Cash Out (24 page)

He makes a yes-whimper.

“Your client?”

Another yes-whimper.

Larry steps out of the fog. “Now I get him.”

Rod stands up, stretches. “Danny, help me get him back into the trunk.”

Baldy cries.

Larry steps toward Rod, thinks better of it, steps back.

Rod straightens, sighs. “Tony was a good boy, Larry. He decided to talk. I think it's our responsibility to take him home, remove the wire that's been digging into his flesh, and tuck him in bed.”

Baldy makes a noise that sounds like
Yes, yes, please, please.

“But of course,” Rod says, “he will need to give us the home address of this David Duncan.”

Seven

T
his much I know . . .

David Duncan is in his $3 million home on Jackson Street, near Broderick–Pacific Heights. He's in the office, tapping on his laptop, a glass of '92 Colgin cabernet sauvignon from the Herb Lamb Vineyard on the desk, Coltrane's “My Favorite Things” pulsing low, adding to his glow. The wife is already asleep, and the au pair is upstairs handling the bedtime ritual with the kids. David
hates
dealing with the kids at night.

He's looking at the stocks.

In a day, his portfolio has appreciated by $270,000.

Google.

Salesforce.com.

Genentech.

VMware.

And then all those inside deals he engineered as a partner with Knowland, Hill, and Davis. Deals to fund an elite crop of start-ups, most of which have gone public and amassed extreme fortunes on the wings of the second tech bubble in a decade.

As a partner at the firm, and as a shrewd private investor, David Duncan boasts a portfolio north of $79 million. But he wants more. Much more.

Hell, he's only forty-one. By forty-five, he wants his own jet, with his own pilots, and not some Citation X piece of shit, but a Gulfstream 5. He wants homes in Kauai, New York City, Paris, London, and of course his hometown outside Hartford, Connecticut. By the time he's fifty, he wants to be able to establish trust funds for his great-great grandchildren. He wants to be on the
Fortune
list—a list of the smartest winners of the Internet era. He wants everyone to know he's winning, and that he's winning more than they are.

He wants at least half a billion.

FlowBid has made a big difference. Since the IPO, the stock has increased fourteen times its original share price. If everything holds together a few more months, Knowland, Hill, and Davis will be allowed to start selling its FlowBid shares on the open market—portal to millions of investors who are, once again, frothy—and could walk away with more than $1.3 billion.

As long as Stephen Fitzroy can keep it together.

As long as those stupid downsized geeks don't make it worse.

Which is why David Duncan picks up his cell and dials his guy at the corporate intelligence and security firm, Stanislau. Tony, or Anthony. The compact, muscular bald guy who kind of gives him the creeps. The guy who's supposed to be keeping the geeks in check, keeping them from recruiting more people—people like Fitzroy's speechwriter.

He rings Tony's phone.

Hears something at the front of the house.
Knocking?

Gets Tony's voice mail, again.
Shit, where is he?

He gets up, walks toward the front of the house, squints through the glass door.

Two tall men in dark clothes are standing at his porch. At their feet, balled into the fetal position, is Tony, his problem solver.

G
etting Baldy out of my trunk the second time is harder. Probably because his clothes are soaking, his body vibrating. Or maybe because my own hands are shaking so hard.

Rod ends up doing most of the lifting and pulling.

“You okay, Danny?”

“Yeah.” I scan the street—no one. “You sure this makes sense?”

Larry watches from the sidewalk.

“What's this guy gonna do? Call the cops?” Rod huffs. “He can't.” He thinks about it a second. “And we need answers.”

I look at the house. It's a fully restored Victorian, four stories, perfectly manicured and appointed—lights illuminating the landscaping, crystal-clean windows releasing a perfect glow from within. Small spiked entry gate opening to a cobbled path leading to a beveled-glass door. I look at it all, notice the security camera on the porch, feel the jolt in my gut.

This could be it. This could be the moment I become a criminal—and have it all captured on tape. Thank God we dropped off Kate at Rod's place to be with the boys. This thing here goes tapioca and I end up in prison, at least the boys will have Kate.

