Cash Out (8 page)

Rod frowns, and a deep growl rumbles inside his chest. “So that's what this is about—money. That's the problem with this place. Everyone is obsessed with money.” He glares at me, looks away. “What the fuck happened to you, Danny? What the fuck happened to the guy who just wanted to chase the truth? The guy who wouldn't get caught dead in a suit? Now you're playing games with millionaires and hired security pros.” He pauses and shakes his head. “Taking huge risks with your family.”

I put the Modelo down a little too hard. “Don't give me that again,” I say. “It's easy to be idealistic when all you have to worry about is yourself. Everything I've done, everything I've given up, it's been for Kate and the boys. Even now, it's for the family.”

“You mean, for the money.” He glares at me again. “You realize how fucked-up that is? One screwup, and Kate and the boys are in serious danger.” He thinks about it. “Must be a lot of coin.”

There's no way I'll tell him how much.

“What am I supposed to do, Rod? You think telling those cops would accomplish anything more than getting me fired, maybe even killed, depending on who's behind this thing?” I take a sip. “You think those IT guys in the van aren't ready to destroy my life if I don't play along?” I wait a second. “You understand the pressure I'm under to provide for my family? Mortgage? Medical? Schools? Food? Safe neighborhoods? You understand how much I've given up to get here, to be just days away from our cash-out?”

He grumbles and looks away.

“Two more days. Then I change my life.”

He looks disgusted. “Well, then, until this shit blows over, I want Kate and the boys up at my place.” Rod lives twenty-five miles away in an oversized flat in San Francisco, in the gritty, industrial-bohemian neighborhood south of Market. “There's no way they're staying here.”

I nod, and I feel better already.

“But first . . . it's dawn.”

Oh, fuck. That's right. It's dawn, and I'm with Rod.

Rod gets up, pours the rest of his beer into the sink, opens the door to our backyard, glances at me, still frowning. “Come on, bub. It's dawn.”

“Yeah, I heard you.”

“You know the routine.”

I do.

I
t started the summer before our junior year in high school. Rod was already fully obsessed with martial arts, and I just couldn't say no to my best friend. So every Friday at dawn, Rod would run to my house, crawl through my window, pull me out of bed, and drag me out to the football field a few blocks away, where he'd slap me around till I'd start yelling to “fucking stop it.” Even as I was protesting, though, I knew what it meant to him—hell, Rod was out there solo the other six days of the week. And once I got my blood rushing, I loved it. The fresh air, the surrounding silence, the reminder that we were doing something special.

Every Friday at dawn, until I left for college.

Rod never stopped, but over the years the routine has evolved with him. Physically, it's become more intense; he continues to push his body and self-discipline to new heights. But it's also come to reflect his own evolution. Where the Rod I knew back in school couldn't care less about the harmonic balance of nature and its creatures, Rod the adult integrates his newfound love for all things natural into his routine. He's also developed an interest in spirituality, with an emphasis on Zen Buddhism. He insists that “the complex duality of the universe” allows him to pursue both spirituality and cage fighting.

My best friend, the Zen Buddhist cage fighter.

Between the beer and the Vicodin, I've almost forgotten my vasectomy. “Go easy on me.” I widen my legs and square myself. “I'm not exactly sure this is a good idea.”

Rod squints. “I'll be gentle.”

“I really don't think—”

He explodes toward me, flips me over, and sprawls across my body, his armpit covering my face, his upper body weighing me down. The impact knocks the wind out of me.

Rod chuckles. “Trying to stay clear of you down there.”

Finally I get a lungful of air. I struggle to get out from under him, but it's hopeless. He swings around, his knee brushing against my nose, my eyes suddenly watering. I struggle to my knees, at which point he slides me into a Peruvian Necktie, my neck trapped in a constricting mass of legs and arms. My defense instincts take over, and I flail my arms, trying to hit him.

He laughs. “There we go,” he says. “That's what we want.” He releases me, and I gasp for air. I stagger to my feet, the anger from yesterday surging like an electric current into my arms and legs, taking control.

“Hit me,” he pants.

