Cash Out (18 page)

Eyes twinkling, he rasps, “Think.”

Again, that silly beat, those raspy
ha-ha-cha
s over and over.

I keep squinting. My brain is empty.

“You're not going to spring anyone out of Larry's house.” He waits. “But you
do
hold power over him, don't you?”

Ha-ha-cha, ha-ha-cha

“I do?”

Slowly, he nods. “By virtue of your little lover.”

And the music blares, calling for Calhoun.

“Now it is time for us to part.” He closes his eyes, sighs. “My own lover is calling.”

My cell rings. I recognize the number.
Aw, man—High Rider.

I take the call, and he says, “It's over.”

“What?”

“I have released the data.”

I don't want to believe it. “What?”

“Dan.” So calm, in control. “I've released your personal information.”

Six

I
have to sit down to take the news.

“You released my information?”

“I warned you, Dan.”

The world swirls.

Holy shit.

My life is over.

I think of the chats with Anne, the e-mails with
BusinessWeek
, and I can nearly see the people of FlowBid reading it all, gathering in each other's cubes, giggling, giant scandalized smiles on their faces.

“You asshole,” I yell. “You
fucking
asshole.”

Shit, where's Kate? I need to reach Kate before it gets to her.

He says, “I gave you an hour, Dan.”

I want to rip his lungs out. “I was working on it, you . . .” I swallow hard. “. . . little bastard.”

“Good, so there is hope.”

I sit there along the side of Larry's house, stare at this brown little trap door connected to the garage, but it's not registering.

“Hope,” I yell. “There's no fucking hope. Not now.”

“You said you were working on retrieving my associate, so there is hope.”

“No, this is your problem now. You ruined my life, asshole. I'm done. I have to get to Kate.”

Long pause. “Dan, I don't think you comprehend what's happened.”

I stare at the trap door, feel like getting up and kicking it in out of anger, but realize it's metal and would probably break my toes. “You just released all that personal information, you said. My life is ruined. Which means it will now be my mission in life to tear yours to fucking shreds.”

He laughs, like an elf on helium. “You don't understand.” He composes himself, adds, “Yes, I released your personal info to the employees of FlowBid.”

My head goes cold.
I'm gonna throw up.

“But I did not release all of it.”

What?

“I just released your porn activity to the top floor of the headquarters building. Nothing else.”

My vision narrows, and I feel faint as the particulars of my situation reassemble to present what might be a new future—one not nearly as awful as the one I just had, but disastrous on its own level.

“All employees on the top floor of the headquarters building, including those inhabiting Executive Row, have just received an e-mail from an IT mailbox labeled ‘Browsing Activity Reports/Browsing History of Daniel Jordan, Employee Number 452.' ”

I think of the people on the top floor. People I know. People I work with daily. Everyone in Legal. All those young ladies in Finance. Fitzroy's assistant, Sharon. Beth Gavin. Fitzroy himself.

“In said e-mail is a listing of what is termed ‘Questionable Browsing Activity.' ”

Cold sweat. Spreading rapidly. “Lovely.”

“If you say so.”

What is that, geek humor?

“And that questionable browsing history includes, well . . .” I can hear the joy in his voice. “Well, let's just say it's apparent you enjoy a certain part of the female anatomy.”

Oh yeah. He's outed me. The whole building will know what kind of man I am.

An ass man.

Just little breaks from the day, they were. Ladies in bikinis and thongs and all that. Half the time I sent them to Oscar for jobs well-done. And he'd send some back for me. Now, what a nightmare.

My stomach tightens. “You're such a dick,” I mumble, running a hand through my hair.

“I can read the list, Dan, but I think you know these sites. The number one destination, a sweet little site called Assathon dot-com. Another one called—”

“Stop,” I yell, compose myself, and mumble, “God, you're such a prick.”

Another call comes in. I look at the display—it's Sharon from Fitzroy's office. I click Ignore
.

He says, so calm, “I could have truly destroyed your life, Dan. But I chose not to. . . . Not yet.”

I close my eyes, shake my head.

“I could have effectively eliminated your options by releasing other information. I could have ruined your marriage, too. And I will, if I have to. If you don't do as I say, and that starts with retrieving my friend.” He waits a second. “And then proceeding to Tampa to execute our plans . . . to a T.”

I stand up, take a breath. “My Humps” beats from Calhoun's place. I'm thinking,
I still have a chance to salvage this.

My cell beeps again. Look at the display; it's an unknown FlowBid number. Press Ignore again.

“Let me get your little buddy out.”

“So just to be clear, Dan: You will call me within the hour and put my associate on the phone, or I will release more of your personal data to the entire FlowBid building.” He pauses for effect. “And let's just say it will make this first installment seem as interesting as an NPR discussion on rice subsidies.”

“Okay.”

“And no police.”

“Okay.”

I think of the IMs with Anne, feel a wave of nausea. “Okay,” I say, and hang up.

Gotta get that geek out of Larry's garage.

I stumble to the front of Larry's house, thinking of what Calhoun said—I hold power over Larry, by virtue of my
little lover.

And finally I get it.

My cell rings. Another FlowBid number.
Ignore
.

I'm so screwed. The whole building is reading my porn history.

Cell rings again. FlowBid.
Ignore.

I find Crazy Larry on his porch, still blowing clouds of smoke with his pipe.

Cell rings. FlowBid.
Ignore
.

“I meant to ask, Larry. Do you ever get to San Francisco?”

“The city?” He turns and looks at me, interested. “You mean, civilization.”

I nod. “Yeah, the city. Just up the freeway. Kate's there now, in fact.”

He fingers his beard, studies me. “So close,” he mumbles, thinks about it, “and yet so far away.”

“Yeah, she's in the city for a few days. I was thinking maybe you and I could meet her someplace for a drink.”

