This much I know . . .
David Duncan is in his $3 million home on Jackson Street, near Broderick–Pacific Heights. He’s in the office, tapping on his laptop, a glass of ’92 Colgin cabernet sauvignon from the Herb Lamb Vineyard on the desk, Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things” pulsing low, adding to his glow. The wife is already asleep, and the au pair is upstairs handling the bedtime ritual with the kids. David hates dealing with the kids at night.
He’s looking at the stocks.
In a day, his portfolio has appreciated by $270,000.
Google.
Salesforce.com.
Genentech.
VMware.
And then all those inside deals he engineered as a partner with Knowland, Hill, and Davis. Deals to fund an elite crop of start-ups, most of which have gone public and amassed extreme fortunes on the wings of the second tech bubble in a decade.
As a partner at the firm, and as a shrewd private investor, David Duncan boasts a portfolio north of $79 million. But he wants more. Much more.
Hell, he’s only forty-one. By forty-five, he wants his own jet, with his own pilots, and not some Citation X piece of shit, but a Gulfstream 5. He wants homes in Kauai, New York City, Paris, London, and of course his hometown outside Hartford, Connecticut. By the time he’s fifty, he wants to be able to establish trust funds for his great-great grandchildren. He wants to be on the Fortune list—a list of the smartest winners of the Internet era. He wants everyone to know he’s winning, and that he’s winning more than they are.
He wants at least half a billion.
FlowBid has made a big difference. Since the IPO, the stock has increased fourteen times its original share price. If everything holds together a few more months, Knowland, Hill, and Davis will be allowed to start selling its FlowBid shares on the open market—portal to millions of investors who are, once again, frothy—and could walk away with more than $1.3 billion.
As long as Stephen Fitzroy can keep it together.
As long as those stupid downsized geeks don’t make it worse.
Which is why David Duncan picks up his cell and dials his guy at the corporate intelligence and security firm, Stanislau. Tony, or Anthony. The compact, muscular bald guy who kind of gives him the creeps. The guy who’s supposed to be keeping the geeks in check, keeping them from recruiting more people—people like Fitzroy’s speechwriter.
He rings Tony’s phone.
Hears something at the front of the house. Knocking?
Gets Tony’s voice mail, again. Shit, where is he?
He gets up, walks toward the front of the house, squints through the glass door.
Two tall men in dark clothes are standing at his porch. At their feet, balled into the fetal position, is Tony, his problem solver.
Getting Baldy out of my trunk the second time is harder. Probably because his clothes are soaking, his body vibrating. Or maybe because my own hands are shaking so hard.
Rod ends up doing most of the lifting and pulling.
“You okay, Danny?”
“Yeah.” I scan the street—no one. “You sure this makes sense?”
Larry watches from the sidewalk.
“What’s this guy gonna do? Call the cops?” Rod huffs. “He can’t.” He thinks about it a second. “And we need answers.”
I look at the house. It’s a fully restored Victorian, four stories, perfectly manicured and appointed—lights illuminating the landscaping, crystal-clean windows releasing a perfect glow from within. Small spiked entry gate opening to a cobbled path leading to a beveled-glass door. I look at it all, notice the security camera on the porch, feel the jolt in my gut.
This could be it. This could be the moment I become a criminal—and have it all captured on tape. Thank God we dropped off Kate at Rod’s place to be with the boys. This thing here goes tapioca and I end up in prison, at least the boys will have Kate.
“Help me with this guy.” Rod is squatting over Baldy, who’s curled up on the sidewalk, the metal wire still digging into his flesh, still forcing him into the fetal position.
Larry watches.
By the time we reach the front door, I’m panting and Baldy is pleading.
“D-d-d-don’t do this, guys. I’ll lose my job.”
“Oh, did you hear that, Danny? Tony here may lose his job on account of stalking your young boys and attacking you unprovoked in the frozen-food section of an otherwise fine establishment. Hmmm. Maybe I shouldn’t ring the doorbell. I mean, poor Tony here may not be able to harass and endanger more families if I ring this doorbell.”
“P-p-please. My rep will be de-de-destroyed. We can take this offline.”
Rod looks at me. “I tell you what. Maybe I shouldn’t ring the doorbell. Maybe I should just tap the glass here on this pretty door. Like this.”
David Duncan looks like a 1970s TV cartoon. Meaning, when you get past the broad strokes of his appearance—no wrinkles, soft chin, pasty-white complexion with zero color, unscuffed hands, and a perfectly fashioned block of blond hair—nothing else really stands out. Everything on him is uniform.
He’s standing there in his work clothes—the standard venture capital outfit of light-blue button-up, midnight-blue slacks, and shiny Kenneth Coles—examining us through the thin, delicate glasses on his nose.
Rod says, “You David Duncan?”
Duncan stares down at Baldy.
“Hey.” Rod juts his jaw out, steps across the threshold and into Duncan’s personal space. “You hear me?”
Duncan backs up, stammers. “What is this?”
Duncan is looking at Baldy again, his mouth puckering. Baldy shakes, stutters, “S-s-s-s-sorry, David. They had me in the ocean. I h-h-h-had to talk.”
Rod says, “Good. So you are David Duncan. We’re making progress.”
Duncan backs up, quivers. “I have video surveillance. You’re being recorded.”
Rod says to me, “Help me with Tony here.” He squats over Baldy, and I join him. “Ready? . . . One . . . two . . . three.”
Larry follows, puffing on his pipe, watching, making an enormous cloud in Duncan’s entryway, which is where we lower Baldy.
“I have cameras.”
“We heard that,” Rod says, pleasant. “And I’m happy for you, David.”
Duncan steps back again, touches his glasses. Rod invades his space again. “And I bet you have panic buttons, too. Would you like to press one? It’s fine if you do. We can talk this out with a few of San Francisco’s finest.”
Duncan peers up and settles on the scars racing up and down Rod’s face—the cauliflower ears, the thick brow and square jaw.
“Go ahead,” Rod says, pleasant. “Push your little buttons.”
Duncan motions to a perfectly lit room toward the end of the entryway. “Let’s take this to my office.”
“Sure,” Rod says. “That sounds real nice, David.”
Duncan motions to Baldy. “Ummmm. Guys?”
“Oh, well, our backs are kinda sore from lifting and rolling Tony around.”
Duncan studies Rod, swallows hard.
“So why don’t you roll him in yourself?”
Duncan looks at us, frozen, then at Baldy. Puts his hands on his hips, stares at the floor.
“Heck, maybe Larry here would be willing to give you a hand.”
Duncan looks up at Larry for the first time. Larry stares back with hollow eyes.
“Granted, Larry doesn’t like big money.” Rod sighs, mocking concern. “So I’m not sure he’ll want to help.”
Larry is still staring at Duncan. “Let me have him.”
