Cash Out (3 page)

My face is burning. How the hell did they get into that personal e-mail? Not
once
have I accessed that account from work.

High Rider is smiling. “I'd hate to see your CEO read that one.”

I stare at him.

“Okay, shall I go on? All right, then. What about . . . sixty hours spent at MILFs in Heat dot-com? Forty-three hours spent at an assortment of websites specializing in the female posterior? Or . . .” He turns over to look me in the eye. “. . . seventeen minutes exchanging erotica with a married coworker?”

I'm about to pass out.

“Mr. Jordan,” he squeaks. “Would you like us to share this information, including transcripts of said erotica, with the entire workforce at FlowBid?”

I can see where this is headed. I feel like I'm about to vomit.

“No.”

“Good.” He pauses. “Would you like us to send your correspondence with
BusinessWeek
to Stephen Fitzroy? Or, for that matter, to everyone in the company?”

My head feels like it's floating. “No.”

“And would you like us to send details of your improper use of FlowBid IT resources to the business conduct office? Surely, any of these offenses would suffice to have your employment summarily terminated, making you ineligible for scheduled disbursement of noncash compensation and benefits?”

In my line of work, leaking damaging rumors to the press is a capital offense. If the company found out, I'd lose everything: my job, my options, my ability to get rehired. I think of that $1.1 million in options, of these final three days before they vest, and I see stars.

“I don't believe you'd want us to do that.”

A jolt of pain ripples through my crotch. Twenty minutes ago, a clamp hung out of it. Suddenly, it's the least of my problems. I shake my head, hoping for clarity. “You guys are IT?”

“No, we
were
IT. Now we're just outsourced, offshored, and unemployed. We just had the foresight to back up some very interesting data before we packed our bags.”

I try to steady myself. “So now you want something.”

He leans forward and snaps, “We want your cooperation, pretty boy.”

Little Red releases a noise, adds, “Pretty boy.”

High Rider pauses, examines my reaction. “We want you to do as we say, when we're ready.” Another pause. “Otherwise . . .”

Little Red finishes, “ . . . no more fat hookers for you.”

High Rider glares at Little Red. “Keep your fantasies out of this.” Then, to me: “Otherwise, we'll release your information.”

I look away and shake my head. Of course there is the $1.1 million, but I'm thinking about Kate and the boys. What will happen to our family if the other stuff gets out—the stuff where I tell another woman I'd like to burrow my face into her hindquarters? With my long hours, Kate's already feeling abandoned at home—hence the couples counseling sessions. She jokes about the notion of me cheating—“You're always getting home too late for dinner. You have some hot admin there willing to take your order?”—but lately the joke part has sounded a little halfhearted. I just roll my eyes, wave her off, because in truth I've never been tempted—well, almost never.

The van skids to a stop, and I realize we're back in the parking lot, in front of my car. “Would you like some good news, Dan?” says High Rider.

I stare at him.

“The good news is, we don't want any of your precious stock-option money.”

“Your fat-hooker money,” Little Red adds.

High Rider turns to him. “That's your thing, and you know it.”

Little Red snaps, “Maybe he likes big girls, too.”

“Stop it.”

I keep staring at High Rider.

“But we
do
want your collusion. We're going after that bowl of loose stool you call a CEO. When we come calling—and it will be soon—you
will
assist us. Shouldn't be hard for a sellout like you.”

Sellout? Damn. These guys did their homework.

“Otherwise, you will lose everything: the chance to cash out your options, the comfy little life with your hard-body wife, the ability to support your sweet little family.”

I look at High Rider's left hand. No ring.

“Get out, Dan. Get out of the van.”

Still tied up, I hop out of the van, stumble, and crash to the asphalt. I roll and groan.

“And one more thing.”

I glance up at him.

His eyes twinkle. “Have fun with the sex counselor.” He rolls the door shut, and a loud burst of laughter erupts inside the minivan.

Damn, my crotch hurts.

S
ellout.

Yeah, that's me. Fucking sellout.

