Three

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Bryant says, “I want in.”

I squint. “What are you talking about?”

“You heard me, partner. I want in.”

We’re in his car, right in front of my house. Kate, Rod, and the boys are standing on the porch watching us. Across the street, Crazy Larry is on his own porch—nursing a coffee and staring.

I wipe a bit of blood off my nose. “Want in?”

Bryant folds his arms and glances at me. “I want in. Whatever this is, I want in.”

“Want in,” I repeat, my mind scrambling.

“I want a piece of the action.”

“Piece of the what?”

“C’mon, partner. You think I’m some idiot?”

I shake my head.

“I looked you up, got your employer. Found out you’ve been there since the beginning, almost.” He pauses. “Read a few stories. They say employees who’ve been at FlowBid awhile—guys like you—are worth millions.”

You have got to be kidding me. “Sir, I’m not a millionaire.”

“Bullshit.” He wipes his mustache real fast, glances at me. “On paper, you’re worth millions, for sure.”

“Whatever.” I look out, and Crazy Larry is still watching us, so calm. “So you want me to give you money I don’t have, or else you’ll make my life a living hell over that sandbox incident?”

Real slow. “No. No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I learned some things this morning that lead me to conclude you’re in a big mess.”

I try not to freak. “And what’s that?”

“I just locked down some details on this suspect.”

My chest tightens. “Did you get his name?”

“Well, that’s just the thing. You see, I wanna help, but my caseload is huge and I got a ton of other cases that need attention.”

I laugh. “In San Carlos?”

He smiles to himself. “I’m busy.”

“Oh, I see.” I feel the rage building. “Too busy to investigate this guy, unless I make a donation to the Detective Bryant Fund?”

“Hell no.” He laughs, folds his arms. “No, I just want in on whatever it is you’ve got going.”

I think about it a second, realize Bryant must have something good on Baldy.

“Sir, I don’t have anything going.”

“Like hell.”

“Well, there’s obviously something going on, but damned if I know what it is.”

He smiles. “You sure about that?”

I close my eyes and exhale. Tell him about the geeks? My options?

“Because this guy yesterday? This guy who’s after you?”

“Yeah?”

“I got a positive ID on him, I think.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“And if he’s who I think he is, he’s not some everyday dude.”

“Who is he?”

He chuckles. “Well, hold on, partner.”

I look away, shake my head. “Unbelievable.”

He says, “First, I want you to understand where I’m coming from.”

I sit back in the seat, fold my arms.

“Let me give you a little background.” He looks down, and his face tightens. “You see, partner. I’ve been working my ass off all these years, barely making it.”

Long pause. “Okay . . .”

“And I just sit here every day and watch you kids run around with your money. All you cocky little pricks who’ve done nothing, just worked a few years, and then you’re set for life.”

I look away and shake my head. “I’m not like that.”

“And all I’m saying is, I want my shot.” He sounds almost like a kid. “I want my fucking shot at the action.” He’s yelling now. “Been working all my life, serving the community, barely making it, watching kids like you skip right into the millions, just being at the right place at the right time, and all I’m saying is, I want in.”

He turns and looks at me.

“I want in. I want a shot at making a little money. I want to pay off my mortgage. I want to stop worrying about the bills for a change.”

We look at each other for a long time. There’s pain in his eyes, hope in his brows.

“I don’t want your money, partner. I just want a shot at the action.”

I look away and think about it.

Crazy Larry is watching us, his head cocked in bewilderment, like he’s a cat and I’m a new windup toy.

“Sir, I don’t know about any ‘action.’ I have no idea why this guy is on me, and I’m not involved in any big deal or anything.”

“But you have to be.”

“Because of this bald guy?”

“Exactly.”

“And you’re not going to tell me who he is, are you?”

He shakes his head no. “I don’t have to tell you. I can proceed with my investigation without telling you a thing.”

“But if I decide to tell you everything I know?”

He nods. “Then I’d be more than happy to tell you everything I know. All you have to promise me is, once we figure out what’s happening, I have a chance to get a cut. Like, if it involves insider information, I get a chance to invest accordingly.”

