The Last Word

by Lisa Lutz

  She called. They always call. And then they are profoundly disappointed when they realize that no assets in their name have been recovered. I apologized profusely, explained the situation, and solicited her help, hoping that she had that common and very human need to share. It’s always surprising the things that strangers will tell you. Any woman who has found herself in a public restroom can attest to this fact.

  “I’m sorry,” Sheila said. “I can’t help you.”

  “You filed a complaint. Something must have happened.”

  “It was a long time ago,” she said.

  “That doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten.”

  “Please don’t call me again.”

  “Has anything like this happened to anyone else?”

  “I can’t help you,” she said again. “And you’d be wise to let this thing go.”

  And I might have, if she hadn’t offered that final reproof.

  That afternoon I dropped by Slayter’s office to give him the report on Divine Strategies and take Charlie Black sweater shopping. Damien was in Slayter’s office doing whatever lawyers do.

  “Isabel, you remember Damien, right?”

  “No,” I said. “Have we met?”

  “You do look vaguely familiar,” Damien said.

  “Don’t encourage her juvenile sense of humor,” Slayter said.

  “If you’re going to insult me,” I said, “the least you can do is validate my parking.”

  “Would you please show some manners?” Edward said, nodding his head in the general direction of Damien.

  “Nice to see you again,” I said.

  “A pleasure,” Damien said.

  “Tonight I think you should show Damien around the city,” Slayter said.

  “Let me check my calendar, Uncle Ed.”

  “I checked your calendar. You’re free. I’ll have Evelyn send you his information.”

  Sadly, Edward knows I have no social life and can generally be relied on for such things as retrieving indebted gambling addicts, taking navigational consultants sweater shopping, and playing tour guide to satanic lawyers. It wasn’t so long ago that I had a life and my availability wasn’t a foregone conclusion.

  I could see Charlie Black through the glass door staring at his digital watch. He was clearly timing his entrance for the exact moment Edward had told him to arrive.

  At exactly one fifteen P.M. Charlie entered the office.

  “Timely as usual,” Edward said.

  “Good afternoon,” Charlie said. “I’m ready whenever you are, Isabel.”

  I turned to Damien and said, “I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock. Show you some of the places I like. If you mention Fisherman’s Wharf once, I will have you beheaded.”

  “She won’t,” Charlie said, as if it were a legitimate threat.

  “Got it,” Damien said with a smirk.

  Damien looked at Charlie and Charlie at Damien. It soon became evident that avoiding an introduction would appear rude. Edward stammered a bit as he said, “I suppose introductions are required. Damien, this is Charlie. Charlie, Damien.”

  The two men shook hands, but I could tell that Damien was looking for a job title and, well, giving him the real job title might have been unwise.

  “Charlie is Edward’s valet.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Damien said, seeming perplexed. Even the lowest-rent valet probably doesn’t smell or dress like Charlie. No offense, Charlie.7

  “I’m his valet,” Charlie repeated, which he does whenever he knows I’m lying and I want him to play along. Once he contradicted me in front of an acquaintance and I explained my take on harmless lying to Charlie and how it was at times a necessity, and I asked for his backup when the occasion arose. Charlie agreed so long as he wasn’t lying to his boss, Mr. Slayter. I accepted his terms.

  “Does anyone want some tea?” Charlie asked, because that’s what valets do. They serve tea and take your coat, but no one was wearing the kind of coat you took.

  “I’m good,” I said.

  “No, thank you, Charlie,” Slayter said.

  “Well,” Damien said through a thicket of awkwardness, “I’ll get back to work.”

  After Damien left, I turned to Slayter and said, “Polka, foghorn, shank, and that’s shank in the prison-weapon sense, not lamb shank.”

  “For our purposes, it doesn’t make a difference,” Edward said. “Polka, foghorn, shank.”

  “Before we go, I need to talk to you about Divine Strategies. I’ve got something,” I said.

  “Have a seat, Charlie,” Edward said.