“You see,” Rod says. “Larry’s the one who did this to your pal Tony here. He’s very creative. He did this number on the fly—on the side of a road, I hear. Put Larry in his garage, with all his tools and a little bit of time, and . . . well, he’s a fucking artist.”
Duncan looks to Rod, then at Larry. “Who are you guys?”
Rod ignores him. “An artist with his own medium. Not with clay or watercolors or even scrap metal. With assholes like you.”
Duncan seems paralyzed.
“Larry, would you like to help David here with his friend?”
Larry produces a fresh cloud of smoke, steps over Baldy, and saunters into the office. “After this . . .” He nods to Duncan. “. . . I take him to my place.”
Rod smiles. “See?” He wants to take you to his garage.”
“Where I can extract,” Larry says, so soft, “every droplet.”
“Oh yeah.” Rod shakes his head, laughs. “Larry gets information—”
“Extracts,” Larry corrects.
“Okay, extracts information—intelligence—from his subjects while he uses them to . . . Well, to be honest, I’m not sure what he does with them in there. All I know is what happened to one of the geeks today when he met Larry.”
I clear my throat, add, “But we’re betting we won’t need to send you to Larry’s place.”
Duncan looks at me, wide-eyed and submissive.
“We’re betting you’ll talk with us tonight. Right now.”
A child’s voice. “Daddy?”
We all turn and look up the staircase. A girl, four maybe, is standing at top of the stairs, in her nightgown. She’s clutching a stuffed animal. A unicorn?
“Veronica, go back to bed.”
“Daddy?”
“Go to Maria’s room if you need something,” he snaps. “Just stay up there.”
She doesn’t move. “Daddy, why is that man on the floor like that?”
Duncan hollers, “Maria?”
Rapid footsteps.
“Maria, take her, will you?”
A soft female voice says, “Yes. Sorry, sir. Come here, honey. Come.”
Rod turns back to Duncan. “I can tell you’re the involved type of parent.”
Duncan looks away, motions to the office. “Let’s talk.”
Rod nods to Baldy. “We wouldn’t want to make Tony here feel left out.”
Duncan looks at us, and we stare back at him. Until David Duncan, young master of the universe, squats over his shivering, wet, sandy associate and begins the awkward task of sliding him toward the office.
We’re all in chairs, except for Rod, who’s sitting on Duncan’s solid-oak desk. He looks at Duncan and nods to me. “Do you know who this guy is?”
Duncan glances at me. “I don’t know what—”
“Answer the fucking question.”
Duncan glances at me again, returns to Rod. “No, I don’t know him. But I’m gathering he’s the speechwriter.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Stephen Fitzroy’s speechwriter.” Duncan seems annoyed, huffs. “He spends a lot of time with Stephen.”
Rod acts surprised. “Wow, lucky guess.”
Duncan sits back, folds his arms.
“Now here comes a really important question. See if you can answer this one the first time I ask.”
Larry whispers, “I get him.”
“David.” Rod’s voice hardens. “Why are you having a corporate security guy like Tony here—from Stanislau, no less—beat up my man here? Harassing his family and even stalking his children?”
Duncan chokes on his spit, swallows hard. “I don’t know what this—”
Baldy rasps, “You said to get his att-tt-attention.”
Rod nods. “Good. We’re getting somewhere.” He studies Duncan. “You wanted to get his attention. You wanted to scare him.”
Duncan looks away. “Well, I just—”
“Does he look scared?” Duncan glances at me. “Do we look scared?”
Silence.
Rod nods to Baldy on the floor. “Who in this room looks scared?”
Duncan concedes the point, mumbles to himself.
“Why were you doing this, David?”
Duncan bites a nail, thinks about it.
“Okay,” Rod says, “seeing as you seem to be a little tongue-tied, and seeing as I’m running out of patience, I think it’s time I tell you about your choices.”
Duncan looks up at him.
“Think of them as doors, really.”
Larry hums the theme music from a game show—I’m not sure which.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Rod says. “The Price Is Right. What’s behind the big doors?” He studies Duncan a second. “Only we’ll make it easy for you. We’ll tell you.”
Larry still humming.
“Let’s assume you just keep mumbling and we don’t get any answers. In that case, you’ll get Door Number One.”
Larry intensifies the humming.
“And what’s behind the big door?” Rod waits, then affects a booming MC voice. “Well, Bob, it’s a trip to Larry’s garage.”
The humming stops. Larry stiffens, makes a clicking noise, like a cat staring at a rodent.
“So that’s one option.”
Duncan straightens, says, “I’m sure we can work this—”
Rod stops him. “Now, assume you do talk, but not to my satisfaction.”
Larry booms, “What does he win, Bob?”
Rod loses the MC voice, lowers his voice to that rumble. “Door Number Two.”
Duncan waits for more.
“Do you know what I do for a living, David?”
“No, I—”
“I fight people.” Rod’s eyes twinkle; his voice goes soft and gentle. “In a cage.”
Duncan tries to maintain eye contact, and fails.
“So.” Rod chuckles to himself. “Behind Door Number Two . . .”
Larry says, “No, just Door Number One.”
Rod blinks. “Door Number Two . . . Well, that’s just me. Or, I should say, me and you. Right here in this office. With the door shut. Our little cage.”
“Guys, we can work this out.”
Rod smiles. “Good, because the other option is Door Number Three. And that one is a lot less physical, I guess, isn’t it, Danny?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s just me contacting some of my old coworkers from my newspaper days. Just me telling a few choice business writers—or maybe my crime reporter buds?—about David Duncan, the partner in a major private equity fund, who is having employees of FlowBid, a company in which he has heavily invested, stalked, harassed, and attacked by a high-priced private security operative.”
Duncan says, “Guys—”
Rod says, “No, David. I’m going to ask you a simple question, and you are going to answer it. And if you don’t, well, I guess I’ll let Larry here choose a door.”
Larry clicks, produces a cloud of smoke. Baldy chitters and moans.
Rod leans in. “David, why did you have this asshole attack Dan here and harass his family?”
Duncan freezes, says, “It’s about Fitzroy.”
Rod and I glance at each other.
“What about him?”
“Well, it’s what some people want to do to him.”
“What? Hurt him?”
Duncan looks away. “No, they want to— You know. They just want to humiliate him.” He huffs, shakes his head, looks away. “They want to expose some things.”
“About Fitzroy? Or about the company?”
He looks down at Baldy, who’s stopped shivering. “Well, Fitzroy and the company. They’re kind of the same thing. FlowBid is Fitzroy, and Fitzroy is FlowBid.”
“What do they want to expose?”
“I’m not quite sure.” He fidgets with his cuff link, looks up at me. “But I know they’re talking with you.”
Rod says, “They want Danny’s help with something.”