Twelve years ago, back when I was a reporter, it was the last thing I thought I'd become. Then life got harder and I got tired. I got tired of driving around in a '92 Dodge. I got tired of barely having enough money to buy new 501s or pay rent. I got tired of watching the suits sucking dollars out of the newsroom, forcing us all to do more with less and fail badly, destroying editorial quality, leaving us all to crank at a frenzied pace each day, eliminating the chance for any kind of enterprising investigative work. I got tired of watching my beloved newspaper industry lose more and more readers to the Internet.

When Harry was born, things got more tense, and I knew we couldn't live in an apartment forever. I was a daddy now, and I was gonna do whatever it took to make my family safe.

So I sold out.

The way I tell it to my newspaper friends, at least I sold out well. I landed a ghostwriter's job at a promising start-up. While I sometimes felt like a rare bird, being one of the few folks there with any Mexican blood, the work was good, and soon I was promoted to speechwriter to the CEO. As luck would have it, FlowBid's e-commerce software was the right solution at the right time, and when we went public on NASDAQ in '06, we raised $1.7 billion in a day. Fitzroy made it to the cover of
BusinessWeek
that year. And just like that my options were worth something.

That was 362 days ago.

The closer I get to 365, the more I find myself spending time with my old-time California friends, the natives—people like Rod Stone.

Rod and I have been friends since we were eighth graders in the East Bay. The older we get, the more our lives head in opposite directions. But we still share a connection, this bond that won't break. Maybe it's because we've both dealt with some nasty moments and got through them together. But more than anything I think it's because we can cross over into each other's very different worlds without breaking stride.

I love my family, and he gets it.

He fights in a cage, and I get it.

Rod is shaven nearly bald, with just a rind of stubble on his scalp. His body is rock-hard, but not giant. No fat under those loose cotton, solid-gray fatigues and flimsy, worn-in T-shirts. He's got a natural squint and a thuglike underbite that gives people pause.

Rod thinks I was wrong to sell out. A few weeks back, over a few pints, he told me, “Elgin says it best. I think it was in
The Triumph
: ‘Those who chase riches lose before the chase even begins.' ”

I rolled my eyes. “Elgin never had a mortgage in the Bay Area.”

I
'm parked in front of the Safeway in Menlo Park, surrounded by a fleet of $60,000 imports. I gaze into space, failing to devise any kind of plan. Maybe the pain meds are making me stupid. Maybe I'm still in shock from what just happened. Was I really roped up by a band of IT geeks? Were they really setting me up for some kind of extortion? Did that guy really call his van the Enterprise?

My cell rings, gives me a jolt. I'm so out of sorts, I don't even look to see who it is.

“Yeah?”

“Dan, this is Janice from Finance.”

My chest tightens. “Yeah, listen, Janice—I'm out today and—”

“Dan, you need to put the P6s into the FOD, and then next week we can worry about the L26s in the PLT.”

“Janice,” I snap, and catch myself, “I'm out today. I had a medical thing, and I'm on meds right now. And I don't even know what you're—”

“Dan . . .” I can hear the irritation in her voice. “I need those P6s in the FOD by EOB.”

“Janice . . . Janice, listen.” Long pause. “Janice, I need you to understand—”

“Can you at least give me the P6s?”

“Janice, you've got the wrong guy.”

“No, I don't.”

“Janice, I'm a speechwriter. I don't know the first thing about P6s, or this FOD.”

Long pause. “Beth Gavin says you're supposed to take care of this.”

“Janice.” I close my eyes and count to seven. “Janice, we'll have to talk about this tomorrow. I'm out of action today and—”

“I sent you eight e-mails with the relevant attachments.”

“Janice, I'm going to have to let you go now.”

“But I—”

I end the call.

Three more days.

I reach for my cell and call home. Kate picks up, sounding harried—the boys are yelling in the background.

“You okay?” she says.

I stumble on my words.

“Dan?”

“You won't believe what just happened.”

