At work, I decide to tackle the toughest thing first. I drop in on my old instant-messaging friend, Anne.
Anne is long and lean, sandy-blond hair down to the middle of her back. Freckles on her face. Big blue eyes. Pretty woman, for sure, my kind of look and all that, but ever since we cooled it—came down from the insanity and the high that came with it—I can barely look at her. She is the symbol of my seediest, darkest side—a reminder of my worst potential realized.
And I have to see her daily.
When I get to her cube, I gesture that I need to speak with her.
“You okay?” she whispers, scanning my face.
“Just come with me.”
The FlowBid facility is designed to stroke the ego and retain employees. It’s 2008, after all; the dot-com bust of just a few years back is already a distant memory. These days, the skyrocketing real estate market and the new frenzy around tech companies like FlowBid and Google and Facebook have pumped more cash into the Valley than ever. Add the funds pouring in from frothy investors, skyrocketing user statistics, and astronomic NASDAQ gains, and you have the recipe for the typical 2008 Silicon Valley workplace: a hip interior design with cement floors and exposed air ducts, bottles of Pellegrino in every conference room, an on-campus masseur to rub away stress, a free concierge service that will find you anything from a new nanny to concert tickets, heavily discounted on-site dry cleaning, free lunches at the cafeteria, and a world-class fitness center with a staff of six.
Anne and I find an empty conference room.
“I’m sorry, but someone’s got hold of those IMs.”
Her face darkens and her brow crinkles. She looks down and covers her eyes with a trembling hand.
“Ohmyfuckinggod. Ohmyfuckinggod.”
I flatten my hand on the table. “But I think it’s gonna be okay.”
She’s taking big breaths.
“Seriously, Anne.”
She looks up. “Is it Kate?”
“God, no.”
“Someone here?”
I pause.
“Well, sort of.”
“Fitzroy? Is it Fitzroy? It’s Fitzroy, isn’t it? You should see the way he looks at me.” She shudders. “Please tell me it’s not Fitzroy.”
“It’s not Fitzroy.”
Huge sigh of relief.
“It’s—”
The door opens, and it’s Janice from Finance, poking her head in. She’s wearing a gray blazer with this scarf thing wrapped around her neck, and her hair is paralyzed by a gallon of Aqua Net. Classic Janice.
“Dan?” she whispers.
I clench my jaw, say nothing.
“I still need to talk to you about putting those P6s into the—”
“Janice,” I say through gritted teeth. “Can you tell that I am having a closed-door conversation here?”
She looks at me, then at Anne, and pulls her head back, shuts the door.
Anne says, “It’s not someone from Mark’s office or something, is it?” Mark is her husband.
“No, no. It’s these guys you don’t know. I don’t know them, either, really.”
“Guys?” Anne huffs. “As in guys, plural?”
“Afraid so.”
“Dan, I just can’t . . . Holy shit.” She begins to cry. “This is my marriage.”
“I’m sorry, Anne.”
“Who are they?”
“A bunch of laid-off IT guys.”
Her voice cracks. “So a bunch of guys are reading all that stuff about my—”
“Anne, listen to me. It’s not going to get out. These guys just want a favor from me, and I’m gonna do everything I can to give it to them. I should be able to.”
She sniffles and shakes her head in disbelief.
“I just thought I should let you know, in case the whole thing blows up.”
“Blows up?”
“In case I can’t deliver what they want.”
“And what is that?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“And if you can’t deliver it, they do what?”
I pause, trying to come up with a gentle way to tell her. “Well, they claim . . . They say they’d send the IMs to everyone at FlowBid.”
Anne goes pale, takes some big breaths.
“That’s not gonna happen,” I say. “I’m ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent sure I can handle this, and they’ll destroy the records once I deliver my end of the bargain. But if something screwy does happen and they do send those IMs out, you should be prepared.”
She scans the room. “They want money?”
“No.”
“Because if they want money, I can help with that.”
“No, it’s something else. And I can’t tell you.”
We sit there a long moment, thinking about it.
“Anne, I’m really sorry I brought you into this.”
“No . . .” She looks away, takes a big breath, and exhales. “No, this is my bad, too. The way I remember it, I was the one who started it.”
“It was crazy, that’s for sure.”
She sighs, looks down. “I love him, Dan. I love Mark with all my heart.”
“I know. And I love Kate.”
“We’re just bad news, you and me. We just shouldn’t be around each other.”
“Maybe.” I look away and mumble. “I don’t know.”
She says, “It was such a slippery slope.”
She’s right. The whole thing unraveled so quickly, and easily—from friendly chitchat to harmless flirting to full-blown porn chat in a matter of days.
“We made a big mistake,” I say. “But we did stop way before the big no-no.”
“As if that would matter to Mark or Kate.” She closes her eyes. “Those IMs get out, I guarantee everyone will think we were doing it.”
“Well, it’s not going to. I’m on it.”
She sniffles, glances at me. “I want to know who they are, Dan. I have a right.”
“I don’t even have their names yet. When I get them, I’ll let you know.”
She covers her eyes again. “Fuck.”
“Have faith, Anne.”
She looks up, examines my face. “I think this finally did it.”
“Did what?”
She makes a look like she smells something foul. “Killed my crush on you.”
I force a chuckle. “Aw . . .”
She gets up to leave. “Don’t take it personally when I go back to my desk and remove you from my IM list.”
“You haven’t done that already? Damn.”
She walks to the door, and I don’t even take the opportunity to glance at her butt.
“Oh, yeah,” she says, and turns back to me, her eyes shaky.
“What?”
“Do you think I could take her?”
“Take her?” I frown. “Who?”
“Kate? If she comes after me, do you think I could take her?”
I don’t have the heart to tell her.
Time to unload the peas. The bag has been defrosting, and my crotch is starting to get wet. I take a stall in the men’s room, pull the bag out. I don’t want to walk out of here with a bag of peas in my clutch, so I rip it open and turn to the toilet. They spill out, and it sounds like a giant rabbit on the toilet releasing a thousand pellets into the water.
I hear something, stop.
Someone’s at a urinal.
Fuck.
I wait awhile, hoping he’ll finish, but Christ, he’s taking forever. Fuck it, I don’t have time for vanity, I think, and recommence the pouring: more rapid-fire kerplunks, followed by a few stragglers, which sound even worse.
I flush the toilet, realize I should’ve been flushing all along, then fold the pea bag and slip it into my back pocket. Now it’s a matter of waiting the urinator out.
The urinal flushes. Finally.
I stand at my stall door, spy through the crack. It’s this guy from Web marketing—big jaw, bigger nose, small eyes. Can’t remember his name.
He looks into the mirror, sees my feet at the stall door, scans up and meets my gaze—looks away quickly.
Major awkwardness.
Only one thing to do now, unless I want to be known as the guy who spies at people from inside the stalls. I open the door and step out. “Hey, man.”
Scrubbing his hands hard. “Hey.”
I take a sink on the opposite end. “What’s new in the Web cave?”
“Just manic, as always. Was here till three A.M.” He glances at my shoes. “You okay?”
“Me?”
He straightens, pulls a paper towel, glances back at the stall. “Just hoping you’re okay.”
“Oh, I’m fine. It’s just that I had a minor procedure yesterday and—”
He waves for me to stop. “No worries, man. You don’t need to explain.”
“No, that was just a bag—”
“No sweat, man.” He turns and heads out the door. “Take it easy.”
That went well. Wonder how long it will take before half the Web team has heard that Dan Jordan is crapping mass volumes of pellets and spying on people from bathroom stalls. If only I had the time to care.
I hobble toward Fitzroy’s office until Danzig from PR comes up behind me and grabs my shoulders, scaring the hell out of me. “You gotta see this,” he says. “The new guy’s putting on a show in the break room.”
“Wish I had time for it.”
“You won’t believe it, Danny. The guy’s eating a rat on a stick.”
That gets me. “Rat?”
“Like a kid at the fair polishing off a corn dog.”
“A rat? You sure?”
Danzig leans in; his breath is like sour milk. “Dude, it has legs. And the new guy’s eating it. Fitzroy’s new genius.”
I press forward, toward Fitzroy’s office. “That’s some trippy shit.”
Finally, Danzig says, “Ask Fitzroy about that guy, dude.”
People always want me to do things like that, but I never do. I hate office politics. Plus, the minute I start passing along comments from Fitzroy is the minute my reputation tanks.
Danzig grabs my shoulder, stops me. “At least come check out the new guy. You’ll never see anything like it again.”
He has a point.
The new guy is, indeed, sitting in the break room poking his tongue through a rat on a stick. Just like Danzig said, and it’s pretty disgusting. Carlie from Legal walks in, gives him a double take, drops her Swedish meatballs, and trots away. We can hear her retching in the restroom.
We watch him from afar, through the glass. And I suddenly wonder if this new guy possibly could have something to do with the upheaval in my life. I mean, what are the odds of all these crazy things happening at once?
