Cash Out (22 page)

“Calhoun,” I snap, “the cop. What did you tell the cop?”

“I'm going to invest in a few of these little companies, and I really think you should consider the same, Mr. Daniel. Michael swears by these kids.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Calhoun, the cops.”

“Fine,” he snaps, exaggerating his annoyance. “Little Danny doesn't want my investment tips. Fine.”

“Later, Calhoun. Seriously. Just tell me what you told the cops.”

“What do you think I told him, you silly little cuss? I told him nothing. I told him I saw nothing. And I said not one peep about you and Mr. Larry leaving in your little car.”

Larry produces a cloud of smoke, and Kate pushes her chair back. I glance at the counter, where the clerk offers a why-me? look.

“Thanks, Calhoun.”

The clerk is coming toward me, scowling, pointing a thumb at Larry.

“Gotta go, Cal—”

“Remember what I said, Mr. Danny. Paradigm shift. You need a paradigm shift.”

“Bye,” I say, and end the call.

The clerk leans in, motions to Larry, says, “Can you help me with this?”

A voice rumbles, “I'll take care of it.”

It's Rod Stone, standing behind me.

The clerk takes Rod in, wide-eyed. And can you blame her? He's quite a sight, the kind of guy who looks amazing in old, raggedy clothes, which he's wearing today—gray threadbare T-shirt, brown thrift-store pants, and worn-in Docs. Seeing him makes you want to try the same look, but you know those old clothes would look awful on mere mortals.

“Thank you,” she says, her eyes gleaming, and heads back to the counter.

I look up at him, squinting into the sunlight shining over his shoulder. “How'd you find us?”

“Dude, we need to take charge here.” Rod is glaring across the café. “This is ridiculous.” He glances down at me. “You're letting that guy have a date with your wife?”

I look away, nod in concession.

“And why?”

“Well,” I say, looking up at him again. “Crazy Larry had Little Red in his garage, and High Rider got—”

“Dude.” Rod takes my shoulder, squeezes it. “Dude, you need to take charge. I know you need to play nice a few more days, but this is insane.”

“Okay,” I say, and stand up with a grimace. “You're right.”

The clerk stares from behind the counter.

“C'mon.” Rod starts for Larry, but I stop him.

“Just one more thing.”

He turns, squints at me. It's that look he's always made when I disappoint him, when I fail to live my values. It's like he's trying with all his might to stay positive and understanding.

I get closer. “You know Baldy, the guy who kneed me in the Safeway, threw me into the Eggos, found Harry and Ben at the park?”

He nods. “Yeah, the guy who could've killed you, if not for Calhoun.”

I glance at the clerk, whisper, “He's in my trunk.”

Rod stiffens and squints. “What?”

“Baldy,” I say. “Larry put him in my trunk.”

“In your trunk?” Rod says, a little too loudly. “Is he alive?”

“Shshhh,” I snap, and glance at the clerk, who's suddenly lost her smile. “Watch it.” I stop, look around for eavesdroppers. “Of course he's alive.” I look around again, whisper, “Larry just put him down for a nap.”

Rod sighs and shakes his head.

“Rod, he was chasing us. We crashed and I got knocked out.”

Rod examines my face, focuses on the shovel marks on my brow, the bruise on my left temple, which I must have gotten when we slammed into Baldy's car. I can only imagine what he's thinking.

My eyes are saying,
Help me . . . Please.

Then Rod says to the clerk, “Throw me that wet rag, will you?”

The rag comes flying, and Rod turns and snatches it out of the air. “We're taking charge, right now,” he rumbles.

“Rod,” I whisper. “
Watch it!
”

He turns, looks at me, stoic.

“That's Crazy Larry,” I say.

“Is he carrying anything?”

“Buck knife in a shin holster.”

We look at the clerk, who's watching Larry, her arms crossed over her chest, her teeth biting into her lower lip.

I follow Rod to their side of the café.

“Okay,” Rod says, his voice hard. “Date's over.”

Larry examines him through the smoke.

“Thank you,” Kate says, and stands up to leave.