  As far as I could tell, Edward’s trust in Charlie was implicit. He had not once in the last five months ever asked him to excuse himself, no matter what the context of the conversation. There are few things you can count on in this world. Charlie is one of them.

  “My mother found an unfiled sexual harassment complaint against two of the executives at Divine Strategies. The employee is no longer there. I contacted her, but she won’t talk.”

  “One sexual harassment complaint,” Edward said. “Is it possible that it was unfounded and the company paid her off to avoid a lawsuit?”

  “It’s very possible,” I said. “In fact, it happens all the time. But I spoke to the complainant and I got the impression she was paid off and signed a gag order.”

  “And this is the only red flag?”

  “Aside from the fact that they make a product called HolyBooks?”

  “I repeat, is it the only red flag?”

  “It’s the only complaint that we found. There could be others who got hushed. There is only so much you can learn about a company through a paper trail.”

  “Indeed.”

  Slayter sat behind his desk, rubbing his temples.

  “Let me get back to you on this,” he said. Then he pulled several bills from his wallet and handed them to me.

  “Have fun shopping,” he said. “Why don’t you buy yourself a dress too while you’re at it? When you’re showing Damien around tonight it would be nice if you looked like the sort of person who worked with charities and was not in need of one.”

  “Ouch,” I said, not feeling the sting. “Come on, Charlie, we’ve got a lot of money to blow this afternoon. Do you want to hit the arcade or the burger joint first?”

  “I thought we were going sweater shopping,” Charlie said.

  I turned to Slayter before we departed. “Words?”

  Slayter furrowed his brow and tapped his fingers on his desk. “Shank, like the weapon; polka; and banana. No. Something about San Francisco. Foghorn.”

  The reception desk was empty when Charlie and I departed.

  “Where’s Evelyn?”

  “Her mother broke her hip yesterday. I think she has to find a convalescent home for her. She can’t live on her own anymore. She’s under a lot of stress,” Charlie said. “Try to be nice to her.”

  “I’m nice to her,” I said.

  “No, you’re not,” Charlie said with the flat judgment of an impartial mediator.

  “Well, she’s not nice to me either.”

  “That’s true.”

  As Charlie and I strolled the four blocks from Slayter’s office to the mall, we briefly touched on Charlie’s new job title.

  “You need to be really careful, Charlie, especially around people we don’t know. It’s extremely important that people believe you’re his valet, not his navigational consultant. No one can know that Slayter has problems with his memory. That’s a secret, okay?”

  “So should I be doing things valets do?” Charlie said.

  This was a question for Edward, but the comic possibilities were endless and I’m quite fond of the butler persona, so I took the liberty of answering it myself. “I think that would be wise.”

  We purchased five tasteful new sweaters for Charlie in a variety of colors. To keep my spirits up, I insisted on one fisherman-themed cable-knit with a mock turtleneck and a patched yarn anchor on the front. Charlie reminded me that I w
as supposed to buy a dress and so I grabbed a navy blue wraparound number that looked good on the mannequin.

  • • •

  The dress didn’t look as good on me. But it fit, and so I tossed on a pair of boots since I didn’t feel like shaving my legs, emptied the trash from the front seat of my car, and drove to Damien’s executive apartment near Van Ness and Washington. The high-rise had a doorman who insisted on getting my name and calling up to the apartment.

  “Mr. Thorp isn’t ready. He asks that you go upstairs,” the doorman said.

  I’d never had a chance to visit one of Slayter’s executive apartments—I knew he had three, and they were often vacant—so I jumped at the chance.

  I knocked on the door.

  “It’s open,” Damien shouted from somewhere, but I was too distracted by my reflection in chrome everywhere to notice.

  One bedroom, full bath, a thousand square feet of fresh cherrywood floors, modern stainless steel appliances, and nothing in need of repair. Two entire walls were floor-to-ceiling glass with a real view of the city (i.e., not Mr. Peabody’s living room) and had remote-control shades for when the view got old or the glare of a sunny day gave you a headache. And there were probably two more of these vacant right now.

