Cash Out Page 17

  Kate picks up on the second ring, but says nothing.

  Oh yeah, she’s pissed.

  “Honey?”

  Silence.

  “Honey, we’re about thirty minutes away. So why don’t we meet you at Betelnut?”

  Silence.

  “Kate?”

  “Whatever,” she says, and hangs up.

  Can’t blame her.

  Larry slams on the brakes, and I crash into the dash. Cars sail by, horns blaring. I look over at him, and his eyes tighten as a BMW 325i sails past us and pumps the brakes. Larry executes a lane dive, falls behind the 325i, jerks me forward when he hits the brakes. The 325i slows some more, and so do we. It changes lanes, and so do we.

  Larry’s not letting this guy go.

  “Larry, road rage is really pretty dangerous.”

  “This isn’t road rage.” The 325i accelerates, and Larry hits the gas, pulls the pipe out of his mouth. “This is a counteroffensive.”

  I press against the dashboard as Larry makes the Toyota scream.

  “Larry,” I growl.

  Larry hands me his pipe. “Take that.” He pumps the stick shift, jerks me back.

  “Hold on,” he says crisply, and floors the gas.

  We rocket toward the Beemer.

  “Stop.”

  He squints at me through the smoke, turns back to the road. “I thought I made it very clear.”

  The Beemer pulls a lane dive for the ages, nearly crashes into a pickup as it crosses the slow lane toward the Third Street exit.

  “Holy shit, Larry.” I slide down my seat, brace for impact as we dive across three lanes. Horns blare and tires screech. “Slow the fuck down.”

  We’re right up on the Beemer as we curl around the off-ramp, to Third Street. The driver glances back a second, and I recognize him immediately despite the bruises and cuts on his face.

  Baldy.

  Oh shit.

  “I thought I made it very clear.” Larry cocks his head, like he’s been hit with a high pitch that’s hurting his ears. “I don’t like people following me.”

  We chase Baldy across the overpass.

  “No,” I yell. “This is different.”

  Larry comes up on Baldy, pounds on the horn, bumps his back bumper. The contact makes the Beemer fishtail a little.

  “Larry,” I yell. “Please.”

  We follow Baldy toward downtown San Mateo, blaze through a set of red lights. A Land Rover coming right at us skids out of control, flips over, and slides untouched across the intersection.

  “Holy shit. Stop it, Larry.”

  “Different, you said?”

  “Yes, yes. Please stop, Larry. You’re gonna kill us.”

  “I need your context as it relates to ‘different.’ ”

  The Beemer weaves through traffic. We follow.

  “This is the guy who beat me up yesterday. He has nothing to do with the tracking device.”

  Larry comes up to the Beemer, rams the back again.

  “And what about our Kate?”

  I feel dizzy. Holy shit, I’m gonna die.

  “Kate?”

  Larry grabs the pipe from my hand, takes a few puffs, hands it back to me, squints at the Beemer. “What does our Kate think of this individual?”

  “Kate?” I yell. “Kate?”

  “Yes,” he says, his voice calm and delicate. “Kate.”

  I’m ready to blow. “What do you think she thinks? He scares the shit out of her. We think he’s with a corporate security firm or something.”

  “Corporate?’

  “Big money, Larry.”

  “Big money,” he says, more to himself.

  “Scary money, Larry.”

  “And this frightens Kate?”

  He hits the gas, changes lanes.

  “Larry, watch it. This guy—”

  “Daniel?”

  “Larry, I think— What?”

  We pull up to Baldy on my side. I slide down so only my eyes are showing.

  “Daniel,” Larry says, his voice crackling, so in control. “I think I smell bacon.”

  We’re speeding down Third Street, side by side with Baldy.

  I look over, and Baldy is showing us his handgun, this black number.

  God help me. I slide down some more.

  Larry steers with his left hand, freeing his right to tug up a pant leg and pull out a buck knife. I let out a little yelp as he waves it around and puts it in his mouth, like a rose, and glances over at Baldy, grinning.

  I swear, I’m gonna faint.