“Yes, but I don’t know what it is.”
“But you’re concerned.”
“Yes, well . . .” He looks at us, and his face sags a little. “We’ve invested heavily in FlowBid, and . . . well, we can’t afford anything to erupt these final two months. That’s all this was about.”
“Erupt?”
“With Fitzroy. You know.”
“No, I don’t know.”
Duncan shrugs. “Fitzroy’s behavior. You know, his extremes.”
“Extremes? You mean, extreme business practices?”
Duncan shakes his head. “All I’m saying is, if Fitzroy goes down, the market cap of FlowBid will plummet, and—well, a lot of people would lose a lot of money.”
Rod rumbles. “Including Knowland, Hill, and Davis.”
He nods yes. “Including hundreds of thousands of investors. Millions of investors.”
“But especially you guys.”
He closes his eyes, nods. “Yes, yes. Especially us.”
Rod says, “So tell us about these guys.”
Duncan puts out a hand. “Guys, I really don’t think it’s going to help—”
“Larry and Danny.” Rod stares at Duncan. “Can you excuse us for a second? I think David here has just won Door Number Two.”
I get up to leave.
Larry says, “Then I get him.”
Duncan snaps, “Okay, fine. They’re laid-off sys admins.”
Rod lowers his head and yells in his face, his veins popping. “No shit, Maxine. We already knew that.”
Duncan winces and braces for impact.
“You know more about these guys. And you’re gonna tell us or we’ll do a round in the ‘cage’ here.”
Duncan recoils, shuts his eyes.
“NOW.”
“All I know—” He chokes on his spit again. When he recovers, his voice cracks, like he’s seconds from crying. “All I know is, they were laid off four months ago.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just four months before their own options would have vested for millions. Real nice move.”
Duncan winces again. “It wasn’t personal. The board agreed that FlowBid needed to align the cost structure appropriately, due to market conditions.”
“Market conditions?” I explode from my chair, stand over him. “Market conditions? The company’s never been more profitable. The stock’s never been higher. Our op-ex has stayed flat. And to lay off original employees—people who have been with the company since the beginning, people who built this company—just months before they can vest their share of the profits?”
Duncan looks away, blinks.
“For an even higher stock price?”
Silence.
“Because when those layoffs were announced, the stock price went up another thirteen percent, didn’t it?”
“Guys, that has . . . I mean, that’s the way it . . .”
“Big money.” Larry blows out a cloud, crackles. “I don’t like big money.”
Rod says, “Okay, so what are the geeks doing, David?”
“We just know they’re—” He sighs. “They’re trying to get evidence of Fitzroy’s being— I don’t know. Fitzroy doing things that would have negative material effect on FlowBid’s market cap. They want him to lose his fortune, but doing so would destroy everyone else’s investments.”
Rod looks at me, returns to Duncan. “Who else at Knowland, Hill, and Davis knows about the geeks and what you’re trying to do here?”
“No one. I swear. No one.”
Rod thinks about it. “Good.”
Duncan looks at me. “I don’t know what they have on you, what they’re threatening, but I can help.”
Rod sneers. “Which is why you had your buddy here . . .” He taps Baldy with a Doc Marten. “. . . beat Danny up in a grocery store.”
Duncan blinks hard. “All I know is, whatever those guys are offering you, whatever they’re threatening, I can handle it. Or I can double your take.”
Silence.
“I know you have options that will vest soon.” He looks at me, eyes hopeful. “If you work with me and drop the IT guys, I can double your take.”
I stare at him, look away. God, I want to hit him.
Rod says, “What’s happening in Tampa?”
“I don’t know. Something, but I don’t know what.”
Rod stands up. “But you know enough that you don’t want Danny joining Fitzroy there.”
“We just know those guys are pretty wound up about Tampa. So it’s just a precau—”
Rod says, “We’re done here. And I’m afraid you haven’t been as forthcoming as I’d like.”
Duncan looks up at him. “No.”
“Oh yes.” Rod looks down at him, twinkles. “Oh yes. You’ve won a prize.”
Duncan whimpers. “No.”
Larry whispers, voice delicate, “Yes.”
“Yeah. And not only have you failed to meet my expectations tonight, I’m also worried about what you might do if we leave you here. I mean, you could get Danny here fired, just days before his options vest.”
“No.”
“Yes, you could. And you probably would.”
“No.” Duncan looks at me, eyes straining. “Never.”
“You had no problem laying off those geeks. From what Danny tells me, as a partner of Knowland, Hill, and Davis, you sit on the FlowBid board of directors . . .”
“Which means,” I add, “he approved those layoffs.”
“Guys. No. Please. C’mon.”
“So it’s obvious you’d do just about anything to preserve your absurd fortune, wouldn’t you?”
“No. Guys.” He holds his breath, blows out hard. “No.”
“The problem is, Danny here wants to cash out. He wants to get away from people like you.”
Rod and Duncan look at each other.
“And I can’t tell you how much I support that plan.” He looks at Duncan, disgust taking over his face. “His plan to get away from people like—”
“Guys. Please.”
“. . . a crock-pot of pus like you.”
They look at each other.
“And I’m not gonna let you get in the way, not during these last few days.”
“No. Guys. Tell me how much you want.”
“Dude.” I feel my temples throbbing. “I don’t want your dirty money. I just want to last two more days and get out.”
Duncan straightens, throws an arm out. “Then that’s fine. That’s fine.”
“But the geeks,” Rod says. “The geeks could ruin it for him if you and Tony here get in the way. You see, they’re asking for a favor, and it doesn’t seem like such a bad favor. Problem is, if he doesn’t grant that favor, or if you and Tony here get in the way, my best friend here is toast.”
“But wait. I can—”
“Which means, I’m afraid we need to hole you up. You know, pull you from society for a few days. Until those options vest and Danny can cash them out, get the funds into his account.”
Larry stiffens, clicks, and produces a billowing cloud.
Duncan cries. “No. Guys.”
“And as I understand it, Motel Larry . . .”
Larry clicks. His mouth is frozen open.
“. . . has a vacancy.”
Rod walks David Duncan upstairs so he can tell his nanny he’ll be gone for a few days, and ask her to tell his heavily medicated wife and their kids in the morning. Back downstairs, Duncan paces his office, hugging himself and staring at the enormous framed Dartmouth degree hanging on the wall.
I’m using Larry’s pliers to untie Baldy.
“Not even my cell phone?”
Rod says, “There’s no time for that at Larry’s place. Consider it a gadget-free retreat.”
Duncan glances at Larry, his upper lip pulled back in fear and loathing. He looks to Rod. “What about you? What if I stay with you?”
Slowly, Rod shakes his head. “Sorry. I gotta get back to the gym. But if you’d like, Larry can bring you over tomorrow, for some sparring . . .” His eyes twinkle. “. . . in the cage.”