“It’s a stunt,” Danzig says. “He’s trying to psych us out.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not.”
“Oh, c’mon, you think he just loves rat?”
More people join us. Gasps abound.
“Well,” I say, “in Africa, a field rat is a real treat. Millions of people eat them.”
“But this guy isn’t African.”
“So you’re saying only Africans can eat rats?”
Carol from the second floor says, “But Fitzroy loves him.”
Barbara from Analytics joins us and squints into the break room. “That’s Fitzroy’s new guy.” She watches him. “Some kind of rugged genius.”
Danzig snaps, “Genius? Who said that?”
“Well . . .” Barbara watches. “They say Fitzroy loves him.” And then after a pause she asks, “What’s he eating?”
“Rat.”
“Rat?” Barbara straightens her blazer and clears her throat. “We’ll see about that.”
She charges in. We all look at each other and decide to follow.
“So you’re the new guy,” she says, hands on her hips.
The new guy looks up, licks his teeth, and grins. “Yeah,” he says, nice and slow—lazy-California-surfer style. “That’s right.”
Barbara seems unfazed by the glistening rat skeleton on the napkin in front of them. “Where are you from?”
The new guy pulls his head back, grins. “All over.”
Barbara frowns. “No, I mean, where were you working before this?”
The new guy grins wider. They’re nice teeth. “Long story.”
I like this guy. It’s like he’s saying, Fuck you, lady, smiling nice and easy the whole way.
Standing behind me, Danzig must be feeling brave. He leans in and says, “So what’s the deal with the rat?”
New guy turns and looks up at Danzig. Long silence.
“Well . . .” The new guy waits a long beat. “What do you think?”
Danzig studies him. His voice is high from the stress. “They say you’re some out-of-the-box thinker.”
He smiles and nods, like he’s saying, Okay, man, it’s cool. I hear you.
Barbara bursts out, “What are you going to do here?”
Slowly, the new guy turns to her. “Are you familiar with the California stink beetle?”
Barbara squints. “What?”
“Well, the stink beetle can thrive in some of the world’s harshest environments—like the world’s toughest deserts—even though it’s this big, juicy insect. So the question one might have is, What gives? How can this black beetle thrive in a place like that?”
Barbara is still squinting.
“So here’s the deal.” The new guy straightens. “The deal is, the stink beetle innovates. At dawn, it ‘drinks’ from the moist air simply by positioning its rear into the breeze and opening its anus.” His smile is gone. “Now that’s innovation.”
He looks up at Barbara, an eyebrow emerging from behind the shades. “So the thing is, maybe it’s time to open your own anus to the moisture that breezes over you every day.”
Barbara is frozen. Speechless.
Danzig says, “So it stinks or something?”
The new guy turns to him. “You fuck with the stink beetle, it’ll stand on its head and expel some seriously nasty gas.”
Danzig mouths the words.
The new guy folds his arms. “Yeah, I seriously dig the stink beetle.”
And I’m realizing: I do need to ask Fitzroy about this guy.
Stephen Fitzroy’s office is at the end of what we call Executive Row. Anytime you visit, you must walk past a series of executive offices and admin stations. It’s a long hallway, and it’s always an awkward journey—like walking up the center aisle of church as everyone watches, nodding as you bring the sacraments to Fitzroy’s altar.
Fitzroy’s admin, Sharon, is at her station right outside his office. She’s in her late fifties, with vibrant green eyes, a square chin, and short, salt-and-pepper hair in big curls. You wouldn’t guess it by looking at her, so unassuming and gentle, but she puts all the other admins to shame with her world-class speed and grace.
When I approach, Sharon gives me the please-help-me look.
“What?”
She motions with her head, whispers. “She won’t leave.”
I look in. It’s Beth Gavin, Fitzroy’s executive assistant, talking with the boss. I roll my eyes, mumble to Sharon, “What’s new?”
Beth Gavin does everything she can to be attached to Fitzroy’s hip. I’ve learned what a big deal it is for some folks, to be there constantly with the top dog. Check me out, look at who I spend my day with. As long as Beth is with Fitzroy, she has access to a wealth of information and power—she’s in the in, as they say, and she has the opportunity to influence Fitzroy. One of her best-loved sports is giving the boss her color commentary on just about everyone—and it’s usually not pretty. When you realize how avidly she feeds this bullshit to one of the most powerful people in the Valley—paralyzing careers along the way—you realize just how dangerous she can be.
Can you tell I don’t like Beth Gavin?
I’ve watched her misrepresent people and their contributions. I’ve seen her blame her mistakes on them. I’ve watched her seize a quiet moment to drop in a comment to Fitzroy about someone else’s screwup—always careful to make her tattling seem incidental.
And I’ve been there during concalls, when it’s just the three of us in his office and some poor bastard in Sales is talking on the Polycom, and Beth mutes the speakerphone and says, “This guy’s an idiot.”
Fitzroy looks at her. “Really?”
“Big time.”
Happens every day.
Sharon says, “Will you go in there and break them up? I need to get him in the sedan by one.”
“Of course. Where’s he going?”
“San Diego for a quick meeting, then back up in time for dinner.”
Classic Fitzroy. The man uses the jet to achieve feats that otherwise would be impossible—day trips to locales as far out as Tennessee, thanks to one of the easiest, most luxurious ways to travel.
“Speaking of the jet,” I say, “do you think I could get on that flight tomorrow to Tampa?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. It’s just him and Beth tomorrow.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“No problem.” Her brows wrinkle as she thinks about it. “I thought you said he wouldn’t need you on this one.”
“Yeah, but now I think I should join him. There’s some new content in this one, and he’s probably gonna have some questions.”
“No problem.” She jots a note on a piece of paper. “I’ll add you to the manifest.”
“Thanks, Sharon.”
“You need a room at the Grand Hyatt?”
“That’d be great, Sharon. Thanks.”
“Wheels up at nine-thirty.”
“I’ll be there at nine,” I say, and pause. “And, oh, one more thing. Do you know Janice?”
“Janice?” She seems surprised. “From Finance?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh yeah.” She rolls her eyes. “The tunnel-vision lady.”
“Yup,” I say. “So you know what I’m dealing with.”
“What’s she doing?”
I lean in and whisper. “For some reason, she thinks I’m the one who’s supposed to fill all these data points into all these reports—something about putting P6s into an FOD. I don’t even know what the hell she’s talking about.”
“Lord.”
“And she says—get this—that Beth told her I’m the guy for this.”
Sharon blows out a loud gust and types Janice’s name into her computer. “Let me get her number.”
“Thanks, Sharon.”
“This kind of stuff needs to stop.”
“I know.”
“We need you focused on his speeches. You’re working too much as it is.”
“I know.” I look down at my feet, wait a moment. “I’m sorry to even bug you about this.”
She looks up at me, eyes hard. “You need to stick up for yourself, Danny.”
“I’m going to. I’ll bring it up on the flight tomorrow.”
She dials, waits, looks up at me. “Yes, this is Sharon in Stephen Fitzroy’s office.”
I imagine Janice’s eyes when she picks up the phone. Most people at FlowBid have never gotten a call from Fitzroy’s office—have never even met the guy. I’ll bet Janice’s heartbeat just jumped from seventy-two to one-forty-four.
“I’m calling to let you know that Stephen needs Dan Jordan to join him on a trip tomorrow for a critical speech. . . . Yes, and so we need you to find someone else who can do those reports for you.”
She looks up at me, smiles. I bow to her in a silent thank you. I can almost hear Janice backpedaling through the phone.
“Yes, well, he’s very busy supporting Stephen.”
She listens.
“Yes, well, maybe you and Beth had a misunderstanding. Dan is Stephen’s speechwriter, and you’re asking him to do data entry for Finance.” She glances up at me, purses her lips, listening. “Beth told you that? Well, nothing could be further from the truth. . . . No, no apology necessary. . . . Okay, thanks, Janice.”
Sharon hangs up, gives me a motherly look, nods into Fitzroy’s office. “You need to find a way to call her off.”
I nod. I’m pissed, but I hate confrontations. There’s something building at the base of my throat, and I can’t tell if it’s anger or anxiety or both.
Sharon says, “Not tomorrow on the jet. Right now. You need to stick up for yourself. For your own self-esteem. Don’t let it go another hour.” She nods toward Fitzroy’s office. “Now’s your chance.”
“Okay.”
“And get her out of there so we can get him to the jet center.”
I square myself to his office door, trying to summon the spirit of Rod Stone, the Big Fighter. If Rod were here, he’d swat me over the head, finger-push me in the chest, ask, What the fuck is wrong with you, Jordan? Putting up with assholes like this? Haven’t you learned anything after all these years? I can almost see him in front of me, his jaw jutting out, his temples throbbing.
Time to get out of the comfort zone.
