Cash Out (9 page)

He pulls out a small black box tangled in wires, slings it onto my lap. I squint at the contraption; one wire is attached to the box, and another is attached to a black shirt button. Rod leans over, gives it a look. “Micro video camera,” he announces, glancing at me. “They want you to tape him.” He squints at High Rider. “What's happening in Tampa?”

High Rider is stoic. “You don't need to know that.”

Little Red widens his eyes and smiles. His eyes are huge behind those glasses.

I look at the camera and sigh.
How in the hell am I gonna pull this off?

“What are you gonna do with the tape?”

High Rider says, “Again, you don't need to know.”

Rod turns to me, squints. “Well, their motivation has to be either blackmail or some kind of humiliation.”

High Rider smirks. “Don't hurt your little walnut trying to figure it out.”

Little Red snickers.

“All you need to know is that Mr. Fitzroy won't know about the footage until
after
Danny's precious options vest. It's only fair.” He turns to me, narrows his eyes. “And if you do this right, he'll never know it was you.”

I feel blood rushing to my face, my breathing getting shallow. I close my eyes, count to five, and open them. “You understand that if something bad gets out, it could destroy the dreams of thousands of hardworking people?”

High Rider puts his hand up. “We're not doing that,” he intones. “This is not about destroying livelihoods.” He waits, narrows his eyes. “But of course, the dreams and livelihoods of these hardworking colleagues were hardly a concern when
you
leaked all that damaging background to
BusinessWeek
.” Long pause. “You sound like a hypocrite, Mr. Jordan.”

My heart sinks.
Shit. He's right.

Rod says, “If it's not about blackmail, then what is this?”

“Again, it's not your concern.”

I'm staring back at High Rider, wondering what they want from Fitzroy. Money? A favor? A change in corporate strategy? Ethical business behavior? A cancellation of his outsourcing and offshoring policies that got these guys laid off? Something else that I couldn't possibly imagine?

“Any chance that some third party is monitoring you guys?”

They look at each other, pause, and burst out laughing.

“Impossible.” High Rider beams with pride. “No one is monitoring
us
. Nobody hacks
our
systems.”

Impossible? Arrogant prick. When it comes to hacking, nothing is impossible.

High Rider reaches over, grabs the black box, flips it over. “This red switch here activates the power.” He points to an orange button. “This activates the recording mode.” He points to a black button beside it. “And this stops the recording.” He pauses, looks at Little Red, who nods. “The unit is fully charged. The batteries will last ninety minutes, the tape will last thirty.”

Rod's face is contorted. “What's he going after?”

“Before the night is over, he'll know,” High Rider says. “We want nice, clear footage of that mucus plug you call a leader.” He turns to me. “And if you return with poor material, you know what we'll do.”

I look at him.

“All that IT history goes public.”

Little Red adds, “And you can say bye-bye to all your big ladies of the night.”

High Rider turns, squints at the grass, and snaps, “Stop it.”

Little Red glows. “You never know.”

High Rider mumbles, “You and your big ladies.” Then to me, he says, “The lens in that shirt button is wide-angle. It'll capture anything within ten feet. Be sure it's installed correctly, preferably in a black collar shirt, and make sure it's not pointing up or sideways. The best way to ensure a good shot is to stay as close to Mr. Fitzroy as humanly possible.”

I exhale, heavy.
How the hell am I gonna do this?

“When you return to your room that night, you will remove the cassette, deposit it in your briefcase, and place the button camera and recording pack into a plastic bag. You will take that bag with you on a late-night stroll near the hotel, during which time you will dispense of the camera in a trash receptacle.” He pauses for effect. “We will know if you don't follow this procedure.”

Rod looks at me, shakes his head, and chuckles. He leans over, reaches around me, and snatches the Modelo bottle I never finished. He glares at the geeks and takes a long swig.

“The following night, at six-fifteen, the jet is scheduled to land in San Jose.” High Rider is gazing into my eyes. “You will deplane at the corporate jet center, get into your Corolla, and start driving north on U.S. 101, as always. At six-thirty, you will receive a call in which you will be instructed to proceed to a specified location. We will be waiting at this location, in the van, where we will review the footage.”