Duncan sticks his lower lip out, looks at the floor. “Anything happens to me—like, I’m gone too long, or, you know . . . never come back?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, the police will have the video surveillance.”
“Nice point, David. Larry, did you hear that?”
Larry cocks his head, gazes into space. “Extraction.”
“But, Larry.” Rod sounds like a stern father. “We do need to return David here in one piece. So, no disfigurement. You hear me?”
Still gazing into space. “Extraction.”
Duncan looks at his cell, thinking.
“Yeah, I’ll hold all that stuff. Your wallet. Your cell. Your laptop. In fact, let’s go pack your suitcase, so no one starts thinking something bad has happened.”
“But my wife. She’s sleeping in there.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll tiptoe.”
I finish with the wire. Baldy moans, tries to stretch his legs.
“Danny, I don’t trust Tony here. I mean, I know he’s kinda spent at this point, but I also know he can be an ornery pistol. Do me a favor and tie him up at the ankles and wrists with that wire. Have Larry help you.” He looks at Duncan. “David and I are gonna go pack up, as soon as he sends an e-mail to work saying he’ll be out a few days.”
Larry darts around my car like a pilot inspecting his plane.
Rod sounds amused. “God, he’s excited.”
I nod. “He knows he’s scored the mother lode.”
We stand there awhile.
“Well,” I say, “the thing is, he’s made it very clear. Larry doesn’t like people following him.”
We watch as Larry walks in tight circles and flattens his beard with his fingers.
“And he hates big money.”
Larry opens the driver-side door and takes a seat.
Rod shoves his hands into his pockets, nods to the car. “And those guys bound and gagged in the trunk? They’re like the personification of big money.”
“Big money,” I add, “that was literally following him.”
We stand there a second, letting it all sink in.
Which is when my eyelid twitches. Reality is setting in.
“This is kidnapping, you know.”
Rod scrunches his face. “That’s a matter of opinion. The video surveillance in the house would show him leaving his home with three reasonable men, and doing so under his own free will.”
I offer a dry laugh. “And the footage showing a heavily restrained man curled up on the floor begging for mercy? That wouldn’t look like kidnapping to a cop?”
Rod nods, bites his lip. “Hey, here in San Francisco, we’re tolerant of people’s extracurricular activities. I mean, if the man who is tied up is refusing to press charges—and we know he’d rather have his thumbs lopped off than have this whole thing go to the police—why should the law care?”
I feel my throat tighten, my skin cool. This is all too much.
“But what about the footage of Duncan walking to my car under his own free will—only to get sucker-punched, tied up, gagged, and shoved into a small car trunk with his friend, the so-called consenting participant?”
“Role playing,” Rod offers with a big smile. “David Duncan has paid us to do some role playing. Hell, he wouldn’t disagree. He’d rather admit to role playing than come clean about this FlowBid shit.”
I turn, scan the street for pedestrians. No one.
“Hope you’re right.”
“Danny, he’s in this for hundreds of millions of dollars. You think he cares about getting detained—”
“Kidnapped.”
“— whatever, for a couple days?”
“Dude, I’m gonna shit my pants if we keep talking about this.”
Rod steps away, looks back at me. “You said this was important, Danny. Life-changing for you and Kate.”
I throw a hand out, let it fall to my side. Defeated. “Yeah, but . . . You know. All this?” I motion to the car trunk. “This is beyond. I mean . . .”
“You said you needed to last a few more days so you can cash out.”
I mumble, “I know.”
“And live a better life.”
I sigh, irritated. “Yes.”
“And these assholes have gotten in the way. Singled you out.”
I look away, shrug. “Yeah.”
“So you’ve been forced to protect yourself and your family, without the cops. Otherwise, you’d lose a ton of money.” He studies me. “Money for which you’ve worked very hard the past two-plus years. No?”
I gaze at the car trunk, nod.
Rod eases closer. “Listen. If you’ve changed your mind, we can stop this and call the police right here, right now.”
I look at him, roll my eyes.
“See what they say about the kidnapping, the hit-and-run with Larry, the various instances of battery. See what FlowBid says about it all.”
My stomach weakens. “Okay, okay. I get it.”
He smiles down at me, puts a hand on my shoulder, and shakes me hard. “Just hang in there.” There’s amusement in his voice. “I’ll make sure Larry goes gentle on those guys. I promise.”
“Okay.”
Rod looks at me, his face softening. “I’m doing this because I believe there’s something better for you, Danny. This start-up venture capital shit, it’s not you.”
I nod, break the eye contact.
“That Duncan guy in the trunk there? Dickheads like him are the reason you got into journalism back in college.” He studies me. “Exposing the risk they pose to the rest of us.”
I look down. Fuck, he’s right. It hurts to hear it.
“Remember that judge you nailed in that campaign-funding investigation?”
Mumble, “Yeah.”
“That was a public service, Danny. That was your passion.”
“I know. I just—”
Rod scrunches his face into disgust. “All these people with their fancy cars and IPOs and catered meetings and extravagant parties?” His eyes narrow. “That shit rots, and it rots fast.”
I close my eyes, nod.
He slides an arm around me. “And it’s not you. This is your chance to make a break for it, and I’m not gonna let those assholes get in the way.”
I take a deep breath, let it out slowly.
“Now . . .” He raises his shoulders, looks around. “. . . you think you have this secret-video thing doped out for tomorrow night?”
I blow out a gust, and my stomach sinks. “Yep. It’s all packed.”
“You think whatever it is you tape will cause the stock to plummet or something?”
“That’s the thing.” I look away, glance back at him. “I have no fucking idea.”
He studies me.
“And if it’s something I think will damage the share price . . . I mean,” I sigh hard. “I just can’t . . . Even if it means that I . . .”
His face softens, and he nods.
“I just can’t do that to all the FlowBid people. To all the investors—I mean, people—who’ve sunk their savings into this company.”
Rod bites his lip a moment. “But what if Fitzroy is doing something awful? Breaking the law or something? What if you’re being asked to document something important that needs to be reported or disclosed? Something that could save even more people even more money down the road?”
I look down and shake my head.
“What do you do? Do the right thing, turn the tape over, and watch the stock sink?” He thinks about it, adds, “Turn all those lives upside down?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or keep it to yourself? Let the geeks get you fired? Lose your fortune, but save the livelihoods of everyone else?”
I close my eyes. “I don’t know, man. I’ll just have to. Dude, I just can’t think about that right now. I just— I mean, I just need to get through the next twenty-four hours, come up on the other side. Then, depending on what I get on tape, I’ll have to make a decision.”
He shifts, looks into the shadows, nods.
“I mean, there’s a chance they want me to tape something that won’t have any kind of material effect on the stock.”
