Cash Out (29 page)

When I open the shower door, I'm confronted by an enormous wedge of moist waffle, dripping long strands of buttery syrup. Calhoun makes an airplane noise, says in the baby voice, “Open wide for Mr. Waffle.”

Either I open wide, or my face is smeared in syrup. I choose the former.

Calhoun pads closer with his waffle plate. “Tell me it's not absolutely delicious.”

I snatch my towel, wrap myself up and swallow. “Just give me a second.”

Calhoun follows me as I put a dab of gel in my hair, slide on some deodorant, and waddle back to my room. I slowly step into a pair of black slacks, pick myself out a pair of black leather shoes and a dark blue dress shirt. I grab my blazer, pull a huge wad of cash from my cedar money box on the dresser, and scan the room for my travel bag and the recording device it contains.
Oh yeah. Left it in the van out front.

Calhoun darts up to me, shoves waffle into my mouth.

“Cahouuu.” I grab my suitcase, look for my keys, try to swallow. “Enoughh.”

My cell rings in the front room. Calhoun darts out of the room, slams into something, and gallops back with the phone. I take it, look at the screen. It's Fitzroy.

“Hi, Stephen.”

“You okay for this trip, Danny?”

“Of course.”

Calhoun gets closer, giggles to himself, and shoves waffle into my mouth.

“I'm not so sure.”

I chew hard, swallow. “No, I'm fine. It's just been—”

“I looked at what you did for this pitch tomorrow.”

Calhoun presses his face up to mine, makes the airplane noise as he forces another piece in.

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“And I don't like it.”

Calhoun watches me, laughs through a closed mouth, his tits shaking.

Big swallow. “Okay, we can—”

“It's not the right pitch.” His voice is rising, the irritation heavy. He always gets this way before a speech. “These guys are expecting thought leadership, not the same old babble.” He pauses, collects himself. “Let's dope it out on the jet with the new guy. He's got some new ideas we can use.”

New guy. That's right. The new guy.

“Okay, Stephen. I'm sorry about this. We'll get it right on the plane.”

Calhoun comes at me with more waffle. I swat it away, send everything sailing across the room. Calhoun stomps a foot, blows a raspberry at me, and giggles.

Amusement in Fitzroy's voice. “But if you're not doing well—you know, if you're dealing with some issues at home after yesterday's fiasco—you can skip this trip, Danny. The new guy and I can dope this thing out on the flight.”

“No, I'm goo—”

“Okay,” he mumbles, and hangs up.

Calhoun dances toward me, forces me into a corner, fingering a piece of waffle. “You're not getting away this time . . .” He scrunches his face in mock annoyance. “. . . you little pistol.”

I
grimace and grunt to the van.

Larry lazes on his porch, nursing a coffee, observing me.

I throw my stuff into the van, cross the street to Larry. Streaks of water darken half his driveway as tiny ripples escape from under the garage door. I glance at the garage as something inside hisses and pops and sprays; a larger ripple of water eases from under the door and down the driveway.

Larry sips his coffee, gazes into space.

“Hey, Larry.” I make it pleasant, as if he hadn't been in my bedroom and Tasered my home invader. “Still at it with Mr. Wetty?”

Larry looks up at me, thinking, his mind a thousand miles away.

“Listen, Larry, I can't emphasize this enough. Those guys in there? I'm going to need them back. I mean, in about twenty-four hours.”

Larry says, “We'll release them in the high country.”

I think of park rangers tranquilizing a bear and relocating it hundreds of miles away.

“Well, maybe it's time to give Mr. Wetty a rest.”

Larry shifts, sips, and squints into space.

“Larry?”

Slowly, his eyes turn to me. They seem hollow.

I look at my watch, realize I need to hit the road. I can't worry about Mr. Wetty. But I'm hoping he can help me with one last thing.

“Larry, you said you extracted the details out of that little guy.”

Still staring at the ground, thinking.

“It'd really help me if you told me what he said about Tampa. So I'll know what I'm walking into out there.”

Still staring.

“Larry?”

Stroking the whiskers.

“Larry,” I snap, “tell me what that guy said about Tampa.”

