“No.”
You feeling a little beat-up?
“Maybe,” I say, asking for mercy.
Did those college girls hurt you?
I nod.
Bad, huh?
“There was this one. Burly Buns.” My voice is weak. “She hurt me bad, babe.”
I see. Well, have you come to any conclusions tonight in Tampa? Lying there in your bush?
I whimper. “Maybe.”
Well, what about flirting with sluts at the office? How did that work out for you?
I pause a moment. “Not too good.”
No, not too good at all. And what about looking at porn at work? Did that turn out well?
“No.”
And what about gossiping to the press about your CEO? Are you happy with that decision?
I sigh long and hard. “If I hadn’t . . .”
But I can’t say it, so Imaginary Kate says it for me.
If you hadn’t flirted with that slut—
“She’s not a slut, Kate.”
. . . or leaked gossip to the press, or spent countless hours looking at ass pics, maybe you wouldn’t be so miserable right now, would you?
“But I still have it, honey. I still have the tape. Our million is safe.”
Must be a proud man, she says, and hangs up.
That hits me hard. It takes a long time before I can close my eyes, listen to the intermittent traffic, and let my mind float into darkness, waiting for dawn, my good hand in my pocket holding my cash-out tape as I drift away.
The roar of jet engines jolts me upright.
Holy shit. That’s some alarm clock.
I rub my eyes, trying to remove the grogginess, and look around. A trace of dawn creeps through the leaves; the cars are purring past at a steadier rate. I pull my mobile out of my other pocket, glance at it. The battery is dead.
Lovely. Now I’ll need to find a kind soul to let me borrow a charger, or I’ll have no way of arranging an exchange with High Rider. I gather my things—my dead cell, my muddy newspaper bed, and my plastic Walgreens bag of bandages, aspirin, and disinfectant. I’m getting ready to leave when I realize that my entire crotch is wet. The peas have thawed and moistened, leaving a giant dark circle on the crotch of my pants.
Can’t worry about that now. Just need to get into that airport, find a California flight—any flight, really—buy the ticket, get some new clothes, recharge the mobile, call High Rider, set a time and place for the exchange, and board before the college girls—or, worse, Ed—manage to find me.
I emerge from the bush, straighten, and proceed along the curb like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Find a flight, I’m thinking. Just find a flight that leaves in an hour.
Then I see myself in the reflective doors.
I look like a wandering crazy man, stooped over in pain, hobbling along on some quixotic journey only he understands, clutching a muddy Walgreens bag as a Hannah Montana shirt three sizes too small rides up his belly. A dark wet spot circles around the crotch; his face and throat are covered with cuts, scratches, and bruises, his upper lip curled back revealing blood-lined teeth. Eyelids dark and heavy. Eyeballs wild.
No wonder everyone’s keeping their distance.
It’s 5:45. Businessmen whiz past me as I wander around the terminal looking for a shop that’s open this early. Nothing but Starbucks. Finally, I see a Ron John Surf Shop, hobble that way until I see it’s closed, too. Sign says it’ll open at seven.
I look around, trying to think.
Fuck.
I turn and shuffle to the ticket counters.
Okay, buy a ticket. Any ticket.
When I reach the United counter, a young ticket agent studies me skeptically.
“Any seats left for the seven-thirty flight to Boise?”
She glances at my shirt, studies the scratches on my throat, and turns to her computer. “Only first-class, sir.”
I turn and look for enemies. “Fine.”
“One-way, sir?
Still scanning the faces. “Sure.”
“The fare is four hundred and eighteen, sir.”
“Fine.” I pull out my credit card and license. “When’s boarding?”
“Boarding is at seven. Gate E-seventy-four.” She studies me one last time. “Any luggage to check in, sir?”
Luggage?
I just laugh and laugh.
Oh yeah, I’ve lost it.
I visit the ATM, pull out four hundred, and start looking for young people—the only ones who won’t freak at the sight of me, who won’t ignore me. The ones who could maybe use some extra cash.
I wander a bit, keeping an eye out for my predators, and find a young man in blue sweats and a black hoodie. He’s slouched in his seat, his hood shading the top half of his face, his hands in his pockets, a black roller suitcase beside him.
I approach. Tiny steps.
“Wondering if you can help me.”
He looks up, his brown eyes sleepy.
“As you can tell, I really need a decent shirt.”
Staring.
“And, as you can see, the shops are closed.”
He looks down at my shoes and wet crotch, glances up at me.
I flash my roll. “I’m willing to pay you a lot of money for a decent shirt.”
He straightens up. “Going to a wedding, man.” He looks around, stretches. “I need everything I packed.”
I look around, and there he is—Ed. Trotting my way. Holy shit. I crouch down before I realize it’s not him—just a big athlete with wide shoulders and that confident stride.
“You okay?”
I turn to Hoodie, my eye twitching. “I will pay you a ton, dude.”
“I’ve got a good shirt in there, but I need it.”
I look around. “I’ll give you enough cash to buy three shirts . . .” I look around some more. “. . . and buy the entire wedding party three rounds of shots.”