You saw Beth Gavin on the street, your jaw would hit your chest. On paper, she’s gorgeous. Enormous blue eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, long snow-white hair, silky skin, legs till next year.
And yet, midway through my first day with Beth Gavin, I was kind of turned off. Not sure why—I usually find strong, smart women sexy—but I’d say it has something to do with the fact that she seems so one-dimensional, as if there’s nothing there beyond ambition. She’s not passionate about Finance, like Janice; she’s not passionate about finding a better way for people to connect, like the engineers; she’s not passionate about making deals, like our sales teams. Beth is passionate about herself, and that’s her problem.
Beth once told me she prefers job candidates who are “forward-looking,” as in, driven to get lots of promotions, to earn tons of money, and to lead larger and larger groups of people. These people are like her, she said: hungry, willing to bust their asses to do whatever it takes to get ahead.
Don’t get me wrong. I like people who bust their asses, and I like people who want to succeed. But I prefer them to be busting their asses and succeeding because of their love of something other than their personal advancement—whether it’s Rod’s love for mixed martial arts, or Steve Martin’s passion for humor, or Brad Mehldau’s love of the piano, or even Janice’s love for finance. Point is, what drives their success is their belief in something else—something other than themselves.
The way I see it, rabid ambition intoxicates your moral equilibrium. It fuels bad behavior, encourages you to screw your friends and colleagues, and justifies your lies and misrepresentations. These people want their promotions so bad they’re capable of doing anything—like throwing you under the bus or smearing you—to advance themselves.
So I have a hard time trusting ambitious people.
There, I said it.
I take another deep breath and step in.
Stephen Fitzroy’s office is enormous—windows everywhere, looking out on a sweeping view of rolling hills. He’s slouching in an armchair; Beth is on the couch, legs crossed at the knees. From the stack of papers on the coffee table, it looks like they’re prepping for sales meetings he’ll have in Tampa.
Beth is trying to soothe him. “You’re the reason. Everyone knows it.”
Fitzroy tightens, looks away. “Which is why Fortune is doing another profile on another member of my staff?”
“No,” Beth says. “Everyone knows it’s you, Stephen. Everyone knows you’re the reason this place is white-hot. A Fortune story on one someone else won’t change that.”
Fitzroy seems satisfied. He looks up, raises his eyebrows. “Danny Boy!”
Beth gives me the slightest of smirks, glances back at Fitzroy as if they’re in on some joke.
“Hey,” I say, big smile, “your new guy’s eating a rat in the break room.”
Fitzroy lights up. “Perfect. That’s perfect.” He looks up at me, eyes hopeful. “Are people freaking out?”
“Oh yeah.”
“That’s great. We need to knock folks out of their comfort zones, Danny.”
“Who is he?”
He waves away the thought. “I have a question for you.”
Beth looks away, tries to suppress a smile.
“Okay.”
Fitzroy snatches a sheet off the coffee table, stands up, and brings it in close, invading my space. It’s hard to focus on the drawing on the sheet—some rudimentary scribbling of a tiered pyramid—when I’m getting this up-close view of those bloodshot eyes, those dark teeth, that lifeless skin, that pink scalp with its odd collection of stray hairs and plugs.
“What you see here, Danny, is a breakdown of the general population.”
“Okay.”
Fitzroy leans in, coffee breath hitting me hard. “Down here at the bottom of the pyramid are the morons. I’ve got it all labeled here so you can follow along.”
Beth releases a short laugh, nearly a snort.
“That’s the majority of the population, actually.” He’s saying it in an exaggerated, professorial tone. “And they’re hopeless.”
He looks at me for a reaction, the sunken eyes bulging and twinkling as he gets near my ear, bringing the breath closer. Lord, that’s nasty.
“And then, above the morons, we find the schmucks.” He exaggerates a turn toward me, still in that instructor voice. “If you’re a schmuck, at least you can say you’re not a moron.”
Beth laughs again and looks away.
“So the glass is half full, you’re saying.”
“Exactly. Very good, Danny.” He bats the sheet with his index finger. “Then, above the schmucks, are the idiots.”
“Nice.”
“People take offense to the word idiot. But the truth is, Danny, you’re not doing that bad if you’re an idiot. You could be much worse.”
I decide to say nothing.
Fitzroy studies my face, mocks concern with bewildered brows. “Are you okay, Danny?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t forget, Sharon has the sedan waiting out front.”
“It can wait.” He studies my face. “You’re not mad or anything, are you?”
I am getting mad. I mean, only Fitzroy would come up with a pyramid like this, and only Beth Gavin would find it hilarious. This is how they see the world, how they see me and the others here. But of course, I don’t want to register any kind of reaction, because that’s what they want—a reaction.
“You have a little cut there.” He’s looking at it. “Above your right brow there.”
“Oh, yeah. Just Harry, getting a little aggressive with his light saber.” I think of the shovel coming at my face, feel my body tense for a moment.
“Looks like it’s bruising.”
“Harry swings hard.”
Beth has turned to her notes. Any mention of children usually repels her.
“Okay,” he says, straightening up and shaking the paper in front of me. “So you have the idiots.”
“I see.”
“Which leaves us with the last group, at the top of the pyramid.”
I squint at the sheet. “That little dot at the top there?”
Beth laughs hard. Fitzroy shows his coffee teeth, giggling.
“What does that say?”
“Leaders.” Fitzroy is so proud of his little comedy routine, puffing his chest out, smiling so hard he’s showing gums. “These are the leaders.”
I force an embarrassed smile. “Interesting view of the world.”
He loses the smile. “Realistic view of the world.”
I give him my subdued oh-yeah? look.
“It’s that tiny group of leaders at the top that make the world go around, Danny.”
“Hmmm. Interesting.”
“Not interesting, Danny. Realistic.”
“Okay.”
Beth sitting there looking at me, her eyes gleaming.
“So the question I have for you is, where are you on this pyramid?”
I glance at Beth. She’s so calm and comfortable there on the couch, watching me with amusement.
“I don’t know. Haven’t really given it any thought, Stephen.”
Of course, I know where Fitzroy and Beth place themselves on the pyramid. I wish I could bring myself to ask them what happened to the missing layers—the liars, cheats, assholes. Not to mention all the honorable people.
“Where are you, Danny?”
I look at the ground, feeling my anger rise. “Well, I’m not a moron or an idiot or a schmuck.”
When I look up, they’re exchanging glances.
Maybe this is what I needed, this fucking pyramid routine to fuel my anger, push me into action. I turn to Beth, feel my face harden.
“By the way,” I say, “why do you keep sending people like Janice my way? All these people who say you’ve told them I can do all this data-entry bullshit.”
Beth loses what little color she does have. “Huh?” She wasn’t expecting this. “What? Janice?”
I stare at her. “Yeah, Janice from Finance. She’s been bugging me incessantly about these data-entry clusterfuck projects, says I’m supposed to handle them.”
Long silence. Fitzroy takes an exaggerated step back, looks at Beth like he’s saying, Interesting. You’re gonna take that from him?
“Which doesn’t make any sense,” I add, “since I’m Stephen’s speechwriter and I’m sure you don’t think I should be taking time away from his needs.”
Her face turns cherry-red. She says, “You said you wanted to do new—”
“Beth, it needs to stop.” I look over at Fitzroy, his eyes bulging as he watches his usually amiable speechwriter giving Beth Gavin hell. “I’ve got more than enough to do with my real responsibilities, and I don’t need people coming to me for these time wasters. It’s wasting everyone’s time.”
“I didn’t know what—”
“Beth . . .” I try not to look mad, force my eyes to soften a little. I just need to seem firm and in control. “No more.”
Beth looks away and mumbles.
Fitzroy looks surprised, almost impressed. “Well . . .” he says, and pauses. “I like this side of you, Danny. You’re already moving up the pyramid there.”
Whatever, asshole.
Sharon pokes her head in, looks at Fitzroy. “You need to get to the jet center.”
Fitzroy gathers his stuff, shuts down his laptop. “We’re witnessing the birth of the new Danny, Sharon.” He grabs his cell, slides his laptop into his briefcase, glances at the shell-shocked Beth. “And I think he’s rendered Beth speechless.”
“While she’s speechless,” I say, grinning, “I wanted to let you know Sharon’s added me to the flight tomorrow.”
He turns to look at me. “You’re coming to Tampa?”
I nod and shrug. “It’s a new deck—I put some new notes in there, so I thought we should probably go over the speech on the way out. That way I can take care of all the AV stuff for you, too.”
He makes for the door. “Excellent.”
Beth says, “I can do that, Stephen. He doesn’t need to come for that.” Vintage Beth move.
He never looks back, just says, “You guys figure it out.”
I meet Beth’s squint and say softly, “I think we just did.”
So this is the problem.
