We spot the bus just south of Gilroy.
We come up on its flank so quickly that Mama needs to pump the brakes so we don’t sail past it. She grips the steering wheel and hollers, “Boys, we need your help.” But they aren’t listening; Cujo has Ernie in something he’s calling the butt lock, and they’re laughing uncontrollably.
“I’ll just wave down the driver,” I say. “Speed up.”
Mama accelerates, and soon we are adjacent to the bus. The windows are tinted, but we can clearly see that it’s packed with Chinese tourists. Some are pointing at Mama’s old car and exchanging comments. I also notice the thick blue line running down the side of the bus. Collin’s in there.
Mama produces three clicks, and the boys stop their horseplay. “Boys,” she says, pointing to the bus, “I need you to get their attention. Can you do that?” Within seconds, Cujo and Ernie are flashing BAs at the bus. The tourists pull back from the windows, their mouths open. Then come the perplexed smiles. Then the laughter and pointing. Then come the cameras.
“Boys!”
Ernie giggles as he scrambles into the back bay of the wagon and presses his naked butt against the glass. Cujo sits up and eases his head out the window, flicking his tongue between two fingers. I roll down the window and make eye contact with the driver, a gray-haired fellow who looks like he could be a conductor on a steam locomotive. I show my him phone and motion for him to pull over. He nods and starts to slow down, easing onto the shoulder of 101. Mama lets off the gas and pulls in behind. When we come to a stop behind the bus—the cars screaming past us—I let out the biggest sigh of relief. We’ve got him.
“Go get your nephew,” Mama tells me. “I’ll keep the boys here with their new reward for being such good helpers.” Slowly, she pulls out two new minis of whiskey. “That is, as soon as they get their jumpsuits on.” The boys whine and complain, and Mama snaps, “I mean it.”
I get out of the car and trot to the bus, the gravel crunching with each step as the doors open with a long hiss. I look up at the windows and see the faces staring, cameras snapping—but no Collin. When I reach the door and look up, the driver motions me in. “Are you Collin’s dad?”
I step into the bus, and the cameras start shuttering like I’m a world leader. “I’m his uncle.”
Collin is standing on the front seat, holding a microphone. He’s telling the tourists something in Mandarin, and they’re nodding with polite smiles. He turns and seems surprised that it’s me. Where’s his usual smile? He blinks and says something in Mandarin—I’m impressed with his fluency. The tourists offer a collective ahhh, a sympathetic tone, and he looks down like he’s going to cry. I wave to everyone and holler, “Thanks for looking after my amazing nephew,” and they smile and nod. A man in the back says, “He’s a very good little boy. Very smart.”
Collin says, “Where’s my mom?”
“On the phone with Princeton.”
“Does she know I’m on a bus giving a tour in Mandarin?” He looks at me. “For people from China?”
“Yes. Okay, let’s go, kiddo. I’ve got something special planned for you.”
He straightens and faces the tourists. “Can you take a photo of me talking to them?”
I pull out my phone. “Sure, then we have to go.”
“My mom will love this.” He puts the mike to his mouth and thrusts a finger into the air like he’s a lecturer. “It will be great for my college application.” He pauses, glances at me. “Was she worried about me?”
Which is when I notice the dark rings around his eyes.
* * *
I walk Collin to the wagon and stop him short. “Are you okay, kiddo?”
He’s looking down, thinking to himself as the cars roar past us.
“Collin?”
He looks up, his face drawn, so serious, his mouth twisted tight. I’ve never seen him like this. “This will work out okay,” he mumbles, more to himself. “Now maybe I can make it back in time for SAT Prep. I’m still scoring poorly in critical reading and math.” He shakes his head. “Math is really my weak spot.”
I take him by the shoulder and give a light shake. “Collin.”
“I’m hoping the tour bus will score as extra credit, win me some points with my mom and the admissions boards.” He looks up at me, for reaction, hopeful he’s on the right track. “And maybe they’ll overlook my relatively poor performance in math.”
“Collin.”
He looks into space. “I hate math, Uncle Rick. So much pressure.”
I nod. “Whoever invented math was a sadist.”
“My mom says she’s getting me a math coach. Three hours a day all summer.”
I look at the rings around his eyes. This is a new thing. “Are you sleeping okay, kiddo?”
He turns and looks at me, deflated. “The greatest achievers don’t need a lot of sleep. That’s what my dad says.”
“All I know is, you’re a very smart and talented boy.”
Collin snaps, “That’s not good enough.”
I bite my lip and smile. “Listen, how about a Neanderthal adventure?”
This seems to really depress him. It’s like he’s about to cry. “I don’t have time for Neanderthal adventures, Uncle Rick. I’m eight. I need to start thinking about activities that will help me with the college admissions boards.”
“Your mom said it was okay.”
This reaches him, and his eyes brighten. “Really?”
“Really.”
He pinches his chin and thinks. “But I can get to school in time for the SAT Prep. It will look better on my final school record—I helped a busload of Mandarin-speaking tourists, and I still made it back for SAT Prep. That will look good.” He thinks about it, adds, “Did I tell you that Ping and Xiùyīng said they’d write letters of recommendation for me? They’re gonna say what an amazing Mandarin-speaking tour guide I am?”
God, does this kid need a Bob Watson.
“Listen.” I square him toward me and look into his eyes. “What if I told you you could get credit for attending SAT Prep and still go on a Neanderthal adventure? All at the same time?”
An eyebrow lifts. “I do still love Neanderthals . . .” He looks at me, eyes so serious. “. . . even if my mom says there’s no time for them.”
I direct him toward the wagon. “I think it’s time you learned how to pull a Bob Watson.” The bus pulls away with a goodbye honk. “Plus, I have some people I want you to meet.”
