Cash Out Read online

  At my desk, I manage to finish the Fitzroy speaker notes and slide deck, print copies to review on the flight tomorrow, and even make a few calls about Stanislau. I feel like I’m a reporter again, calling around and asking questions, trying to get closer to the real story. I get their address in San Francisco easily enough, but it takes a little longer to find someone who’s had firsthand experience with the firm. Finally, I reach Barry Devine, a corporate intelligence expert who is recommended to me by a buddy at my old haunt, the Oakland Tribune.

  Barry runs a consulting boutique not too far from Sand Hill Road in Menlo Park, the main drag for the valley’s venture capital and private equity firms. To get through his assistant, I mention, almost unconsciously, that I’m Stephen Fitzroy’s speechwriter.

  Within ten seconds, Barry’s on the line.

  “How’s Stephen?” he asks, like he knows the guy.

  “He’s fine, Barry. I really appreciate you taking my call.”

  “I met him once, after he spoke at the DPN One Conference in Napa.”

  “Yeah?”

  “But I’m sure he doesn’t remember me. It was just a few seconds.”

  People say this all the time. I wish I could say, I’m sure he’d remember you, he’d totally remember you, but we’d both know it would be total bull.

  “I’d be happy to tell him you said hi, Barry. I’ll be with him tomorrow.”

  “If it comes up, sure, that would be nice. So what can I do for you?”

  I explain that I’m interested in Stanislau, that I’m looking for people who’ve had direct experience with them.

  Barry pauses for a moment. “Stephen has his speechwriter doing research on Stanislau?” The disbelief is heavy.

  Damn, time to lie. God, I’m such a jerk.

  “Well,” I say. “Not for his speeches, of course.” I pause for effect. “I guess all I can say is that I’ve been asked to get some third-party testimonials on Stanislau.”

  He doesn’t need to know this action item came from my wife.

  “Interesting,” Barry says slowly. “Interesting.”

  “Yes, and we’d really appreciate it if you’d keep our conversation confidential.”

  “Of course, of course.” A trace of glee in his voice. “I’m happy to share some thoughts with you. And if Stephen thinks I could be of service in this matter, I’ll be happy to come in for a consultation.”

  “We’ll take that into account, Barry. Thank you.”

  “So what kind of information are you seeking?”

  Hell, I’ll take anything, but I can’t say that. “Well, as you know, they’re kind of mysterious. There’s not a lot of information about them.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So we’re interested in hearing where you think they’re the strongest—in terms of their capabilities—and maybe even some background on who does what over there.”

  And so he tells me about Stanislau, says they excel in corporate intelligence gathering, for which they employ a cadre of top-flight attorneys in the lawful acquisition and evaluation of information affecting the investments of very rich people.

  “So, if you’ve pumped millions of dollars into a small start-up, and you’re concerned about anything ranging from their customers to the actual leaders of that start-up and their behavior, this is where Stanislau comes in.”

  “So they’re kind of like the Secret Service for the millionaires and their investments.”

  He laughs. “Usually, more like billionaires.” He pauses. “But if Stephen Fitzroy has you calling for third-party testimonials, you should already know this.”

  Shit—busted.

  Or nearly, anyway. “Oh, well, Stephen may know all this, but I sure don’t.”

  He chuckles. “So, I don’t know about the Secret Service. Maybe a little more like the CIA.”

  Okay, assume the guise of a lackey collecting customer-satisfaction survey results. “So, you generally hear good things from their customers?”

  Long silence.

  “They’re happy?”

  “That’s the thing, Dan. One rarely knows who their customers are. Ever. That kind of information is heavily guarded.”

  “So you don’t know of anyone—individuals or firms—who’ve used them?”

  “Well, I wonder if it would be better if I came in and discussed this with you and Stephen. I could tell him about my services, and maybe we could talk about how I could help FlowBid with this.”

  That didn’t take long. Already soliciting.

  “Well, we’re not at that point, Barry, but I really appreciate the offer. Maybe when we get a little further along, Stephen could have you come in.” And I’m thinking, I’ll be gone in less than a week, buddy.

  “I’d appreciate even just coming in to tell Stephen about my services, how I can help.”

  Not a chance in hell. “For sure, Barry. Maybe next month.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” he says, “because I think I know why he has you calling around about Stanislau.”

  I force a laugh. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” he says, pausing a moment. “The only Stanislau client I do know about is a group that Stephen knows pretty well.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Knowland, Hill, and Davis,” he says. “You know, KHD.”

  Damn, I do know about KHD. They’re only the private equity investment firm that has sunk $2 billion into FlowBid—not to mention getting two of its own executives appointed to our board.

  And then it hits me. KHD, a very serious group of people who have invested billions of dollars into my employer, has hired a firm that is screwing with me. A firm that sent a goon like Baldy after me.

  I choke on my own spit. And what about the geeks? Who are they with?

  “You still there, Dan?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m just writing all this down. Important background.”

  “That was news to you, huh?”

  I chuckle. “Well . . .” And I let it die. “Just one last question, Barry. In its intelligence work, does Stanislau also engage in covert activities, or attempt to, you know”—I search for delicate language—“correct situations?”