One of the boys lets out a bone-rattling scream. Kate puts the phone down and snaps, “Harry, leave him alone. C'mere, Ben.” A second later, she says to me, “Okay, I'm back.”

“I just had these geeks throw me into a van.”

Another scream. Sounds like Ben.

“Geeks? What kind of geeks? What van?”

“I had to ask this guy in the parking lot to untie me.”

There's a loud crash, then screams. I can barely hear her over the racket. “Hold on. Harry, get over here this instant
.
” And then, “Okay. Now,
what
?”

“Let's talk later.”

The boys return to screaming. “Might be better.” Her voice tightens. “And if you have time to get those peas yourself, that would be great. I still have to make their lunches.”

“No problem.”

“Okay. Bye,” she says, the line going dead right as she hollers, “Harry, leave him—”

S
tanding bowlegged in front of the frozen-food doors, I'm thinking about everything
but
peas. I'm thinking about covering my ass, about calling the cops, about getting a lawyer, about contacting my boss, about notifying FlowBid's corporate security. I'm thinking about trying to stop this thing before it gets out of hand. Only problem is, if I call any one of those people, my career will be over, and my family will lose all that money—all that
future
I've been working toward the past two years, money for which I've given up my one true career passion.

Maybe all they want is some easy favor
 
. . .

I open a door and grab a long bag of Jolly Green Giant peas.

Maybe they want some harmless scrap of information
 
. . .

I back up and close the door, weighing the bag in my hand.

Maybe they don't want me to do anything illegal? Maybe
 
. . .

I turn around—and slam smack into a pit bull of a man. Or, rather, he smacks right into me.

He is white, bald, and compact, his enormous upper body nearly too big for his blue blazer. When I look into his dark eyes, I know I'm in trouble: These aren't the eyes of someone who is surprised or worried. These eyes are like Rod's—calm and in control. Then he grabs hold of me and sends me across the aisle and through a freezer door.

It happens so fast—it's so effortless—that I have no time to feel surprised. Glass goes everywhere, yellow Eggo boxes tumble over my head, a woman shrieks, and I'm getting pulled out of the freezer and pushed across the aisle.

He slams me against the metal frame of a glass door and eases his jaw toward mine, completely calm, reeking of some oaky cologne. “You need to watch yourself, Gomer.”

I try to pull free, but he's too strong. Scary strong.

“I didn't—”

He pulls me closer, bites his lip and drives a knee into me—right between the legs.

He does it again.

“ 'Member what I said,” he whispers as he lowers me to the ground. “Watch yourself.”

The pain envelops me. It sucks my breath away, paralyzes my limbs, and overtakes my senses. Iron rods of agony slowly spread to my stomach and down my legs, worse than anything I've ever felt. Slowly, I slide to the ground and ball up on my side, battling the urge to vomit as I watch this guy stride toward the front, people scrambling to get out of his way, everyone parting for the pit bull in a blazer.

I
hobble through the Palo Alto medical office, twenty-five minutes late for our “appointment.” I know this will be ugly, so I don't even look at the blond receptionist; I just keep hobbling down the narrow hallway toward that solid-oak door with the black nameplate and white lettering: D
R.
H
EIDI
M
.
D
OUGLAS
. I stop and take a few deep breaths, preparing myself. I know they're in there expanding on the list of things I must do if I ever want to have sex with my wife as frequently, and as passionately, as we used to.

I open the door and poke my head in.

A cold, wet bag nails me in the face.

“There's your fucking peas.”

I look up, and Kate is standing in front of the couch, her cheeks flushed with anger. Heidi the counselor, is seated on the other side of the room, grabbing the arms of her leather chair, bracing for something close to a category 4 hurricane.

Kate turns to sit down, folding her arms in a huff. “Knew you'd be late.”

K
ate has fixed herself up, and holy shit, does she look good. Silky blond hair falling to her shoulders, a few strands dropping over her giant blue eyes. Form-fitting T-shirt highlighting her narrow torso. Tight, dark blue jeans that she knows drive me crazy. Black leather boots with square tips and thick heels, just the way I love them.