His eyes enlarge. “Kate?”

“Yes, Kate and you . . . and me. In the city. A drink or something. Someplace in Cow Hollow, maybe. There's a nice place on Union. You know, a nice visit, just the three of us. In the city. A little date.”

“Date?” His lips quiver. “Date with Kate?”

“And me.”

His eyes tighten. “Just Kate.”

God, she'll kill me.

“Well, maybe I could join you in the beginning.”

He studies me, turns his head like a curious cat.

“Then, I suppose I could leave you guys for an hour or so and go take care of some errands.”

And I'm thinking,
Rod and I will never leave the bar.

He whispers to himself, “Kate,” and gazes into space.

“Yes, a date with Kate.”

Man, I gotta stop using that word.

He sounds like a poet, his voice so delicate. “I'd like that very much.”

I'll be paying for this for years. Decades.

“Only one condition.”

His eyes tighten.

I nod to the garage. “You need to release him.”

Crazy Larry glances at the garage, looks back at me.

“Date with Kate?”

I nod.

“In the city?”

Nod again.

He looks into space and strokes his whiskers.

Cell rings. Oscar.
Ignore
.

“What do you say, Larry? . . . Deal?”

Larry stands up, rearranges his Speedo, smoothes out his tank top. He turns and leaves me standing there, saunters into his house, disappears.

“Larry?”

Silence.

Buzz-snap.

Cell again. FlowBid's head of HR.
Crap.
Ignore.

“Larry?”

Finally, he appears in his doorway holding what looks like the remote control for a garage-door opener.

“Date with Kate. Tonight.”

“Well, you know, a visit. Call it what you want.”

He smiles to himself. “I prefer to call it a date.”

Larry brings the pipe to his mouth, produces a cloud of smoke, stares at me through the swirls. Clicks the device, triggering from inside the garage a series of rapid mechanical clicks. Metal contraptions collapsing to the ground. Hydraulic hissing. An intense series of pops and snaps, followed by the longest buzz yet.

From the side of the garage, the sound of the trap door blowing open, and a second later a high-pitched yelp.

And then a streak of flesh: Little Red, naked, shaven bald, and greased up. Darting down the street, yelping.

Crazy Larry says, “I don't like red hair.”

My cell rings.

I start to hobble after Little Red.

“And tell your child . . .”

That gets me. I stop, turn to him again.

“. . . that tracking devices interfere with my cerebral frequency.”

“Okay, Larry. Believe me, it won't happen again.”

Big puff. “He's lucky that sweet little mom of his put him up to it.”

“Okay, Larry. We appreciate your tolerance.”

And he fades into the smoke.

I
find Little Red around the corner, hiding behind a cluster of junipers.

I pull him out and drag him back to my place, aware the whole time of the scene I'm making. Cars slowing. Kids stopping on their bikes, watching from a distance, as this neighborhood daddy drags a hairless, greased-up, naked man down the street and into his house.

Someone must be calling the cops.

“It's nothing,” I tell passersby. “He's just a little confused. Just scared.”

Let them think Little Red is a psycho. Hell, he probably is.

In the house, he grunts and growls. His whole body shakes, and his teeth won't stop chattering. Not a word out of him. Just glares—daggers, aimed right at me.

I wrap him up in a blanket, start the shower.

“You
do
realize I was the one who sprang you loose, right?”

He snarls at me.

I look at my cell. Thirty missed calls, all from FlowBid folks. I think of Assathon dot-com and God knows what else. Not a terminable offense, but what an embarrassment.

I shake my head. Can't think about that right now.

I find High Rider's number, call him.

“Do you have good news, Dan?”

“Here.” I put the phone to Little Red's ear. “Say something. Tell him where you are.”

He grunts.

I can hear High Rider say something.

Little Red growls, “Yes.”

Something else from High Rider. Another yes from Little Red.

I take the phone away. “So we're back on?”

“I was minutes away from distributing your instant messaging, Dan.”

I
know Little Red was never quite right, but now he's even worse. He can't stop twitching and blinking. Every time I try to inspect the marks and bruises on his body—the razor cuts on his shaven head, the welts on his legs, the hundreds of pinch marks over his chest and back, the Vaseline smears everywhere—he swipes at my hands like an angry kitten. Practically hisses.

He keeps twitching.

Damn, this isn't right.

“What did he do to you?”

Just that snarl, then a twitch.

“Do you need to see a doctor? Urgent care, maybe?”

He bristles and twitches.

Steam eases out of the bathroom.

“Your buddy is coming with new clothes. Why don't you take a shower?”

He whimpers, turns and heads for the shower.

My cell rings again. It's Oscar, and this time I pick up.

“Dude,” he says.

“I know. Someone already told me.”

With emphasis. “Dude.”

“I heard it only went to the top floor.”

“Three different people forwarded it to me, dude, and not one of them is on the third floor. It's everywhere.”

I'd figured as much, but hearing it from Oscar makes it real. Nausea washes over me, and I close my eyes.

Oscar says, “I'm freaking, dude.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“No,” he says. “About me. I'm freaking about me.”

“No, you're fine. There's no risk.”

“But Assathon dot-com? I sent you a
ton
of pics from Assathon dot-com.” He moans, worried. “Maybe I'm next.”

I close my eyes tight.
Fuck, my head hurts.

“No, I don't think it's like that. This was just about me.”

He sighs, relieved. Then, with a trace of amusement: “Dude, you've been busy.”

“What does it say?”

Extra slow. “There's a list here, dude. Sites you've visited.”

“Like what?”

“Beach Butts dot-com . . .” He giggles, stops himself. “Camel Toes dot-com.”

“Camel Toes?” I yell. “
You
sent me that one.”

“Says you spent twenty-seven minutes there. So you can't really blame me.”