The Last Word Page 4

  “This man is the worst person I’ve ever met,” Vivien said.

  “Then why didn’t you come to me? I’m pretty good at dealing with assholes.”

  “You were really busy jogging and other stuff for the old guy, and when you were here you were trying to pay the bills, which seemed more important.”

  I’ll admit the last part hurt, since the “trying to pay the bills” was so on-the-nose. I had resorted to handwriting on check forms meant for laser printers, which meant that 50 percent of our payments got calls from the bank to be sure they weren’t stolen checks.

  “I’d like to do the legwork,” Rae said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I feel like keeping the blade sharp,” said Rae.

  “What blade?”

  “Until I decide about graduate school, I have some free time. I’ll take this case for free, see if I can drum up some other business on my own. Do you have a problem with me bringing more money in?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I might want to do a little surveillance on this Lukas character. Is that cool?”

  “If you’re taking the case, that means you’re keeping watch on Viv. Her involvement should be minimal.”

  “I can hear you,” said Viv.

  “Understood,” Rae said. She extended her hand. “Good to be on board again.”

  I reluctantly shook her hand but could not help but have an uneasy sensation. My sister’s sudden interest in returning to the business was like a car that drove just fine but made a loud clanking noise that let you know something was amiss. Still, I was two employees down. Adding one who made no financial demands was a plus.

  “Walk me out,” Rae said, stepping into the hallway. But the hallway wasn’t exactly private, since it was within earshot of the kitchen. My parents were now doing the crossword puzzle together.

  “Nine letters. French martyr. Starts with a J,” said Mom.

  “Pepe Le Pew,” Dad said.

  “It fits.”

  “Nice,” Dad said.

  “Oh my God,” Rae said in horror. She leaned into the kitchen. “Martyr. French martyr.”

  I can only assume my parents were staring blankly at Rae. Crossword puzzles aren’t really their thing.

  “Joan of Arc,” Rae snapped.

  “That works too,” Dad said.

  My sister and I walked to the foyer.

  “Any jobs I get on my own, I want a seventy-five percent cut after expenses,” Rae said.

  “Then why don’t you just take the jobs on your own?”

  “Because it’s more professional to work under the shingle of a PI firm.”

  “You’re old enough to get your own license,” I said.

  “I don’t have time for that,” Rae said.

  “Something about this isn’t right,” I said.

  “I’m looking to make some extra money. Do you want to take a twenty-five percent cut, or should I go to RH3 Investigations?”

  “I will take your money, thank you. Please don’t do anything to embarrass the company,” I said, walking down the stairs.

  “I think you’ve got that part covered,” Rae replied.

  • • •

  My parents arrived at work without making a wardrobe change.

  “So, let me see if I understand this,” I said. “You sleep in your pajamas; you work in your pajamas, or a swimsuit if the mood strikes you; and then you sleep in your pajamas again.”

  “Is there a question in there?” Dad asked.

  “I’m curious about the hygiene in all this.”

  “We shower and dress for dinner. We actually make an extra effort now,” Mom said.

  “Like the rich British people do, or used to do, in the movies,” Dad said.

  “And when does this happen?” I asked.

  “After you’ve left for the day,” Mom said. The phone rang and she answered with, “Isabel Spellman Investigations.”

  I shot her eye-daggers that landed on the wall.

  “One moment, please,” Mom said, transferring the call to my desk.

  I picked up.

  “What are you wearing?” Mr. Slayter asked.

  “Clothes,” I replied.

  “Presentable clothes?”

  “I look better than seventy-five percent of the people around me.”

  “I’m interviewing new lawyers right now. Ritz has been threatening to retire for the last twenty years and he’s already in his eighties. We’re tempting fate at this point. I have a candidate in my office who is the front-runner. I’d like to get your opinion. Are you free?”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “Run a brush through your hair. Remember, how you look reflects upon me.”

  “That makes no sense at all.”

