Cash Out (17 page)

Silence.

“Hell, if you wanted to track Kate, you should've just asked. We've got nothing to hide.”

Long silence. And then, “We found the tracking device, Dan.”

Oh shit. Larry's car.

“On a station wagon,” I say.

“No.” Long, irritated sigh. “It wasn't on any station wagon.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do any shopping today, Mr. Jordan?”

“Me? . . . What? . . . No. Why?”

“Well, it seems our tracking device made a trip to the grocery store.”

“Okay.”

“Lunardi's, to be precise.”

“Inside Lunardi's?”

“Under a neat stack of cucumbers.”

I get a vision of Crazy Larry fucking with a pile of cucumbers in the produce section, everyone keeping clear.

“Before there, it was up in the hills.”

“Hills?”

Silence, and then, “Which is where we lost contact with my associate?”

“Little Red?”

Annoyed. “My associate.”

“Okay, well—”

“We know you were at work at the time. Irrefutable. Your IT activity bears it out.”

“Good. See, I was—”

“And from what we now can tell, your wife and the cage fighter had nothing to do with this.”

“Beyond a doubt.”

“And yet you knew about the tracking device.”

“True.”

“And it clearly wasn't on the minivan.”

“Yeah, we removed it.”

“And you placed it on a vehicle, judging by the fact the signal had us zigzagging up and down the peninsula.”

I think of Crazy Larry. “Really?”

“Whose car, Dan?”

“What?”

“I'm getting ready to release your information, Dan. This isn't funny.”

“Okay, okay.” I blink, and my vision blurs. “We put it under my neighbor's station wagon. Thought it would be harmless.”

“Your neighbor across the street?”

“Yeah.”

I wait for a reaction, trying to think of what to say next, when Larry's front door opens. It's Larry, in his skin-colored Speedo and shiny black army boots, with a faded orange tank top. Nursing a pipe, glancing at me as he takes a seat on his porch.

“What's his name?”

“Don't worry about that.”

“Is he home?”

I squint back at Larry. “He is.”

Silence.
Fuck, he's deciding what to do. I know it.

“Like I said, we thought that device came from some serious dudes, not you guys. We just wanted them off our tails.”

“Who are
those guys
, Dan?”

“That's what I'm trying to figure out.”

Not gonna tell him about Stanislau. Not yet, at least.

“So, does he have my associate or not?”

Larry takes a puff, watches me. A buzz-snap echoes from his garage.

“Probably, but it's a matter of where.”

“You have an hour to retrieve my associate, or this thing is over.”

Larry watching, puffing, stroking his beard.

“Okay,” I say, “but you need to tell me where his car went this morning. That might help.”

High Rider huffs, ruffles papers. “The signal was everywhere. First the library, then to the wetlands, then up and down 101, back and forth, over and over, between Redwood City and Belmont, for ninety minutes.”

I imagine Crazy Larry driving up and down the freeway with that look on his face, the radio turned off as he thinks about God knows what. Creeps me out.

“So when did your buddy attempt to follow the car?”

“Well . . .” His anger is palpable. “He began the pursuit on 101, but couldn't find the car, because he was looking for a minivan. He followed the signal up and down 101 for twenty minutes, at which point the vehicle got off the freeway and headed for the hills.”

And I'm wondering,
Daily routine for Larry?

“My associate followed the signal all the way to the top of the hills, proceeded south on Skyline Boulevard, Highway 35, which is where we lost contact.”

“In the woods,” I whisper, gazing back at Larry. “He obviously realized he was being tailed and lured your guy into the woods, snagged him there.”

A pause. “The signal returned to your neighborhood. Remained there for a while, then proceeded to dart around town, to stores, we think, and then settled, apparently, in the produce section.”

“Okay.” Gazing back at Larry. “So, I think your buddy is over here at Larry's house.”

“You will need to provide a welfare status.”

“Well . . .” I watch Larry as he puffs and stares. Another buzz-snap from inside. “He might be a little rattled.”