“Fine. But why are you so sure there’s any action to be had?”

He folds his arms and smiles. “With this guy? Your friend from the sandbox? This guy doesn’t get involved unless there’s money to be had—a lot of money.”

My stomach weakens.

He whispers, “Okay, partner. You first.”

So I tell him. I tell him everything.

And he tells me.

And I realize I’m in way over my head.

“What was that about?” Kate is holding Ben, soothing him. “You guys were out there for like an hour.”

I push my hair out of my face. “We were just trading information.”

I can hear Rod and Harry laughing in the boys’ room.

“You look pale.” She studies my face. “Are you okay?”

I look back into her eyes. Damn, she’s beautiful, and warm, and I wish we could go back to that time when everything was so easy and natural between us, when I could wrap my arms around her and she’d smile to herself and fall into me. Of course, life was so much simpler back then—before kids, before corporate, before we dove headfirst into the rushing white waters of our new life.

“Not sure.”

Light tapping on the front door. Kate and I glance at each other, then at the door.

From the other side: “Yoooooooooooooooo-hoooooo?”

Kate looks away and sighs.

“What is it?” I snap.

The door opens, and Calhoun eases his head through. “Morning, sugar pops.” He giggles and raises an eyebrow. “Mind if I come in?”

I struggle to get up. “Actually, this isn’t the greatest—”

He pushes through, looks around. “Well, well, well, isn’t this the little Taj Mahal?” He’s taking it all in, his eyes working fast; it’s the first time he’s made it inside our house, and he knows it’ll probably be the last. “Someone likes his Fancy Town.”

He’s still wearing the robe, and he’s sipping coffee out of a plastic Goofy mug, ears and all.

“Calhoun, we’re kinda dealing with a few things right now.”

He puts his free hand on his hip and blows a raspberry at me, long and sloppy, spit spraying everywhere. His lower lip eases out as he waits for a reaction.

“Calhoun, we just—”

“So you decide to have a little party over here, and you don’t even invite little ol’ Calhoun, the man who saved your life?”

Kate laughs, says, “Does this look like a party? Okay, sure, there’s vomit in the hallway. And, yeah, the cops came. But this isn’t that kind of party.”

He closes his eyes. “One would have assumed you’d have me over for waffles and bacon this morning”—he tucks his chin, hopeful; opens his eyes, pleading—“considering I saved your little lover’s life.”

“Well, we’re sorry, Calhoun. We just have—”

“Calhoun!” It’s Harry in the hallway, waving him over.

“Come see the LEGO city I built with Rod.”

Calhoun looks at me, says, “I’d love to.” He marches toward the boys’ room, stops, and turns back to Kate with those pleading eyes. “Not even a little plate of Eggos?”

Like scolding a dog: “Calhoun, no.”

“Fine.” He gives us a final raspberry, real quick, and turns to Harry. “Your mommy no leggo her Eggos.”

Harry smiles, not getting it.

“But let’s see your LEGOs.” They laugh and pad down the hallway.

Kate turns to me. “What did he tell you?”

“Who, Calhoun?”

“What? No, the detective.”

“Oh.”

She feels my forehead with the back of her hand. “I’m worried about you.”

“I think I’m losing it.” Then again, I think, an hour ago some guy broke into our garage and tried to take my head off with a shovel.

“Just stay focused a little longer,” she softens, “and then I’ll put you down for a nap.” She’s talking to me like I’m one of the children, and I have to admit that, on this day, I like it. “Danny Boy needs some sleep.”

I nod.

“And maybe some more Vicodin?”

Another nod.

“Mama’s gonna take care of you,” she says.

Ben snuggles closer to her, sighs, “Mommy.”

“Now tell Mommy what the detective said”—her voice hardens—“so we can get a plan going.”

Down the hall, I hear Calhoun announce, “Potty break.”

I shake my head, will myself to focus a little longer.