People see me walking and talking with Fitzroy, imagine me whizzing around on the jet and all that. They see me in his office. They can almost see me and Fitzroy walking into some fancy European hotel lobby, encircled by a gorgeous security detail. They can imagine us crouched over his coffee table as I sketch out the latest crazy idea on a scrap of paper. They can see me sitting in on board meetings, where big decisions are made.
The problem is, they haven’t a clue.
I’m more of a parlor boy: a lackey who crafts speeches and ghostwrites op-eds, a guy who isn’t above anything when it comes to supporting the boss. The man wants me fetch him a coffee? No problem. The man needs slide-deck work that’s so irritating it would drive Gandhi to road rage? Fine, bring it. The man needs me to write up some thoughts on the future of the Internet and then recede into the shadows of the jet? My pleasure. I do that well.
Then I go home in my fourteen-year-old econo car.
Has the man ever asked me to join a FlowBid board meeting? Never.
Do I care? Absolutely not.
You see, I never was all that concerned about the prestige of the job. It was just a job I was qualified to do; it found me and promptly sank its hooks into my flesh. Not the other way around. Some people have a hard time understanding that. They’re usually the status and prestige fiends—the ones who are taken not by the fact I might be a straight shooter who does good work, but by the fact that I work with the living legend, Stephen Fitzroy. In this culture of status, pedigree, and overachievement, I confound them.
Take George in Corporate Development, who stops me in the hall as I hobble back to my cube.
He hollers, “What’s new in FitzroyLand?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. You guys know all that stuff.”
“No, I don’t.”
“They’re thinking about another stock split, right?”
This is news to me—not that George would believe it.
“Don’t know a thing, George.”
He smiles but kind of grits his teeth, mumbles, looking me over. “Sure you do.”
If it were simply a matter of George overestimating my involvement, I could forgive the man. But with this guy, it’s more than that. He has grossly overestimated his own abilities and emotional intelligence, which means that people like me must stand there and watch as his muscular ego ’roids out on a daily basis—veins popping, pecs twitching, eyes bugging, muscle grease spraying onto our faces. With him, the conversation always seems to settle on the same topics: how smart he is, how superior his education is, how successful his father is back East, how gifted and talented his son is. So it’s no surprise that he thinks I have the dream job he deserves—me, a state school kid, hanging out with Fitzroy, wasting the opportunity of a lifetime.
“How are the boys?” he asks. “Your oldest having a good time in first grade?”
Sure, I think. He’s majoring in planting tracking devices under station wagons.
“He’s doing fine, George. I better get go—”
“Well, you should see Maximo. I swear, he has his teacher stumped. I mean, he’s bored, really.” George is smiling at the ceiling, whispering, “I told the teacher Maximo was reading at the third-grade level in preschool. And now he’s in first grade. And math? The kid’s insane with math. I mean, he just needs to be challenged.” George blows a hard gust, frowns at the floor. “They just don’t understand him. Those aggression issues? Just ’cause he’s not being challenged.”
I start to walk away. “Okay, George. I gotta—”
He hollers, “Your little guy doing T-ball?”
“Yeah, but I—”
“You guys having fun?”
I stop, take a breath, and turn. “Harry’s okay. He’s still a little apprehensive.”
“Is he taking pitches yet?”
“Oh, nah. It’s T-ball. The whole team is—”
He waves his arms, stops me. “Maximo is a little beast out there. He started taking pitches in the first inning of the first game. You know, and this is T-ball.” George smiles at the ceiling again. “So some of the parents get a little worked up, say Maximo’s going to make the others feel like they should try taking pitches, too. Told me to cool it a little, stop bringing the private trainer to games.” He laughs. “But I really think the real issue is that everyone should know their limitations.”
“Okay, George, I’ll see you—”
“Or, I should say, their kids’ limitations.”
“Yeah, I know. Okay—”
“Reminds me of when I played ball at Yale. Where did you go again?”
He knows the answer. He just likes to hear me say it.
“State.”
“Oh, right. Do they have athletics at places like that?”
I start to walk away. “Okay, man. I gotta get ready for this speech.”
“Hey, Dan,” he hollers. “You heard about Fitzroy’s new guy? He’s brilliant. Be sure to schedule some time with him.”
My back to him, walking down the hall. “Okay, George.”
He’s nearly shouting. “Smart, smart guy, Danny. He ate a rat at lunch.”
One thing I’ve learned about folks at FlowBid—everything is about being smart. Hell, I admire smart; don’t get me wrong. Smart is good. But I really think it should be about more than smart. Shouldn’t it be about developing and executing great ideas? Shouldn’t it be about being decent? For that matter, shouldn’t it be about results? Maybe it bugs me that half these people, despite all their Web-hype luster and smarts, never quite figured out how to turn in even one quarter of profitability at the start-ups they came from.
Hell, who am I fooling? At FlowBid, who’s thinking about profits when everyone is telling you how brilliant you are, how bright your future is? Who needs cost control when millions of users just keep pouring in? And who needs modesty and common sense when you have a never-ending supply of irrational investors pumping more and more money into your stock as they announce to the world that you’re a living genius—which only spikes the share price higher?
I’m just reaching my cube when I hear a voice:
“There he is.”
It’s Tracy, the events manager who works across the aisle. Ever since she returned from maternity leave three weeks ago, she has worn nothing but black. Tracy would much rather stay at home with her newborn boy and three-year-old daughter.
She sounds sad, almost muted. “Spend some time with the family this morning?”
I stop, glance at her. “Sort of.” My crotch pinches in pain. “I’m a little under the weather.”
“Kate can take care of you.” She lets out a little laugh. “Being home and all, she has the time.”
I hear this all the time.
“Not really,” I say. “Kate is pretty swamped with the boys.”
She closes her eyes. “It’s not work to me. I’d stay home in a second, if I could.”
What can I say to that? I bite my lip.
“You guys are so lucky,” she says, shaking her head.
God, I’m sick of hearing this. Fortunate? Sure. But lucky?
Lucky for being at the right place at the right time, putting me just a few days from completing an insane cash-out? For sure.
Lucky for being able to keep one parent home these past six years? No way.
We didn’t get lucky. We made choices.
We chose my beater Toyota over Tracy’s $65,000, fully-loaded Audi sedan with microclimates and leather seats. We chose our tiny house with paper-thin walls and old appliances over Tracy’s Menlo Park compound with copper roof gutters, two Nordic dishwashers, a rec room, a pool house, and a small fortune in Pottery Barn appointments. We chose camping trips to Mount Shasta and Big Basin over Tracy’s wintertime pilgrimages to the Maui Ritz Carlton and her monthly weekends at spa resorts in Sonoma, Big Sur, and Mendocino.
“I don’t know how you guys do it,” she says, still shaking her head.
I count to three, walk over.
“Can you cash out? You know, sell your options and quit?”
She shakes her head, looks away. “I’ve only been here a year, nothing’s vested.” She looks up at me, pained. “By the time they vest, God knows if they’ll even be worth anything.” She pauses. “I’d rather just quit, be home with Holly and Spencer.”
“But you can’t?”
Shakes her head, real slow. “The budget doesn’t flush.” She pauses. “Jared just doesn’t make enough.”
But Jared has a great job. Makes a lot more than me; I’m sure of it.
“So lucky,” she whispers.
I’ve heard all this before, but now I’m finally going to let it out.
“I’m not sure it’s luck, Tracy.” I give her a moment. “I mean, what about cutting your expenses?”
She acts like she didn’t hear me.
“You know, what about your car? What if you sold the Audi? You could buy a commuter car for a fraction of the price.”
Total silence.
“Okay, then what about Jared’s race boat? Sell that thing and you could stay home for a year at least.”
“Nah, Jared would never do that.” She sounds even more deflated than before. “Never.”
“Then what about that vintage car he has in storage? Sell that.”
“Nah, it’s like his baby.”
I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.
“Okay,” I say, “well, what about the weekend house in Rio del Mar? Sell that thing and you could quit next week, stay home for ten years, and still have money left for the kids’ college.”
She looks down, says slowly, “Nah, we’ve got so much equity in that house, there’s no way we can sell now.”
“Okay,” I say, forcing the upbeat voice, “last suggestion.”
She looks up at me, hopeful.
“Sell the Menlo Park house. Downsize. Use the extra cash and reduced living expenses to make up for the loss of your salary.”
“Nah, we love that house.”
Who wouldn’t love that house? Sunset Magazine would love that house. That’s not the point.
“Well . . .” I mosey back to my cube. “I think I’m out of ideas.”
“See,” she mopes. “I mean it. You guys are so lucky.”
And that’s when I realize it. I am lucky, very lucky. Just not the way Tracy thinks.
At my desk, I manage to finish the Fitzroy speaker notes and slide deck, print copies to review on the flight tomorrow, and even make a few calls about Stanislau. I feel like I’m a reporter again, calling around and asking questions, trying to get closer to the real story. I get their address in San Francisco easily enough, but it takes a little longer to find someone who’s had firsthand experience with the firm. Finally, I reach Barry Devine, a corporate intelligence expert who is recommended to me by a buddy at my old haunt, the Oakland Tribune.