* * *
I can tell Collin doesn’t know what to think of Mama and her old Fleetwood station wagon. And he’s a bit suspicious of Ernie’s happy silence. But there’s no question that he loves Cujo. Suddenly, Collin’s eyes are alive, and the vein on his neck is showing. He looks at Cujo, then at me, and then back to Cujo, then back to me. His voice awash in awe, he says, “I can’t believe you did it.”
I buckle Collin beside me in the front seat, and Mama pulls us back onto 101. “What are you talking about, kiddo?”
Collin looks up to me again. “You’re amazing,” he gushes and leans into me affectionately. “The best uncle in the universe.”
“Feel free to tell Audrey that, if you want. Today. Okay?”
His eyes are full of wonder—this is the Collin I know. “How’d you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Get me one.”
“Get you what?”
He looks at Cujo again and shakes his head in happy disbelief. “You know.”
“No, I don’t know. What are you talking about?”
“How’d you . . .” Collin pulls me close, whispers into my ear. “. . . get me . . .” He takes a big breath and he looks at Cujo again. “. . . a real . . . living . . . breathing . . .”
Cujo shifts and announces, “I’m bored.”
“. . . Neanderthal.”
Nean——
I turn back and glance at Cujo and note the stocky build, the heavy brows, the slightly smaller skull, the plentiful body fur. “Oh, no, Cujo is—”
“Thank you.” Collin leans into me, hugs me with all his might. “Thank you so much, Uncle Rick.”
“Collin, honey, you need to under——”
“Uncle Rick?” Collin gazes up at me, his eyes enormous.
Suddenly, I realize I don’t have a car seat for the little guy. Crap!
“Uncle Rick, I just knew it.”
“Knew what, kiddo?”
“I just knew I’d see you one last time.”
“Of course.”
“I just knew we’d go on one last adventure.”
“Just be sure to tell Audrey how awesome it is.”
“I just never could’ve guessed this.” He releases me, throws his hands up in the air, squints into space a moment. “It’s like Danny and the Dinosaur, only better.”
Mama asks, “Ever done a cash transaction, Dickie?”
“Me? Of course.”
“For forty-five thousand dollars?”
Collin announces, “We need to find a lab that can do DNA testing.”
Mama coasts the Fleetwood to the next exit, drives us across the overpass, and gases us back onto 101, northbound. “Get ready to do some counting,” she says.
“Wait a minute,” I snap. “What about Sabine Rorgstardt?”
“Help me with the forty-five thousand, and I’ll get you Sabine.”
“But you said—” My cell vibrates. It’s Audrey. I press the phone to my ear, plug the other ear with a finger, and hunch down. “Audrey?” I say. “I have him.”
She sounds relieved. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine now.” I look at Collin, who is straining to turn and look back at Cujo. “When he came off the bus, he just seemed so focused and wound up. And he’s got rings under his eyes. Is he sleeping?”
Audrey says, “He’s exhausted and stressed out. Has he been talking about the admissions boards?”
“Oh, so that’s a normal thing now? Lovely.” I pull the phone off my ear and shake my head, take a breath. “Do you feel comfortable slapping my sister and her husband back into reality? They’d listen to you. Plus, you’re a short-timer. It’s your last day. What could they do if you pushed them around a little?”
She laughs, says, “I don’t want to think about that.” She clears her throat. “How’s he doing now?”
Collin has unbuckled his seat belt and is climbing over to join Cujo and Ernie in the backseat, nearly whacking Mama in the jaw with his heel. I stiffen in horror at the risky move in a speeding relic. Cujo and Ernie giggle and buckle Collin into the spot between them.
“He’s doing pretty well,” I say. “So I was wondering, what time should we leave tonight for the Greek?”
“Oh.” Her tone is so apologetic. “Well . . . I guess I’m still planning to go to yoga tonight. Sorry.”
“What?” I laugh. “Have you no faith?”
“Well, I guess I really meant it when I said it needs to be special—what you do for Collin. And I guess I haven’t seen that yet.”
I imagine sending Audrey a selfie of me and Collin with Sabine Rorgstardt, Collin’s eyes bright and happy, his cheeks flushed with excitement. “Audrey, I promise that will happen today. Just keep your phone close, okay?”
“Well, call me when you have an update,” she says, “and I can always cancel on yoga.”
Mama glances at me and frowns. “Tell that tramp to retract the claws for a few hours, will ya?”
Audrey says, “Who’s that?”
My face heats up as my mind grinds to a halt.
Mama leans right, pulls an arm off the steering wheel, and snatches the phone out of my hand. She fumbles with the phone before getting it to her ear—only she has it upside down. “Listen, you slutty little home wrecker. Do you think you could find it within yourself to stop the phone fucking for a bit so Dickie here can help me with the boys and handle the forty-five K?” She pulls the phone off her face, looks at the screen, and presses the hang-up button. Tosses it back to me, adds, “And do you think it’s possible to not think about yourself for a change and focus on the family?”
I try to call Audrey back, but it goes to voice mail. I sit back and close my eyes.
Mama says, “Just manage the boys while I drive.”
“Where are we going?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
In the backseat, Collin’s little voice drips with empathy. “Cujo? Do you ever feel . . . you know . . . misunderstood?”
Cujo scratches his beard, straightens his back, and squints into space, thinking. “Misunderstood? You mean like people don’t know the real Cujo?”
Collin’s eyes twinkle as he looks up at him. “Exactly.”
“Totally, little bro.” Cujo squints out the window and mumbles, more to himself, “People don’t understand the real me.”
Collin turns to me, his eyes intense, the vein on his neck popping. “See? It’s exactly what I was telling you. Specism is real.”