This is what he wants. He wants me to take a swing. This is what he had me do all those years on the football field. It's what they pay his sparring partners to do all day at his gym.

I'm practically wheezing, and suddenly I feel the pain in my crotch. It's like someone snaked barbed wire through my scrotum and down my legs.
God almighty.

He snarls. “Just hit me.”

The anger has my chest heaving. In my mind I hear Dr. Heidi's voice:
Are you acting like a man, Dan?
I see Detective Bryant yelling at me in the interrogation room, calling me scum. I hear the laugher of the geeks. I see that look on Baldy's face just before he knees me in the crotch. I'm ready to explode, and I know Rod won't let me go until I let it out, so I throw a hard right. He deflects it, slaps me hard across the face, picks me up and body slams me onto the grass. My insides rattle.

He growls. “Faster next time.”

We get back up, and I know what I have to do. He won't stop until I do it.

“No more half speed,” he snaps. “Faster.”

I go for it. I throw everything I have at him. Rights. Lefts. Kicks. He deflects the punches, steps away from the kicks. Finally, he catches my left foot and spins me off-balance, and doesn't let go until I've crashed to the ground. He comes at me with a cocked fist, stops, opens his fist, and slaps me hard on the face, grinning.

I'm panting so hard, I see stars.

“God, that brings back good memories.” His eyes water as he pulls me back up. Sniffles. “Remember how hard you'd work just to land one punch?”

I don't think I've
ever
landed a punch on Rod. “I'm too old for this,” I say.

He laughs, slaps me on the back, and brings me in. “I love you, Danny.”

“Love you, too, man.” I swallow hard. “Just glad you're here.”

He looks away and nods. “Come on,” he says, “we need to meditate.”

W
e're sitting cross-legged in a field of toy trucks, plastic T-Rexes, and a dozen Wiffle balls. Rod's eyes are closed, and it looks like he feels The Light: head cocked, an eyebrow arched, corners of the mouth up, eyelids nearly fluttering.

“Just listen to the nature.”

Rod isn't someone who's always loved animals, insects, and plants. I have friends like that, people who've been true naturalists since grade school, guys who've been camping and fishing all their lives. Rod, on the other hand, is a relative newcomer, which is fine with me because he's not doing it to be cool. He's doing it because he really feels it at the core of his heart. And yet something saddens me about Rod's newfound love for nature, about his determination to find authenticity and meaning.

Rod says, “I want us to think about this bald guy.”

My eyes are closed, and Baldy's big nose and narrow-set eyes flash before me. I breathe out hard. “I don't know, man. This is . . .”

“Trust the Zen process,” Rod says. “Find your answers within.”

I try my best to let go, the Zen meditation way. At first I keep getting the same images: Baldy kneeing me in the frozen-food section; playing with my kids; pulling a knife on me.

“Try to imagine him as a little boy, a kid someone loved.”

I try, and all I get is the image of Baldy's adult head on a child's body, pushing another boy around. I shake my head and try to let go, and just like that I get an image of a little boy cuddling with his mother. Within seconds, I can actually feel the love coursing through my veins. I feel like I'm about to cry. I see a woman's hand stroking a boy's arm. I shudder, and a blast of cold shoots through my body.

I feel Rod's hand on my foot. “We ask for wisdom in this bald man's life.”

I know it's supposed to be a meditation, not a prayer. It's just that Rod likes to fuse things. He's Californian; it's what we do.

It's hard to pray for Baldy, but I get it.

“We ask for clarity and meaning in our lives.” Rod's resolute voice gives me comfort. “And we ask for wisdom.”

In front of my house, a van door rolls open.

R
od's eyes are closed. Mine aren't.

“Listen to the birds,” Rod whispers. “The scamper of squirrels in your pines.”

I hear the sounds of a van door slamming shut.

“Imagine you're inhaling the serenity.”

I whisper. “
Rod.
”

He's practically humming. “Can you feel the harmony?”

“That car out there?” I pause, listening for more. “I think those are the geeks.”

His eyes fly open, and he jumps to his feet. “Who?” He stretches his neck and listens for more. “The guys who jumped you after the snip job?”