Barry runs a consulting boutique not too far from Sand Hill Road in Menlo Park, the main drag for the valley’s venture capital and private equity firms. To get through his assistant, I mention, almost unconsciously, that I’m Stephen Fitzroy’s speechwriter.
Within ten seconds, Barry’s on the line.
“How’s Stephen?” he asks, like he knows the guy.
“He’s fine, Barry. I really appreciate you taking my call.”
“I met him once, after he spoke at the DPN One Conference in Napa.”
“Yeah?”
“But I’m sure he doesn’t remember me. It was just a few seconds.”
People say this all the time. I wish I could say, I’m sure he’d remember you, he’d totally remember you, but we’d both know it would be total bull.
“I’d be happy to tell him you said hi, Barry. I’ll be with him tomorrow.”
“If it comes up, sure, that would be nice. So what can I do for you?”
I explain that I’m interested in Stanislau, that I’m looking for people who’ve had direct experience with them.
Barry pauses for a moment. “Stephen has his speechwriter doing research on Stanislau?” The disbelief is heavy.
Damn, time to lie. God, I’m such a jerk.
“Well,” I say. “Not for his speeches, of course.” I pause for effect. “I guess all I can say is that I’ve been asked to get some third-party testimonials on Stanislau.”
He doesn’t need to know this action item came from my wife.
“Interesting,” Barry says slowly. “Interesting.”
“Yes, and we’d really appreciate it if you’d keep our conversation confidential.”
“Of course, of course.” A trace of glee in his voice. “I’m happy to share some thoughts with you. And if Stephen thinks I could be of service in this matter, I’ll be happy to come in for a consultation.”
“We’ll take that into account, Barry. Thank you.”
“So what kind of information are you seeking?”
Hell, I’ll take anything, but I can’t say that. “Well, as you know, they’re kind of mysterious. There’s not a lot of information about them.”
“Exactly.”
“So we’re interested in hearing where you think they’re the strongest—in terms of their capabilities—and maybe even some background on who does what over there.”
And so he tells me about Stanislau, says they excel in corporate intelligence gathering, for which they employ a cadre of top-flight attorneys in the lawful acquisition and evaluation of information affecting the investments of very rich people.
“So, if you’ve pumped millions of dollars into a small start-up, and you’re concerned about anything ranging from their customers to the actual leaders of that start-up and their behavior, this is where Stanislau comes in.”
“So they’re kind of like the Secret Service for the millionaires and their investments.”
He laughs. “Usually, more like billionaires.” He pauses. “But if Stephen Fitzroy has you calling for third-party testimonials, you should already know this.”
Shit—busted.
Or nearly, anyway. “Oh, well, Stephen may know all this, but I sure don’t.”
He chuckles. “So, I don’t know about the Secret Service. Maybe a little more like the CIA.”
Okay, assume the guise of a lackey collecting customer-satisfaction survey results. “So, you generally hear good things from their customers?”
Long silence.
“They’re happy?”
“That’s the thing, Dan. One rarely knows who their customers are. Ever. That kind of information is heavily guarded.”
“So you don’t know of anyone—individuals or firms—who’ve used them?”
“Well, I wonder if it would be better if I came in and discussed this with you and Stephen. I could tell him about my services, and maybe we could talk about how I could help FlowBid with this.”
That didn’t take long. Already soliciting.
“Well, we’re not at that point, Barry, but I really appreciate the offer. Maybe when we get a little further along, Stephen could have you come in.” And I’m thinking, I’ll be gone in less than a week, buddy.
“I’d appreciate even just coming in to tell Stephen about my services, how I can help.”
Not a chance in hell. “For sure, Barry. Maybe next month.”
“I’d appreciate that,” he says, “because I think I know why he has you calling around about Stanislau.”
I force a laugh. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says, pausing a moment. “The only Stanislau client I do know about is a group that Stephen knows pretty well.”
“Yeah?”
“Knowland, Hill, and Davis,” he says. “You know, KHD.”
Damn, I do know about KHD. They’re only the private equity investment firm that has sunk $2 billion into FlowBid—not to mention getting two of its own executives appointed to our board.
And then it hits me. KHD, a very serious group of people who have invested billions of dollars into my employer, has hired a firm that is screwing with me. A firm that sent a goon like Baldy after me.
I choke on my own spit. And what about the geeks? Who are they with?
“You still there, Dan?”
“Oh, yes. I’m just writing all this down. Important background.”
“That was news to you, huh?”
I chuckle. “Well . . .” And I let it die. “Just one last question, Barry. In its intelligence work, does Stanislau also engage in covert activities, or attempt to, you know”—I search for delicate language—“correct situations?”
Long pause. “I’m not going to answer that on the phone, Dan.”
Aw, man.
Not that I have any time to freak about it.
Seconds after I hang up with Barry, I get a call from High Rider. I know it’s him; his voice is unmistakable, like an elf holding his breath.
He squeaks, “Where is he?”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“No, I don’t know who.”
Tracy glances at me, so I swivel my back to her.
“Our associate? . . . You met him in the van?”
“Oh, Star Trek. The Star Trek guy.”
He whispers, “No, the other one.”
“Little Red?”
Tightening the words, he says, “Little Red?”
“He never introduced himself, so I just came up with that . . . You know, it just made . . . ” Stop, Danny. Just stop right now.
Finally, he says, “Yes, that’s him.”
“And I’m supposed to know where he is?”
Snaps, “He’s missing.”
“Well, what happened to him?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
“And you think I know?”
He pauses. “I can do it anytime, Dan. I can pull the trigger on all your material, right now.”
“Wait—”
“I will do it if you don’t help us find him. In fact, if something happens to me, your private information goes out. We have a JavaScript all set up, and if I’m unable to update it on a regular basis, the system will distribute your material.”
“Listen,” I say, “I have no idea where the hell your buddy is.”
“What about your people? What about your cage fighter?”
“He’s with my wife and kids.”
“Which is exactly why—”
He stops himself, and I get the hint I need. Little Red obviously had been trying to locate Kate, Rod, and the boys so he could keep tabs on them, report their whereabouts back to the Enterprise, or whatever they call their war room. If High Rider is so confident that Little Red had been near my family when he disappeared, it’s only because he thinks the tracking device is still on our minivan.
It all makes sense.
These guys were the ones who’d sent Shovel Man into my garage, planted that tracking device under the van. The tracking device my six-year-old then replanted under Crazy Larry’s Malibu.
So the geeks have a fourth conspirator? Shovel Man?
Maybe Little Red had been tracking the car remotely with a GPS device or something, saw that the car was going someplace weird—because you just know Crazy Larry goes to weird places—and decided to go check it out.
And just like that, I realize that maybe I do know what’s become of Little Red. Crazy Larry must’ve “taken” him. Maybe he’s even discovered the device under his car—given the fact that High Rider has no idea where his buddy is.
But I don’t want to say anything. Don’t want to tell him what I do know: that he’s the one behind Shovel Man and the tracking device.
“Listen,” I say, “you’re not going to tell me your name, are you?”
Silence.
“I can go and ask around FlowBid.”
“That would be a really incoherent thing to do, Dan.”
I chuckle. “But you know I’ll find out afterward.”
Silence.
“Okay, listen . . .” I want to say High Rider, but I know I shouldn’t. “Okay, listen, pal. Let me see what I can find out. But I’m telling you, Kate and Rod don’t have your little friend. We’re just trying to get through the next few days here.”
“You find him,” he snaps, his voice quaking. “Or you lose everything.”
I reach Kate on her cell.
“You guys don’t have Little Red, do you?”
“Who?”
“He’s one of the IT geeks.”
She huffs. “God, no. We’re on 101.”
“Where’s Rod?”
“Right behind us.”
“Anyone in the car?”
“No.” She sounds annoyed. “He’s basically giving us a cage-fighter escort to his place. He’s solo.”
“Okay, that’s all I needed to know.”
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, honey. How’s Ben?”
“Gave him more Motrin, so the fever’s down.”
I think of Stanislau, get a chill. “Okay, honey. Tell the kids I love them.”
“I will. They love you, too.”
“Oh, by the way. When you were leaving, did you see Crazy Larry around?”
She thinks a minute. “I didn’t.”
“Ask Harry. See if he was doing any Larry-watching.”
She puts the cell down, then comes back. “Harry saw him drive away in his station wagon.”
“Ask him how long ago.”
Murmurs, and then, “A couple hours ago. Is there a problem with Larry?”
“Honey, there’s always been a problem with Larry.”
Little Red. High Rider. Star Trek. Shovel Man.
The future of my family is in their hands, and I don’t even know their real names.
Hell, if I knew who they were, I could see if they’re connected to this Stanislau stuff. As for getting their real names, sure, I could start asking around IT, concoct some excuse for my interest, but then my snooping might get back to High Rider, and that could be it for me and the family.