  “Hol’ onsh.” Larry slurs through the blade and speeds up. We lane-dive in front of Baldy and slam on the brakes, forcing Baldy to spin out as he tries to avoid hitting us.

  And fails.

  The collision is hard, the Beemer slamming into my side of the car, behind me. The buck knife flies out of Larry’s mouth, onto the dashboard. My head bobbles around in a very unnatural way—so unnatural that everything goes silent. And dark.

  From blackness I awake.

  It’s so quiet now, so peaceful.

  The car bounces hard, and the trunk slams shut.

  My head throbs, my neck stings, and my crotch radiates hate.

  I straighten up, look around.

  What the—

  “Twine.” Larry comes around to my side of the car, so calm. “We’ll need twine.”

  Slowly, I mumble, “Wha— Larry, what’s . . .”

  Larry leaves me. I moan as my head wobbles. It hurts to look, but I do, using the side-view mirror. In a second, Larry’s at the stranded Beemer, pulling at his buck knife, which is sunken into the driver-side door. A metal screech sears my senses as he pulls it loose.

  Had no idea someone could throw a knife into a car.

  Passing motorists slow down, but no one stops.

  Where’s Baldy?

  Larry reaches into the Beemer, pulls out Baldy’s handgun, and shoves it down his pants. Cool as ice.

  Sirens in the distance. God. My car—totaled. My life—

  Larry drops into the driver’s seat, slams the door shut, and we jerk forward, take an immediate right into a residential area.

  “We need twine.”

  “Larry, let’s stop and wait for the pol—”

  “Oh yes,” he says, to himself. “Wisnom’s Hardware. On First.”

  Major thump in the trunk.

  “Larry, what’d you do?”

  Larry stares at the road. “Twine,” he whispers. “Twine rope, twine. What else?” He hums to himself. “Well, we’ll see what they have.”

  A big kick against my backseat. Another one, even harder.

  “Larry, what’d you do to him?”

  “Nothing.” Larry taps his fingers to the Africando, jerking his head to the beat. “The collision left him a little dazed, so I just popped your trunk and walked him over.”

  We pull into the Wisnom’s parking lot.

  “Larry . . .”

  “Our Kate will need to wait a few more minutes.”

  “Larry,” I slur. “We need to stop.”

  “Don’t let him out.”

  “Larry,” I snap.

  He’s gone.

  The next few minutes, the kicks get harder, louder. I ignore them as I try to think of what to do—rubbing my head, trying to ignore the sirens coming from various directions and clear my head, and I realize:

  I can’t let him out. He could get me arrested. He could kill me.

  Plus, this is probably the best chance I’ll ever have to make Baldy sing, tell us what he knows.

  Lord, what have I become?

  From the trunk, a muffled, pissed-off “Hey.”

  I hear myself yelling, “If I have to pop that trunk, you’re getting th
e baseball bat.”

  He quiets.

  Larry returns with two bags of supplies, opens my door, drops them in my lap.

  I poke through the bags. “What is all this stuff? Turpentine? What the hell do you need turpentine for?”

  Larry steps behind the wheel, looks at me, gazes at the dashboard. “Let’s find a quiet spot.” The Toyota jerks backward. “Nice, quiet spot.”

  “Twenty-gauge metal wire? Pliers? Wood clamps? Rags?” I poke some more, frown. “Lawn fertilizer and polyurethane?”

  Larry whizzes us down the street, away from the sirens. “Quiet spot,” he whispers, turning us left onto a tree-lined street. “Quiet spot.”

  “That guy back there is dangerous, you know? Think about this, Larry.” I pause, scratch my head. “I mean, maybe we just pop the trunk, let him hop out and we speed away.”

  Larry scans the neighborhood.

  “I’m serious, Larry. This is getting crazy.”

  Larry pulls us to the curb under a low-hanging elm, behind an old camper. I scan the neighborhood of older homes. Not a soul.

  Larry leans over, fingers through the bags, and pulls out the wire and turpentine. Then he pierces me with those eyes. “Would you like to know why this man is harassing you and your family?”

  I look away and tilt my head. Yes, I would.

