Read Cash Out for Free Online Page B

I know, Larry. We just thought you might know of a good employment lawyer we could contact. You know, a reference.”
    Larry turns and examines my mouth. “Try the Internet.”
    And suddenly I recognize the idiocy of going to Crazy Larry for a legal reference. I can string sentences together okay, but at times I have the judgment skills of a squirrel monkey.
    â€œOkay, Larry. Thanks anyway.”
    â€œYeah.” Larry picks up the hardcover book beside him: The Paradigm Shift of Radical Granularity . “Bye-bye,” he snaps.
    â€œOh,” I say, and wince. “Is Calhoun back there?”
    Larry looks up, stares at me in silence for a real long time.
    â€œOkay, well, I’ll just go see if he’s in.”
    Larry squints into his book, snaps, “Yeah, bye-bye.”
    I take the narrow path leading to Calhoun’s granny unit.
    Larry’s backyard is packed with cactus. Tall cacti. Short cacti. Skinny cacti. Plump cacti. Covering the rest of the yard is a thick layer of jagged gravel. Larry likes his cacti and his rocks.
    In the far corner of the yard is a little structure, painted yellow with white trim. Two large wood-frame windows with panes. A solid-oak door in the middle. All of it under a generous overhang. It’s tiny, but nearly cute—which always surprises me, considering what lurks inside.
    I tap on the door, and it moves a little.
    Then comes a singsong voice, stretching each word extra long, making it obnoxious. “Come ih-nnnnnnnn.”
    With the back of my hand, I push the door open. I step in, trying not to breathe through my nose, trying not to pick up his trademark scent of baby powder and boiled-egg-gone-bad. There sits Calhoun, in his ripped-up recliner, wearing his red threadbare sweatpants and the same old brown sweatshirt, decorated with smears and hardened crumbs across the chest. I stand there looking at Calhoun, eyeballing the belly hanging over his crotch, glancing at his light brown Bozo-the-Clown hair, looking at his enormous tits. We’re probably talking three hundred pounds—three hundred pounds of jelly.
    His voice is delicate and precious. “This is a nice surprise.” When he snickers, his tits jiggle. “Mr. Wonderful coming to see little ol’ me.”
    I force a straight face. One must never encourage Calhoun.
    â€œYou have something urgent to tell me.”
    Calhoun’s eyes have turned to slits, and his entire body is shaking and jiggling from silent laughter. He sighs, long and happy, examines his overgrown fingernails.
    â€œMr. Danny, Mr. Danny, Mr. Danny.” Another exaggerated sigh, still enjoying his fingernails. “What are we gonna do with you . . . you little . . .”
    I look at him, wait for more.
    â€œ. . . rascal?”
    He wheeze-laughs.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œWell . . .” Long pause. “Well, little ol’ me saw something kinda weird on your property this morning.”
    Suddenly, my mind races.
    Shit—the geeks? I try to stay calm. “Oh yeah?”
    â€œBut first . . .” He looks away. “We need to talk about what I do.”
    My brow crinkles. I’ve never seen Calhoun do anything. “What you do?”
    â€œYes.” His face reddens, and his mouth puckers. “What I do to antisocials?”
    I stiffen. “Just tell me what you saw.”
    He closes his eyes, nearly smiles. “I need to tell you what I do to antisocials, Danny.”
    â€œAntisocials.”
    â€œYes.” He says it like an angry five-year-old. “Antisocials who fail to invite their sweet neighbor to their backyard barbecue party.”
    â€œWhat?” I squint, grit my teeth. “You’re talking about last Saturday?”
    He folds his arms, puckers his lips, and nods.
    â€œCalhoun, that was Harry’s birthday party. You know? For six-year-olds.”
    He’s not listening. “What I do is . . . Someday,