Cash Out by Greg Bardsley Read Free Book Online Page B

loving every second of it. He’s got that stupid look on his face, and his little arms are flapping about as he sings God-knows-what into the air. The detectives glance at each other and take notes.
    Why am I the one in cuffs and he’s out there making nice with the cops?
    Then I realize: I have assaulted a man. I have hit a man with a Tonka truck—for playing with my kids in the community sandbox. This will not look good to the San Carlos Police. And it might look worse to some ambitious county prosecutor. At the moment, it doesn’t really matter that the “victim” was the same guy who attacked me a few hours earlier in a Menlo Park grocery store, the same guy Calhoun saw prowling around my house.
    No, what matters is that I’m facing a night in jail. From my days as a crime reporter, I know that much.
    I look over at Calhoun, who’s got his shoulders pulled back, no doubt mocking my attack stance. And now my boys are standing there looking at their daddy sitting handcuffed in the backseat of a squad car, everyone watching, and I know this will be a memory they’ll never shake.
    Ben stomps up to the car, pounds on the glass, yells, “Daddy, you’re supposed to use your words.” He frowns, balls his fists. “You always tell us to use our words.”
    I fight the urge to vomit.
    Harry approaches next, with troubled eyes. “Calhoun says he’s coming to my birthday party next year.”
    â€œWe’ll talk about it, honey.” I take a deep breath, try to calm down. “That’s a long time from now.”
    Harry stares into my eyes. “Why’d you hit that man?”
    â€œI’ll tell you later, kiddo.”
    â€œHe was nice.”
    I look down. “No, honey, he wasn’t nice. He was pretending to be nice.”
    Suddenly, Harry looks a little scared. Brows crinkle.
    â€œBefore today, has that man ever spoken to you? Have you ever seen him?”
    Slow head shake.
    â€œGood, Harry.”
    He’s staring at me.
    â€œListen, honey. Mommy is gonna be here any minute, I’m sure.”
    He nods.
    Where the hell is Kate? Someone call Kate.
    â€œYou’re gonna come home tonight, right?”
    A lump forms in my throat. “Of course, honey. I need to talk with the police, then I’ll be home.” I force a smile. “When you wake up tomorrow, I’ll be there.”
    His face lightens, and he lets Stacey walk him away, looking back at me. I gaze back, force another smile. I’m sure I look like a freaking psycho, sitting there cuffed in a squad car, smiling like a Hare Krishna.
    I try to calm down.
    I look back at the huddle around Calhoun, still flapping his arms, and I close my eyes. When Kate gets here, it’ll all be better.
    Sitting there, breathing deeper and deeper, I finally allow the obvious to sink in: This is no mistake, none of it.
    This guy, this maggot, is no chance acquaintance. Some guy decides, out of the blue, to knee me in the nuts—on Vasectomy Day, of all days? That’s no random act of rage. Same guy shows up in my neighborhood and hanging around my children?
    I feel like my face is about to separate from my head.
    A uniform gets into the driver’s seat and shuts the door.
    â€œCall my wife,” I gasp. “They need their mother.”
    â€œSomeone’s gonna take ’em home.”
    The cop pulls the car out. I turn back to the boys, see that Stacey has managed to walk them away. I swallow hard and force myself to look calm, just in case they turn around. I want to show them, through the bulletproof glass, that everything is gonna be all right.
    Then I turn around and throw up on the floorboard.

Two

    F ighters.
    I understand fighters. I understand their determination, their passion, their need to press on, to resist the current pressing against them, to refuse to give up. If you’re a fighter, chances are you’re sticking up for something: yourself, your