  “Would you like a brief and controlled intermission from your recent insanity?” He pauses, studies my face with those eyes. “For Kate?”

  Larry’s peering right into me, it seems. His eyes are beautiful, I must admit. “Do you like answers, Daniel?”

  I hear myself whisper, “Yes.”

  He steps out of the car, shuts the door, and leans back in through the open window. “Then follow me.”

  And just like that, I place the bags on the floorboard and step out of the car.

  In front of the trunk, Larry hands me the twine and turpentine and retrieves the buck knife from his shin holster. Without hesitation, he stabs the trunk door with all his might. A loud boom cracks the silence. Baldy yells out, muffled by the trunk.

  “Larry,” I whisper. “Easy on my car here, okay?”

  Larry pulls the knife out, resheathes it, grabs the can of turpentine from my clutch, twists off the cap, and pours a generous amount through the new hole.

  The scent reminds me of my father, and I’m transported to my childhood. It’s the end of a Sunday, and we’re dipping paintbrushes into an old bucket. I’m just a kid, squatting there beside him, watching him run the brushes through the turpentine, the sharp odor hitting me hard, the day fading, the scent of browned hamburger coming from the kitchen.

  It’s like a sock in the gut.

  From the trunk, like a voice in a jar: “Hey.”

  Larry’s eyes enlarge just a tad.

  “Hey!”

  I feel myself getting wobbly again.

  Larry pours more in.

  “Hey, what the fuck, dude?” A big kick from inside the trunk. “Hey.” A big cough, then some wheezing. “Let’s be reasonable here.”

  I wobble forward, touch Larry’s forearm. “Larry,” I whisper, “what’s this going to do to him?”

  Holy shit, I’m gonna faint. I put my hand on the trunk to hold myself up.

  Larry looks at me, his eyes so alive. “Rashes. Shortness of breath.” He cocks his head, thinks about it, and allows the slightest of grins. “Eventually, a nap.”

  Baldy rasps, “Dude. C’mon. Let’s talk.”

  Larry raises an eyebrow, says into the air, “Oh, we’ll talk,” then turns and pours more turpentine through the hole.

  Which is when I feel myself falling backward, into the sweet sticky realm of nothing.

  Such a sweet memory.

  A day in the city with Mom and Dad. Afternoon around the Embarcadero and along the piers, then a few shops up around Hyde Street, and then Mexican down in the Mission: chile rellenos and huevos rancheros and Spanish rice. And orange soda and chunky guacamole.

  And then that sweet moment when I’m half awake in the backseat, stretched out for the ride home, bounced awake for just a second, just long enough to note the drool, the moist seat fabric on my cheek, the hum of the motor soothing me back to sleep, all so familiar and safe, the memory of the dinner jukebox playing “Soy Salsero” still in my head, the beat relentless, the timbales and trumpets dancing so happily as I sink back into sweetness . . . a distinct blend of cocoa-butter body lotion and vanilla-scented pipe smoke washing over me.

  The music ends, and a new song starts up. Bongos and trumpets and piano and more timbales, someone singing, “Alabanciosa.”

  Blink my eyes open.

  Crap.

  I sit up.

  Splitting headache.

  The beat picks up.

  Larry’s at the wheel jerking his head from side to side, tapping the steering wheel as we speed north up 101. Outside, south San Francisco is a blur.

  Larry eyes me through the rearview mirror, blows out a puff. “I’ll need directions,” he says. No emotions—like he’s a bank teller.

  I frown and rub my forehead. “What?”

  “Our Kate,” he says. “Our Kate. I’ll need directions to our Kate.”

  Pain is everywhere—at the back of my head, in front of my head, in the depths of my eye sockets. Most of all, in my crotch and spreading to my legs and abdomen and curling around to spiderweb up my back. I try to stretch, but it hurts too much. I close my eyes and wish I were dreaming again.

  I lean back and squint, trying to keep the light out. “Just take 101 all the way to the end, take a left on Fell Street, take an immediate right on Laguna, and you’re good.”

  The beat intensifies.

