Cash Out (6 page)

Calhoun is outside with the detectives, telling his story, loving every second of it. He's got that stupid look on his face, and his little arms are flapping about as he sings God-knows-what into the air. The detectives glance at each other and take notes.

Why am I the one in cuffs and he's out there making nice with the cops?

Then I realize: I have assaulted a man. I have hit a man with a Tonka truck—for playing with my kids in the community sandbox. This will not look good to the San Carlos Police. And it might look worse to some ambitious county prosecutor. At the moment, it doesn't really matter that the “victim” was the same guy who attacked me a few hours earlier in a Menlo Park grocery store, the same guy Calhoun saw prowling around my house.

No, what matters is that I'm facing a night in jail. From my days as a crime reporter, I know that much.

I look over at Calhoun, who's got his shoulders pulled back, no doubt mocking my attack stance. And now my boys are standing there looking at their daddy sitting handcuffed in the backseat of a squad car, everyone watching, and I know this will be a memory they'll never shake.

Ben stomps up to the car, pounds on the glass, yells, “Daddy, you're supposed to use your words.” He frowns, balls his fists. “You always tell us to use our words.”

I fight the urge to vomit.

Harry approaches next, with troubled eyes. “Calhoun says he's coming to my birthday party next year.”

“We'll talk about it, honey.” I take a deep breath, try to calm down. “That's a long time from now.”

Harry stares into my eyes. “Why'd you hit that man?”

“I'll tell you later, kiddo.”

“He was nice.”

I look down. “No, honey, he wasn't nice. He was pretending to be nice.”

Suddenly, Harry looks a little scared. Brows crinkle.

“Before today, has that man ever spoken to you? Have you ever seen him?”

Slow head shake.

“Good, Harry.”

He's staring at me.

“Listen, honey. Mommy is gonna be here any minute, I'm sure.”

He nods.

Where the hell is Kate? Someone call Kate.

“You're gonna come home tonight, right?”

A lump forms in my throat. “Of course, honey. I need to talk with the police, then I'll be home.” I force a smile. “When you wake up tomorrow, I'll be there.”

His face lightens, and he lets Stacey walk him away, looking back at me. I gaze back, force another smile. I'm sure I look like a freaking psycho, sitting there cuffed in a squad car, smiling like a Hare Krishna.

I try to calm down.

I look back at the huddle around Calhoun, still flapping his arms, and I close my eyes.
When Kate gets here, it'll all be better.

Sitting there, breathing deeper and deeper, I finally allow the obvious to sink in: This is no mistake, none of it.

This guy, this maggot, is no chance acquaintance. Some guy decides, out of the blue, to knee me in the nuts—on Vasectomy Day, of all days? That's no random act of rage. Same guy shows up in my neighborhood and hanging around my children?

I feel like my face is about to separate from my head.

A uniform gets into the driver's seat and shuts the door.

“Call my wife,” I gasp. “They need their mother.”

“Someone's gonna take 'em home.”

The cop pulls the car out. I turn back to the boys, see that Stacey has managed to walk them away. I swallow hard and force myself to look calm, just in case they turn around. I want to show them, through the bulletproof glass, that everything is gonna be all right.

Then I turn around and throw up on the floorboard.

Two

F
ighters.

I understand fighters. I understand their determination, their passion, their need to press on, to resist the current pressing against them, to refuse to give up. If you're a fighter, chances are you're sticking up for something: yourself, your little brother, your country, your family, maybe even something stupid. And, hell, that's a lot better than all the other pussies out there who won't fight for anything, who just don't care enough, those folks with distilled water running through their veins.

Yeah, give me a fighter any day.

This is probably why Rod Stone and I are still friends. Rod is a fighter—literally. And every time he walks into the cage to fight, he pours his heart into it, leaving everything on the mat. He's still not sure exactly why he fights, and neither am I, but if I had to bet I'd say it's because when he does fight, it's him on his own, standing up for himself, just like in childhood, when his dad was long gone and his mom was either at work or passed out drunk on the couch. By exhausting his body and soul to save himself, Rod has created a roundabout way to love himself. Bottom line: Rod cares—cares about something. I like that a lot.

Rod can see the Little Fighter in me. It's always been there—not like Rod's Big Fighter, but it's there. Rod's Big Fighter is happy to come out for any number of reasons. But there's really only one thing that gets my Little Fighter going: Someone is fucking with my people.

“K
ate?”

“Dan? Where did they take you?”

“Kate, do you have the boys?”

“Where are you, Dan?”

It sounds quiet at the house. I'm not hearing any of the boy noises I've grown so accustomed to the past six years—the incessant hollering, the toy trucks slamming into walls, the pounding of little feet on our chapped hardwood floors.

“Kate,” I plead, “where are the boys?”

“They're here.” She sighs. “They're passed out.”