But maybe there’s another way.
I take one more look through my blue speaker cards for Fitzroy, print out the hotel information Sharon sent me, and slide my laptop into my briefcase. I pack up everything I need for the Tampa Social Net Conference and fire off a note to Fitzroy, attaching the preso.
Then I hobble to the stairway, descend a floor—with substantial pain—and limp onto the second floor, home of Creative Services, Engineering, and IT.
In an office packed with gear—three wide screens on the walls, stacks of CDs on the desk, neat rows of Beta cassette holders, and humming computers everywhere—I find Oscar Mendes, our video editor. Oscar makes Fitzroy look and sound a lot smarter than he actually is. He can take a thirty-minute studio borefest, suck out all the ums and ahs, cover up the strained goofball looks, cut out the redundant chatter (and there’s a lot of it), and turn it into three minutes of compelling video.
Oscar Mendes is paid very well.
As we’re the only brown-skinned people in the entire building—rare California natives in an office of out-of-state fortune seekers—we’ve also bonded pretty well. I love the fact he’s not afraid to talk like a real human being around here; it’s like a blast of fresh air off the Pacific.
He waves me in. “Dude, did you see that e-mail I just forwarded?”
“What e-mail?”
He giggles, stops short. “Someone was shitting rabbit pellets in the men’s room.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Hey, by the way.” He swivels and rummages through his cluttered desk. “I’ve got some shit that’s gonna fucking blow your mind. This shit—” He fingers through a stack of discs, each encased in frosted plastic. “I’m telling you, this shit is gonna knock you on your ass.”
He pulls out a disc, glances at me.
I nod at it. “You score some good shit?”
He swivels back, his brown eyes serious. “Dude . . .” He grabs my forearm with his free hand, squeezes. “Just wait till you take a hit of this shit.”
He hands it over. I pop the case open, glance at two discs. He’s written, Afro Cuban across the top of each.
“Thanks, man. I love Afro Cuban.”
“Forty-seven tracks.”
“Forty-seven?”
He nods, grinning.
“That’s a lot of Afro Cuban.”
“I’ve got a connection, dude. Guatemalan buddy of mine came into town last night, laid this music on me, blew my fucking mind.”
I hold the case with both hands to show my appreciation. “Aw, man. This is monumental.”
Oscar points at the case, raises an eyebrow. “This isn’t poser shit, either.” He waits, for emphasis. “We’re talking about original shit from the forties, fifties, sixties, and seventies.”
“Aw, dude. I can’t wait.”
He’s nodding to the disc. “There’s Benny Moré in there.”
“Sweet.”
“Manny Oquendo.”
“Nice.”
“Ray Barretto . . . Pérez Prado . . . Willy Colón.”
“I can’t wait, Oscar.”
“Tons of Africando, tracks like ‘Yay Boy.’ ” He pauses, blinks hard, like he’s taken a hit of Humboldt skunk. “Some really early Tito. I put some Cachao in there.” He lays the accent on, hard. “You know, ‘La Negra Tomosa.’ ‘Son Montuno.’ ”
With the exception of Tito Puente, Benny Moré, and Ray Barretto, I’ve never heard of these guys. Nor do I understand anything more than the very limited amount of Spanish my Mexican grandmother taught me as a kid. But it doesn’t matter. I do love the music, love the way it makes me feel.
He slows down, takes a good look at me. “You don’t look too hot, dude. You okay?”
“I’ve been—”
A heavily bearded man with thick eyeglasses pops his head in, releases an awkward smile. “Hey.”
“Hey, Roger.” Oscar nods to me. “You know Dan Jordan?”
We nod to each other.
“Roger’s on the system design team, works around the corner.”
I nod. “Cool.”
Roger steps into full view, hands a DVD to Oscar. “Thanks, man.”
“You liked it? Told you that shit would blow your mind.”
“Loved it.”
“Music?” I ask.
“Documentary.”
Oscar says, “It’s about the health care industry. PBS? The networks? They’ll never have the balls to broadcast something like this, dude. You should take this home, too.” Classic Oscar.
“You got anything else like that?” Roger asks hopefully.
“I do,” Oscar says, stretching to finger through a stack of DVDs. He pulls out a disc, hands it to Roger. “This shit takes it to another level.”
“Yeah? More on health care?”
“Nah. The influence of peyote on twentieth-century California politics. I’m telling you, this shit will make you run for the mountains, dude.”
Roger looks like a kid on Christmas morning.
Afterward, Oscar says to me, “You’re not okay, dude.”
“I’m not.”
“What happened?”
“Long story.”
“You look beat-up,” he says. “Worried.”
I laugh. “Well . . .”
“You need help?”
I look away. “I’m fine.”
“Just let me know, okay?”
“Of course.” After a moment, I say, “There is one thing I need help with—the IT guys.”
His eyes nearly pop out of his head. “IT guys did this to you?”
I shake my head, chuckle. “You remember that little guy with the high-rider pants?”
He squints, thinking about it. “Yeah, yeah. Serious little dude. Major high-riders. Got laid off with the others.”
“You remember his name?”
He thinks about it, sighs hard. “I can ask around.”
“No, please don’t. Seriously.”
Studying me. Trying to figure me out. “Okay.”
“Yeah, it could get me in more trouble.”
He leans back, pinches his chin. “What the fuck is going on with you?”
“I’m fine. I just can’t have High Rider know that I’m asking about him.”
We stare at each other.
“I’ll explain more once I get through this. I promise.”
“Dan, I can get his name in a very casual way. You know, like I’ll refer to him in conversation or something, say I forgot his name. Keep you out of it.”
“Thanks, Oscar.” I slip the Afro Cuban into my briefcase. “And if you get a name, don’t call my cell or office line.”
He smiles at me, like I’m nuts.
“Just call my buddy Rod.”
“The cage fighter?”
“Exactly.” I scribble Rod’s cell on a scrap of paper, hand it to him. “Call him here. Just avoid my numbers entirely.”
“What are we, in a movie here, dude?”
I chuckle. “I promise I’ll explain when I can.”
“No worries.”
I back out of his office. “I better jet.”
“You headed for the airport?” Then he throws a hand into the air. “Not that you have to tell me.”
“Nah, I have to go home, find Crazy Larry.”
Now he’s really studying me. “Crazy Larry?” He laughs, pauses. “You need to go find someone named Crazy Larry?”
“Long story, but basically I think Crazy Larry has Little Red.”
He laughs again. “Crazy Larry has Little Red?”
I nod. “So now, if I disappear, you’ll know who to mention to the cops.”
“Yeah, Crazy Larry, Little Red, and High Rider.”
He laughs and I laugh with him. Till the tears are rolling down our cheeks.
Finally, Oscar takes a deep breath, sighs hard. “Seriously, dude. You go home, you may wanna take a nap.”
I stand in front of Larry’s house. No station wagon. The street is empty.
Where is everyone?
I look back at my house. By now, Kate and the kids are in the city, safe with Rod, but just about anybody could be in that house waiting for me. Baldy? Shovel Man? Crazy Larry? Crazy Larry with Little Red? Someone new?
I feel myself swaying.
Oscar is right, I do need a nap.
And, fuck, do my balls ache. My whole midsection aches.
Something’s screwed up down there. For sure.
I reach into my pocket, pull out the bottle, pop another Vicodin, stare at Larry’s garage door, squint at the knife marks. Crazy Larry. If he goes wacko on me today, in my current state, there’s no way I can handle him.
All of a sudden, I hear an electronic buzzing and snapping coming from Larry’s garage.
Fuck, is that him in there? With Little Red?
I pull my hair back, look around the neighborhood, try to think. I need a plan. I walk across the street, hear the tap of a hammer, metal rustling, heavy panting. Then that buzz-snap sound again.
Faint trace of someone growling.
Something rushes up behind me, gives me a hell of a jolt. I yelp and turn, realize it’s little Luke Burns, the nine-year-old from down the street, zipping up on his Razor scooter, big head of blond hair shooting in all directions.
“I wouldn’t stand there.”
“Oh yeah?” I say. “Why’s that?”
Luke steps off his Razor, leans in, whispers. “Larry.”
“Yeah?”
Luke looks around, adds, “Extra cuckoo today.”
“Yeah? Tell me.”
“I was playing out front when Larry pulled up in his station wagon.”
“Uh-huh?”
“But it was weird.”
“Weird?”
“The back windows were covered with cardboard.”
“Yeah, that’s odd.” Did he have Little Red back there?
“And then he backed it into his garage.” Luke stops, looks at me with some serious eyes. “Larry never backs his car into the garage.”
He’s right.
“Did Larry see you?”
Luke nods. “He saw me, but I kept watching, and he lowered his head like this and glared at me. So I say, ‘Bye,’ and he says, ‘Yes, that’s right, bye-bye.’ ”
“Did you go tell your mom?”