  Larry leans forward and slaps the top of the dashboard with an open palm, humming to the rapid-fire Spanish.

  “Larry, where’s the bald guy?”

  Still slapping the dash. “You know where he is.”

  “Larry,” I say. “We need to have a plan. I mean, we need to release Baldy. I’m not doing kidnap—”

  A black wallet hits me in the face. “It’s Anthony,” Larry says. “And he’s mine, until I get some answers for our Kate.”

  I stare at the wallet on my lap. With a thumb, I flip it open, glance at it, and look away.

  “Larry, we can’t do this.”

  “We?” Larry chuckles. “No . . . I’m doing this.”

  “Well, I can’t let you do this. We have to give him back.”

  Big cloud of smoke. “Why was this gentleman following me?”

  I sigh, look away. “I don’t know, Larry.”

  “Precisely.” He sounds like he’s just put the finishing brushstroke on a masterpiece. “Which is why I am going to do some extraction.”

  “Extraction?”

  Larry nods.

  “But this has nothing to do with you.”

  “You said the same thing about the little man who followed me this morning.”

  I plead. “That was a whole other thing, Larry.”

  “No . . .” Larry pauses. “No, this is all one big thing.”

  We cruise in silence awhile, the wallet untouched on my lap, until Larry pulls a right onto Laguna. “You will have to let him go, Larry.” I bite my lip, thinking about it, and pick up the wallet, weigh it in my hand. “Eventually.”

  Larry scans the area. We’re driving through Hayes Valley, an interesting cross-section of junkies, hipster merchants, and yuppies in industrial urban wear. “Ah, yes,” he sighs, almost a whisper. “Civilization.”

  “Larry,” I yell. “Larry?”

  “What?” he snaps.

  “You will have to let him go. You hear me?”

  Larry is annoyed, says, “Of course.”

  “And I’m not going to lie to the cops.”

  “The last thing
that individual in there will ever do is contact the police.”

  Damn, the crazy fuck has a point. Still, not on my watch.

  “Larry,” I beg, my voice cracking, “don’t hurt him. It’ll just make things worse.”

  The smoke swirls from the front of the car.

  “Are you gonna put him in your garage, Larry?”

  Long pause. “Daniel?”

  “Yes, Larry?”

  “Daniel, I’m about to become agitated.”

  “No one wants that, Larry. Seriously.”

  “Daniel, why was this man following me?”

  We cross Geary, into Japan Town.

  “I don’t know, Larry. That’s just the thing. I just don’t know.”

  “Well . . .” Larry’s voice is rising. “Tell me what you do know about this individual.”

  Don’t cry. Hold it together. I take a big breath, let it out slowly. “Only thing I know is, he’s connected to big money.”

  “Big money?”

  “Really big money.”

  “Daniel,” he says, so soft I can barely hear him.

  “Larry?”

  Real long pause.

  “. . . I do not like big money.”

  We park the Toyota on Union, right in front of everyone—all the young professionals walking home from work, the fashionista shoppers strolling past, the locals walking their dogs. A woman about my mom’s age walks past us with a St. Bernard, a giant drool towel hanging under its collar.

  Larry gets out, stretches, smiles to himself as he looks around. “Cow Hollow,” he says, motioning to the pedestrians, the boutiques, the restaurants. “I’ve always admired Cow Hollow, although I see . . .” Larry watches a yuppie brush past us as he barks into a mobile phone. “. . . it has changed.”

  He’s right.

  Gentrification.

  Like a lot of the more affluent neighborhoods in the city, Cow Hollow seems to have been overrun by young, college-educated fortune seekers from the East—a critical mass of them just a little too smug, a little too status-conscious, a little too sure of their place in the world at such young ages.

  I work with some of these folks at FlowBid. One of them loves to refer to San Francisco as “my city.” It’s not her city.

  For it to be her city, she’d have to recognize Cecil Williams in a crowd. She’d have to be able to identify a Santana ballad within the first two chords. She’d have to be interested in her nontech neighbors—the teachers and city workers and artists and merchants. She’d have to know where the city of Fremont is. She’d have to ride Muni.