Cujo says, “You think I like being shoved into this little piece-of-shit uniform? It’s like my body can’t breathe. I mean, hell, it needs air. You know, ventilation.” He stretches and unzips his jumpsuit to the stomach, exposing large curls of body hair. “A cool breeze of mercy.”
Mama asks me, “Do you have access to a firearm?”
“Me?” I turn back, look at Mama. “No, I don’t have a firearm. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Well, we’ve got the boys, I suppose. You know, in case things go tapioca.”
My phone vibrates—text from my sister. Have Princeton in sec. . . . Remember: vegan snacks ONLY. Whole Foods good option. I’ll repay.
Collin gazes up at Cujo. “You feel like you can’t be you.”
“I’ve always had a lot of hair,” Cujo says, his voice tight, “but it was never a big deal, until now.” He shoots a look at me. “It’s like the Warden and his folks—It’s like they’re saying there’s something wrong with my body.”
Collin snaps, “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
Cujo says, “It’s like the suits think the real Cujo needs to be covered with this little outfit in this stupid color. A color for gomers and dandies.” He twists his mouth and grumbles, “Wage earnin’.”
Collin takes a big breath, lets it out slowly. Finally, he looks up at Cujo. “Do you know about Darwinism?”
“Dar-what?”
“You know, survival of the fittest?” Collin says. “The so-called scholars use that term when . . . when they talk about your . . . your . . . you know . . .” His voice lightens. “. . . your kind?”
“Survival of the fittest?” Cujo shifts and ruminates. “Hell yeah, little bro. That’s exactly what I’d call it.” Cujo wipes a droplet of sweat from his scalp, and Ernie listens eagerly. “My kind? We’re supposed to run wild and free. I mean, there was a day when I’d take what I wanted, when I’d do what I wanted—and yeah, you could call it survival of the fittest.” He cocks his head, licks his lips, and smiles at a thought. “And damn did we have a fucking blast.”
“Hey, dude. Watch the language.”
“All those times, all those years,” Cujo says. “It was like I was expressing myself. Like I was saying, ‘This is me, eggheads. Now try to stop me.’”
Mama takes the ramp for 280 North.
“Where are we going, Mama?’
“Shut up and mind the boys.”
“See, Uncle Rick? The idea that these people have been naturally selected into extinction is an utter fallacy. They live among us still.” Collin bounces in his seat, smacks his hands. “Where did you find him?”
I don’t have the heart to ruin the moment, so I’m selective. “I found him—You’re not gonna believe this, kiddo. I found him in the bushes near my work. You love it in the bushes, don’t you, Cujo?”
Cujo chuckles, licks his lips quickly. “I do.”
“As much as he tries,” Collin announces, “the wild side still calls for him.”
“I tried,” Cujo says. “I really wanted to change.”
Collin yells, “Don’t apologize for your existence. If your kind needed to evolve, it would have happened a long time ago. If you weren’t equipped to survive, you would be extinct.”
“I appreciate that, little bro.” Cujo shakes his head and sighs. “I’m trying to settle down a little, trying to get off the streets, stop making a living off survival of the fittest and start earning a steady income.” He pulls at his jumpsuit and huffs. “Parole officer got me this gig. Some new ‘Invitation to Cooperate’ program for ex-cons. Okay, fine. Give it a shot. But now? Now that I’m here in this fucking uniform, all I can think is, This ain’t me. And the longer I live this life—the more I ‘cooperate’—the more I just want to hightail it back to those bushes and just be me.”
Collin sounds like he’s teaching a college course, presenting Cujo to his students. “The world has never understood your kind.”
“The fucking world wants to change me.”
“Dude,” I yell. “Language.”
“I’m a survival-of-the-fittest guy,” Cujo says. “Invitation to Cooperate? It’s more like Invitation to Lick the Warden’s Cornhole.”
Collin is aglow. “You want to do it the old way, don’t you? You know, caveman style.”
“Caveman style?” Cujo chuckles and looks down at Collin. “I like you, little bro.”
“Perhaps we can stay in touch. I’d like track your movements, your migration patterns, if you don’t mind. I mean, especially if you decide to go back to the caveman style.”
Cujo says, “Have you ever dropped some heat in the wild, dude?”
“Huh?”
My sister texts, Also feel free to practice math facts in Mandarin.
“You should try it,” Cujo says. “Shitting in the bushes is actually kinda cool. It’s like it’s my way of reconnecting with my wild side.” He raises an eyebrow. “The primal Cujo.” He fingers his beard and grins into space. “The Cujo that squats in a bush and does what comes natural.”
& please be open to giving him leadership opportunities. Great practice. Thanks ☺
Collin says, “But you guys can do anything we do. In fact, many of your kind mated with our kind. It’s just that you prefer to be wild.”
Cujo puffs his chest out, searches for the right words. “It’s like I’m a house cat, but kinda feral.”
Collin twinkles up at him. “You’re very self-aware.”
* * *
We’re sailing up 280 when my phone vibrates again. I brace for more Overachiever Fever insanity until I realize it’s actually a pic from Audrey. I tap on the thumbnail, and it blooms into full-screen wonderfulness. It’s a pic of her naked feet, crossed at the ankles, her lovely calves and lower legs showing, skin as smooth as the finest silk. Nothing risqué or exhibitionist, but sexy as hell and maybe a little flirty. And I wonder if it’s my man brain that is making this pic seem so sexy. It’s basically a pair of feet on some type of ottoman.
A caption comes in: Did my nails red and white, just like Beat colors ☺
I should have noticed, but I hadn’t. I look again, and indeed she’s got the colors of the English Beat (red, white, and black) on her nails—her big toes even bear the band’s signature checkered black and white pattern. How freaking cool is that? I tap back, Is this ur way of saying we’re on for 2nite?