Nods. “She said Larry’s just being Larry, and to leave him alone.”
“Wise advice, Luke. Listen to your mom.”
“But I was riding around later, and he came out, so I rode by and he was just squinting into space with this weird smile, like his mouth was just pretending to be happy.”
“Did he say anything?”
Luke nods. “He asked me about the ‘scent of bacon frying in the wild.’ ”
“Bacon?”
“He said, ‘Does that affect you, Luke?’ And I said no. And he said. ‘Bacon scent in the woods drives me nuts.’ Then his arms and legs got all tight, like this.” Ben shoots his arms out, crosses his eyes. “I didn’t know what to say, so I just said, ‘I like bacon.’ ”
“Good for you, Luke.”
“And Crazy Larry says, ‘Well, I think I smell bacon.’ ”
“So then you left?”
Big nod, serious eyes. Whispers, “If Crazy Larry smells bacon, I don’t think it’s a good thing.”
“You’re probably right, Luke.”
“But after a while I came back.”
“You should keep clear of him, kiddo.”
He shrugs. “He didn’t even notice me. It was like he was in his own world.”
“Did you see anything else?”
“He opened the garage door, pulled his station wagon out, and went to the store.”
“The store? How do you know he went to the store?”
Luke huffs and throws his hands into the air. “All the stuff he came back with. Duh.”
“Stuff? What kind of stuff?”
“All kinds of stuff. Big metal bars, chicken wire, a whole bunch of twine, propane canisters—the kind my dad uses for the barbecue.”
I mumble, “Wow.”
“Those big cement square things.”
“Foundation blocks?”
“I think so. Oh, and then a big bag of cotton balls, a bunch of that silver tape, and a bunch of buckets with some kind of dark wet stuff inside.”
“Wow.”
We stand in silence a second as Luke squints into the air. “Oh, yeah, he had car batteries and those thick wires for when your car is dead.”
“Jumper cables?”
He nods. “And then a roll of fabric, an ironing board, a power drill, I think, and a bunch of beer.”
I laugh.
Still squinting into air, thinking about it. “Oh, and on the sidewalk he left a can of shaving cream, a thing of Vaseline, and some cans of WD40. That stuff’s awesome.”
“Don’t play with WD40, Luke.”
“I know.” Then he brightens. “But Larry does.”
“But you don’t want to be like Larry, do you?”
He concedes the point, his eyes serious.
“Did you see anyone else with him? Maybe a little man with really red hair?”
Thinks about it, shakes his head no. “But he did say something else weird.”
“What’s that?”
“The last time he came out, I asked what he was doing, and all he kept saying was, ‘Larry needs some time to himself.’ ”
“Hmmm.” We stand there awhile. “Last question, Luke.”
He peers up at me.
“Do you swear you’re telling me the truth?”
“Totally.” His blue eyes pop. “It’s totally true.”
“Okay, I believe you.”
He nods to Larry’s house, smiles with hope. “Are you gonna sneak in there?”
A loud buzz-snap from Larry’s garage.
“Um, don’t think so. If I need something from Larry, I’ll just knock on his door.”
Luke fails to suppress a grin. This astute little guy knows I’m full of shit.
I open my garage door, grab Harry’s aluminum baseball bat, and enter the house through the kitchen, ready to take anyone’s head off.
And what do you know?
No one.
Windows locked. Everything secure. Peaceful silence. In my house.
At this moment in my life, how rare.
I return to the kitchen, lean against the counter. I’m so tired my eyelids hurt. My mind is swimming. I need a beer. That’ll settle me down, add a little juice to the Vicodin, put me on course for a much-needed nap, a sweet block of blackout thirty minutes from now.
Assuming that’s enough time to figure out the Crazy Larry situation.
I limp to the fridge, finger a bottle of Sierra Nevada, pop the cap, and pour it into a pint glass. Call me a fancy boy, but that beer is so much better in a glass—tastes better, looks better, sounds so lovely going into the glass. I stand in the kitchen, look out to the backyard as I take a sip.
Ah, man. Just perfect.
Say to no one, “Damn, that’s good.” Take another sip, feel it settle in my stomach.
Go sit on the front porch and keep an eye on Larry. That’s what I’ll do.
I bring the bat with me, use it for leverage as I lower myself onto the front step of my porch, put the pint down beside me. The beer and Vicodin start mixing nicely, and I find myself gazing skyward as I listen to the odd noises coming from Larry’s garage—the hammering, the buzz of a saw or drill, those periodic buzz-snaps.
And I realize that I probably look pretty crazy myself about now.
From Larry’s garage, a wet slap against the pavement.
My cell rings.
“Yo.”
It’s High Rider. “Do you have an update?”
“I do.” Am I slurring? “I talked to Kate. She hasn’t seen your buddy, I’m afraid. And Rod’s with them, so . . .”
“Anything else?”
“How about you? Why don’t you admit it was you who sent Shovel Man into my garage this morning, tried to plant something under my wife’s minivan?”
Long silence.
“C’mon. Fess up.” Oh yeah, I’m buzzed.
Finally, he says, “It was you who removed the tracking device.”
I imagine High Rider in a dimly lit basement, placing a trembling finger over the Enter button of his keyboard, ready to destroy my life.
“Now, wait,” I say. “We thought it was someone more powerful, someone connected to the guy who attacked me in the Safeway.”
Silence.
“Hell, if you wanted to track Kate, you should’ve just asked. We’ve got nothing to hide.”
Long silence. And then, “We found the tracking device, Dan.”
Oh shit. Larry’s car.
“On a station wagon,” I say.
“No.” Long, irritated sigh. “It wasn’t on any station wagon.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do any shopping today, Mr. Jordan?”
“Me? . . . What? . . . No. Why?”
“Well, it seems our tracking device made a trip to the grocery store.”
“Okay.”
“Lunardi’s, to be precise.”
“Inside Lunardi’s?”
“Under a neat stack of cucumbers.”
I get a vision of Crazy Larry fucking with a pile of cucumbers in the produce section, everyone keeping clear.
“Before there, it was up in the hills.”
“Hills?”
Silence, and then, “Which is where we lost contact with my associate?”
“Little Red?”
Annoyed. “My associate.”
“Okay, well—”
“We know you were at work at the time. Irrefutable. Your IT activity bears it out.”
“Good. See, I was—”
“And from what we now can tell, your wife and the cage fighter had nothing to do with this.”
“Beyond a doubt.”
“And yet you knew about the tracking device.”
“True.”
“And it clearly wasn’t on the minivan.”
“Yeah, we removed it.”
“And you placed it on a vehicle, judging by the fact the signal had us zigzagging up and down the peninsula.”
I think of Crazy Larry. “Really?”
“Whose car, Dan?”
“What?”
“I’m getting ready to release your information, Dan. This isn’t funny.”
“Okay, okay.” I blink, and my vision blurs. “We put it under my neighbor’s station wagon. Thought it would be harmless.”
“Your neighbor across the street?”
“Yeah.”
I wait for a reaction, trying to think of what to say next, when Larry’s front door opens. It’s Larry, in his skin-colored Speedo and shiny black army boots, with a faded orange tank top. Nursing a pipe, glancing at me as he takes a seat on his porch.
“What’s his name?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Is he home?”
I squint back at Larry. “He is.”
Silence. Fuck, he’s deciding what to do. I know it.
“Like I said, we thought that device came from some serious dudes, not you guys. We just wanted them off our tails.”
“Who are those guys, Dan?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Not gonna tell him about Stanislau. Not yet, at least.
“So, does he have my associate or not?”
Larry takes a puff, watches me. A buzz-snap echoes from his garage.
“Probably, but it’s a matter of where.”
“You have an hour to retrieve my associate, or this thing is over.”
Larry watching, puffing, stroking his beard.
“Okay,” I say, “but you need to tell me where his car went this morning. That might help.”
High Rider huffs, ruffles papers. “The signal was everywhere. First the library, then to the wetlands, then up and down 101, back and forth, over and over, between Redwood City and Belmont, for ninety minutes.”
I imagine Crazy Larry driving up and down the freeway with that look on his face, the radio turned off as he thinks about God knows what. Creeps me out.
“So when did your buddy attempt to follow the car?”
“Well . . .” His anger is palpable. “He began the pursuit on 101, but couldn’t find the car, because he was looking for a minivan. He followed the signal up and down 101 for twenty minutes, at which point the vehicle got off the freeway and headed for the hills.”
And I’m wondering, Daily routine for Larry?
“My associate followed the signal all the way to the top of the hills, proceeded south on Skyline Boulevard, Highway 35, which is where we lost contact.”
“In the woods,” I whisper, gazing back at Larry. “He obviously realized he was being tailed and lured your guy into the woods, snagged him there.”