High Rider yelps, “Get him.”

“But that might be—”

“You have one hour to get him, or your life is ruined.”

Dial tone.

F
uck, I'm buzzed.

That Sierra Nevada had sounded like such a good idea. But now I want balance, a clear head.

I wobble toward Larry. He sits there assessing me, his mouth frozen in an odd smile—and I realize he actually has a nice face, a face the ladies probably liked at one point, when he was saner. Hell, maybe they still do.

“Hey, Larry.”

He stares at my feet like they baffle him, looks away, exhales a puff.

Buzz-snap.

“You've been busy over here today.”

He turns and stares at me. He nearly whispers, “I made a friend.”

“Oh yeah?” I play it straight, like he's just won five hundred dollars in the Lotto. “That's great, Larry.”

“You could say . . .” He's gazing into the air, then turns to me, forcing that weird smile. “. . . we're having what you yuppies call a playdate.”

I offer an awkward laugh. “Yeah?”

He brings the pipe to his mouth, produces a cloud of smoke, studies the swirls, follows their ascent until they dissolve into nothing.

“You think the playdate is over?”

More smoking.

“Maybe your new friend wants to go home now?”

Crazy Larry gives me this look like I've morphed into a porcupine.

Another buzz-snap, and a faint growl.

Human growl.

Larry cocks his head, like he's he listening to Bach.

And I realize: I'm hosed.

A
funky beat thumps out of Calhoun's granny unit.

I recognize the beat, those lyrics.

“My Humps.”

Black Eyed Peas. They love the humps.

Hell, these days, the whole world loves them.

Including Calhoun.

The windows are fogged a little as I inch closer, the beat getting stronger, Fergie belting it out high and breathless.

I drive these brothers crazy,

I do it on the Daily . . .

I peek in, see Calhoun in his open robe—arms snapping, pelvis thrusting, belly shaking, feet working hard, head cocking and snapping.

Whoa.

Calhoun.

Serious moves.

Calhoun sings along, “She's got me spending.”

Spendin' all your money on me and spending time on me.

Calhoun wails, “
What you gon' do with all that junk? All that junk inside that trunk?
”

I stumble to his door.
Fuck, I'm light-headed.
But, hell, I need help. I need to get Little Red out of that garage within the hour or I'm hosed, and Calhoun is the only way I can think of to gain entry to his landlord's house and spring the little guy loose. Or at least talk Larry into cooperating.

I'm a make, make, make, make you scream

Cos of my hump, my hump . . . my lovely lady lumps

Calhoun wails, “
What you gon' do with all that ass? All that ass inside them jeans?
”

I move closer, reach the door.

Push it open.

Whoa.

A visitor.

A woman.

An older woman—very short, very bottom-heavy.

Dancing for Calhoun.

In a thong.

Backing it up toward him, swinging it, seconds from grind time.

Calhoun turns, still shaking it, grins at me, and sings along, “
I met a girl down at the disco. She said hey, hey, hey yea let's go. I could be your baby, you can be my honey. Let's spend time not money.
”

And then after a few beats, he hollers, “Mr. Danny likes to watch.”

No, I don't.

She looks over her shoulder, sees me, and drops her lids as she backs into Calhoun, his robe hiding the friction.

Touchdown.

Calhoun grabs her sides, points his chin into the air, lets his eyes turn to slits.

I feel the beer coming up.

Step away, lower myself to the ground beside one of Larry's cacti. The earth starts to spin. I close my eyes. I should probably spread out on Larry's rocks, take a breather, and let the spinning stop as I wait for them to finish.

And I fade to black, Fergie's anthem washing over me like an echo.

I
awake in someone's arms.

Rocked gently, back and forth.

It's nice, reminds me of simpler times.
Is this a dream?

I blink hard—and look up to see Calhoun's gray little eyes peering down at me, a droplet of sweat falling from his brow to my chest. He smiles and whisper-sings, extra-high, “Rise and shine, Mr. Danny.”