My phone buzzes. No. . . . It’s my way of saying I’m pulling for u.
I stare at the pic some more. She’s killing me.
From the back, Cujo says, “Whoa.” His voice is nearly shaky. He slumps in his seat and swats Ernie on the knee. “Dude, check it out.” Ernie looks, sees what Cujo sees, and ducks, encouraging Collin to do the same thing.
Collin is popping, he’s so excited. “What is it?” he rasps.
Which is when I notice the Datsun 120y coupe and its occupants, coming up on our right. They’re wearing seafoam-green shirts. Long sleeves. Zip-ups, just like . . . Or, actually . . . Jumpsuits? My heart sinks as I give them another look, my mind scrambling for a reason—any reason—to believe that we’re not being tailed by a carload of conployees.
I give them one last look.
They’re smiling at us. But not really.
* * *
Mama says, “I thought I told you to stop hanging out with those boys.”
Cujo slides a little lower, and Ernie grips his prongs.
Collin whispers excitedly, “Who are they?”
“Did you hear me?”
The Datsun is loaded down with so many conployees, the rear bumper is inches from scraping the road. I don’t want to look over, but I do for one final assessment. Of course, they’re all staring at me, and I jerk away, but the vision sizzles.
Shaved heads, with lots of ink work.
Expectant eyebrows.
Steady eyes.
Toothy grins.
My scalp tingles, and my face flushes. “Hit the gas, Mama,” I say. “Let’s lose these guys.”
Mama huffs. “I’m not running away from a bunch of overgrown burnouts.” She frowns, glances at me. “What kind of example is that for the boys? Letting their bully friends dictate what we do, letting them have control over our lives?”
Cujo says, “C’mon, Mama. Listen to the Warden. Let’s lose these guys.”
“I told you to stop associating with these losers.”
Collin reddens. “Neanderthals are not losers.”
“Mama, you don’t understand.” Cujo twirls his beard and nearly whispers. “At Robards, these guys kind of run the show.”
She laughs. “Is that true, Dickie?”
“I—”
“No,” Cujo says. “I mean, they run the sideshow. Not like the Warden and his suits run the office shit. I mean these guys kinda run the side businesses in the Little Big House.”
“The what?”
“You know, the Little Big House. The conployee building at work. It’s like a little big house—you know, a little prison—on account of all the ex-cons working there. For a lot of guys, it kinda feels like the old days in prison. You know, with gangs and posses and guys who call the shots inside.”
Collin says, “We always figured they had a hierarchical social structure, but now I have documentable proof. Uncle Rick, did you bring our field log?”
We approach the Sand Hill exit, and I motion for Mama to take the exit.
“So these guys run the show amongst the cons?”
Cujo says, “They run the show for one of the crews in the Little Big House.”
“And you and Ernie don’t play with these boys?”
“Nah.” Cujo kinda mumbles. “We’re friendly with the Robards Syndicate. But these guys here are the Robards Clown Posse.”
“Interesting,” Collin says, more to himself. “They don’t have the classic look—the pronounced brow and massive bone structure—that we see here in my new best friend, Cujo.”
Mama takes the Sand Hill exit, and the Robards Clown Posse falls in behind. “Cujo, your father and I want you to be one hundred percent honest with us.”
Silence.
“You hear me?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Why are these boys following us?”
“Mama, I swear. I don’t know.” Cujo leans forward, as if to punctuate the point. “Ernie and me, we kinda keep it low-profile. We don’t run any action in the Little Big House. Not like the Robards Clown Posse.”
Mama scoots up on her seat, bites her lip. “Where am I going, honey?”
I squint into the side-view mirror, and the Robards Clown Posse is right up on us, the Datsun nearly kissing Mama’s bumper. “Okay, pull a right here.”
“Where in the hell am I going?” she yells.
“Take this right,” I snap. “Right here.”
Mama growls. “These boys are really starting to piss me off.” She guns the Fleetwood, and we jerk forward. “Who do they think they are?” Another growl. “No respect.”
We’re on the four-lane Sand Hill Road. “Stay in the right lane here, Mama.”
The Datsun dives into the left lane and makes a run up on us. Mama cusses and jerks the Fleetwood to the left. The Datsun skids and veers farther left. “Little punks,” she mutters and keeps the Fleetwood over the lane dividers.
“Mama,” Cujo says. “I wouldn’t piss these guys off.”
Collin suddenly looks a little scared.
“I thought I told you,” she roars. “I don’t tolerate bullies. And neither should you.”
We come up on the first light, and I say, “Turn in here.”
“Where?”
“Take a right,” I snap. “Here. Right here.”
Mama pulls a sweeping right, with no brakes, and the Fleetwood screeches and grazes the corner curb. “How many times have I told you I’m not a goddamn mind reader?” she says. “Some things never change. Where in the hell am I?”
The Datsun is right behind us.
“Rosewood Sand Hill.”
“What?”
I yell into her ear, “The goddamn Rosewood Sand Hill.”
She skids the Fleetwood to a halt, and the Datsun swerves to avoid slamming into us. She turns and lowers her head as she glares into my eyes. “Don’t you dare yell at me. How many times have I told you?”
I deflate, look away. “Sorry. I’m just worked—”
“What an awful example for the boys.”
“I know. I’m just—”
“To speak to the mother of your children that way.”
Okay, this is getting really weird.
I close my eyes a moment. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
She jerks the Fleetwood forward, and the Datsun self-corrects and follows.
Softly, she asks, “Now, where are we?”
“A very fancy hotel.” I motion for her to roll into the front check-in area, where bellhops are waiting. “Just pull in here. I’m sure there are cameras everywhere.”
“Yeah, they won’t try anything here,” Cujo says and glances back at the Datsun. “Not with all this security.”
