Cash Out (21 page)

The beat intensifies.

Larry leans forward and slaps the top of the dashboard with an open palm, humming to the rapid-fire Spanish.

“Larry, where's the bald guy?”

Still slapping the dash. “You know where he is.”

“Larry,” I say. “We need to have a plan. I mean, we need to release Baldy. I'm not doing kidnap—”

A black wallet hits me in the face. “It's Anthony,” Larry says. “And he's mine, until I get some answers for our Kate.”

I stare at the wallet on my lap. With a thumb, I flip it open, glance at it, and look away.

“Larry, we can't do this.”

“
We?
” Larry chuckles. “No . . .
I'm
doing this.”

“Well, I can't let you do this. We have to give him back.”

Big cloud of smoke. “Why was this gentleman following me?”

I sigh, look away. “I don't know, Larry.”

“Precisely.” He sounds like he's just put the finishing brushstroke on a masterpiece. “Which is why I am going to do some extraction.”

“Extraction?”

Larry nods.

“But this has nothing to do with you.”

“You said the same thing about the little man who followed me this morning.”

I plead. “That was a whole other thing, Larry.”

“No . . .” Larry pauses. “No, this is all one big thing.”

We cruise in silence awhile, the wallet untouched on my lap, until Larry pulls a right onto Laguna. “You will have to let him go, Larry.” I bite my lip, thinking about it, and pick up the wallet, weigh it in my hand. “Eventually.”

Larry scans the area. We're driving through Hayes Valley, an interesting cross-section of junkies, hipster merchants, and yuppies in industrial urban wear. “Ah, yes,” he sighs, almost a whisper. “Civilization.”

“Larry,” I yell. “Larry?”

“What?” he snaps.

“You
will
have to let him go. You hear me?”

Larry is annoyed, says, “Of course.”

“And I'm not going to lie to the cops.”

“The last thing that individual in there will ever do is contact the police.”

Damn, the crazy fuck has a point.
Still, not on my watch.

“Larry,” I beg, my voice cracking, “don't hurt him. It'll just make things worse.”

The smoke swirls from the front of the car.

“Are you gonna put him in your garage, Larry?”

Long pause. “Daniel?”

“Yes, Larry?”

“Daniel, I'm about to become agitated.”

“No one wants that, Larry. Seriously.”

“Daniel, why was this man following me?”

We cross Geary, into Japan Town.

“I don't know, Larry. That's just the thing. I just don't know.”

“Well . . .” Larry's voice is rising. “Tell me what you
do
know about this individual.”

Don't cry. Hold it together.
I take a big breath, let it out slowly. “Only thing I know is, he's connected to big money.”

“Big money?”

“Really big money.”

“Daniel,” he says, so soft I can barely hear him.

“Larry?”

Real long pause.

“. . . I do not like big money.”

W
e park the Toyota on Union, right in front of everyone—all the young professionals walking home from work, the fashionista shoppers strolling past, the locals walking their dogs. A woman about my mom's age walks past us with a St. Bernard, a giant drool towel hanging under its collar.

Larry gets out, stretches, smiles to himself as he looks around. “Cow Hollow,” he says, motioning to the pedestrians, the boutiques, the restaurants. “I've always admired Cow Hollow, although I see . . .” Larry watches a yuppie brush past us as he barks into a mobile phone. “. . . it has changed.”

He's right.

Gentrification.

Like a lot of the more affluent neighborhoods in the city, Cow Hollow seems to have been overrun by young, college-educated fortune seekers from the East—a critical mass of them just a little too smug, a little too status-conscious, a little too sure of their place in the world at such young ages.

I work with some of these folks at FlowBid. One of them loves to refer to San Francisco as “my city.” It's not her city.

For it to be her city, she'd have to recognize Cecil Williams in a crowd. She'd have to be able to identify a Santana ballad within the first two chords. She'd have to be interested in her nontech neighbors—the teachers and city workers and artists and merchants. She'd have to know where the city of Fremont is. She'd have to ride Muni.