Rod smirks. “And that’s why one of FlowBid’s largest shareholders was trying to scare you into staying out of Tampa?” He looks out, laughs. “Yeah, right.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sure it could affect the share price. Okay?”
“I’m just saying—”
“Yeah, I hear you. I can’t discuss it any more right now.”
“Okay, and I’m just saying you should be prepared for the dilemma.”
Larry taps the horn, calling for Rod.
“Kate coming?”
I nod. “We’re gonna get a bite, head back to your place.”
Rod starts toward the car. “Good. Larry’s gonna drop me off at my place. I’ll make sure he understands my rules before I send him off.”
“What about Baldy’s friends? The guys casing my house? Larry’s house?”
He stands over the shotgun seat. “Something tells me Larry here can handle it. Go get a bite, Danny. Maybe a drink, too—loosen up, take a couple of big breaths, get your bearings. And when you come home, take my bed. I’ll sleep in the front room with the boys.”
“Rod, c’mon.”
He points at me. “Don’t you dare offend me.” He drops into the shotgun seat, slaps Larry on the shoulder, hollers out to me, “Be safe, Danny.”
Safe? I laugh to myself. We’ll see how safe I am after I tell Kate what I have to tell her.
And, just like that, I feel like I’m about to faint.
I wait for her at the corner of Jackson and Fillmore.
She pulls up in our minivan, unlocks the doors, and looks down the street as I ease in. My heart pounding, I glance over and look away.
“You okay?”
Her voice is tight. “Sure.”
“Where should we go?”
“The Haight.” She starts down Fillmore. “I need someplace easy and chill.”
God, I don’t want to do this.
We cross California.
The tone in her voice is heavy. “Do I want to know?”
Oh shit. “What?”
“The bald guy.”
“Oh.”
“Do I want to know? Is he okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Well. We’re letting Larry take him—”
“You know,” she says, her voice tightening, “actually, I don’t think I want to know.”
“No, honey. Seriously. He’s fine.”
“With Larry? That guy’s fine with Larry? Are you nuts?”
“And David Duncan, actually. The guy who hired Baldy. I mean, I guess Larry has him, too.”
We drive in silence for a long while.
“Dan, assuming this thing doesn’t blow up in our faces sooner . . .” She glances at me. “. . . what do you think guys like that are going to do once Larry lets them go?”
I twist my lips, look straight ahead, and nod, conceding. “Well . . .” I’m drawing a blank. “Yeah, that’s a good question.”
“I mean, so what if that man was following you guys?”
“Yeah. Well, yeah. Yeah, Larry doesn’t like people fol—”
“That’s the problem, Dan. Larry.” She grips the steering wheel with both hands, leans forward in frustration. “Larry’s involved.”
“Yeah, I know. That was . . . I mean—”
“But, hey, I sure enjoyed my date with him.” She pauses, forces a chuckle. “Oh yeah, that was a real treat. Thanks for setting us up, Dan. You’re a real swell husband.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I snap.
“I mean, not every gal has a husband who sets her up on dates with violent sociopaths.”
“It wasn’t a date,” I snap.
We cross Oak.
My steam is rising. “Listen, I’m doing the best I can here. This whole thing is crazy.”
“No shit. And it’s all—” She stops herself, bites her lip.
“Sure,” I snap. “Say it. I knew that’s what you’re thinking. It’s all because of me and my big mouth, talking to BusinessWeek, doing all that stupid shit at work.”
“And doing God knows what on the Internet.”
Shit.
She waits a long while. “It’s just that the geeks should have had nothing on you. I mean, we should have been celebrating right now.”
“Kate,” I start, but can’t think of anything to add.
We reach the top of the hill, and Kate pulls right onto Haight. “And now I get a call from Julie at FlowBid telling me there’s an e-mail flying around listing your porn activity.” Her voice quakes. “Some e-mail to all of FlowBid’s—”
“Well, just the top floor, actually.”
“Whatever. The point is, every person in the company has seen it. And according to Julie, it’s all a bunch of ass stuff.”
My stomach is surging again.
She takes a parking slot near Steiner.
“Well, it’s not like you have a bad ass.”
She scrunches her face. “What?”
“What I mean is, it’s not like you have this disgusting ass and I had to look at nice butts on the Internet. You have an amazing ass.”
She looks at me, the disbelief piercing me. “I can’t believe you.”
“I’m just saying, hopefully it’s a little less embarrassing for you. This is not because there’s a problem with you or—”
“Oh, I know it has nothing to do with me.”
“It has to do with my problems.”
A momentary tone of sympathy. “Your ass problems?”
“It’s not like you’re chubby and I was looking at skinny girls or something.”
“Oh, gee, Dan. That makes me feel so much better. It’s not like I have a disgusting ass. So why should I be hurt and humiliated? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m just . . .” And my brain freezes.
“Dan, what if I worked someplace where lots of people knew I was married to you. And, one day, thousands of my coworkers learned that I was spending hours upon hours looking at boners and balls on the Internet? Bonerssandballs dot-com?”
“Well—”
“No, think about that.”
I do, and I can literally feel the humiliation.
“How would that make you feel?”
I’m such an asshole.
“Would you feel hurt, like there must be something wrong?” She looks at me, her eyes hurting. “Would you take it personally?”
There’s a lump in my throat, and it’s so big I can barely swallow.
“You know it’s more than this sex shit, right, Dan? The fact we don’t do it like we used to. You know that’s just a symptom of bigger things.”
“No.”
“Yes.” She shakes her head, looks away. “We don’t connect anymore. We’re like robots, running around trying to catch up, trying to do it all, and all the time we’re running right past each other.”
“I’m so sorry, honey.” My voice breaks. “You deserve . . . so much more.”
This softens her. “I mean, I know you’re a man, and men like to look at girls, and that’s okay, I guess. But this e-mail thing was . . .” She looks out onto Haight, shakes her head with a dry chuckle. “This was a lot.”
“I am so sorry, honey.”
She’s looking out the window. “Like I said, it’s symptomatic.”
I close my eyes, shake my head. “Honey, listen, it’s not like—”
“You’re obviously horny. I mean, the whole company knows you’re horny. And now they’re all thinking you’re obviously not getting what you need at home.”
“No, listen.”
“And then I’m thinking—you didn’t even tell me the geeks had this on you. The ass activity. I had no idea.”
“Neither—”
“So, now more than ever, I’m wondering what else they have on you. Things you’re not telling me.” She turns, looks me in the eyes, and my heart sinks. “Something you’d do anything to keep from me.”
“No.”
“Something so bad, you’d rather see people kidnapped and sent to Larry’s house.”
And I know, I have to do it. I have to tell Kate about those instant messages. Those fucking stupid messages with Anne. If I tell her, I take that bargaining chip away from the geeks. And I can tell her on my own terms, not through a companywide e-mail.