I know we are quite the scene here. The Rosewood Sand Hill has become the meeting place for venture capitalists, billionaires, and all other types of Silicon Valley elites and their associated ecosystem. Situated in the rolling foothills of Menlo Park, the Rosewood is where one might hook up with a rich sugar mama or daddy. Where one may gawk and play rich. Porsches and Teslas and Fiskers populate the valet parking areas.
And here we are—our motley crew—pulling up in a forty-year-old station wagon, followed by a Datsun packed with inked-up ex-cons. For a moment, the Rosewood staff seem a bit baffled—just standing there, staring at us—but they recover and spring into action, gliding toward us, smiling, ready to open doors.
“Now,” Mama says, “I want you boys on your best behavior.”
A happy young man opens her door. “Welcome to the Rosewood.”
Mama looks to me. “What the hell are we doing here? We have to get the merchandise.”
Another man opens my door, and I say to Mama, “Let’s go into the lobby. They aren’t going to screw with us here. I’ll get you guys situated, then I’ll take the Fleetwood to Collin’s school so he can get his things and pull a Bob Watson.”
Mama looks into the rearview mirror. The Robards Clown Posse are piling out of their car, stretching and straightening out their seafoam-green jumpsuits. One of them tosses the keys to a bellhop. “And what about these boys? You expect me to handle these clowns while you and the runt enjoy a Sunday drive to the school?”
“No. Let’s all go the lobby, have a seat, and figure this thing out. Then Collin and I will go to the school. You and the boys can have a drink, and we’ll come back and pick you all up.”
The Clown Posse has fanned out and circled the Fleetwood, and one of the bellhops has tucked his chin into his lapel, whispering into a tiny microphone, his jaw tight.
“Fine.” Mama shuffles to get out of the wagon. “Cujo, be a good helper boy and get Mama that little orange cooler from the back.” Cujo twists, reaches, and turns back with the cooler. “Thank you, sweetie,” Mama coos, and Cujo swings it over the front seat and into her lap. “Now you boys do as I say, okay?”
“Yes, Mama.”
We step out of the wagon, and a large, well-dressed man from the hotel approaches with a grimace. He’s wearing an earpiece, and he’s scanning the Clown Posse. “Welcome to the Rosewood.”
“Thanks.” I pull out my wallet and finger through my bills. The smallest is a twenty. Oh, what the hell? I hand it to him. “We’re just having a drink in the lobby. And oh . . .” I turn to the bellhop on the driver’s side. “. . . I’ll be back out in a few minutes, so you may want to park it nearby.” I nod to the collection of polished roadsters and sedans on display forty feet away, failing to suppress a grin. “That cool?”
“Certainly, sir.”
One of the Clowns steps forward, his eye gleaming. He’s got a small black Nike bag slung over his shoulder, and his jumpsuit is partially unzipped, revealing a massive, heavily inked chest. “Same with us.” My God, his voice is gravelly. He sounds like Wolfman Jack with a touch of Larry King. “We’ll be quick,” he adds, and his buddies chortle, puffing their chests out and grinning.
I say, “I think we can be professional about this, guys.”
Nike Bag gives me a long look, and his face softens. He turns to his buddies, whispers something, and they turn back to me with true fear on their faces. “Mr. Warden,” he says, startled. They back up, and he points over his shoulder with a thumb. “We can take off, Mr. Warden. I mean, we didn’t know you were involved.”
“I’m not the Warden, guys.”
“Of course he’s the Warden,” Mama says. “You’ve seen his picture.”
I feel my chest rise. “I’m Rick Blanco, and all I want to do is go to the Greek with my nephew’s nanny.”
Their worried eyes tell me they don’t believe.
“We’re sorry, Warden. We didn’t know this was your side action. We thought this one was fair game. I mean, like you say in those videos, the company wants us to show our entrepreneurial side.”
“Entrepreneurial side for Robards International,” I say. “Not yourselves.”
“Yes, Warden. You’re right. Well, maybe we could give you—er, I mean Robards—a part of our cut.”
“The Warden doesn’t want a part of your little cut,” I snap, marveling at how easily all of this is spilling out, how easy it is to be Dick Rayborne, EVP of Human Resources at Robards International. “The Warden makes tens of millions of dollars a year. Do you think the Warden cares about your side action?” They step back, listen intently. “The Warden cares about lowering the cost of total head count.”
Nike Bag puts his palms out. “Whatever the Warden wants to do, we’re cool.” He tries to gauge my eyes. “If the Warden would prefer we just got back in our car and returned to work, that’s fine with us, too.”
“Guys, let’s just go inside and figure this thing out. Whatever ‘this thing’ is.”
Nike Bag is so pleasant. “Whatever the Warden wants.”
Cujo approaches from behind and puts a huge arm around me. “You probably can tell already.” He squeezes. “The Warden’s a doofus.”
The Clowns ease up, crack a few smiles, and exchange a few more whispers.
Mama yanks the barbecue prongs from Ernie’s grasp. “Boys,” she barks. “Come with me. All of you.” She marches into the hotel, her head down, clutching the cooler in one arm as she lifts the prongs into the air and points forward. “We’re gonna straighten this out right now.”
* * *
We’re seated across from the Robards Clown Posse, which is squeezed into a lobby sofa. Three Clowns are trying to stare me down, trying to get under my skin as they whisper things to each other while never breaking eye contact. A fourth Clown, his eyes too close together, is leering at two lovely young women seated across the lobby. I keep Collin at my side, my left arm firmly around his waist, and he scoots closer.
A young waiter arrives with a tray of champagne flutes. “Okay,” he says, not unlike a kindergarten teacher. The Clowns scoot up to make eye contact, trying to intimidate him. He’s of course unflappable, his pleasant face unwavering as he places flutes on the coffee table between us. “I’ll be right back with the bottle.”
