Cash Out (33 page)

Ten

O
ne summer, as a teenager, I worked at the mall selling cheese for Hickory Farms. Most of the time, I had the evening shift, meaning I'd work the store alone and just stand there and gaze out at the empty mall as I waited for closing time. Some nights, not one person would enter the store. Even so, I was required to “dress up” for the job, so I'd tuck an oversized shirt into a pair of tight slacks, the only pair I had, and make the best of it.

One night two girls walked by, glanced in, and giggled.

Was that flirting?

A minute later, the girls returned, red-faced. The brunette with freckles and giant green eyes asked for a free sample of cheese. Her friend with dirty blond hair glanced at my crotch and grinned to herself.

Which was when I looked down and suddenly understood.

My fly was open, and out of it flowed my shirttail—like a massive, flaccid dong reaching halfway to my knees. The girls burst into laughter, turned around, and marched off arm in arm.

To see yourself as you truly are—that is tough.

I
hobble to the beach, where I curl into a ball and wait for dawn.

The light breeze washes over me as I screw my eyes shut, trying to prevent the images from snaking through my head. But it's useless; the replay rolls. I see the girls charging me, one of them swinging some kind of pipe and missing by a hair, another going for my knees with a sweep, dropping me as a third comes in for a soccer kick and nails me in the ribs, sending pain everywhere. I see the bright alley opening in front of me. See the looks on their faces as I push through them and run toward the light. Nearly feel it again when one of them lands on my back and drags her nails across my throat until I toss her off, turn the corner, and hobble into the dark.

Is this all for real?

I shake my head, open my eyes. There's no way I can return to my hotel room and get my stuff—way too risky. I've become a FlowBid fugitive, curled into a ball on a deserted strip of sand, with just two critical items in my possession: my wallet and a tape worth more than a million dollars. Then again, the tape might be worth way more than that, considering how much damage it could do in the wrong hands. For the first time throughout this whole ordeal, I feel small and selfish.

I look down at my cell. I want to call Kate so bad. But I've caused her enough pain already.

Then the cell lights up in my throbbing hand.
S.
Fitzroy.

I stare at it a minute, finally answer the call.

Long silence on both sides.
Shit, I bet he can hear the waves.

Then his voice, nearly whispering.

“Danny.”

Nothing.

“Danny, listen.”

He's calm, like he's brokering another $100 million deal for FlowBid, like a high-stakes play he's made countless times before. “Listen, kid, whatever this is, whatever kind of deal you struck with the little guy. You have to know I could make you solid, set you up far better than he ever could.”

Nothing.

“I mean, have you thought about what you want?”

Finally, I mumble, “Cash out.” I look around, see nothing. “I just wanna fucking cash out.”

“Then let me help you.”

Silence.

“There's no reason, Danny. There's no reason I can't make you square. Better than square.” He pauses. “Whatever the little guy is offering, I can do better.”

If only it were that simple.

“Danny, if it's money, that's easy. If it's something else, that's probably easy, too. You know I can move mountains. You know that, Danny.”

“Stephen, listen. The little guy.”

“Yeah?”

“Where is he?”

He sighs hard. “He got away.”

“Stephen, he
made
me do this.”

He pauses. “Does this have to do with the ass stuff? Because I can—”

“No, listen. Well, kinda. It's bigger than that.”

“That's okay,” he soothes. “But now we can work together on this.” He waits a second. “Do you still have the tape?”

I say nothing.

He waits.

“You see, Stephen . . . The little guy? The little guy has something on me.” I look out to the bay, stare at the expanse of deep purple. “If I don't play nice with the little guy, I lose everything.”

Finally, he snaps. “No, you don't,” he yells. “Think about who you're talking to here.”

“I do lose everything.”

“Danny.” So irritated. “Whatever it is, I can make you solid. He's got you by the nuts some way, I can square you off with a new life, a lot of money—new everything.” He pauses. “More money than you've ever had.” He waits awhile, adds, “So let the little guy take his best shot.”

“He'll get me fired.”

“Danny.” He laughs. “You were getting fired anyway. I mean, you think I wasn't going to fire you after
this
?”

“You fire me in the next thirty-six hours, that tape goes public.”

He quiets, finally says, “We're coming.”

“Huh?”

“Just stay there.”

“What are you—”

“You're on the beach. Across the highway, right?”

I mumble, more to myself, “How'd . . .”

“I can hear the cars, Danny, and the water. And you couldn't have gone far.”

I look around, see no one.

“Just stay put, Danny. We'll be there in a minute.”

We?

“Ed might get there sooner.”

“Ed?”

“Didn't think I'd need anything like that down here, but I was wrong.”

“Anything like what?”

“Guys I can call. Guys who can solve problems.”

I don't want to believe it. “What?”

“They said I could call him if there was trouble.”

“They?” I rasp. “Who?”

“Stanislau.”

I shake my head, blink hard. “Stanislau? You know the people at Stanislau?”

“Of course.” He mumbles, like it's suddenly all so boring. “They work with the board.”

“I know.” I'm panting. “But you're in contact with them?”

“No,
they're
in contact with
me
.”

I mumble, “Stanislau.”

“They sent me a note this morning, said I should call Ed if I had any problems in Tampa, which I thought was odd . . .” He sharpens. “Until about twenty minutes ago.”