It sinks in, and I jolt out of his arms, roll onto the rocks. But I'm weak, and he gathers me back into his embrace, holds me tight.

Cradled. By Calhoun, in his brown boxers and white tank, stinking of sex and sweat.

Oh God, I'm gonna pass out.

“Easy, boy,” he whispers, like I'm a horse. “Easy.”

I give up.

“There we go,” he soothes, “there we go.” After a few moments, he adds, “You've been out awhile.”

That gets me. “What?”

“Shshhh.” Soft and gentle. “Easy, boy . . . Easy.”

I look around, notice the lady friend watching from his doorway. She's wrapped up in his robe, arms folded, unimpressed. She must be at least thirty years older than Calhoun.

“Ellie and I thought you left,” he says. “A long time ago.”

I moan.

“We would have halted the coitus had we known. I swear.”

I break loose and sit up, scamper away from him.

“You don't look so hot, Mr. Danny.”

“I know.”

“Actually, I think you're ripe for a paradigm shift.”

“Yeah, well I have bigger fish to fry right now.”

Ellie steps forward, rasps, “Listen to him. He knows what he's talking about.”

“What? Do you even know this guy?”

She smirks at me. “He's my life coach.”

“Life coach?”

She gives me the this-shit's-for-real look. “He's good.”

This clears my head. I straighten, wipe my nose. “This man is your life coach?”

She nods, so calm. “I've graduated. Now he's just my booty call. Isn't that what they call it?”

Calhoun giggles, nods.

“His coaching methodology is basically teaching by example.”

“Nice,” I say, get to my feet.
Whoa, still light-headed.

She proceeds to blow me away.

Turns out, Calhoun is actually a millionaire several times over. One of the first eighty employees at Google. Made a fortune and got out.

This gets me. “And you live here? In a three-hundred-square-foot granny unit behind Larry's house?”

Calhoun closes his eyes, confident. “You choose to live a large life, Mr. Danny. But you don't need it.”

But you don't support a family, bub.

“I make choices,” he says. “And I choose to live small.”

Ellie nods, watching my reaction. “See?”

“You have millions and you live here?”

“I have made a choice to appreciate where I am, Mr. Danny.”

Never thought I'd get deep with Calhoun.

Calhoun struggles to stand up. When he's finally upright, he whispers, “Paradigm shift, Mr. Danny. You need a paradigm shift.” He looks at me, catches his breath, and adds, “You and Kate are livin'
la vida loca
. And where is it getting you?”

I shrug. “Actually, we're—”

He shushes me. “You should see yourself. You look all chewed up and spat out.
La vida loca
is sucking the life out of you, Mr. Danny.”

“I know. But all I need to do is last another—”

“That's what they all say.”

“But we're—”

“You and that sweet little family of yours need to cash out, Mr. Danny. Cash out and live small.”

Live small. Not bad, actually.

“Calhoun, listen to me. This is exactly what I am trying to do. I
want
to live small. I
want
to cash out. But believe me, to do it, I need to hang on a few more days.”

Calhoun nods, says, “That's good, Mr. Danny. Set a date.”

“But I need your help.”

He shakes his jowls. “I don't do loans. But I do give investment tips.”

“No, I mean—”

“In fact, I have a friend who just told me about this little company that lets you put short mess—”

“Calhoun, no.” Now I'm the one whispering. “I need your help with Larry.”

I tell him about Little Red. “I need to spring him loose.”

He wheezes. “You're not going to spring that man loose, Mr. Danny. You'd need a Sherman to get into that house.”

I turn and cuss. I've forgotten about the time. Look at my watch.
Holy shit.

I have five minutes.

“I gotta go,” I huff. “I'm so fucked.”

Calhoun says, “Think, my little one. Think.”

I turn back and squint at him. “I'm not thinking too well lately. Just tell me.”

Ellie turns back into his place, fiddles with his boom box, starts up the “Humps” song.