He hurries away, and the Clowns snicker.
Mama raises the prongs. “Okay, boys,” she snaps and jabs the Nike bag guy in the pecs. “Enough bullshit.”
Collin and the boys giggle, and Nike Bag rubs his chest. “Hey, watch it with that, lady.”
She jabs him again. “Don’t you ‘lady’ me.”
I notice a security detail gathering, eyeing the prongs.
She jabs him again, in the knee.
“Hey, c’mon.”
“I’m your elder.” Then she softens at a nice thought. “You can call me Mama.”
“Fine.” Nike Bag rubs his chest. “Damn.”
“Now.” She straightens a bit and stares at him. “What do you punks want with my boys?”
Nike Bag chuckles. “Lady—” Mama raises the prongs, and he jerks back, palms out. “I mean, Mama. . . . Mama, we don’t want nothin’ with the Robards Syndicate. I swear. We don’t need no more riots in the Little Big House, or anything like that. The Clown Posse is all about becoming businessmen.” He nods at the cooler between Mama’s feet. “Which is why all we want is that thing there.”
Mama leans forward and looks into his eyes. “And how do you know about this thing here?”
“Mr. Flanduzi gave us specific instructions.” He frowns. “You ain’t the seller?”
Flanduzi? Who in the hell is Flanduzi?
Mama says, “I’m the helper, you nitwit. So is Dickie here.”
“Helper? We don’t care about no helpers. We’re representing the buyer, Mr. Huloojasper.” He reaches down and pulls a slip of yellow paper from his shoe. He unfolds it carefully, looks at me, and returns to the scribble on the paper. “You don’t know Bobby Flan—— . . . Flan . . . duzi?”
Mama straightens and jabs him in the thigh. He cusses.
“Does he look like he knows anything?” Mama snaps. “Who sent you boys?”
“Mr. Flanduzi.”
“Bobby Flanduzi? And what did he tell you to do?”
“He told us to go to meet him tonight at his house, and that he’d give us that there red thing. And then we’d need to make the sale with Mr. Huloojasper. So we were scouting Mr. Flanduzi’s neighborhood—just to make sure we knew what to expect tonight—when you came out of his house with the red thing.”
“Cooler.”
“Whatever. And that’s when we saw that the . . .” He nods to Cujo and Ernie. “. . . Robards Syndicate was involved. So we call Mr. Flanduzi, and he says, follow them. So that’s what we did.” He sits back and chuckles to himself. “I don’t think Mr. Flanduzi is cut out for this type of thing.”
Mama says, “I told Bobby Flanduzi that I’d handle the sale.” She looks down, sighs. “He said, ‘Absolutely not. You’re nuts, stay away from my family.’” Mama rolls her eyes at the memory. “But he and Linda have enough to deal with already, so I vetoed him there.”
“No one told us they changed the meet-up time and place.”
Mama frowns at a thought, sighs again. “I guess I didn’t. I guess I just got a little confused. When Dickie called this morning, I guess I thought we could do this at Dickie’s compound.”
“I’m not Dick—”
“Shut up.” Mama takes a breath, steadies herself. “Now, I want you boys to listen.” She taps the cooler with the prongs. “I know exactly how much Bobby Flanduzi wants for this.”
“Look, Mama, we’re just the brokers here. You give us the cooler, we give you this bag here, and we give the cooler to Mr. Huloojasper.” He looks at his buddies, proud. “And Mr. Flanduzi pays us a transaction fee.”
“Who’s Bobby Flanduzi?” I ask.
Mama seems astounded. “You don’t even know your employees.”
“And Huloojasper?”
“We found him,” Nike Bag says. “We found the buyer, we did it all.”
Mama says, “Okay, let me see the bag.”
He lifts it, lowers it onto her lap. “Go ahead.”
Slowly, her fragile fingers work the zipper. I feel everyone in the lobby watching as she pulls the zipper flap away. “Okay, let’s see,” she says as the contents become apparent to everyone in the lobby.
Cash.
Lots of cash.
Bundles of twenties.
Lots and lots of bundles of twenties.
I’m hit by the ripe scent of well-circulated bills.
“Forty-five thousand,” says Nike Bag. “Go ahead and have your Dickie count it.”
The waiter returns with the bottle of champagne, a $485 selection that Nike Bag had made after a four-second review of the wine list. I reach to put the flap back over the cash, and Mama swats my hand. “Keep your greedy corporate paws off that.”
Collin’s eyes enlarge, and he rasps, “Unbelievable.”
The waiter notices the cash, acts like he didn’t see it, and presents the bottle to us. “Okay,” he says. “We have a Pol Roger brut, Sir Winston Churchill, 1999.”
Nike Bag nudges the Clown sitting beside him, nods at the waiter, and grins.
“If I could just get a credit card from the party.”
Silence.
The waiter glances at the bag on Mama’s lap. “Or if you’d prefer to pay in cash.”
Mama turns to me. “Coming here was your idea.”
Silence.
All of this, so I can hold Audrey in my arms in the middle of an English Beat set? So I can take her home and start something special? So I can quit my job, house-sit a mansion, and ditch the rat race for two years? So I can write my book and perhaps save a generation from wasting thousands—no, millions—of hours in useless meetings? So I can show my troubled nephew that the Bob Watson can (and will) change his life?
“Fine,” I snap and pull out my credit card. “Here.”
“Should I keep it open?”
“Sure,” says Nike Bag. “But before you crack that thing, can I take a look?”
“Of course.”
“I just want to make sure it’s what I ordered.”
“Certainly.”
Nike Bag takes the bottle and makes a big deal of inspecting the label, squinting as he runs a forefinger under the text, mumbling to himself. He tosses it a little, like he’s weighing it. “For buoyancy,” he informs.