“Help me with this guy.” Rod is squatting over Baldy, who's curled up on the sidewalk, the metal wire still digging into his flesh, still forcing him into the fetal position.

Larry watches.

By the time we reach the front door, I'm panting and Baldy is pleading.

“D-d-d-don't do this, guys. I'll lose my job.”

“Oh, did you hear that, Danny? Tony here may lose his job on account of stalking your young boys and attacking you unprovoked in the frozen-food section of an otherwise fine establishment. Hmmm. Maybe I shouldn't ring the doorbell. I mean, poor Tony here may not be able to harass and endanger more families if I ring this doorbell.”

“P-p-please. My rep will be de-de-destroyed. We can take this offline.”

Rod looks at me. “I tell you what. Maybe I shouldn't ring the doorbell. Maybe I should just tap the glass here on this pretty door. Like this.”

D
avid Duncan looks like a 1970s TV cartoon. Meaning, when you get past the broad strokes of his appearance—no wrinkles, soft chin, pasty-white complexion with zero color, unscuffed hands, and a perfectly fashioned block of blond hair—nothing else really stands out. Everything on him is uniform.

He's standing there in his work clothes—the standard venture capital outfit of light-blue button-up, midnight-blue slacks, and shiny Kenneth Coles—examining us through the thin, delicate glasses on his nose.

Rod says, “You David Duncan?”

Duncan stares down at Baldy.

“Hey.” Rod juts his jaw out, steps across the threshold and into Duncan's personal space. “You hear me?”

Duncan backs up, stammers. “What is this?”

Duncan is looking at Baldy again, his mouth puckering. Baldy shakes, stutters, “S-s-s-s-sorry, David. They had me in the ocean. I h-h-h-had to talk.”

Rod says, “Good. So you
are
David Duncan. We're making progress.”

Duncan backs up, quivers. “I have video surveillance. You're being recorded.”

Rod says to me, “Help me with Tony here.” He squats over Baldy, and I join him. “Ready? . . . One . . . two . . . three.”

Larry follows, puffing on his pipe, watching, making an enormous cloud in Duncan's entryway, which is where we lower Baldy.

“I have cameras.”

“We heard that,” Rod says, pleasant. “And I'm happy for you, David.”

Duncan steps back again, touches his glasses. Rod invades his space again. “And I bet you have panic buttons, too. Would you like to press one? It's fine if you do. We can talk this out with a few of San Francisco's finest.”

Duncan peers up and settles on the scars racing up and down Rod's face—the cauliflower ears, the thick brow and square jaw.

“Go ahead,” Rod says, pleasant. “Push your little buttons.”

Duncan motions to a perfectly lit room toward the end of the entryway. “Let's take this to my office.”

“Sure,” Rod says. “That sounds real nice, David.”

Duncan motions to Baldy. “Ummmm. Guys?”

“Oh, well, our backs are kinda sore from lifting and rolling Tony around.”

Duncan studies Rod, swallows hard.

“So why don't you roll him in yourself?”

Duncan looks at us, frozen, then at Baldy. Puts his hands on his hips, stares at the floor.

“Heck, maybe Larry here would be willing to give you a hand.”

Duncan looks up at Larry for the first time. Larry stares back with hollow eyes.

“Granted, Larry doesn't like big money.” Rod sighs, mocking concern. “So I'm not sure he'll want to help.”

Larry is still staring at Duncan. “Let me have him.”

“You see,” Rod says. “Larry's the one who did this to your pal Tony here. He's very creative. He did this number on the fly—on the side of a road, I hear. Put Larry in his garage, with all his tools and a little bit of time, and . . . well, he's a fucking artist.”

Duncan looks to Rod, then at Larry. “Who are you guys?”

Rod ignores him. “An artist with his own medium. Not with clay or watercolors or even scrap metal. With assholes like you.”

Duncan seems paralyzed.

“Larry, would you like to help David here with his friend?”

Larry produces a fresh cloud of smoke, steps over Baldy, and saunters into the office. “After this . . .” He nods to Duncan. “. . . I take him to my place.”