This isn't her city.

During the holidays, Kate and I like to come to Cow Hollow because all these folks are back home with their parents in New Haven and Boston and Albany, which makes the parking a dream and the remaining population a complete delight.

Betelnut is one of our favorite places—great Asian fusion, great vibe—and now I'm wondering why we agreed to meet here. Not the right kind of energy for Larry, I'm thinking, as I watch him circle the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.

I lean against the wall. When Larry passes, I say, “Not a word from the trunk. Not even a kick.”

Larry slows, looks down, and says, “I used the twine. I used all of the twine.”

God, my head aches.

“Yeah, but not even a moan or anything.”

Larry looks into the air, says, “It's amazing how one has so much less to say when one has a sock in one's mouth.”

My heart races. “Larry,” I whisper-yell. “He could be dead.”

A passerby in a blue blazer glances at me and keeps walking.

“He's napping,” Larry says, the irritation high. “I know what I'm doing.”

I hobble to the car, pull out my keys, and unlock the trunk. Crouch down, peer in. Can't see a thing.

“Daniel,” Larry says, like I'm a disobedient spaniel. “Daniel . . . Don't you dare interfere with my work.”

“I'm just checking,” I say, and open the trunk a little more, letting some light in.

It would be impossible for someone on the sidewalk to see in my trunk, but I block the view anyway. I squat and squint into the trunk. There's Baldy all wrapped up, twine everywhere, metal wire reinforcing everything, white masking tape wrapped around his jaw, allowing a black sock to hang out of the small opening in front of his mouth.

And he's snoring.

Thank God
.

I straighten, look around, and shut the trunk door quickly.

Larry smiles at me. I look down at his feet. One of his socks is missing.

A yellow cab pulls up, double-parks beside my car. Kate steps out, and she's beautiful—a trace of makeup to accentuate her eyes, that silky hair in a ponytail, her black leather jacket and tight jeans, and those boots I love.

“Kate!” I sound like a restaurant greeter, forcing the happiness. “Perfect timing.”

I glance at Larry, who has gone rigid, his body paralyzed, his mouth frozen into a smile.

“Larry's here, honey.”

Kate looks down, her face taut, and steps past me. She stops a good distance from Larry, spins, and scans the neighborhood. “Okay, where are we doing this?”

Perfect opportunity to steer them away from Betelnut. “How about La Boulange?” I say. “Just down the street.”

Larry loosens, says, “Go for a little walk, Daniel. Give us a few hours.”

Kate glares at me.

“No.” I motion them toward La Boulange, a mellow café and bakery down the street. “Remember the agreement? I need to stay nearby.”

Kate walks ahead of us, crosses the street.

We stay on our side, watch her.

Larry says, “You need to get your own table.”

Kate reaches the other side, turns, and barks at us, “C'mon.”

Larry steps onto Union without looking, causes an Audi to screech to a halt and lay on the horn.

He doesn't care.

I wait a second, glance at my trunk, and limp after him.

L
a Boulange is basically deserted. I'm in the corner nursing a grossly oversized cup of latte that looks more like a cereal bowl. Kate is at the other end watching Larry pull apart a cinnamon roll with two forks.

Poor Kate.

Her legs are crossed in that proper way—her hands resting on her lap, her back straight—as she watches him work the forks. He looks up at her a second, says something that makes her smile a little.

I mean, to put her through this.

He looks so earnest there with his forks, pulling the swirls apart, stabbing the soft dough, whispering one-off comments to Kate. And she's forced to sit there and engage him with whatever insanity he dishes out.

My wife doesn't deserve this.

I did this to her.

To my relief, at least she doesn't look pissed off. There's a slight warmth to her expression—a kind of quiet amusement, maybe. She lifts her chin, her eyes trained on the forks, and says something to Larry. He stops, glances at her, and eases a forkful of cinnamon roll toward her mouth. She pulls back, nearly laughs. Shakes her head no.

Larry shrugs, slides it into his mouth.

She glances at me, and I offer a see-this-ain't-so-bad smile. She gives me a long, blank stare and returns to Larry.