  Long pause. “I’m not going to answer that on the phone, Dan.”

  Aw, man.

  Not that I have any time to freak about it.

  Seconds after I hang up with Barry, I get a call from High Rider. I know it’s him; his voice is unmistakable, like an elf holding his breath.

  He squeaks, “Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who.”

  “No, I don’t know who.”

  Tracy glances at me, so I swivel my back to her.

  “Our associate? . . . You met him in the van?”

  “Oh, Star Trek. The Star Trek guy.”

  He whispers, “No, the other one.”

  “Little Red?”

  Tightening the words, he says, “Little Red?”

  “He never introduced himself, so I just came up with that . . . You know, it just made . . . ” Stop, Danny. Just stop right now.

  Finally, he says, “Yes, that’s him.”

  “And I’m supposed to know where he is?”

  Snaps, “He’s missing.”

  “Well, what happened to him?”

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  “And you think I know?”

  He pauses. “I can do it anytime, Dan. I can pull the trigger on all your material, right now.”

  “Wait—”

  “I will do it if you don’t help us find him. In fact, if something happens to me, your private information goes out. We have a JavaScript all set up, and if I’m unable to update it on a regular basis, the system will distribute your material.”

  “Listen,” I say, “I have no idea where the h
ell your buddy is.”

  “What about your people? What about your cage fighter?”

  “He’s with my wife and kids.”

  “Which is exactly why—”

  He stops himself, and I get the hint I need. Little Red obviously had been trying to locate Kate, Rod, and the boys so he could keep tabs on them, report their whereabouts back to the Enterprise, or whatever they call their war room. If High Rider is so confident that Little Red had been near my family when he disappeared, it’s only because he thinks the tracking device is still on our minivan.

  It all makes sense.

  These guys were the ones who’d sent Shovel Man into my garage, planted that tracking device under the van. The tracking device my six-year-old then replanted under Crazy Larry’s Malibu.

  So the geeks have a fourth conspirator? Shovel Man?

  Maybe Little Red had been tracking the car remotely with a GPS device or something, saw that the car was going someplace weird—because you just know Crazy Larry goes to weird places—and decided to go check it out.

  And just like that, I realize that maybe I do know what’s become of Little Red. Crazy Larry must’ve “taken” him. Maybe he’s even discovered the device under his car—given the fact that High Rider has no idea where his buddy is.

  But I don’t want to say anything. Don’t want to tell him what I do know: that he’s the one behind Shovel Man and the tracking device.

  “Listen,” I say, “you’re not going to tell me your name, are you?”

  Silence.

  “I can go and ask around FlowBid.”

  “That would be a really incoherent thing to do, Dan.”

  I chuckle. “But you know I’ll find out afterward.”

  Silence.

  “Okay, listen . . .” I want to say High Rider, but I know I shouldn’t. “Okay, listen, pal. Let me see what I can find out. But I’m telling you, Kate and Rod don’t have your little friend. We’re just trying to get through the next few days here.”

  “You find him,” he snaps, his voice quaking. “Or you lose everything.”

  I reach Kate on her cell.

  “You guys don’t have Little Red, do you?”

  “Who?”

  “He’s one of the IT geeks.”

  She huffs. “God, no. We’re on 101.”

  “Where’s Rod?”

  “Right behind us.”

  “Anyone in the car?”

  “No.” She sounds annoyed. “He’s basically giving us a cage-fighter escort to his place. He’s solo.”

  “Okay, that’s all I needed to know.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine, honey. How’s Ben?”

  “Gave him more Motrin, so the fever’s down.”

  I think of Stanislau, get a chill. “Okay, honey. Tell the kids I love them.”

  “I will. They love you, too.”

  “Oh, by the way. When you were leaving, did you see Crazy Larry around?”

  She thinks a minute. “I didn’t.”

  “Ask Harry. See if he was doing any Larry-watching.”

  She puts the cell down, then comes back. “Harry saw him drive away in his station wagon.”

  “Ask him how long ago.”

  Murmurs, and then, “A couple hours ago. Is there a problem with Larry?”

  “Honey, there’s always been a problem with Larry.”

  Little Red. High Rider. Star Trek. Shovel Man.

  The future of my family is in their hands, and I don’t even know their real names.

  Hell, if I knew who they were, I could see if they’re connected to this Stanislau stuff. As for getting their real names, sure, I could start asking around IT, concoct some excuse for my interest, but then my snooping might get back to High Rider, and that could be it for me and the family.

  But maybe there’s another way.

  I take one more look through my blue speaker cards for Fitzroy, print out the hotel information Sharon sent me, and slide my laptop into my briefcase. I pack up everything I need for the Tampa Social Net Conference and fire off a note to Fitzroy, attaching the preso.

  Then I hobble to the stairway, descend a floor—with substantial pain—and limp onto the second floor, home of Creative Services, Engineering, and IT.