I look down, take a deep breath. “Honey.” I can’t look at her. “There’s something . . .” I force myself to look up, meet her eyes. “. . . I have to tell you.”
Kate is crying when she spins on her rear, pulls her feet from under the wheel, and lands the heel of her boot into my nose. The back of my head bounces off the window.
I’m crying, too.
“I’m so sorry,” I wail.
“I”—she kicks again, gets me in the arm—“knew”—another one, in the gut—“it.”
Blood drips off my upper lip. “Honey.”
She drops her head, sobs.
“Honey.” I wipe the blood off my lip. “It’s just that stupid IM’ing. I mean, it got out of control. But there wasn’t anything else.”
Oh my God, how did I become such an ass?
“We never touched, I swear.”
She squeaks, “Do you love her?”
“Love her? Honey. Never.” I quake, teeter on losing it. “Honey, I love you. Only you.”
I do lose it, start to sob.
She shakes her head, covers her face. “I can’t. I just can’t”—she opens the door, wobbles onto Haight, her mascara-streaked face caught in the headlights—“do this.”
She stumbles toward the sidewalk.
I roll down the window, shout, “Honey.”
Her shoulders fall as she walks away.
I stumble out of the car. “Katie.”
She quickens her steps.
I try to run after her. Shit. My crotch feels like hardened plastic.
“Honey.”
“Leave me alone.”
I touch her shoulder. “Honey, just wait.”
She turns with a look of utter disgust, swipes away my hand. “Leave . . .” She pushes me back, follows. “. . . me . . .” She pushes again. “. . . alone.”
I stand there, watch as she turns and heads down the sidewalk. A spindly homeless man wrapped up in countless layers of clothes meets my eye, says, “Whoa,” and giggles.
I follow her. “Kate.”
She turns and rushes me, slams me against the metal gate of a shuttered vinyl shop, bites her lip, looks me in the eyes, and knees me hard, right between the legs.
My face freezes in shock.
My midsection explodes, and my legs nearly give. I feel my eyes roll back. But I won’t let go.
I can hardly breathe. It feels as though every nerve ending in my body has been redirected to my crotch and plugged into an electrical transformer. With one swift kick, Kate has cut through all my layers of defense—all the distractions, all the denial, all the Vicodin—and brought me to my knees.
“I’m so sorry.” It’s the only thing I can say. “So sorry.”
Finally—maybe at the sight of me crumpled on the ground—she softens a bit.
“I don’t know what happened to me, honey.”
She takes a big breath, exhales slowly. “I thought it might be something like this,” she says, her voice heavy with resignation. “You’ve been . . . You weren’t acting like the guy I married. You’ve been . . . You’ve been an asshole, Dan.”
“I need to get back,” I sniffle. “Back to the real me. That’s what this whole thing is about—quitting this life. We can get back together. I know it.”
She looks down at me. “You need to get back. I’m right here.”
I try to stand up with her. It takes me a while.
“I need a drink.”
She takes off down the sidewalk. I hobble after her.
We’re at the Gold Cane on Haight.
I’m at one end of the cocktail lounge, pressing a bloody napkin into my nostrils. She’s on the other end, all alone.
Except for the two guys she’s talking to.
One of the guys has bought a round of tequila shots. Kate hoists hers, smiles up at the guys, and downs it. She looks up to the taller guy, smiles up at him, and straightens. Then she looks my way and glares.
“Want another?” The bartender on my end has nose studs, straight bangs, a tight, ripped black T. The loud voices, laughter, blaring music all bounce off my face. “Huh?”
“You want another beer?”
I shake my head. “Shot of Cuervo.”
She looks at my nose. “You want some ice for that?”
I nod.
Kate and the guys are laughing about something. She takes another shot, lifts it into the air. The tall guy eases closer, exchanges a huge smile with his buddy as she drains her shot, grimaces, and signals for another.
My bartender returns with a shot glass and a Ziploc full of ice. She tosses me the ice and pulls a bottle of Cuervo, glances at me as she pours. “You okay?”
I glance at Kate and the guys, nod yes.
Now Kate seems to be leaning back on the tall guy. He’s lean and narrow and blond, like he’s just gotten off a flight from Stockholm. Is he the kind of guy she really finds attractive? Someone completely different from me? Or is he just the first opportunity she had to piss me off?
I take the Cuervo, down it, and my nose explodes all over again. I shake my face, hunch my shoulders, and narrow my lids, glancing over. Kate smiles to herself, catches me looking, and glares again.
“Don’t forget your ice, dude.”
I look up, and the bartender nods to the Ziploc.
“Oh yeah,” I mumble, pull it off the bar, and slide it down my pants. Through gritted teeth I exhale, “Thanks.”
Bartender watches, mumbles something to herself, and turns away. I say to her back, “I have a bigger problem area than the nose.”
The tequila warms and dulls my head. The ice pack cools and numbs my crotch.
Stockholm is beaming. Surely, he thinks it’s his night of blind luck, to have this gorgeous creature fall into his arms, to have this woman with a modest ring on her wedding finger lean into him and laugh.
I nod to the bartender, and she shifts over and pours me another shot. “You sure you’re okay?” There’s a trace of amusement in her voice.
I nod, hoist the glass to her, and she nods back.
“Going through a rough patch, looks like?”
I down the shot, shudder, and try to ignore my throbbing nose.
She nods to Kate and the guys. “One of those guys rough you up?”
“Huh?”
“They don’t look the type.”
“No. It’s— I mean, the lady did.”
She squints at me and turns back to look at Kate. “She kicked you?”
I look down, nod.
“What, you get a little fresh?”
“No, I— Well, actually . . .” I rearrange the ice pack. “Yeah, a little too fresh. But with someone else.”
She smiles, eases away. “Such a dude.”
Stockholm is leaning over Kate, his mouth practically in her ear, whispering something, his lips almost brushing against her ear.
Okay, that’s enough.
I swivel off my stool, weave through the bodies toward them. Everyone else in the bar is having such a great time. Everyone else is on a different planet.
Kate looks up again and notices my seat is empty. Stockholm tries to nibble her ear and she brushes him off, stumbles off her stool, heads my way.
I emerge from the crowd, shuffle toward her. “Honey.”
She reaches out, yanks me to her, lets me hug her. “You asshole,” she slurs. “You fucking asshole.”
I wrap my arms around her, look her in the eyes. “Never again, babe. I swear.”
“Hey.” Stockholm stands behind her, his hands out, brow creased. “Dude.”
Kate announces into the air, “Dude . . .” She fights off a burp. “. . . it’s over.” She swallows hard. “Scram. My asshole husband is begging for forgiveness.”
I’m staring into my girl’s eyes.
She chokes on something.