  I brushed my hair in the parking lot of Slayter’s office building on Market Street. I even applied some lipstick, eyeliner, and cover-up. I’ve only recently discovered that when people tell you that you look tired, they’re suggesting you use cover-up, not get more sleep.

  I approached Edward’s reception desk. His secretary, Evelyn Glade, pretended that she didn’t notice me. I cleared my throat. When she raised her head she looked me over like someone studying questionable produce at the supermarket.

  Speaking of produce, Evelyn’s the kind of woman who thinks of her breasts as accessories, like a really nice bracelet or earrings. I’ve never seen them not on display. To her credit, her outfits are always otherwise tasteful. Her uniform is a pencil skirt, four-inch pumps, and a silk blouse, always with two more buttons undone than I would undo. Men seem to find her attractive, but you have to wonder whether they’re merely distracted. Her eye makeup is always spare, but her lips have never been anything but a deep crimson red. She must reapply her war paint at least four times a day. She’s in her midforties but still wears her hair long, curled in light, flowing waves that probably kill an hour every morning. That’s dedication.

  Evelyn offered up her usual tight, fake smile and buzzed Edward’s office.

  “Ms. Spellman is here to see you,” she said.

  Edward sat behind his behemoth desk, which did not provide the empowering effect he intended. It simply dwarfed the man sitting behind it and everything else in the room. Across from Mr. Slayter was another man in a suit. Early forties, with thick eyebrows, a flat nose that looked like it might have been broken once or twice, and unruly black hair. His suit was nice, but it lacked a tailored fit. The overall effect was unlawyerly.

  “Damien, I’d like you to meet my niece, Isabel,” said Edward Slayter. “Isabel, Damien Thorp. He’s interviewing for chief counsel at Slayter Industries.”

  “Damien Thorp, that sounds so familiar. Have we met?” I asked.

  “No. I’m sure I’d remember.”

  “Not if you were drunk,” I said.

  Slayter cleared his throat. It was a warning, not an actual throat clearing. He’s the least phlegmy person I know. If this particular sound could be translated into words, they would be Don’t be yourself today. A phrase he has in fact used with me at least half a dozen times.

  “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Isabel,” Damien said, extending his hand.

  “Yes, a pleasure,” I said.

  The handshake was perfect, like he practiced it on different subjects and adjusted accordingly.

  “Isabel also works for my company in many capacities, mostly charitable,” Edward said.

  “Yesss,” I said, checking to see if Uncle Ed was looking confused the way he does sometimes when navigating the city. “Uncle Ed really likes to give his money away, and I’m happy to help him any way I can.”

  “Which charitable organizations do you work with most closely?” Damien asked.

  I had no idea, and Uncle Ed wasn’t leaping to my aid.

  “We really like the zoo. In fact, we helped rebuild the lion cage so they can’t escape anymore.”4

  “We have many organizations we work with,” Edward said.

  “But m
ostly the zoo,” I added.

  “It’s been a pleasure,” Edward said. To Damien, not me.

  “Thank you for your time,” said Thorp.

  “Isabel, why don’t you walk Mr. Thorp to the elevators and validate his parking?”

  “You never validate my parking.”

  “Good-bye,” Edward said.

  Damien and I strolled up to Evelyn’s desk and asked for a parking validation. Once I made it clear it was not for me, she ponied up the stamper and gave Damien a toothy but vaguely seductive grin. I pressed the down button at the elevator bank and stared at my feet as one is supposed to do in the vicinity of elevators.

  Damien said, “You have quite an uncle.”

  “Indeed,” I replied, thinking about my uncle Ray, who was the definition of quite an uncle.

  The elevator doors parted and Damien entered.

  “I hope to see you again,” he said.

  As the doors closed I shot out my hand and the sensors parted the slabs of steel.

  “Oh my God,” I said. “You’re one letter off from Damien Thorn. The antichrist from The Omen.”

  I had a feeling Damien had heard that before. But maybe thirty years ago at summer camp.

