decide against it.

I moan, “Why didn't you tell me?”

Larry puffs, stares at me. “This is better.”

“Larry, we need to think about this a second.”

“I've decided.” Larry gazes down at me. “I'd like another date with Kate.”

“Larry. A date? Larry, you're not dating my wife.”

He softens and whispers, “It would please me.”

“Let's just focus on the matter at hand.” I nod to Larry's captive and shudder at what I'm about to ask. “You have room for him, Larry?”

He allows the slightest of nods. “I can introduce him to . . .” His eyes seem to moisten. “. . . Mr. Wetty.”

From under the pillowcase: “We can pay you. A lot.”

Larry stiffens, looks at me and yanks the leash as he turns toward the hallway. “I do not like . . .” He yanks again, harder. “. . . big money.”

“Larry.” I sit up, rub my face. “We'll need him back.”

Larry hums his little snippet of Bach as he leads his captive down the hall.

“Larry,” I snap.

Distant humming. I hear the door open, the choke collar snap.

“I need all those guys back, Larry.”

The door clicks shut.

I squint at the clock. 5:12
A.M.
My head throbs, my left eye twitches; my energy is at an all-time low. I crawl back into bed, every inch of me aching, and let my head sink back into the pillow, thinking,
Two more hours of sleep before I really need to get up.
And realize—for a millisecond—the absurdity of it all, that I've grown so comfortable with all this insanity that I'm able to drift off just minutes after getting Tasered. But the thought vanishes as the absolute requirement for sleep dismisses all analysis in short order.

A sing-songy whisper. “Rise and shine, Mr. Danny.”

It pulls me out of the slumber. I am so tired—my head throbbing, my eyes burning, my limbs heavy. I open an eye, look up . . . to Calhoun's puffy, pink face. He's curled around me, stroking my arm. “There's my sleepyhead,” he soothes in full-on baby talk. “There he is.”

I scramble out of his embrace. Daylight is streaming through the blinds.
Holy shit
. My heart hammers.
I've overslept.
I look at the clock, squint—7:45
A.M.
—and exhale. It takes a few seconds for my brain to unscramble the confusion.
Just fifteen minutes late. Okay. I can make that up. Just need to be at the jet center by nine. I can do that.

Calhoun bounces off my bed, straightens his robe. “I made you waffles.”

“Calhoun.” I scratch my head, glance at him. “What are you doing?”

Calhoun mocks offense. “Your little lover sent me.”

“Kate?”

“She tried calling you this morning, to wake you for your little plane ride. I guess she thought little Danny Boy might be so tired that he'd oversleep. But it seems like someone cut Mr. Danny's phone lines, and his little cell-phone battery was dead because her wakeup calls kept going straight to Mr. Danny's voice mail.” He looks at me, does the silent laughter thing that makes his tits shake and quiver. “So Kate called sweet ol' Calhoun to the rescue.”

I rub my face, think about Larry leaving my house with the big guy. “Was the front door unlocked?”

Silent laughter. “Yes,” he wheezes, “which gave me the opportunity to start charging your cell phone and make some big, fluffy, juicy waffles for my Mr. Danny.” He tiptoes to me, slaps me on the butt, and gives me his side. “You go get ready, and Uncle Calhoun will keep those waffles warm.”

I head to the bathroom, but the entire middle region of my body—from thighs to abdomen—feels about as flexible as a two-by-four. So I shuffle into the bathroom, search for my Vicodin. “Fine, fine. Waffles. Fine. I just need to be in the car in twenty minutes.”

Calhoun jumps for joy and dances down the hallway singing in baritone, “Danny's gonna get his waffles on,” then in a high tenor, “
Danny's gonna get his waffles on.
”

The thing about showering when you're severely sleep-deprived: It takes longer. Your brain is slower, and your body works at half speed, which you really can't afford, because if you didn't
have
to be up showering, you'd be back in bed with your head in a fluffy pillow. Today I shower in cold water, yelping and yipping and shuddering as I race through the routine.