The waiter shifts and watches.
He jerks it around, thrusts it up in the air, into the sunlight, and peers into the bottle. “Hmm.” He turns it upside down, then quickly right-sides it. “There’s something about this one.”
“Would you like me to cancel the order?”
“Sure,” I say, “maybe that—”
“Nah,” says Nike Bag. “It’s probably just me.”
The waiter turns and looks back to the bar, which is when Nike Bag gives the bottle a few quick shakes. When the waiter turns back to us, Nike Bag offers a sweet smile, his bad teeth showing.
“Okay?” asks the waiter.
Nike Bag hands the bottle back, so gentle. “Definitely okay.”
“Shall I?”
An unapologetic groan. “Please.”
The Clowns and the boys scoot to the edges of their seats, eager. Nike Bag tells the waiter, “Back in the pen, where there are no ladies, you’d do just fine. You know what I mean, sweetie?”
They giggle as they watch him untwist the wire casing.
“There you go,” he says. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
The waiter can’t suppress a laugh. “Okay, dudes.”
“That’s good,” Nike Bag says. “Keep doing that there.”
The waiter pulls off the casing, sticks out a foot, and begins to pull on the cork.
Nike Bag says, “I think you got it.”
Waiter keeps pulling.
Someone moans.
Mama lifts the prongs. “Boys.”
“Here, sweetie.” Nike Bag stands and struts up behind him, his voice deep and throaty. “Let’s do this together.”
“No, please take a seat.” The waiter pulls the cork off, and white foam shoots everywhere. Hundreds of dollars’ worth of aged champagne drips down the bottle and onto the table and carpet. The Clowns roar and oooh and ahhh, and the waiter stands back and chuckles, shaking his head.
“Someone get this sweetie a towel.”
What remains of the champagne, the waiter pours into our flutes. “I feel like I’ve just been in the weirdest episode of Scared Straight!” he says, laughing. “I don’t think I’ll even commit a parking violation.”
Nike Bag lifts his flute toward Mama, says, “Good times.”
Mama tries to move the bag to my lap but loses her grip, and cash pours out, tumbling onto the couch and floor. Ernie’s eyes bulge. Cujo announces, “Piñata time,” and drops to all fours in a mad crawl to the money. Collin and Ernie join him.
There’s a loud murmur in the lobby as scores of young venture capitalists, silver foxes, and “gold diggers” watch us with strained, ashen faces.
Nike Bag says, “Hand over the goods.”
Cujo is at our feet, scooping up bundles and shoving them down his jumpsuit.
“Cujo!”
More scooping, until Mama reaches down, grabs him by the ear, and twists hard.
He freezes. “Okay, okay.”
Still gripping and twisting. “That’s Flanduzi family money.”
“Okay, Mama. Okay.”
She presses the prongs against his throat. “Dickie’s gonna count all of this right here, and if there’s even twenty dollars missing, it’s coming out of your allowance, wild child.”
Allowance? No. That can’t be—
“Okay, Mama. Please.”
Collin and Ernie are frozen, watching.
She lets go, and he rolls onto his butt. “Christ, Mama.” He rubs his ear, then begins to pull the bundles out of his jumpsuit, throwing them at me, hard. I feel like a bad juggler failing to handle an incoming volley of balls. Breathless, I scoop up the bundles and shove them into the bag. People are watching. The murmuring gets louder, and soon a tall member of hotel security is standing before us. “I’m afraid we’ve received some complaints,” he says, eyeing the bag. “I think you may need to—”
“Hey, dude.” One of the Clowns—another beefy bald guy, but with Prince Charles ears—stands up and stares him down. “You got a problem?”
“We do have a problem.”
“I’m about to have a problem, too.” Long stare. “With you. If you don’t leave.”
The security manager backs away, whispers into a microphone on his lapel.
Okay, five minutes before the first cop shows up.
Mama yells, “Start counting, Dickie.”
Crap. I take a bundle and start fingering the twenties.
Nike Bag says, “Hand it over, Mama.”
There’s fifty twenties in the bundle. I start to count the bundles, pulling them out of the bag and stacking them neatly on my lap, my knees closed tight. Collin and Ernie are kneeling at my feet, watching with wonder. I can nearly feel the eyes of forty additional onlookers.
Mama takes the cooler and lowers it onto the table.
Okay, forty-five bundles, times a kilobuck a bundle. That’s forty-five K.
“It’s all here,” I announce, and I have to admit it feels good to say it.
“Put it back in the bag, honey, and zip it up.” She nods to the cooler and frowns at Nike Bag. “I want you kids to open that up. I don’t want anyone saying we didn’t deliver the goods.”
I bag the cash, catch the waiter’s eye, and wave him down. “Just go ahead and close the tab,” I say. “And add fifty as a tip.”
Nike Bag says, “Mr. Huloojasper said no tampering.”
“Too bad,” Mama says. “Open it, confirm it’s all there.”
Prince Charles Ears says, “That’s not how it’s done in white-collar business.”
“Dude, in white collar, it’s all digital and shit.”
And I hear myself say, “Someone trusted you guys with forty-five K in cash?”
Mama’s losing patience. “Open the goddamn cooler, boys.” She points the prongs at me. “And use that cordless telephone of yours.”
“Huh?”
“Take a photograph with your cordless telephone.” She’s yelling now. “A photograph of the Clown boys with the contents.”
The waiter delivers the bill, with the credit card already run through. I sign the charge slip and take the card.
Nike Bag stalls.
“C’mon, boys.”
“Mr. Huloojasper said—”
“You can tell Mr. Huloo-what’s-his-name that this deal is off unless we can prove this transaction was completed fully and that we did give you Clowns the goods.”