Rod smiles. “See?” He wants to take you to his garage.”

“Where I can extract,” Larry says, so soft, “every droplet.”

“Oh yeah.” Rod shakes his head, laughs. “Larry gets information—”

“Extracts,” Larry corrects.

“Okay, extracts information—intelligence—from his subjects while he uses them to . . . Well, to be honest, I'm not sure what he does with them in there. All I know is what happened to one of the geeks today when he met Larry.”

I clear my throat, add, “But we're betting we won't need to send you to Larry's place.”

Duncan looks at me, wide-eyed and submissive.

“We're betting you'll talk with us tonight. Right now.”

A child's voice. “Daddy?”

We all turn and look up the staircase. A girl, four maybe, is standing at top of the stairs, in her nightgown. She's clutching a stuffed animal. A unicorn?

“Veronica, go back to bed.”

“Daddy?”

“Go to Maria's room if you need something,” he snaps. “Just stay up there.”

She doesn't move. “Daddy, why is that man on the floor like that?”

Duncan hollers, “Maria?”

Rapid footsteps.

“Maria, take her, will you?”

A soft female voice says, “Yes. Sorry, sir. Come here, honey. Come.”

Rod turns back to Duncan. “I can tell you're the involved type of parent.”

Duncan looks away, motions to the office. “Let's talk.”

Rod nods to Baldy. “We wouldn't want to make Tony here feel left out.”

Duncan looks at us, and we stare back at him. Until David Duncan, young master of the universe, squats over his shivering, wet, sandy associate and begins the awkward task of sliding him toward the office.

W
e're all in chairs, except for Rod, who's sitting on Duncan's solid-oak desk. He looks at Duncan and nods to me. “Do you know who this guy is?”

Duncan glances at me. “I don't know what—”

“Answer the fucking question.”

Duncan glances at me again, returns to Rod. “No, I don't know him. But I'm gathering he's the speechwriter.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Stephen Fitzroy's speechwriter.” Duncan seems annoyed, huffs. “He spends a lot of time with Stephen.”

Rod acts surprised. “Wow, lucky guess.”

Duncan sits back, folds his arms.

“Now here comes a really important question. See if you can answer this one the first time I ask.”

Larry whispers, “I get him.”

“David.” Rod's voice hardens. “Why are you having a corporate security guy like Tony here—from Stanislau, no less—beat up my man here? Harassing his family and even stalking his children?”

Duncan chokes on his spit, swallows hard. “I don't know what this—”

Baldy rasps, “You said to get his att-tt-attention.”

Rod nods. “Good. We're getting somewhere.” He studies Duncan. “You wanted to get his attention. You wanted to scare him.”

Duncan looks away. “Well, I just—”

“Does he look scared?” Duncan glances at me. “Do
we
look scared?”

Silence.

Rod nods to Baldy on the floor. “Who in this room looks scared?”

Duncan concedes the point, mumbles to himself.

“Why were you doing this, David?”

Duncan bites a nail, thinks about it.

“Okay,” Rod says, “seeing as you seem to be a little tongue-tied, and seeing as I'm running out of patience, I think it's time I tell you about your choices.”

Duncan looks up at him.

“Think of them as doors, really.”

Larry hums the theme music from a game show—I'm not sure which.

“Yeah, that's right,” Rod says. “
The Price Is Right.
What's behind the big doors?” He studies Duncan a second. “Only we'll make it easy for you. We'll tell you.”

Larry still humming.

“Let's assume you just keep mumbling and we don't get any answers. In that case, you'll get Door Number One.”

Larry intensifies the humming.

“And what's behind the big door?” Rod waits, then affects a booming MC voice. “
Well, Bob, it's a trip to Larry's garage.
”

The humming stops. Larry stiffens, makes a clicking noise, like a cat staring at a rodent.

“So that's one option.”

Duncan straightens, says, “I'm sure we can work this—”

Rod stops him. “Now, assume you do talk, but not to my satisfaction.”

Larry booms, “What does he win, Bob?”