  “In my parents’ defense, the film came out seven years after I was born.”

  The elevator tried to clamp shut again, but I swatted it open again.

  “You could have changed your name.”

  “I’m not changing my name because of a goddamn horror film.”

  • • •

  “What do you think of him?” Slayter asked when I returned to his office.

  “I think his suit was a little big, Uncle Ed.”

  “What is your gut telling you?” Edward asked.

  “Pancakes.”

  “Certainly he made some impression.”

  “All lawyers seem the same to me.5 Let me run a background check on him and verify his references, then we’ll talk again. Why did you tell him I was your niece?”

  “If he learns I have a PI on retainer, his guard will be up; he’ll be extra cautious. It’s hard to know who to trust anymore. Good thing I have you,” Slayter said sweetly. Then he ruined the moment by tugging at my collar and saying, “Do you own an iron?”

  “I’ve done more ironing since I’ve known you than I have my entire life to date.”

  “Fascinating bit of personal trivia.”

  Next Morning, 8:10 A.M.

  “Banana, mononucleosis, and wombat,” I said as Slayter and I jogged through the thick morning haze.

  “My doctor always chooses perfectly ordinary words,” Edward said.

  “Well, he went to medical school,” I said. Five minutes into the run and I was already out of breath. Charlie swooped up on his bicycle, looking so relaxed and carefree.

  “Did you get that, Charlie?” Edward asked.

  “Banana, mononucleosis, and wombat,” Charlie repeated.

  Edward looked out scornfully on the landscape, which you couldn’t see much of. There was a dense-fog advisory out that morning. We passed the rose garden, but you couldn’t see any roses, only joggers in the mist. Like Warren Beatty in Heaven Can Wait, only without Warren Beatty.

  “This weather is atrocious,” Slayter said.

  “A San Franciscan complaining about the fog is like a Seattleite whining about rain, which is like a person from Los Angeles complaining about plastic surgery,” I said.

  “I wish you’d let us meet at the Marina Green,” Slayter said.

  It was quite possible the Marina might have had a bit of sun right now, but it came at a cost.

  “Never!” I said. “Jogging is one thing. Jogging among Satan’s spawn is another.”6

  “I don’t want to hear the Marina rant again,” Edward said. Then he started repeating the three words, which goes against the whole point of the exercise.

  “Stop that,” I said. “We’re supposed to talk about business.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Edward mouth wombat, mononucleosis, banana. When he saw me catch him, he spoke.

  “I met with Damien last night over drinks.”

  “Can he hold his liquor?” I asked.

  “I offered him the job.”

  “Can you hold your liquor?” I stopped in my tracks, not because I was alarmed, but because I wanted to stop running. “I told you to let me run a background on him,” I said as Slayter jogged in a loop around me.

  I kept my feet firmly on the ground.

  “Did you find anything?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “So what’s the problem? Keep moving, Isabel, you want to keep your heart rate up.”

  Slayter loped off; I hobbled after.

  “This decision seems hasty,” I said. Some days it seemed Edward was in a rush to get his affairs in order, as if there were an imaginary ticking clock on his lucidity. I suppose there was, and maybe he was right in being overly cautious and prepared. The disease was deceptive. I knew that. Now he was fine. But he could have a moment where’d he forget my name, or a street he’d walked down for the past twenty years would look utterly unfamiliar. But then the moment would pass. And since he’d started the race faster than the rest of us, it was difficult to notice that he was slowing down.

  “Isabel, his CV is impeccable and he was highly recommended by William Slavinsky.”

  “You mean Willard.” Willard Slavinsky is one of Edward’s oldest friends and one of the major shareholders in Slayter Industries.

  “I said Willard.”

  “You said William, which is a preferable name.”

  “I lost my train of thought,” Edward said, slightly agitated.

  “Happens to many people in my company,” I said.

  “Anyway, you don’t know whether it’s going to work out until you give the person a shot,” Edward said.