“Dude,” he says, takes a step closer. “Totally not cool.”
Kate sways, moans and burps.
“Dude.”
Then, like an unexpected slap across the face, she vomits down my chest and over my shoulder. Warm, rancid wetness rolls down both sides of my body. Some of it splashes onto the floor.
Everyone eeeeee-ewing and shrieking.
Everyone making room for the drunk parents on date night.
I’m driving shirtless down Baker Street, Kate riding shotgun.
“Food,” she rasps. “I had all that—” She gasps, moans. “. . . on an empty stomach.”
“Just hold on, babe. Keep that bag close.”
“Honey.” Her fingers latch onto the plastic grocery bag I’d salvaged from the back of the van. She gasps, closes her eyes. “I need to get—” She exhales hard. “Something . . .” She pauses, blows out a gust. “. . . in my stomach.”
“There’s a McDonald’s at Fillmore and Golden Gate. It’s got a drive-through.”
She covers her face, exhales. “Fine.”
I pull a right onto Golden Gate. “Just hold on, babe. We’ll get some food in you, sober you up a little.” And I realize I’m probably drunk myself, shouldn’t be driving. “We’ll do the drive-through, find a place to park and sober up a little.”
She reclines her seat a little. “Why?” She takes a big breath, lets it out slowly. “Why . . . aren’t we connecting like we used to? Thass . . . That’s the problem, you know?”
“No. No. Honey, I was just stupid. I just got pulled into it with those IMs. I mean, we told a few stories, I guess.”
“You tell her how I sucked you off behind that rock that time?”
“Kate.”
“Did her stories give you a . . .” She pauses, swallows, and sighs. “. . . a hard-on?”
“Kate. C’mon.”
“Well, I got news for you.” Tiny burp, long exhale. “What if I told you Alec and I have been back in touch? We’ve been e-mailing?”
Alec? Kate’s old boyfriend? The guy she always says she hasn’t heard from in twelve years?
“What”—burp—“would you think of that?”
Is she kidding? My brain constricts. She’s been lying to me.
“Guess I don’t feel so bad about that anymore.”
We pull into the McDonald’s drive-through. “That’s nice,” I say. “You’re mad at me for having a few horny instant messages with a coworker? When you’ve been off reconnecting with your old boyfriend?”
God, that sounded bad.
“Stop it . . .” She exhales. “A couple of e-mails—”
“Welcome to McDonald’s,” says a female voice.
“. . . with an ex doesn’t compare to . . .”
“May I take your order?”
“. . . boner and vagina talk.”
Long silence.
“Ummmm.” The attendant pauses. “Can you repeat that?”
“Hold on,” I holler.
I turn to her. “Have you seen him?”
Her eyes closed. Annoyed. “No.”
“So, what, you’re having one of those emotional affairs? Missing him or something?”
The attendant says, “Sir?”
“He’s just a friend.” Kate blows out a gust. “When there’s no one else who’ll listen. That’s the problem with you and me. Who am I supposed to talk to?”
“Sir?”
“Hold on. So you’re saying, because it’s not boner and vagina talk, that’s okay?”
“Dan,” she gasps, quiet, “I’m not feeling so hot. Just get me something starchy.”
“Sir?”
“Obviously your little e-mail affair was wrong, too, or you would have told me.”
Eyes closed. “Order the . . . fucking . . . food.”
I order her a cheeseburger and fries, and a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese and fries for me. When we get to the window, the pimply-faced attendant acts like everything’s normal. Hell, at a late-night drive-through, maybe boner talk is normal.
I can’t help myself. “Does he still have feelings for you?”
“Oh God. I don’t feel—”
Kate sits up, opens her door, leans out, and throws up onto the asphalt. The bitter, acidic stench cuts through the air.
“Here.” I reach into the glove box, pull out the last napkin, hand it to her. “Hang in there.”
She dips her head, groans.
I rub her back. “It’s okay.”
I turn to my left, and the attendant is handing me a hot bag of food. I look up to her and produce a happy, grateful smile.
“Could we . . .”
More retching and splatter.
“. . . have some extra napkins.”
The attendant smiles, turns away, and returns with a massive wad of napkins.
Kate closes the door and releases a long groan as I ease away from the window. I hand her a few napkins. “We’ll turn out here and find a spot, get you cleaned up.”
“Water,” she rasps.
I turn onto Fillmore, hand her the water bottle from the cup holder between us. “I think . . .” She takes a sip. “. . . that food will come right back up.” She sighs hard. “All that grease.”
Crap. She’s probably right. “You need something bland.”
“Exactly.” She sighs, wipes her mouth. “Pancakes. No butter or syrup. Just pancakes.”
I head north on Fillmore, toward Cow Hollow and the Marina. “There’s a Mel’s on Lombard.” I shove a bunch of fries into my mouth. “They serve breakfast.”
“Fine.” She reclines her seat, closes her eyes, moans. “And no.”
We cross Geary.
“No?”
“No.” Gasp. “I don’t have feelings for Alec.”
That’s good to hear.
“I’m just . . .” Her voice cracks. “. . . so lonely sometimes.”
My heart sinks. “Lonely?”
“It’s just nice to have someone to listen.”
That hurts, like a sock in the gut. “I don’t listen?”
She sniffles. “I can’t tell you anything negative—my concerns, my fears, my frustrations. You don’t like hearing that stuff.”
“But I want to hear it, Kate. I do.”
We cross Sutter.
“I don’t want suggestions or solutions, but that’s what I get from you. I just want you to listen.”
“Don’t I do that?”
Shakes her head. “When I start talking about that stuff, your face says it all.” Sniffles. “You don’t even realize you’re doing it.”
There’s nothing more maddening than knowing you’re hurting the one you love, but not knowing how you can change. We’ve gone through all this with the therapist, and it’s still a problem. How am I supposed to change my facial reactions when I don’t even know I’m having them? How am I supposed to know when Kate’s venting is just venting, and when she’s trying to tell me about her deeper problems? I want to be there for her—I do. I just need to figure out how to get there.
“I want to get better, Kate. I want you to be able to share this stuff with me.”
“I guess I don’t feel so bad about Alec anymore.” She pauses. “Considering your sex-talk buddy.”
“That was just . . . so fucking stupid.” My throat weakens. “And I’m so sorry.”
She thinks about it, starts to cry. “You slept with her, didn’t you?”
“Oh my God. Honey. I never even kissed her.”
“How am I supposed to know?” She sniffles. “For sure?”
“And how can I know for sure whether you haven’t met up with Alec?”
We hit the top of the hill, surrounded by mansions, and start coasting down toward Lombard.
“Okay,” she says. “I’m sorry, okay? I should have told you.” She sighs. “And I probably shouldn’t have been e-mailing with him anyway.”
“He wants to meet you someplace, doesn’t he?”
