The Big Exit by David Carnoy Page B

as he either moved his mouth away from the phone or
     covered it with his hand. “What’s your name?” Richie heard him say. Then a beat later: “I’m kidding. Here, talk to my friend
     Frank Sinatra.”
    A woman’s voice on the phone: “Hey, Frank.”
    She sounded drunk but probably wasn’t.
    “Hey. How ’bout you and the douche bag you’re in bed with take a quick ride for me.”
    “I heard that,” Kantor said, grabbing the phone back.
    “How many parties have I gotten you into?”
    “How many rides have I given you to get to those parties?”
    He had a point. Their relationship was somewhat symbiotic, as were most of his relationships these days. His small social
     circle was comprised of friends, if they could even be defined as such, who tended to serve some sort of purpose.
    “Howie, I need a favor.”
    “Dude, you need to grasp the situation at hand. I’m with a woman. She’s seen my place in the light and hasn’t left yet. I’m
     telling you, she’s at least an eight.” Richie heard a slapping sound with a little thud mixed in. It sounded like the eight
     had hit him in the chest. “Sorry, I meant nine,” Kantor said.
    He wasn’t budging. So Richie went to plan B. He texted Ashley. He knew she didn’t always answer her phone, but she responded
     quickly to texts. He wrote, “Need some help. You around?”
    A minute later he got a response: “What kind of help? You okay?”
    “Car parked outside. Maybe being paranoid, maybe not. Need a little backup.”
    A few seconds later his phone rang. It was Ashley wanting more details. Over the last two weeks of working together they hadn’texactly become friends, but they’d established enough of a rapport to grab something from the gourmet street taco truck downstairs
     and eat lunch together a few times in a public outdoor space near the Moscone Center.
    “Chances are it’s nothing,” he said, then explained to her what was going on and what he wanted her to do. She promptly replied
     that she was on her way with her boyfriend, Jason, who had a Canon digital SLR camera that captured both video and still images.
    “You think it’s someone from prison?” she asked.
    “I don’t know. But one of them looks a little like Oddjob from
Goldfinger
, except he’s not wearing the bowler hat and a tux.”
    “Who?”
    He almost said ask your boyfriend, but then he remembered the one time he’d met Jason he didn’t seem like the Bond type. Pale,
     with longish sideburns and thick-framed black glasses, he thought the guy looked like a slimmer, healthier version of Roy
     Orbison. Apparently, he worked as a video editor for a production company that specialized in creating viral video campaigns
     for companies, but he also did freelance projects on the side, including some work for the Exoneration Foundation.
    “Never mind. Just call me when you’re close.”
    Thirteen minutes later Ashley called him back. They lived in the Mission, which wasn’t too far away. She said they’d cabbed
     it to within a safe distance and were now on foot.
    “They still there?” she asked.
    They were. The Ford SUV hadn’t moved and judging from the driver’s upward glances at his window, Richie was becoming increasingly
     convinced they were there for him.
    His father had a saying, “Go to trouble.” As a kid growing up in Bergen County, New Jersey, Richie remembered him always doling
     out that advice to his clients and later to him. What he meant by that was that if something was bothering you, stressing
     you out, you had to confront it, not shy away from it. His father, who’d been an estate attorney back in Jersey before his
     death four years ago from a stroke, had a reputation as a straight shooter. People were drawn to his honesty as well as his
     easy sense of humor and they went to him for advice much like they would a rabbi. “Go to trouble” was his father’s wayof saying “Deal with it,” only more macho. He made people feel like they had some