Rod takes the pipe out of Larry's hand, covers the bowl with the rag, looks down at him. “All right, dude. Let's go.”

Larry stares at the pipe and rag, looks around the café, leans forward, and drops his right hand. His other hand grips a fork, ready for attack.

Kate says, “Rod? Umm, who's with the boys right now?”

Rod watches as Larry's hand slides closer to his left shin, where the knife holster should be. “They're still at my place,” Rod says, easing me out of the way. “Damian and his sister came over to watch them.” He stares at Larry, his jaw tightening. “And we're going to take you back there now.”

Larry lowers his hand a little more.

I feel myself back up.

Get ready
.

“Larry,” I say, “you better watch it with Rod here.”

Kate says, “How'd you find us?”

Rod waves her off, keeps his eyes on Larry.

“Larry,” I say, “I told Rod about our friend in the trunk.”

Rod steps closer, towers over him, and drops the pipe onto the table, lets it bounce. “And we're gonna take care of that right now.”

Larry scratches at his left pant leg.

Rod says, “Where's your restroom, miss?”

The clerk, her face pale, motions to the back hallway.

“Thanks,” he says, and turns to Kate. “Excuse us a second.”

Larry fumbles with his pant leg.

Rod reaches down, grabs his arm, and spins him off his chair. In a second, the fork sails across the café and Larry is immobilized in one of Rod's mixed-martial-arts holds, his arms helpless, pointing in unnatural directions. Rod kicks Larry's leg, and the buck knife clangs to the floor.

“Get that, would you?”

I obey.

Rod rushes Larry down the hallway into the restroom.

The buck knife is heavy and cold. I look around, decide to wrap it up in the dish towel, and clamp the whole thing under my right arm. I meet eyes with the clerk, who's backing up slowly.

From the restroom, hard thuds and muffled grunts.

From behind the counter, the clerk picks up the phone, dials three numbers.

Nine-one-one. Fuck.

Kate grabs my arm, tugs. “C'mon. Let's get the car.”

The clerk whispers into the phone. Great—squad cars will be here in minutes.

“Rod,” I holler. “Time to jet.”

The door pops open, and Larry walks out gingerly, his movements a little disjointed, his head a little wobbly, his shirt stretched and torn. Rod strolls after him, says, “I think we understand each other now.”

Sirens in the distance.

Kate is gone.

“C'mon.” I walk to the counter, drop two twenties into the tip jar, and point Rod and Larry to the street. “We're here when they show up, they make us pop the trunk.”

Suddenly, Larry quickens the pace.

Rod strides past me, looks straight ahead, says, “Take us to The Spot.”

“The Spot?”

Sirens getting louder.

He stops, looks back, and nods.

“You sure?”

He leads Larry down the street, to my car. I follow them, the San Francisco breeze cooling my skin.

“You think that makes sense?”

“This guy in the trunk. He got a name?”

I stop short.
Crap. The wallet.

I turn and run back into the café, knock over two chairs in my scramble to my table, snatch the black leather wallet, and pivot back toward the entrance.

The clerk is waiting, a baking pan in both hands.

Sirens a little closer.

“C'mon,” I plead.

Shakes her head no. “You have someone in your trunk. I heard you.”

“Move,” I snap.

Shakes her head no. “You think I can just stand there and let you get away when you have a human being in your trunk?” She raises the pan above her head, ready to whack me.

Sirens getting louder.

“It's not like that.”

“Oh, sure. I stuff people into my trunk all the time.”

I slide Baldy's wallet into my pocket. “C'mon.”

Shakes her head. “
You
I can handle.”

Probably.

I shuffle toward her, cringe as I approach.

She steps aside, yells a war cry, and whacks me hard across the face as I stumble out of the café and onto Union Street, where my Corolla skids to a stop.

I
t's getting dark.

Kate's driving, Rod is in shotgun, and Larry and I are in the backseat, the can of turpentine and the other “supplies” on the floorboard between us. We sit silent as Kate speeds us out of the city, onto 280 South, toward Daly City. “Tell me where to get off,” she says.

Rod acts surprised. “You don't know The Spot?”