He looks around a real long time, peers up at me. “How much?”
“One-twenty.”
He looks around again and rubs his eyes. “One-forty, you got a deal.”
I pull out my roll, start peeling twenties. He unzips his suitcase, fingers through his clothes and pulls out the shirt; it’s powder-blue, looks like it will fit me fine. I hand him the bills and he tosses me the shirt. I nod and head off for the men’s room.
“Hey.”
I stop and turn.
He nods to my T-shirt. “If you don’t want that, I’ll take it when you’re done.” He’s smiling. “A memento for the bride and groom.”
In the restroom, I splash water on my face and slather disinfectant onto my scratches. My skin sears, and I recoil in pain, hissing like a demon sprayed with holy water. I crack open the bottle of aspirin, pour out five and swallow them dry. I hobble to a stall to switch shirts; the new one fits me pretty damn well. I return to the mirrors, splash some water onto my hair, and try to pat it down.
Finally, I put bandages on the largest scratches—a deep one on my forehead, and two big puncture marks on my throat. I stand back, force a smile, see the blood-lined teeth again.
Oh yeah. Gotta rinse those off.
Afterward, I hobble past the young guy, toss him the T-shirt, and start looking for someone who will understand my need to charge a phone. In the distance, I see a slender, college-age woman in jeans and a T-shirt, with no luggage. It seems like she’s looking for someone.
Was she there last night? I’m not totally sure. Just to be safe, I turn away and hunch my shoulders as she passes.
Another false alarm.
I notice a puffy guy in Dockers and a light yellow shirt, standing near the wall, talking on a Motorola, same model as mine. It looks like he’s practically cooing into the phone. “Of
course we deserve Hawaii,” he says. “After this year? Are you kidding me?”
I hover around him.
He closes his eyes and smiles. “That’s fine—I love that hotel.” He listens, then adds, “Yeah, but not the credit card again. No, just use the line of credit. What? No, the home equity line of credit. It’s that card in the top drawer, the one we used for the motor home. Yes, exactly.”
I stand there, and he eyes me.
“Gotta get off,” he says, shifting. “Someone’s here.”
I pull out my mobile and show it to him. “Hey, man.” I nod to the socket on the wall behind him. “You got a charge?”
He freezes, then softens. “Yeah, okay.” He digs though his briefcase, pulls out his charger. “I just need to leave for my gate in a few.”
I squat, grimace, and plug everything in. “Where you headed? Home?”
He nods. “You too?”
I think of Boise. “Hope so.”
When we part ways eight minutes later, he’s on the phone talking to someone about a high-def widescreen he’s going to buy. At least my mobile is powered up, the battery icon showing a sliver of black.
Better call him now.
He picks up on the first ring. “I’m here already. Where are you?”
I turn and scan the area. “Just meet me in the center of the Galleria. Six-thirty.” I hang up.
I sip my latte, let the warmth soothe me. I scan the area.
High Rider’s here. The girls have to be here. My beach buddy is probably here.
Nearly an hour till boarding.
Shit.
I look at the entrance to the men’s room, realize it’s probably my safest place.
I take a stall, pull out my phone.
In the stall to my right, someone empties his bowels.
I call Fitzroy; it sounds like he’s been sleeping.
“Danny, you’re killing me.” I hear him stretch. “What did I ever do to you?”
A toilet flushes.
“It wasn’t ever about that.”
“I trusted you, Danny. Brought you in. Took you around the world . . . on my fucking plane. I set you on a course to make millions.” Long silence. “I mean, seriously, what did I ever do to you?”
My throat tightens. God, he’s right.
“Those girls? You think those girls were victims?”
I can’t say a word. It’s all so heavy.
“We weren’t hurting anybody in that room.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Now they’re crawling the town looking for you, ready to take your freaking head off.”
Someone enters the stall on my left side. Ed? My heart races, and I struggle to take in a deep breath. My voice cracks. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
“I had no idea what you were doing in that room. They never told me.”
“You could’ve come to me, Danny. We would’ve doped it out, found a solution. Now this.”
Shit explosions to my left. Thank God.
“You would’ve let that guy kill me.”
“That’s bullshit. I told him to get the tape, and that’s it. Hell, I was coming down there to talk with you. Why would I walk down there if I thought he was gonna kill you?”
He waits.
“Danny, I was gonna try and talk some sense into you. I was gonna get you out of this mess.”
I think of the college girls, think of Ed, and I shudder. Where are they? It feels like I’m stumbling into an intersection blindfolded, surrounded by the sound of accelerating cars.
“Let me think about it, okay?”
“You’re not gonna think about it. You’ve made up your mind.”
“I will think about it—if you agree to keep me on the payroll another thirty-six hours.”
“Danny,” he says, soft and earnest, no trace of anger. “Do you realize you’ve become an asshole?”
I hang up, bolt out of my stall, and hobble for the exit, but not before I see myself in the mirror.
I look away as fast as I can.
Eleven
I hide in a cluster of people preparing to board a flight to Cleveland.