He sits there, looking to his colleagues for direction.
“Here.” Mama is on her feet, shuffling around the coffee table. “I’ll open it. Give that to me.” He looks to me. “Honey,” she snaps, irritated. “Get your telephone camera ready.”
By the time I am ready to click off a few shots, we’re surrounded by a small audience of silver foxes, hotel staff, and even our waiter. It reminds me of one of those scenes in the movies when someone’s hot at the craps table and has begun to draw a crowd. I step closer and squat to get a better shot. “Okay,” I announce, and Mama reaches down and flips open the tiny lid.
Everyone’s silent, staring at the contents. I snap off a few shots.
Cujo breaks the silence. “Forty-five K?” He fingers his beard, thinking, staring. “For those?”
Mama looks at me. “Honey, you better get Collin to school.”
Shit, she’s right. I pat my pants, checking for my keys and wallet.
“Just give me your telephone,” she says. “In case I need to call your tramp. Or maybe even your sister.”
I hear myself laugh. “Um . . . No.”
Mama says, “Um . . . Yes.”
“Mama, I don’t think you want to have the phone.”
She squints at me, waiting for more.
“The cops will be tracking that phone soon. That phone is probably already connected to an assortment of felonies that have happened today. Break-ins. Car chases. Kidnapping—me. Illegal cash transactions. Phone calls with the loved ones of your victims. You’re leaving digital fingerprints everywhere.”
Her face deflates. “How does that work?”
“Why don’t I keep it?” I say. “I wouldn’t want anyone to find you with this phone.”
Mama straightens and folds her arms.
“Think about it, Mama.”
“Dickie,” she says. “Would you like to meet my friend Sabine?”
I roll my eyes, defeated, and nod.
“Then give me the fucking telephone.” She puts out a hand. “Now.”
“It’s gonna get your arrested,” I say. “And the boys are gonna lose their parole.”
Mama says, “Last chance for Sabine.”
Fine. I hand it over.
“Take the wagon,” she says, irritated. “And Cujo, too.” She shuffles back to her seat, oblivious to the dozens of people staring at her. “Ernie and I will stay here with the money.” She takes a few big breaths as she lowers herself back onto the couch. “The Clown boys are going to take Mr. Huloo-guy’s purchase and leave us before the cops show up.” She gives them the don’t-you-get-it-eyes. “Right, boys?”
“Fine. C’mon, Collin and Cujo. We’re gonna do an errand.”
Collin gets up, but Cujo doesn’t move. He’s still looking into the cooler on Nike Bag’s lap. “Cujo,” Mama snaps. “Stop staring at the monkey drool and go.”
Still staring.
“Cujo,” Mama roars, leans over and stabs him in the shoulder with the prongs.
He blinks hard, shakes his face, snapping himself out of it. “Huh?”
“Go with Dad.”
The Clowns are mobilizing. They head toward the exit, champagne flutes in their hands, the cooler of “monkey drool” in the protective clutch of Nike Bag.
Cujo turns to Mama, confusion in his eyes. “Dad?”
“Dickie,” she snaps. “Go with Dickie and the kid, and make sure he comes back.”
Cujo releases a plaintive moan. “Me? Why not Ernie?”
We look at Ernie, who seems to have gone into a trance as he stares at the ceiling.
“I want you to go.”
“Ah, c’mon, Mama.”
“Don’t you dare argue with me, mister.”
“Fine.” Cujo gets up, his body deflated. “I get all the boring chores.”
She turns to me, says quietly, “We’ve spoiled them, haven’t we?”
“That’s what I wanted to do,” Cujo moans. “I wanted to stay here with the monkey drool.”
Mama stiffens. “The monkey drool’s gone. The Clown boys just left with it.”
Cujo pouts. “Or at least stay here with the forty-five K.”
Collin squeaks, “Me, too.”
“Listen.” Mama stands up and points the prongs at Cujo. She’s yelling again. “Go take the fucking kid to school. The forty-five K isn’t going anywhere.”
“Whatever.” Cujo heads toward the exit. “C’mon, Warden. Let’s do this fast and get back to the cash.”
From behind us, the sound of a dog clicker. Cujo turns just in time to snatch a mini of Thunderbird out of the air. He stops, twists off the cap, and makes a big show of pouring the liquor into his mouth, lifting the little bottle high into the air, creating a long stream. When he’s done, he straightens, swallows, and allows a contented sigh. He tosses the empty to a passing bellhop, who fumbles with it before it tumbles down the hallway. “Okay.” He pushes out a tiny burp. “Let’s do this.”
Collin looks up at him in wonder.
Onlookers provide a wide clearance.
“So, Mr. Warden,” he says and unzips his jumpsuit a tad, revealing more body fur.
“I’m not the Warden.”
We turn the corner and see that the bellhops somehow already have Mama’s wagon pulled up, doors open. It strikes me, this metallic-blue relic “popping out” in stark contrast to nearly everything else here at the Rosewood, a defiant artifact nearly aglow in this citadel of polished, sparkling newness. Collin releases my hand and bolts for the wagon, squealing as he dives into the backseat.
“What’s the deal with this kid?”
“He’s my nephew.”
“Oh.” Cujo sounds mildly surprised. “I figured he was yours.”
Maybe it’s the moment. The wild moment that has me off guard. Or maybe it’s the half glass of champagne on an empty stomach. Whatever the reason, I hear the words tumble out of my mouth. “Oh, no. I could never have a kid. Not after what I did.”
Cujo stops abruptly. He turns, grabs my shirt, and looks into me, and I notice a depth in those eyes—could it be warmth, or even compassion?—that I hadn’t seen before.
“So . . .” His voice is suddenly so gentle. “Was that really monkey drool?”