So much for our rekindled sex life, only a few hours old.

I look at the black leather wallet resting beside my bowl-cup. Baldy's wallet. Still haven't opened it. Not sure why. I mean, hell, now I can find out who this guy is, maybe even who at the equity firm is paying him.

And yet, I let it sit there, unopened. Maybe I'm just too tired. Maybe I'm afraid of what I'll learn.

C'mon, Dan. Get a grip.

I stand up, wobble to the counter, look at the clerk—this twentysomething woman with short black hair and a pierced upper lip—and ask for a pen and piece of paper. She gives me a long look before turning and disappearing into the back area.

Yeah, I know I look awful.

Kate laughs, says to Larry, “Well, I bet.”

I look over, and Larry is beaming. Kate's body language is softening. Are they connecting? Is that possible? A well-adjusted mom and a crazy man? Connecting? At some level?

And I realize,
Of course it's possible.

“Sir.”

I jolt, turn around. It's the clerk, reaching over the counter with scratch paper and a pen. “Here you are.”

I thank her and turn away.

“Everything okay?”

I stop, turn back. “Huh?”

She glances at Larry and Kate, comes back to me. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh yes.” I meet her eyes, smile. “I think so.”

She's looking at Larry and Kate again. “I've seen you and your wife in here before.”

Embarrassment creeps in. I close my eyes a sec, smile. “Yeah, we love it here.”

Still watching Larry and Kate. “I can call my manager, if you'd like, or—”

“No, thanks. But—”

“Or ask Johnny Two Forks over there to leave.” She glances at my table on the opposite end of the café. “You know . . .”

Her concern softens me. “Thanks, but we're fine.” I begin to shuffle back to my spot. “I'm sure it all seems weird, but believe me, everything is perfect.”

Now that really sounded wrong.

I'm lowering myself onto my seat when my mobile rings. It's a 650 number. I stare at it, thinking maybe it's one of the geeks. Maybe it's another coworker calling to report that the entire Western world knows I'm a “butt man.” Hell, maybe it's one of Baldy's associates calling with a death threat.

It's Calhoun. Laughing so hard it sounds like panting.

“How'd you get this number?”

“Silly Mr. Danny. You think I can't call FlowBid, ask for Pretty Boy Jordan, and jot down the cell number on your voice mail greeting?”

I glance across the café. Larry sits back, straightens, and scratches his throat with one of his forks. Kate acts like it's the most natural thing in the world.

“What's up, Calhoun?”

Larry continues with the fork. Kate is stoic.

“I just thought you'd like to know I saw a big beefy gentleman walking around your house. And he doesn't look like a policeman.”

Larry puts his forks down and gazes at Kate.

Kate motions for him to finish the cinnamon roll.

“Really?”

“He looks like he could be a friend of that mean little cuss.”

“Friend? . . . Who?”

“You know, that bald little cuss I belly-flopped.”

Kate leans in, tries to stop Larry from lighting up his pipe.

“And you're sure he's not a cop?”

“No, those little rascals came for you earlier.”

“Who?” I snap. “Who? The cop from before?”

“He wants you to call him.” Calhoun affects a mocking tone in a low, guttural voice. “He said something about a hit-and-run in San Mateo.”

Crap.

I say nothing.

In a low baritone: “He asked me about your little car.”

“What?” My heart pounds. “What did he say?”

“Oh . . .” Calhoun emphasizes the lackadaisical tone with a long, bored sigh. “He just wanted to know if there were any big dents in your car, and if I'd seen you driving away with—how did he put it?—an older, physically fit Caucasian man with sandy-brown hair.”

I feel my latte surge. “What'd you tell him?”

“Well . . .” He giggles like a baby, milking it for all he can.

“C'mon,” I snap, earning a glance from the clerk. “What'd you tell him?”

“Well, first, I
would
like to talk with you about some investment opportunities. I can help you, Mr. Daniel. My friend Michael is funding another start-up, and they're accepting buy-ins.”