  “Point taken, but I think you could have waited for a brief surveillance and a Platinum Level7 background check.”

  “He’s new to the area. I’ve hired a Realtor to help him find an apartment, but I gave him your number, in case he wants someone to show him around the city. Places to go at night, that sort of thing.”

  “You want me to play tour guide?”

  “Yes, only I don’t want you to give him the Isabel Spellman dive bar tour.”

  “Sorry, that’s all I’ve got.”

  “When are you going to talk to Charlie about his sweater situation?”

  “I’m waiting for the right moment.”

  “There’s never a good moment to tell a man he has an unpleasant odor.”

  “Sure there is. After he’s won the Super Bowl.”

  “Invite him to lunch and have a casual chat.”

  “I’m a private investigator, Edward, not a tour guide or a hygiene coach.”

  “You’re so many things to me, Isabel. Banana. Mononucleosis. Wombat,” Edward said as he jogged off with even more energy than when we’d begun.

  • • •

  While Edward was at the office, Charlie took the Geary bus to Polk Street and met me at a corner café across the street from Edinburgh Castle. The Polk/Geary corner, still in the clutches of the Tenderloin, always feels like typical San Francisco. Homeless people mark every corner and working stiffs loiter at bus stops, while just a short stroll away, you can dine at a fine restaurant or go to a strip club. Just one block away is a luxury apartment building, the swanky foyer on an unlit side street. Their doorman is a homeless guy who lives in the alley. At least that’s how many of the tenants see him; he’s apparently quite good at hailing cabs.

  I used the ruse of wanting to keep my chess skills sharp when I made the invitation; Charlie was kind enough to play along, not once mentioning that my chess skills were as dull as the sheen on the twenty-year-old board we were playing with.

  Charlie opened with his knight to c3. Don’t worry, I’m not going to describe the entire game in chess notations, or even Isabel notations.8 Charlie won in twenty-four moves. You’re probably
not surprised. Our meeting wasn’t about chess. It was about his sweater/sweater smell, so in between strategizing about chess, I had some other things to strategize.

  Charlie Black isn’t like other people. I don’t know who he’s like, but I got the feeling a flat/direct approach might be the way to go.

  ME: Charlie, how often do you wash that sweater?

  CHARLIE: It says “dry-clean only.”

  ME: How often do you dry-clean-only that sweater?

  CHARLIE: You have to leave the sweater with a stranger to dry-clean it.

  ME: Those strangers are usually quite reputable.9 You only pay them when you get the sweater back. So they have no incentive to steal it.

  CHARLIE: But if I don’t have the sweater, then I can’t wear it.

  ME: You can wear another sweater.

  CHARLIE: But Mr. Slayter bought me this sweater, so I think he wants me to wear it.

  ME: I see.

  Later that afternoon, I got a follow-up e-mail from Slayter.

  Dear Isabel,10

  Did you handle that business we discussed earlier?

  Regards,

  Edward

  Dear Edward,

  We discussed all sorts of business. What business are you referring to?

  Yours truly,

  Isabel

  The sweater situation.

  Edward

  Charlie’s not reading your e-mails. Why didn’t you just say that to begin with?

  Isabel

  Did you talk to Charlie?

  Yes.

  And?11

  Problem: Charlie’s sweater smells because it’s the only sweater he has.

  Solution: Buy him more sweaters.

  Edward loathes long, inefficient e-mail exchanges, which I tend to inadvertently embrace. The phone rang shortly after I dispatched my last missive.

  ISABEL: Hello?

  EDWARD: Isabel. Edward.

  ISABEL: Edward. Isabel.

  EDWARD: Would you mind taking Charlie shopping for sweaters tomorrow?

  ISABEL: I’m a PI, Edward. Not a fashion consultant.

  EDWARD: That’s obvious, dear. Also, would you verify that he’s washing his undershirts? And maybe have a deodorant talk with him.