I feel sick again. I gulp back a surge of bile.

“Where are you, Danny?”

Damn, she sounds tired.

“Police department.” I'm about to cry. “They might move me to County.”

There's a long pause, and then, “What the fuck, Dan. I mean, what the fuck is going on with you?”

I swallow hard, trying to keep it together. “The guy I attacked?”

She's silent.

“It was the Safeway guy, Kate. The guy who kneed me at the Safeway. And the same guy Calhoun saw prowling outside the house today.”

Silence.

“Did they tell you that, Kate? Did they tell you he was the same guy?”

Long pause. “All they told me is, you went psycho and Calhoun stopped it all.”

“What?”

“They're saying Calhoun was like a hero.”

I pull my hair back.

“Something's wrong, Kate. Things are happening here. The nerds in the van, the bald guy at our house, then at Safeway, then at the park with the boys.”

Kate sounds confused, uncertain what to believe. “You sure?”

I close my eyes and shake my head. “I saw this guy with the boys, I just went crazy.”

“Did you tell the cops this?”

“They're reviewing the Safeway tape now.”

Another pause. “Stacey said she'd never seen you like that. She said it was like you were another person.” A second later she whispered, “Thank God for Calhoun.”

What? Calhoun? Thank God for Calhoun?

I lower my head and rub my brows.

“She said he seemed like a really decent guy.”

“Calhoun? Is she nuts?”

“No, the bald guy.”

“A nice guy
with a switchblade
?” I sigh.

I let the line go silent, giving Kate time for it all to sink in. In a day, things have gone crazy, and it doesn't take a genius to realize it's all related—and most likely centering around my all-powerful employer.

“I want you home, Dan.” Her voice cracks. “I just want you home.”

“Kate, when we hang up I want you to call Rod. I want you to have him spend the night at the house. I don't want you and the boys alone.”

She's crying now.

“We're gonna get through this, Kate. The Menlo Park Police brought the Safeway tapes over. Calhoun gave them his statement. The detectives are gonna verify my story, and we're gonna be all right.”

“Okay,” she says, and sighs.

“Just call Rod, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Tell him what's going on.”

We're silent on the line again, and it's the closest I've felt to her in a long time. Finally, she sniffles and says, more like a prayer, “We're gonna be okay.”

“Kate, we
will
be. I promise. I just need you to do one more thing.”

Another sniffle. “Okay.”

For the last several hours, I've just realized, I've been in deep, deep denial about something. Now I can feel my pulse pounding in my head, my blood racing like an eighteen-wheeler passing on the freeway. “I just need you to go to my car, Kate. On the shotgun seat you'll find a bottle of Vicodin and my prescription papers. I need you to have someone run it over here to the police station.”

“Vicodin,” she mumbles, as if to herself.

By now I'm gripping the table with my free hand, gritting my teeth.

“Sooner the better.”

T
hey bring me into the interrogation room. Again.

Bryant and Topeka. Two of San Carlos's finest—or perhaps only—detectives. My sandbox fight is probably the most action they've seen this year. In this peninsula town of highly educated technology professionals and pedicured East Coast expats, the cops are lucky to pull a nanny-jaywalking, maybe an extra-loud milk steaming.

Bryant has the face of a grandpa and body of a twenty-five-year-old; he probably logged a few decades in some city like Oakland before landing this cushy gig. Topeka looks like a kid: buzz cut, pink skin, doughy body. If they were real estate agents, I'd take them as a father-and-son team, but right now I can barely look at them. My mind is devoted to two primal thoughts: My crotch needs relief, and I wanna go home.

Bryant is glaring at me. I turn away and grit my teeth as my crotch releases yet another wave of agony; they're coming every few minutes now. Looking back at his gray eyes, square jaw, and salt-and-pepper mustache somehow intensifies the pain, sends it all the way to my temples and down my neck.

“Okay,” Bryant says, his voice deep and dry, “first things first.” From his front pocket, he pulls out the orange prescription bottle of Vicodin and practically slams it onto the wooden table between us. I grimace and reach for it, grunting, and he swipes it away.

Topeka snorts, smiling.

“Hold on there, partner.” Bryant studies me as he slides the bottle to the far corner of the table, out of my reach. I stare at the bottle. “We have someone double-checking the prescription. Until it's confirmed, try meditation.”

I lean back and stare at him.

Bryant studies his notes and fingers a red file folder. Topeka is leaning in on his elbows, watching me, still smiling.

I squint in pain. “You guys review the Safeway tape?”

Bryant doesn't look up from the notes. “We sure did.”

“And?”

“We had Calhoun come over and take a look.”

“And.”

“He says it's the same guy.”

“Which means I can go home.”

Bryant turns a page, casual, like he's on the lido deck. “Don't think so, partner.”

My heart sinks. “I don't get it.”