I feel my stomach weaken, and I moan.

“Just hang tight,” he says, his voice strangely cheery. “He's on his way.”

Which is when I see the large dark figure near the water.

A
ll I see is his silhouette—the outline of a massive, broad-shouldered man. A linebacker's body. He's pacing some two hundred feet away as I sit there in the sand, a cold sweat breaking, trying to come up with a plan. And failing.

My cell flashes again. I keep an eye on the silhouette as I scoop the phone out of the sand and put it to my ear. “Call him off, Stephen.”

The figure takes a few steps in my direction.

“I mean it,” I say into the phone. “Call him off.”

“I want my tape,” a voice snaps back. It's High Rider, his voice sounding like an elf trapped in a can.

“Dude, what are you doing in Tampa? This wasn't part of the deal.”

“Deal?” he snaps. “This was
never
a deal. This was a matter of
me
telling
you
what
you'll do and
when
you'll do it.”

The silhouette takes a few more careful steps.

“So you came to spy on me.”

A few more steps.

“I came to protect our investment. I
knew
something would go wrong with you.”

Closer still.

“I spoke to Fitzroy,” I say. “He's promising more money if I give him the tape.”

“And you believe him?” High Rider chuckles and sighs. “You're such an idiot.”

More steps, less tentative.

“Regardless,” I say, “I have a more pressing matter here.”

He's getting closer, and, God, he's huge.

“I want my tape.”

C'mon, think of something.

“You'll get your tape,” I say. “Tomorrow at the airport—TPA. Be there by seven
A.M.
, and I'll call you, tell you where to go.”

“But I make the calls,” he snaps.

“You do?” I say, and hang up, because now the silhouette is running toward me.

Sprinting, really.

Tearing over the sand like it's asphalt.

T
he problem is, following exact sequences is hard for me, no matter how much I try. Tell me a joke, the next day I can't repeat it to save my life. Ask me to sing my favorite song, I'll never be able to nail the lyrics. And dancing? You ask me to follow along in a class or something, my feet will screw it up. Always.

So you can understand that, despite more than a decade's worth of Rod Stone trying to teach me submission holds, I'm helpless there too.

Even so, I stand up, face the man, and try to channel Rod.

He slows as he approaches.
Shit, he's gonna shoot me.

Deep voice. Really deep voice. “Danny?”

My breath is so shallow.

Two big steps closer. “Danny,” he huffs, breathing heavy. “I'm Ed.”

I take a step back.

“Danny, I need that tape.”

Another step back.

“Danny.” He seems so calm. “You're not going anywhere.”

I'm freaking so hard, I can't feel my face. “I don't have it.”

He laughs, takes a step closer, and finally I can see his face: giant chin, straight nose, and a high brow. “Is that why you're fiddling with something in your pocket there? Something that looks like a cassette tape?”

I swallow hard. “I don't have it.”

He takes a step. “Danny, how do you want this to end?”

I say nothing, take another step back.

“Do you want to leave this beach upright, go back to California and see your wife and kids?”

I take another step back, resist the urge to pull out the tape and throw it away from me.

He takes a step, says ever so gently, “Do you want to see your children again?”

My legs weaken.

“I don't think you know who—and what—you're fucking with here, chief.”

“I don't—”

He explodes for me, and I feel like a toddler—lifted off my feet so effortlessly, brought in the air for a moment, and tossed down onto the sand. I try to roll over and scramble away, but he grabs me by the ankles—again, so effortless—and yanks me back to him.

He rolls me onto my back, raises a fist, and tightens.

“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”

Too late. He lands an elbow across my face. It feels like a wall of wood has slammed my entire head. I taste blood in my mouth, roll my head to avoid the next blow, but still catch it behind the ear.

I try to move, but can't.

Fuck, he's huge.

The calm voice is gone. He rumbles, “You wanna do this?”

“No,” I gurgle. “Please.”

He scoots off me, lets me get to my knees, reaches for my front pocket. “Cough it up. Before I get angry.”

And just like that, I can't believe it: I'm actually seeing
an opportunity
. That's what Rod Stone calls it—an “opportunity”—when an opponent opens himself to a particular submission. Ed is crawling toward me, reaching for my pocket, never thinking for a second that my best friend, a professional cage fighter, has been catching me in this very same position over and over the past fifteen years, and making me pay the price. I just might be able to resist my freestyle ways long enough to remember the moves—the sequence of steps necessary to secure a Peruvian Necktie.

“C'mere,” he grunts.

I gasp under my breath, “Here we go.”

He reaches for my pocket, growls, “Where is it?”

Now or never.

“You wanna leave this beach?” he yells, and shoots for my legs.

And just like that I slip into a zone I never thought I could reach, letting my unconscious take over, letting my body set it all up, my brain go blank. I push his head to the sand, slip my left arm under his throat and across his chest, reach over with the other and lock hands, and stand up. He tries to twist away, but I've got him. I've really got him. I step over his shoulders and pull up, pressing his head against the back of my leg, and fall back at an angle, pulling him with me and twisting, landing on my back and wrapping my legs around him.

All of it mindless, all of it deep-seated muscle memory I didn't know I had.

His head is torqued under my legs, his chin pressed hard against his collarbone, cutting off all blood flow to his brain.

He tenses.

I tighten for the ride, ignore the pangs in my groin.