He stands up, glances at my shoes. “Just do as they told you.”

“They?”

“The little people.”

“Larry. C'mon. I need more than that.”

Larry opens his front door, then turns and looks me over one last time, nearly deflated. “I have work to do,” he says, and shuts the door.

N
o matter how many times I fly with Stephen Fitzroy, the spectacle never ceases to strike me.

I leave my tiny peninsula house of chipped hardwood floors and battered, stained furniture; step into my old Corolla and merge into the hordes of commuters on U.S. 101; pass the long-term parking at SJC and drive to the opposite side of the airport, to another world. I park the Corolla in front of Atlantic Aviation, the operator that provides support services to the dozens, if not hundreds, of private jets that fly in and out of San Jose each day. And just like that I'm in another world, one I never thought I'd see.

I waddle through the doors, nod to the familiar faces.

“You can join the others on the plane if you'd like, Mr. Jordan.”

My heart stops. I turn to the young attendant with her fresh face, her freckles and giant green eyes. “He's here? Don't tell me he's here.”

She smiles, her pleasantness unflappable. “No, he's not here.”

“Thank God.” I push through the doors and begin to waddle across the tarmac, headed for Fitzroy's Gulfstream 5, enormous and gleaming, the morning sun giving it a glossy blue-and-white sheen, its engines idling in a high-pitched purr. A smiling male attendant in a dark blue windbreaker takes my bags and walks me to the jet, which always gets me—I'm not some fancy boy who needs someone taking my bags and treating me like royalty—but I know it's his job, and the last thing I want to do is come off as an unappreciative prick.

“How are you today, sir?”

I make eye contact with him, nod and smile. “I'm doing great.” A flash—Larry lazing on his porch this morning, gazing into space. “Beautiful day for a flight.”

He nods eagerly. “A perfect day, sir.”

As we approach the G5, the engines drowning our voices, I think about the family van just fifty yards away with the ripped seats and sun-bleached dashboard, think of my simple little house on my modest little street, and shake my head in disbelief.

How in the hell did I get here?

I climb the stairs, greet the pilots—Jim and Earl, Fitzroy's own—and turn into the cabin. Everything here is beyond luxurious: leather recliners, polished cherry paneling with recessed lights, gleaming tables offering fruit, coffee, tea, and the morning papers, a dining area and a long couch that turns into a bed.

Beth Gavin is seated in the second most prestigious spot on the plane—the left-front, forward-facing chair, directly across from Fitzroy. She's bent over her cell phone, punching numbers and listening to voice mail through an earpiece, scribbling onto a notepad, probably recording the very latest adjustments to Fitzroy's schedule—or, as I sometimes suspect, listening to old messages to make herself seem busy and important. Hell, I've felt that urge.

She doesn't look up.

Facing her is the new guy. Shiny black jeans and a skin-tight, solid-black, cotton long-sleeve, dark shades still in place, dark brown hair wavy, and extreme, lean, veiny hands covering his knees.

I look down at him and nod, no idea if he's staring straight ahead or even awake. Finally, he looks up at me, betrays his stoic look with the smallest of grins. “Ah . . .” The grin widens a little, nods slowly. “The lover of the buttocks.”

I shrug, roll my eyes.

Beth looks up from her phone, glances at me, then at the new guy. “That e-mail was disgusting.” She looks at me a split second. “If you reported to me, you'd be fired.”

The new guy pulls his head back, puckers. An eyebrow rises from behind the shades.

I stop, lower myself to Beth's level, let her see how red and saggy and tired my eyes are. I stay there a second, stare at her wide mouth and long teeth, allowing the disgust to contort my face, and harden my stare. “Let me tell you something, Beth. I will never, ever report to you.” I study her wide-eyed reaction. “
Ever.
” Her face darkens as I get up and walk away.

I head for the dining table, where I plan to set up—we always leave the seat opposite Fitzroy open, to give him leg room.

The new guy smiles wide, gets up and follows me. He comes in close, slaps an arm around me, and whispers into my ear, his breath like fresh pine. “There are worse fates than being an ass lover.” He pauses, shakes me around for emphasis, and nods to the back of Beth's head. “You like her ass?”