  In an office packed with gear—three wide screens on the walls, stacks of CDs on the desk, neat rows of Beta cassette holders, and humming computers everywhere—I find Oscar Mendes, our video editor. Oscar makes Fitzroy look and sound a lot smarter than he actually is. He can take a thirty-minute studio borefest, suck out all the ums and ahs, cover up the strained goofball looks, cut out the redundant chatter (and there’s a lot of it), and turn it into three minutes of compelling video.

  Oscar Mendes is paid very well.

  As we’re the only brown-skinned people in the entire building—rare California natives in an office of out-of-state fortune seekers—we’ve also bonded pretty well. I love the fact he’s not afraid to talk like a real human being around here; it’s like a blast of fresh air off the Pacific.

  He waves me in. “Dude, did you see that e-mail I just forwarded?”

  “What e-mail?”

  He giggles, stops short. “Someone was shitting rabbit pellets in the men’s room.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Hey, by the way.” He swivels and rummages through his cluttered desk. “I’ve got some shit that’s gonna fucking blow your mind. This shit—” He fingers through a stack of discs, each encased in frosted plastic. “I’m telling you, this shit is gonna knock you on your ass.”

  He pulls out a disc, glances at me.

  I nod at it. “You score some good shit?”

  He swivels back, his brown eyes serious. “Dude . . .” He grabs my forearm with his free hand, squeezes. “Just wait till you take a hit of this shit.”

  He hands it over. I pop the case open, glance at two discs. He’s written, Afro Cuban across the top of each.

  “Thanks, man. I love Afro Cuban.”

  “Forty-seven tracks.”

  “Forty-seven?”

  He nods, grinning.

  “That’s a lot of Afro Cuban.”

  “I’ve got a connection, dude. Guatemalan buddy of mine came into town last night, laid this music on me, blew my fucking mind.”

  I hold the case with both hands to show my appreciation. “Aw, man. This is monumental.”

  Oscar points at the case, raises an eyebrow. “This isn’t poser shit, either.” He waits, for emphasis. “We’re talking about original shit from the forties, fifties, sixties, and seventies.”

  “Aw, dude. I can’t wait.”

  He’s nodding to the disc. “There’s Benny Moré in there.”

  “Sweet.”

  “Manny Oquendo.”

  “Nice.”

  “Ray Barretto . . . Pérez Prado . . . Willy Colón.”

  “I can’t wait, Oscar.”

  “Tons of Africando, tracks like ‘Yay Boy.’ ” He pauses, blinks hard, like he’s taken a hit of Humboldt skunk. “Some really early Tito. I put some Cachao in there.” He lays the accent on, hard. “You know, ‘La Negra Tomosa.’ ‘Son Montuno.’ ”

  With the exception of Tito Puente, Benny Moré, and Ray Barretto, I’ve never heard of these guys. Nor do I understand anything more than the very limited amount of Spanish my Mexican grandmother taught me as a kid. But it doesn’t matter. I do love the music, love the way it makes me feel.

  He slows down, takes a good look at me. “You don’t look too hot, dude. You okay?”

  “I’ve been—”

  A heavily bearded man with thick eyeglasses pops his head in, releases an awkward smile. “Hey.”

  “Hey, Roger.” Oscar nods to me. “You know Dan Jordan?”

  We nod to each
other.

  “Roger’s on the system design team, works around the corner.”

  I nod. “Cool.”

  Roger steps into full view, hands a DVD to Oscar. “Thanks, man.”

  “You liked it? Told you that shit would blow your mind.”

  “Loved it.”

  “Music?” I ask.

  “Documentary.”

  Oscar says, “It’s about the health care industry. PBS? The networks? They’ll never have the balls to broadcast something like this, dude. You should take this home, too.” Classic Oscar.

  “You got anything else like that?” Roger asks hopefully.

  “I do,” Oscar says, stretching to finger through a stack of DVDs. He pulls out a disc, hands it to Roger. “This shit takes it to another level.”

  “Yeah? More on health care?”

  “Nah. The influence of peyote on twentieth-century California politics. I’m telling you, this shit will make you run for the mountains, dude.”

  Roger looks like a kid on Christmas morning.

  Afterward, Oscar says to me, “You’re not okay, dude.”

  “I’m not.”

  “What happened?”

  “Long story.”

  “You look beat-up,” he says. “Worried.”

  I laugh. “Well . . .”

  “You need help?”

  I look away. “I’m fine.”

  “Just let me know, okay?”

  “Of course.” After a moment, I say, “There is one thing I need help with—the IT guys.”

  His eyes nearly pop out of his head. “IT guys did this to you?”

  I shake my head, chuckle. “You remember that little guy with the high-rider pants?”

  He squints, thinking about it. “Yeah, yeah. Serious little dude. Major high-riders. Got laid off with the others.”

  “You remember his name?”

  He thinks about it, sighs hard. “I can ask around.”

  “No, please don’t. Seriously.”

  Studying me. Trying to figure me out. “Okay.”

  “Yeah, it could get me in more trouble.”

  He leans back, pinches his chin. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

  “I’m fine. I just can’t have High Rider know that I’m asking about him.”

  We stare at each other.