I think of my future life on the other side of the hills: my beach-shack life, now just two days away. I think of being able to get the hell out of here, away from all the money people, away from all the opportunists like these guys, all the people who want to clamp on to the Stephen Fitzroys of Silicon Valley and suck something out of them.

“One last thing.” High Rider points at me, then at Rod. “We're watching. We're monitoring your call records, your e-mails, your Web browsing—everything.” His eyes widen. “If we see that you've told anybody else about this, the deal is off.”

Rod gets up, shoves the revolver into the back of his army surplus pants, takes another swig of Modelo, and motions for them to follow. “I want you guys to leave,” he says, “before I do something we all regret.”

R
od opens the side door to the van and shoves both of them in. High Rider yelps and scampers to the driver's seat. Little Red points at Rod and growls, then slinks further into the van.

Rod steps back, takes another swig of beer, and squints at them. With his other hand he reaches behind his back, pulls out the revolver, and empties the rounds onto the sidewalk, six brass bullets bouncing over his flip-flops. He throws the gun to Little Red, a little too hard. “Bring live rounds to my friend's house again, you'll eat them.”

Little Red sneers and slides the door shut as High Rider speeds the van away. I have the button-camera contraption in one hand as I squat to pick up the bullets, thinking,
Geeks who pack heat?

Rod is pointing. “I think we've got another visitor.”

I jolt.
What now?
Detective Bryant? Baldy?

“Isn't that your neighbor?”

I look up, and there is Louis, frozen in the driver's seat of his parked Saab. He's parked away from his house, down the street, maybe hoping we wouldn't see him. He must have driven around the block and returned, parking where he'd have a better vantage point, and by the looks of him I'm guessing he's never been this scared. He reminds me of a toddler trying to poo: teeth gritted, jaw strained, brows asking for charity.

We move toward him.

He fumbles with his cell phone.

Rod breaks ahead, pointing at him. “Get off the phone, hotshot.” When he gets to the driver's side of the Saab, the doors lock in a muffled click of Swedish precision. Louis lowers the cell and peers up through the window, his gaze weak, as Rod knocks the bottom of his beer bottle against the glass.

“Open the goddamn door.”

Louis has these droopy eyes. They were the first thing I noticed about him the day he moved in. After the movers had left, I'd walked over and found him in his garage. Introduced myself. He glanced at my high-tops, mumbled, “Yeah, hi,” ignored my outstretched hand (strike one), popped the trunk of his Saab, pulled out his golf clubs (strike two), and asked, “What do you do?” Not
Glad to meet you?
Not
Thanks for coming by.
Not
Hi, I'm Louis.

Strike three.

We're in the Saab now—me in the back, Rod riding shotgun, crowding Louis's space. In this intimate setting, it's clear just how imposing Rod is to someone like Louis: Rod isn't huge, exactly, but he makes the car a lot smaller. I look at his glinty eyes, his cauliflower ears, his giant hands, the scar on his cheek, and it all makes me feel like some kind of country-club dandy.

Louis has his head half bowed before Rod, eyes down, hands in his lap. It's the first sign of respect I've ever seen from him.

Rod reaches over and taps the cell phone with his Modelo. “Who were you calling?” His voice is hard and even.

“What? It's just that . . . Well, you see, I just . . .”

Rod's voice gets darker. “You were gonna call nine-one-one.”

Louis looks down and nods, real slow.

“I want you to stay out of my buddy's business.” Slowly, Rod reaches over and takes the cell out of Louis's hand, holds it as if he's weighing it. Louis shrinks further into his seat, wincing. “If I see you getting involved, watching that house over there, calling the police, or anything I don't like, I'll come back for you.” He pauses, leans back, looks out the window. “And I will cram this piece of shit down your throat.”

Long silence.

Still gazing out the window. “You hear me?”

Eyes still down. “Yes.”

Seeing how much Louis is trembling, I see a great opportunity.

“Do you know those guys, Louis?”