From the trunk, Baldy thumps against the backseat.

“The Spot?” Kate repeats. “Is this another high school thing?”

Rod turns back to me, releases the tightest of grins. Returns to her, says, “Take the John Daly Boulevard exit, head west, toward the ocean.”

Kate gives me an unreadable look through the rearview mirror, her jaw taut. Is she pissed that I failed to take charge, watched as Rod did what I wouldn't do? Did someone send her the butt-lover e-mail from FlowBid? Or does she know there's more where that came from? Can she see it on my face?

Rod looks out the window, smiles to himself. “Been a while since I've been to The Spot.”

I glance at Larry, who seems to be in a trance, and close my eyes.

The Spot. Late summer night, the eighties. What I'd give to go back to that moment, just for a sec.

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and I can almost hear Journey beating slowly on the boom box, can almost see the silhouettes around me, just as they were all those years ago, when we were thirteen and ready for high school, that night when Rod and I tagged along with my older cousin and his friends, ended up here on the bluffs over the Pacific, a girl in my arms in a very real and soft way for the first time in my life, dancing really close for the first time, a virtual stranger, the long bangs and nighttime dark shading her eyes and grin as “Feeling That Way” eases from the speakers, looking back to Rod and a girl, bumping into them and laughing, the older kids sitting on car hoods, talking softly, letting us be, the soft clank of beer bottles over easy talk about friends and surf, no one breaking our balls for being over here dancing and hugging, our cheeks sliding against each other ever so lightly, over and over, her body feeling so new and different against mine as Journey bleeds into “Anytime” and she lets me keep her close. I look over to Rod and his friend, realize they're back with the others, leaning against my cousin's AMC Eagle. Rod seems to be watching us a second before leaning in to his new friend in that flirtatious way, chuckling about something, and it occurs to me that I've never seen him happy this way, included, brought in from the cold.

I open my eyes. It's dark out, and we're nearly there.

Rod says, “You sure you want to do this, Katie?”

Kate's face tightens, nods.

Rod glances back at me a sec and says to her, “Let me start with him. Okay?”

She nods, looks like she's about to cry.

Larry stammers, strains to say, “He was mine.”

Rod turns and looks back at him, grins, amused. “Oh yeah?”

Larry says, “I need to rationalize him.”

Rationalize?

Kate says, “Is this it?”

Rod nods, points to the far end of the gravel parking lot. “Take us over there.”

When we come to a stop, Larry sits up. “He's mine.”

“He's not yours, Larry.” Rod hardens. “We decide.”

I rub my forehead.
Shit, whatever happened to the cops?
Then I think of my options, of all the dirt the geeks have on me, of that detective demanding a piece of the action.

Just thirty-six more hours, Danny.

Larry says, “He's like a rag, engorged with the milk of data and background, and I can wring that rag in an effective, systematic manner that will extract every ounce of that milk into my chalice.” He stops, squints into space. “
Our
chalice.”

Rod frowns, looks at Kate. “Chalice?”

She shrugs, looks away.

Larry draws a breath. “Our chalice of knowledge, our chalice of . . .” Slowly, he exhales. “. . . intelligence.”

Rod and I glance at each other.

“I've already wrung the milk out of the diminutive individual who tried to follow me this morning.”

Ah, Little Red.

And then it clicks. Crazy Larry wasn't simply “playing” with Little Red in his garage; he was “extracting” background, getting to the bottom of it all.

“You know, don't you?” I grab Larry's arm, squeeze. “You know why Little Red and his buddies are harassing me?”

Larry cocks his head like he's picking up an irritating, high-pitched noise. “Not harassment,” he snaps, his voice crisp. “Forced collusion.”

“But you know everything?”

He turns to me, narrows his eyes. “I had him for hours.” His voice softens, goes extra delicate. “I wrung out every droplet.” He thinks about it, hums and whispers. “A thorough wringing. Or, to use an agricultural euphemism, a harvest.”

“Larry,” Kate snaps, “just tell us what you know.”

His voice crackles. “All you had to do was ask,” he hums, and motions his head toward the trunk. “But I wouldn't want our new friend to hear.”