Bryant glances at me, then returns to his notes.

“You saw me hobble in there, minding my own business.”

“Yep.”

“You saw me back into this guy, and the guy going ballistic.”

“Yep.”

“Throwing me into the freezer.”

“We did.” Bryant sighs and finally looks up from his notes. “We sure did.”

“You have witnesses who saw him pull a knife on me at the park.”

He nods.

“And you have Calhoun saying the guy was prowling outside my house.”

Nod.

“So you know this guy was the instigator.”

Bryant looks so calm. “
That
we don't know.”

What?

“You rushed this guy at the park, Jordan. Unprovoked.” He fans a few pages. “Wasn't for Calhoun, you might be in an even bigger heap of trouble.”

I open my mouth and catch myself. Count to four. “Sir.” I exhale. “He was playing with my kids. The same guy who'd prowled around my house and later attacked me unprovoked was now playing with my little boys. That's no coincidence.
He pulled a knife on me.
My sons were in immediate danger.”

Bryant and Topeka exchange glances. “Tell you the truth, Dan, what we don't know is whether there's history here or not.” He pauses. “Do we?”

I feel a wave coming on, and my crotch hardens into a block of pain. I grip the table, lean forward, and glance at the Vicodin bottle. The fuckers. I imagine siccing an overly aggressive, gelatinous attorney on them.

“Say that again?”

Topeka says, “How do we know you guys didn't know each other? How do we know you guys hadn't been feuding?”

I push back from the table. “Like I said, guys, go through all my stuff. Go through my house, my phone records, whatever.” I feel like I'm about to cry. “I promise you I've never seen that guy before all this.”

Bryant waits, probably hoping I'll start to cry and confess to something. I take the moment to draw in a few deep breaths.

“Now tell us what the fuck is going on here.”

“I've told you.”
Shit, Danny. Hold it together.
“There's nothing.”

“Tell me how you know this guy.”

“I don't.” I gasp. “I have no fucking clue.”

“You're lying,” he yells, his face flushed. “And you're wasting my fucking time.”

I look away, shake my head.

Bryant pushes away from the table, releases a low grumble. Topeka moves in. Calm voice. “I think what Detective Bryant is trying to say is, there must be
some
reason this guy picked you out, found your sons at the park here.”

I look up, can feel my eye twitching. “No shit. That's what I've been saying the past six hours.”

They exchange glances.

“Then tell us,” Topeka says. “Tell us what the hell is going on here.”

I look at him and think about it. I know this must have something to do with the geeks and Stephen Fitzroy, and I realize that small-timers don't fuck with major CEOs like this, tracking down their speechwriters the way this guy has. I'm dealing with something far more dangerous.

I look back at Bryant, then Topeka. I have no idea what I'm dealing with, and I won't risk my life with these two assholes. They can't help me with something like this. They might even make things worse.

Topeka says, “You're right. We can't charge you. Assistant D.A. already came in and took a look at the tapes, read the witness testimonies from Calhoun and the moms at the park, looked at the knife. Justifiable force. Self-defense.”

Bryant sighs and turns back, facing me again. He seems to have cooled.

“You think we're idiots?” He pauses, watching me. “I've been doing this a long time.” He waits a second.
Maybe he's handled assaults someplace else.
“We all know there's more to this, and I know you're withholding something.” He pauses again. “Maybe it's something someone said to you . . .”

We stare at each other, and suddenly I want to tell him. I want to be taken care of, put to bed like a little kid after a cold, rotten day, knowing that all the bad stuff will be gone when I wake up the next morning.

“. . . or maybe you think this involves someone you know, or something you did a long time ago.”

I look up at him, shake my head.

“Well,” Bryant says, “this won't be the last time you see me.” Another pause. “Just the beginning. I'm gonna be all over you.”

I look at him.

“And do you know why?”

I wait for more.

“Because I don't like knife fights in my children's park.” He glares at me, his eyeballs nearly shaking with rage. “Not here. Not in San Carlos.”

I struggle to stand up. “Give me my bottle, guys.”

Bryant snatches the Vicodin and tosses it to me. So much for that bullshit about checking my prescription. I pop it open, finger two pills, and swallow them dry.

“Now, you guys wanna start actually doing your job?”

Topeka stirs, Bryant jolts.

“What'd you say?”

“You wanna do your job,” I snap, “and get some protection out at my house?”

T
he first time I saw Kate, I was at Alta Plaza in San Francisco.

Saw her sitting with a girlfriend on the north end of the hilltop park, a six-pack of Tecate and a bag of Las Palmas tortilla chips between them. I was sprawled out on a blanket, trying to return to Bukowski's
Women
and failing badly—all on account of her, this bewitching individual sitting nearby, laughing with her girlfriend as they looked out at the breathtaking view of the city. I kept staring and smiling, and she kept glancing back with a grin.