Just one more day. No, just a few more hours.
I stand on my toes, poke my head out of the pack, and look around, my eyes darting from face to face. And just like that, there’s Krista. No chance of mistaken identity this time; there’s no mistaking the silky red hair, the enormous brown eyes, the strong brow, and the slender figure tucked into the same faded jeans and pink T-shirt from last night. She’s weaving through the crowd at the next gate, fists clenched at her side.
Shit.
I duck and stay ducked, and when I realize how odd that looks I take a knee and slowly begin retying my shoelace. When I finally crouch up, wincing in pain, my head pulled in like a turtle, I feel the man to my left staring at me. I glance his way, return his smile, and nod. He’s older, maybe in his seventies, a big head of silver hair, a weather-beaten face, and moist eyes that sag but twinkle.
“You’ve been in a scrape.”
I peer through the throng and fail to locate Krista.
I return to him. “Yeah, I’m afraid so.”
“And not just one . . .” He inspects my face, going from the shovel mark on my forehead to my swollen nose to the fresh scratches and indentations across my neck and head. “But many, over several days. Am I right?”
I spread my legs wide to make myself shorter, and turn back toward him. “Yeah, well, I guess—”
“Hope you don’t mind me saying so, but it looks like someone shoved your face into a cage of feral cats.” He stops, looks away, and squints. “I actually knew a fella who had that happen to him.”
I place my hand over the cassette in my front pocket, squeeze it. “I wish it had been a cage of feral cats.”
“Are you sure the U.S. Marshals aren’t looking for you?”
I look around. “Redheads? Yes. U.S. Marshals, no.”
He laughs, settles on my bandages. “What line of work are you in, if I may ask?”
I lower my head a little, look behind me. No Krista. “High tech.”
He brightens. “You’re a man in the right business at the right time.”
I force a smile. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Who are you with?”
“FlowBid.”
“Well, I’ll be . . .” He straightens, ecstatic. “FlowBid.”
I look around, nod. “Yep.”
“I’ll have you know I put half my retirement savings into you guys the day you did your IPO.”
My heart sinks, and I swallow hard. “Wow.”
He’s beaming. “Yes, and you haven’t disappointed. My adviser tried like the dickens to talk me out of it.” He licks his lips, looks down, and squints at the memory. “But I’d read every word ever uttered about you guys, and it seems like you’re about as close to a sure thing as they come.”
“Well—”
“As long as that CEO of yours doesn’t get hit by a bus.”
I look away and chuckle.
“Do they take good care of him?”
“Huh?”
“Fitzroy. Your CEO.”
“Oh.” I scratch the back of my neck, flick a grain of sand. “Yeah.”
“I’m selling next year. The wife and I, we’re going to put it back into bonds and CDs. But we’re also going to give some of it to . . .” His voice softens. “. . . our granddaughter, Janie.”
I squeeze the tape box and try to look him in the eye.
“She’s worked her tail off, and the wife and I think she deserves to go to college.”
My eyes closed, my voice cracking. “You’re a good grandfather, sir.”
“She wants to be a nurse.” He nearly hums. “You know, truly help pe
ople.”
Another sock in the gut, the worst yet.
I open my eyes, force myself to meet his gaze. “You must be proud, sir.”
“Well . . .” His eyes water. “I’m telling you . . .” His own voice cracks. “. . . she’s a special girl.”
I take another knee, pull my other shoestring loose and retie it. The tape box in my pocket feels hot and heavy, but I know it’s in my head. With every second, it becomes increasingly clear. The more I think about the man standing beside me, think about the hundreds of thousands of people just like him, people who’ve trusted us with their savings, their retirement, their blood-sweat-and-tears money, people whose futures truly hang in the balance, the more nauseated I get.
Fitzroy’s right; I’ve become an asshole.
My heart begins to pound.
Because I can’t ignore it any longer.
I know what I must do.
The longer I wait, the harder my heart pounds.
Get up and move.
I take a step toward the restrooms, find myself light-headed.
God, I’m gonna faint.
I stumble, grab hold of a seat.
Please don’t let me throw up.
I take a few more steps, grab on to another seat.
A woman’s voice says, “Sir, are you okay?”
I’m floating into black.
“Sir, do you need help?”
I’m panting. “Yes.”
“You need to go to the restroom?”
Cold sweat. “Thank you.”
Then, off in the distance, I hear Krista.
“STOP HIM!”
I say to my guide, “Please help me.”
“It’s okay, I’m right here with you.”
Krista’s voice is closer. “HEY, STOP HIM.”
“Here you are, sir. Just follow this wall, and it’ll take you right to the restroom.”
I squeeze my guide’s forearm, nearly cry. “Thank you.”
“Hey,” Krista says, much closer. “Don’t let him go in there.”
I feel my way inside the restroom and slam into a stall door. Someone inside yells, “Hey.” I sidestep along the row of stalls until I find an open door. I slip inside, shut the door behind me, and latch it. I lean against the side wall and screw my eyes shut, hoping my vision will return when I open them.
Cash Out Page 29