My heart pounds. “This hour, who else could it be?”

And just like that Rod is striding to the side of the house, headed for my driveway. “Geeks?”

I hobble after him, whisper-yelling. “Wait . . . wait.”

Rod opens the side gate, squints, and points at someone. “Hey,” he snaps. “Stay there.” He explodes out of view, and I hear a body slam against the van.

A high-pitched moan, an even higher-pitched shriek.

I limp around the corner, and sure enough, it's the geeks. Rod has the muscular guy, Little Red, against the van, one hand pinning his neck against the sliding door, the other holding a chrome revolver by the barrel. Little Red is wide-eyed, struggling to breathe. I look for his sidekicks and finally spot High Rider curled up inside the van on the floorboard, shotgun side. No sign of Star Trek.

Rod says, “You some kinda tough guy?”

Little Red gurgles.

Rod whips the butt of the revolver straight into his nose. Blood sprays onto Rod's face. High Rider tries to suppress a yelp. Little Red is heaving now.

“Hold this.” The revolver flies toward me, hits me square on the chest, and I manage to grab it before it hits the ground. It's cold and heavy, and I don't know what to do with it, so I shove it down the back of my sweats like I've seen in the movies.

Rod puts Little Red in an upright choke hold, from behind, and whips him toward the side gate. “Backyard,” he snaps. “Danny, get the other guy.”

And then I notice my next-door neighbor, Louis, standing beside his midnight-black Saab, briefcase slung over his shoulder. Staring at us.

Louis is a few years older than me. He does product marketing at NetApp—he's worth millions now, no doubt—and has managed to avoid eye contact with me for the better part of four years. I give him a stoic hey-dude nod and grab High Rider by his collar shirt, yanking him out of the van. I look back at Louis one more time and realize he's hypnotized by the revolver sticking out of my sweats.

T
he rising sun warms us.

We've got High Rider and Little Red sitting cross-legged on the grass. Rod is squatting in front of them, holding the revolver. Little Red has blood running down his lip. He nods to the revolver. “I didn't pull that on you.”

Rod snorts. “I don't like pricks who reach behind their backs when I'm talking to them.”

High Rider glares at Rod. “If either one of you ever touches us again, we'll release the details of Dan's terminable offenses.”

Rod straightens. “You screw up my friend's life, I'll release myself on you.”

High Rider looks at Rod, then at me. “We instructed you to tell no one.”

“Hey,” Rod snaps, “do you have any idea what's happened to this man since you took him for that little joyride?”

They look back, waiting.

“Danny here had some asshole attack him at a Safeway. Then the same prick pulled a knife on him a few hours later.” He pauses. “In front of his kids.”

Little Red loses his smirk, and High Rider goes pale. And I'm thinking, either these two are great actors or they have nothing to do with Baldy.

“Yeah, that's right. We have a problem.” Rod glares at them. “And it's your problem.”

High Rider says, “We don't know this individual.”

I ask, “What are you doing here?”

“We told you we'd come with action items.”

“C'mon, out with it.” I think of my neighbor Louis, who's probably dialing 911 right now. “Quickly.”

High Rider nearly closes his eyes. “Tomorrow night your CEO will arrive in Tampa, Florida, for a speech he will deliver the following morning. As you know, he will speak to an audience of investors and analysts.” There's pleasure in High Rider's voice. “Currently, you are not scheduled to join him, on account of your recovering testicles.” He pauses an extra-long time. “You will rectify that.”

Rod leans back and rolls his eyes.

My heart sinks.

“You need to be on that jet tomorrow morning. Find a reason; it shouldn't be hard. And you need to be with Stephen Fitzroy the entire evening preceding the speech.” He looks over at Little Red, who's grinning. “Mr. Fitzroy will be staying in an executive suite at the Grand Hyatt Tampa Bay.” High Rider's upper lip curls; his eyebrow arches. “It's going to be interesting.” He looks at Little Red and snickers as he reaches into his pants pocket. “You will find a way to be with Stephen Fitzroy that evening, and you will have this on your person.”