“Don’t worry about that.” Annoyed. “Because I said no.”
I get light-headed. “He wants to fuck you, you know?”
“Stop it, okay? I told you everything. I just want you to listen, be there for me.”
And that’s the problem, I decide. This fucking job of mine. This hyperventilating life in the valley. Nonstop. Unrelenting. Monster hours. When there are millions to be made, only the weak slow down.
“We cash out, I’ll have more time, honey. More time for us. To be there for each other.” We hit Lombard, pull a right. “I know it. I know things will get better.”
She sits up and vomits into her bag.
At the nearly empty Mel’s, Kate is in the restroom dry-heaving. I sit in our booth wearing her jacket, my bare chest and stomach exposed. I’m finger-padding my nose when my mobile rings. It’s a private number I don’t recognize.
“Yes?”
“Dan, it’s Detective Bryant.”
“Working late, aren’t you?”
“Looks like you are, too.”
The waitress delivers Kate’s pancakes, slides a plate of grilled cheese and fries and a giant, perspiring, aluminum cup of vanilla milk shake in front of me. I nod thanks.
“Well,” I say, taking a fry. “Crazy time right now, I have to admit.”
“Yeah, I guess you could say that. They had an impressive little car chase in San Mateo today, climaxing with a hit-and-run and some type of motorist abduction.”
My stomach tightens. “Oh yeah?”
“Wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“I’ve been up here most of the day.”
“Dan, where’s your Corolla?”
“What?”
“Your car. A witness gave a description of a car that fled the scene, scribbled down a few of the numbers on the plate—not all, but a few. They scanned cars registered in the area, sent us the matches in San Carlos, and I saw your name there.”
“Well . . .”
“So I came over to check you out, and you and your car are nowhere to be found.”
“Well, we’re up in the city right now.”
“Can you come in to answer some questions?”
Kate returns, eases into the booth, stares at the pancakes.
“I’m sorry. I can’t right now.”
“There’s a man missing, Dan. This one isn’t going away.”
Kate picks up a pancake with her hand, eats it like a tortilla.
“Well,” I snap, “I don’t have him. I’m here in the city having a late dinner with my wife. And I’m getting on a plane for Florida first thing in the morning.”
Kate gives me a lazy sneer.
Bryant says, “The missing motorist is the guy we think attacked you at the Safeway. I thought that was an odd coincidence.” The sarcasm is heavy. “A guy named Anthony Altazaro.”
I play along. “That does sound odd. But, you know, maybe no one took that guy. Maybe he fled the scene. Maybe he didn’t want to speak to the police. Maybe he was juiced up and ran away, wanted to avoid a DUI. You know that happens all the time. I covered a ton of those stories.”
He laughs. “Well, I still want to see your car.”
“Sorry,” I say. “My neighbor has it.”
“Larry? Would that be Larry?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s funny, because a witness reports seeing—and I quote—‘a spry, bearded crazy man’ darting around at the scene of the collision.”
Kate takes another bite.
“Hmmm. That’s weird.”
“I’ve checked on Larry’s place several times today. Can’t find him.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you, Detective. I think Larry might be on a road trip.”
He laughs. “With your car?” He laughs some more. “That’s pretty good.”
I look at Kate. She’s still staring into space, chewing slowly, the pancake still pinched between her fingers.
“Listen, sir. I need to get off—”
“Dan,” he whispers. “Remember our conversation. I can make all this hit-and-run shit go away. I just want a piece of the action.”
“Calling from a private line, are we?”
“I want a piece, Dan.”
“The action?”
“Whatever it is. Because I know there’s something going on. I’m not an idiot.”
“Listen,” I say, biting my lip a second. “Listen, I’m getting closer, but I still don’t know what this is about. If there is some action to ‘get into,’ I’ll let you know. Okay? Just so long as you keep me and Larry out of this hit-and-run thing.”
“I can do that,” he says, “as long as we know Altazaro is okay. I can’t redirect a kidnapping investigation. Nor would I want to.”
“Good.” I dip my long spoon into the milk shake and pull out a dripping heap of vanilla. “Suppose someone called and said they saw this Altazaro guy flee the scene. It wouldn’t be a kidnapping anymore, would it?”
“But I’ll need to get that witness account, and I’d like to know Altazaro is alive and safe.”
“Well, what if I were to tell you that it was Larry and me in that chase, and that once the cars collided, this bald, beefy dude jumped out of the car and fled the scene, and that Larry and I were so scared, we took off? Remember, this is the guy who not only attacked me in the Safeway but also stalked my young children.”
Long pause. “I can work with that.” Another pause. “Only thing fishy is why you and Larry didn’t stick around for the cops.”
“Hey,” I say. “We were scared.”
He chuckles. “Scared. Okay.” More chuckling. “But I’ll need to know this Altazaro guy is okay. And we still need to press charges for the battery at Safeway.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “What if I assured you that someone will personally deliver Altazaro to you within forty-eight hours, safe and healthy?”
“And I get a piece of the action?”
“Yes, yes. You get a piece of the action.” I roll my eyes. “If there is any.”
“With people like this guy involved, there has to be action. Just has to be.”
We hang up, and I look over at Kate. She’s still holding her pancake. “What the hell was that?”
“What?”
She closes her eyes. “You trying out a career in human trafficking?”
“Listen. I think I need to go home tonight, leave you with Rod and the boys.”
She takes a big bite, looks away, and chews. “Fine.”
“I don’t manage this thing right, we’ll have a kidnapping investigation on top of everything else.”
Still looking away. “God.”
“I just don’t want Larry going overboard.” The thought makes me shudder. “We can’t afford permanent maiming.”
“Nah,” she says. “Wouldn’t want that.”
I watch the cars and trucks scream by on Lombard.
“Sure. Our marriage is flying out of control . . .” She yells into the air. “But Crazy Larry has gotten himself in trouble and the cops are calling. Better give that your full attention.”
We sit there awhile.
“I can stay with you guys tonight.”
“No.” She flicks the last bit of pancake into her mouth, allows a lazy glance in my direction. “This is better. This way, I can think.”
“Fine.”
“I’m thinking, maybe you need to find an apartment.”
“Apartment . . .” My face freezes. “What?”
She sits back, looks at me with that lazy cocked eyebrow. Her movements are slow and drunk, but her mind seems pretty clear. “You’re having IM sex with PR sluts. I’m letting my stupid high school boyfriend flirt with me . . .”
I swallow hard, look away.
“. . . so maybe it doesn’t make sense to cash out and buy a beach shack together. I mean, these kinds of problems . . .”
“Kate.”
“No, I’m serious. Buying a shack isn’t going to change anything.”
“Kate. C’mon.”
“Dan . . .” She’s about to cry. “Take me to Rod’s.”