A pause. “The signal returned to your neighborhood. Remained there for a while, then proceeded to dart around town, to stores, we think, and then settled, apparently, in the produce section.”
“Okay.” Gazing back at Larry. “So, I think your buddy is over here at Larry’s house.”
“You will need to provide a welfare status.”
“Well . . .” I watch Larry as he puffs and stares. Another buzz-snap from inside. “He might be a little rattled.”
High Rider yelps, “Get him.”
“But that might be—”
“You have one hour to get him, or your life is ruined.”
Dial tone.
Fuck, I’m buzzed.
That Sierra Nevada had sounded like such a good idea. But now I want balance, a clear head.
I wobble toward Larry. He sits there assessing me, his mouth frozen in an odd smile—and I realize he actually has a nice face, a face the ladies probably liked at one point, when he was saner. Hell, maybe they still do.
“Hey, Larry.”
He stares at my feet like they baffle him, looks away, exhales a puff.
Buzz-snap.
“You’ve been busy over here today.”
He turns and stares at me. He nearly whispers, “I made a friend.”
“Oh yeah?” I play it straight, like he’s just won five hundred dollars in the Lotto. “That’s great, Larry.”
“You could say . . .” He’s gazing into the air, then turns to me, forcing that weird smile. “. . . we’re having what you yuppies call a playdate.”
I offer an awkward laugh. “Yeah?”
He brings the pipe to his mouth, produces a cloud of smoke, studies the swirls, follows their ascent until they dissolve into nothing.
“You think the playdate is over?”
More smoking.
“Maybe your new friend wants to go home now?”
Crazy Larry gives me this look like I’ve morphed into a porcupine.
Another buzz-snap, and a faint growl.
Human growl.
Larry cocks his head, like he’s he listening to Bach.
And I realize: I’m hosed.
A funky beat thumps out of Calhoun’s granny unit.
I recognize the beat, those lyrics.
“My Humps.”
Black Eyed Peas. They love the humps.
Hell, these days, the whole world loves them.
Including Calhoun.
The windows are fogged a little as I inch closer, the beat getting stronger, Fergie belting it out high and breathless.
I drive these brothers crazy,
I do it on the Daily . . .
I peek in, see Calhoun in his open robe—arms snapping, pelvis thrusting, belly shaking, feet working hard, head cocking and snapping.
Whoa.
Calhoun.
Serious moves.
Calhoun sings along, “She’s got me spending.”
Spendin’ all your money on me and spending time on me.
Calhoun wails, “What you gon’ do with all that junk? All that junk inside that trunk?”
I stumble to his door. Fuck, I’m light-headed. But, hell, I need help. I need to get Little Red out of that garage within the hour or I’m hosed, and Calhoun is the only way I can think of to gain entry to his landlord’s house and spring the little guy loose. Or at least talk Larry into cooperating.
I’m a make, make, make, make you scream
Cos of my hump, my hump . . . my lovely lady lumps
Calhoun wails, “What you gon’ do with all that ass? All that ass inside them jeans?”
I move closer, reach the door.
Push it open.
Whoa.
A visitor.
A woman.
An older woman—very short, very bottom-heavy.
Dancing for Calhoun.
In a thong.
Backing it up toward him, swinging it, seconds from grind time.
Calhoun turns, still shaking it, grins at me, and sings along, “I met a girl down at the disco. She said hey, hey, hey yea let’s go. I could be your baby, you can be my honey. Let’s spend time not money.”
And then after a few beats, he hollers, “Mr. Danny likes to watch.”
No, I don’t.
She looks over her shoulder, sees me, and drops her lids as she backs into Calhoun, his robe hiding the friction.
Touchdown.
Calhoun grabs her sides, points his chin into the air, lets his eyes turn to slits.
I feel the beer coming up.
Step away, lower myself to the ground beside one of Larry’s cacti. The earth starts to spin. I close my eyes. I should probably spread out on Larry’s rocks, take a breather, and let the spinning stop as I wait for them to finish.
And I fade to black, Fergie’s anthem washing over me like an echo.
I awake in someone’s arms.
Rocked gently, back and forth.
It’s nice, reminds me of simpler times. Is this a dream?
I blink hard—and look up to see Calhoun’s gray little eyes peering down at me, a droplet of sweat falling from his brow to my chest. He smiles and whisper-sings, extra-high, “Rise and shine, Mr. Danny.”
It sinks in, and I jolt out of his arms, roll onto the rocks. But I’m weak, and he gathers me back into his embrace, holds me tight.
Cradled. By Calhoun, in his brown boxers and white tank, stinking of sex and sweat.
Oh God, I’m gonna pass out.
“Easy, boy,” he whispers, like I’m a horse. “Easy.”
I give up.
“There we go,” he soothes, “there we go.” After a few moments, he adds, “You’ve been out awhile.”
That gets me. “What?”
“Shshhh.” Soft and gentle. “Easy, boy . . . Easy.”
I look around, notice the lady friend watching from his doorway. She’s wrapped up in his robe, arms folded, unimpressed. She must be at least thirty years older than Calhoun.
“Ellie and I thought you left,” he says. “A long time ago.”
I moan.
“We would have halted the coitus had we known. I swear.”
I break loose and sit up, scamper away from him.
“You don’t look so hot, Mr. Danny.”
“I know.”
“Actually, I think you’re ripe for a paradigm shift.”
“Yeah, well I have bigger fish to fry right now.”
Ellie steps forward, rasps, “Listen to him. He knows what he’s talking about.”
“What? Do you even know this guy?”
She smirks at me. “He’s my life coach.”
“Life coach?”
She gives me the this-shit’s-for-real look. “He’s good.”
This clears my head. I straighten, wipe my nose. “This man is your life coach?”
She nods, so calm. “I’ve graduated. Now he’s just my booty call. Isn’t that what they call it?”
Calhoun giggles, nods.
“His coaching methodology is basically teaching by example.”
“Nice,” I say, get to my feet. Whoa, still light-headed.
She proceeds to blow me away.
Turns out, Calhoun is actually a millionaire several times over. One of the first eighty employees at Google. Made a fortune and got out.
This gets me. “And you live here? In a three-hundred-square-foot granny unit behind Larry’s house?”
Calhoun closes his eyes, confident. “You choose to live a large life, Mr. Danny. But you don’t need it.”
But you don’t support a family, bub.
“I make choices,” he says. “And I choose to live small.”
Ellie nods, watching my reaction. “See?”
“You have millions and you live here?”
“I have made a choice to appreciate where I am, Mr. Danny.”
Never thought I’d get deep with Calhoun.
Calhoun struggles to stand up. When he’s finally upright, he whispers, “Paradigm shift, Mr. Danny. You need a paradigm shift.” He looks at me, catches his breath, and adds, “You and Kate are livin’ la vida loca. And where is it getting you?”
I shrug. “Actually, we’re—”
He shushes me. “You should see yourself. You look all chewed up and spat out. La vida loca is sucking the life out of you, Mr. Danny.”
“I know. But all I need to do is last another—”
“That’s what they all say.”
“But we’re—”
“You and that sweet little family of yours need to cash out, Mr. Danny. Cash out and live small.”
Live small. Not bad, actually.
“Calhoun, listen to me. This is exactly what I am trying to do. I want to live small. I want to cash out. But believe me, to do it, I need to hang on a few more days.”
Calhoun nods, says, “That’s good, Mr. Danny. Set a date.”
“But I need your help.”
He shakes his jowls. “I don’t do loans. But I do give investment tips.”
“No, I mean—”
“In fact, I have a friend who just told me about this little company that lets you put short mess—”
“Calhoun, no.” Now I’m the one whispering. “I need your help with Larry.”
I tell him about Little Red. “I need to spring him loose.”
He wheezes. “You’re not going to spring that man loose, Mr. Danny. You’d need a Sherman to get into that house.”
I turn and cuss. I’ve forgotten about the time. Look at my watch. Holy shit.
I have five minutes.
“I gotta go,” I huff. “I’m so fucked.”
Calhoun says, “Think, my little one. Think.”
I turn back and squint at him. “I’m not thinking too well lately. Just tell me.”
Ellie turns back into his place, fiddles with his boom box, starts up the “Humps” song.
Eyes twinkling, he rasps, “Think.”
Again, that silly beat, those raspy ha-ha-chas over and over.
I keep squinting. My brain is empty.
“You’re not going to spring anyone out of Larry’s house.” He waits. “But you do hold power over him, don’t you?”
Ha-ha-cha, ha-ha-cha
“I do?”
Slowly, he nods. “By virtue of your little lover.”
And the music blares, calling for Calhoun.
“Now it is time for us to part.” He closes his eyes, sighs. “My own lover is calling.”
My cell rings. I recognize the number. Aw, man—High Rider.
I take the call, and he says, “It’s over.”
“What?”
“I have released the data.”
I don’t want to believe it. “What?”
“Dan.” So calm, in control. “I’ve released your personal information.”