Shakes his head no.

“So you were just parked here watching?”

Louis glances at Rod. “When they showed up, I saw you with the gun. . . . I mean, it was just a—” His voice cracks. “I didn't know what to think.”

Rod squints, his jaw out. “That's not your job. Your job is to be the arrogant prick who lives next to my best friend.”

Louis glances at the beer bottle, nods slowly.

I wave Rod off. “You don't need to worry about this, Louis. Seriously.”

My cell rings, the number blocked. Rod turns and frowns. “Who's calling you at this hour?” He nods at the cell. “Pick it up. Maybe it's your baldy.”

I take the call.

“Dan, this is Janice from Fi—”

I hang up. “False alarm.”

Louis mumbles, “You're a speechwriter, right?”

“I am.” I sigh.

My cell rings again, and I turn it off.

“FlowBid, right?”

Rod huffs and leans in, bringing the beer bottle to eye level. “Listen, asshole.” He presses the tip into Louis's doughy cheek. “What part of
Mind your own business and fuck off
don't you understand?”

The trembling intensifies. I swear there's a whimper.

I wave Rod off. He withdraws the bottle. Then something catches his eye outside.

“Freak show at one o'clock.”

I look up, and there's Calhoun in his dirty-white terry-cloth robe—dingleberries everywhere—barefoot, hair pointing in all directions, eyes puffy. Huge stupid smile on his face.

“Ah, shit.”

He's pretending to tiptoe toward us, shoulders hunched, hands under his chin exaggerating each step. So happy with himself.

Louis squirms, mumbles under his breath.

“That's Calhoun, by the way.”

Calhoun, still on tiptoe, getting closer, laughing.

Rod straightens, jerks around to look at me. “
This
is the guy who saved your life?”

I close my eyes, nod.

Calhoun goes to Louis's side and presses his face against the glass. Louis looks straight ahead, slumps a little more.

Light finger tapping on the glass.

“Yoooooo-hoooooooooooooooooooo?” Laughter and giggling.

Rod says, “Open the window.”

The window descends.

Calhoun sticks his head through, nearly touches Louis's nose, offers a wide-angle view of his tits. His trademark scent wafts in.

“When the Saab's rockin' . . . I
do
come knockin'.”

Rod laughs, says, “You saved my best friend's life yesterday.”

Calhoun beams. “Even more reason to invite me in.”

“Well, I wanna thank you.”

Calhoun nods, glances at Louis. “I see you're getting to know Mr. Precious here. A real down-to-earth guy, don't ya think?” He giggles. “A real charmer, so full of—what's the word?—humility.”

He laughs.

Louis sinks lower.

Rod says, “Calhoun, I have a favor to ask.”

Mock surprise. “From me?”

Rod nods. “Calhoun, would you mind keeping an eye on this guy?”

A squeal. “You mean, like, house visits?”

“Exactly. I was hoping you could keep him out of trouble.”

Louis moans.

“Oh, yes.” Calhoun inches closer to Louis's face. “You play Risk, Mr. Louis?”

Louis pulls back.

“Because I'm a tournament champion.”

Rod says, “Okay, buddy. Sounds like a plan. Now, can we have a few more minutes with your new friend here?”

“Fine.” He blows a playful raspberry at Rod, sprays Louis. “Little party pooper.” Pulls his head out, starts to walk away, arms folded. “Car's not big enough for another stud, eh?”

Rod turns to Louis. “So, I guess you could say we'll be watching you.”

Louis is staring at his dashboard.

“Listen, Louis.” I hope he can tell I'm still a rational guy. “We just need you to be cool about this, okay?”

Rod bristles. “You think this guy understands cool, Danny?” He sighs, annoyed. “I don't think this asshole would know cool if it got him drunk and fucked him.”

Louis straightens, fiddles with the leather lining of his steering wheel. “Nah, I'm cool, guys. I mean, I . . . You know, I saw nothing. Really. And I'll just keep this—”

“You know what?” Rod is looking at him, nearly amused. “I'd really like you to stop talking.”

“Okay, I'll just . . .”