“Long story short . . .” I lower myself onto the couch, hissing in pain. “The cop gets a lead on the bald guy, gets a positive ID on him, tells me he’s employed with a firm called Stanislau, which has offices in Grenoble, Munich, New York, LA, and San Francisco.”

“And?”

A loud noise in the bathroom. Heavy porcelain.

Internal alarms go off. “What the . . .”

“Danny, stay with me. What about this Stanislau?”

I plod ahead. “I guess they’re some kind of high-end private firm—personal security, intelligence gathering. Like a CIA for top-tier companies—capital investment firms, venture capital funds, even some family trusts. Big money. Really big money.”

Kate sits down with Ben, gazes at the wall. “Whoa. What the F?”

“Bryant said he’d heard about a guy like this who’d turned some heads in San Jose—got detained for suspicious activity around a tech campus down there, but got himself released. So Bryant sends the Safeway pics down to San Jose PD—he’s got a buddy there—and they send back a fax of the guy’s business card.”

“What’s his name?”

“He wouldn’t tell me.”

A loud crash from the bathroom.

Ah, fuck.

Calhoun. In my bathroom. Making too much noise.

Kate says, “But he works for this security firm?”

“Well . . . ” I get up and hobble to the hallway. God, my crotch hurts. “It looks that way.”

She sighs hard, falls back on the couch. “What do we do?”

I turn and head down the hallway. “We take care of a more immediate crisis.”

I’m pounding on the door.

Calhoun grunts, “Goaway.”

I shake the door handle with both hands.

Grunt. “Ineedsomeprivacy.”

Rod joins me, squints at the door. “What’s the deal?”

I yell, “Calhoun, are you upper-decking?’

From the bathroom, a big sigh of relief.

Rod juts his jaw out, tenses. “You want me to bust it open?” He steps back, ready to kick.

I wave him off. I don’t need a broken door on top of everything else.

Calhoun grunts, “Onemore.”

“Calhoun, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Antisocial”—big grunt—“ingrates.” Big sigh. Then another grunt. “Notevenawafflebreakfast—ahhhhhhh.”

Kate arrives, carrying a hairpin. Rod snatches it and begins to pick the lock. In seconds it clicks, and Rod steps back, waves me in. Kate turns away, closes her eyes.

I open the door a little.

Grunt. “One-nnnnnnnn moooore.” Sigh and a grunt. “Justalittle”—grunt—“guy.” Big sigh.

I push the door open. Calhoun is sitting on the exposed upper water basin of our toilet, his open robe covering the sides, his feet on the seat, his elbows on his knees, his face grimacing.

Rage courses through me. “Calhoun!” I roar. “Off.”

Harry runs into the bathroom and freezes in wonderment. “Wow.”

Calhoun tries to close his robe, yelps, “Privacy! Privacy!” Closes his eyes, sticks his chin out. “Someone help me.”

I want to throttle him, but I don’t want to get near him. Rod backs away, grumbling, “Gross.” Kate barges past us, her nostrils flaring. She grabs the plunger next to the toilet, winds up for a swing.

Calhoun recoils, squeaks, “Don’t hit me, Mommy.”

Get”—she whacks him hard across the face—“off”—another whack, right in the chops—“right”—she swings again, he ducks, and she loses her balance a little, but comes back with a direct attack, covering his face with the plunger and pushing his head back—“now.”

He whimpers.

She keeps the plunger over his face, pushes harder.

We all see his pickle. Didn’t need to see that. Really, really didn’t need to see that.

With her free hand, she grabs the lapel of his robe, and yanks him forward. He loses balance and tumbles off the upper deck, crashes to the ground, a mound of whimpering jelly.

Kate takes the hard end of the plunger and jams it into his ribs. He stiffens in pain, yells out, “Mommy.”

Kate screams like she did when she was in labor with the boys. “Out!” Jabs him again, even harder, and he balls up. “Out!

Rod takes Kate, and we lead her out of the bathroom.

Slowly, Calhoun rises from the floor, pulls up his orange boxers, closes his robe, and makes baby steps toward the hallway. He stops and looks at us, eyes hopeful.

“No Eggos?”