“It's got no personality,” I mumble. “Just like the rest of her.”

The new guy grins, nods to himself. “Speaking of no personality, we need to pull that speech apart and rewrite it completely. I spoke to Fitzroy about it.”

I roll my eyes. “Do you even know anything about the audience for this event? For that matter, who are you again?”

Grin widens. “I'm helping Stephen out.”

I grin back. “You're a consultant.”

Grinning. Slightest of nods.

“Someone with Hill, Knowland, and Davis send you over? Little twerp named Duncan?”

The grin fades. He shakes his head. “I'm with Robards International.”

Liar.

“What's your practice at Robards?”

“Paradigm rationalization.” He places a hand on my shoulder, like he's saying,
This is above you.
“High-level stuff. Tectonic-plate-shifting stuff.”

Yeah, whatever, dude.

“David Duncan hooked you up with Stephen, huh?”

He puts his hands out, steps back.

I look at the shades. “You're an executive chaperone, disguised as some kind of hip business mind fluent in catchphrases. ‘Paradigm rationalization,' my ass.”

“Listen.” He chuckles and comes in closer, so I can feel his deep, calm voice. “I'm here for Stephen these next two months, like it or not.”

“Two months, huh? Gee, that's a coincidence. It's just two months until Knowland, Hill, and Davis can sell its first block of FlowBid shares.”

The new guy chuckles, looks away.

“You're a babysitter.”

He shakes his head.

“Are you with Stanislau?”

The new guy turns back to me. “I think we're finished, dude.”

Earl, the pilot steps into the cabin, announces, “He's here.”

Beth straightens her things, glances over her notes—ready, no doubt, to rattle off all the items she's managing for him. I stoop and squint out the window. Fitzroy has pulled up beside the jet in a gray Porsche said to be worth $110,000. He hands his bag to one attendant, tosses the keys to another, points out something on the dashboard, a big stupid smile on his face.

I step in to the new guy. “Either you tell me if you're with Stanislau, or I go to Stephen before these wheels are up.”

The grin freezes. “I can call Duncan right now,” he says. “Get you fired.” He bites his lip, thinking. “Get you off this plane before that door shuts.”

“I'm afraid . . .” I poke him in the chest, get him in the sternum. “David Duncan . . . isn't taking calls the next day or so.”

His forced grin disappears.

“And neither are his goons.”

Fitzroy climbs up the stairs.

The new guy says, “I don't know the first thing about Stanislau. I mean it.”

I look at him, thinking,
Could be.
Stanislau is the muscle. This guy? He's intel. Duncan's high-priced babysitter.

“What's your assignment?”

“Danny!” Fitzroy enters the cabin, hollering, happy. “My ass man.”

The new guy grimaces. “The same as what yours should be.” He nods to Fitzroy, who's plopped into his chair. “Keep this guy out of trouble another two months, save thousands of people millions of dollars. Not just Knowland, Hill, and Davis, but everyone—investors, employees, partners.”

Fitzroy yells into the air, “Wheels up, gomers. Let's go.”

I
will say this about Fitzroy: As much as he might abuse you, there's a soft side to him.

He'll call you names. He'll shred your work to pieces. He'll do that pyramid routine on you as you hover over his speech with the new guy, rewriting a perfectly good pitch just because the new guy has to seem like he's adding value. He'll make you sit there and nod and smile and look away as he speculates on your ass preferences to Beth, the new guy, and Sally the flight attendant, everyone laughing. He'll run you ragged with work and harassment.

But then he feels guilty.

You can see it softening his face, deflating his glee. Soon you're the recipient of rare bottles of wine, backstage passes to the hottest acts, sometimes even spot bonuses. Which explains why, somewhere over Texas, Fitzroy has Sally set up the bed in the back so I can I slip my aching body into its silk bedding, lower my throbbing head into an enormous down pillow, close my cherry-red eyes, and slip slowly into three of the sweetest hours of airborne slumber I will ever know, melting in this bed of Big Money, the absurdity of it all striking me in these final moments of lucidity, swaddled in opulence some forty thousand feet up, dozing off in this flying luxury suite like it's the most normal thing in the world.