  I’ll be frank. A flashy new apartment splattered in chrome with a doorman sentinel and suits for neighbors who read The Wall Street Journal like the Bible isn’t exactly my dream home. However, I live in a musty five-hundred-square-foot illegal apartment with a cattle run above my head from five A.M. until eleven P.M. And I didn’t have a bathtub or an oven—not that I’d have used either, but still. I made a mental note to one day invite Slayter to my digs and see if he might take pity on me.

  “You clean up well,” Damien said, coming out of his bedroom.

  “You clean down well,” I said, realizing I was overdressed. Perhaps my casual attire when we had met had guided Thorp’s fashion choice for the evening. He wore Levi’s and sneakers, with a lightweight button-down shirt that had been washed by a bachelor, no starch, no iron—just removed very quickly from the dryer.

  “I’m overdressed,” I said.

  “I’m underdressed,” he said. “I can change.”

  “It’s okay. You have to wear a suit all day. I only have to look nice at funerals.”

  “And charity functions,” Damien added.

  “Right. And charity functions.”

  I scanned the apartment for a second time.

  “Nice digs,” I said.

  “Not bad,” he said casually, like he’d seen better, which kind of annoyed me.

  “What kind of tour are you in the market for?” I asked.

  “What do you like to do on a Monday night?”

  Work late, steal some booze and Goldfish from my brother’s house, watch television, pass out. Or give rich lawyers with free swanky apartments cheesy San Francisco tours.

  “What don’t I like to do is a better question,” I said.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I could eat.” That was an understatement. “What are you in the mood for?”

  “A friend of mine told me to get a famous San Francisco burrito.”8

  “You have a wise friend. But we’ll have to go to the Mission for a good one.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “The Mission is less, um, sanitized than what you’re accustomed to.”

  To be frank, no part of the city is all that sanitized. On a hot day much of it smells like urine.

  “You’re offending me now,” Damien said. “I’m from Boston. I’m very familiar with unsanitary conditions.”

  “Good to know.”

  Damien hopped into my crappy Buick without comment. As we drove to the Mission, I provided banal commentary on the passing sites.

  “There’s a church; that’s Fell Street. You can take it to the park. There’s a restaurant. I think it’s okay. If you like opera, the opera house is somewhere around here. Although I couldn’t point it out and I won’t be taking you there. Ever.”

  We ordered burritos at Pancho Villa, which happens to be just a quick stroll from the Sixteenth-and-Mission BART station, arguably the grimiest corner in the city. What it lacks in prostitution, it makes up for in drugs and public urination.9 Fortunately, the taqueria is brightly lit, so you can’t really see outside. You can, however, see all of my pores, so I suggested we walk the two blocks to the Albion, so that we could eat and drink beer in dim lighting. If you’ve never eaten a San Francisco burrito, the proper way (no fork or plate) can be a bit unruly. I, of course, have an associates’ degree in burrito management and had to school my subject on the appropriate method of consumption.

  As Damien began to disrobe his dinner, I said, “That aluminum foil is the only thing between the burrito and your lap. Only remove the aluminum wrapping under that which you plan to consume within the next five seconds.”

  He tucked his napkin in his shirt, a gesture so lacking in ego, I found it charming. My dad always does it and he really has no ego. Like almost none at all.10 And come to think of it, he generally doesn’t care if he has food particles on his clothing. So you kind of wonder why he bothers with the napkin at all.

  Once Damien got the hang of eating and drinking, he started talking. Or, more specifically, inquiring.

  “Did you grow up in the city?” he asked.

  It was a benign question, but one on a personal level I was determined to avoid.

  “Yes,” I said. “There’s a farmers’ market downtown on Wednesdays and Sundays. Oh, but you probably don’t cook.”

  “How long have you been Mr. Slayter’s niece?” Damien asked.

  He was sharper than I thought. The Avoidance Method™ was the only response.

  “When you get a car, remember to take Gough or Octavia, not Van Ness, especially if you have any interest in making a left turn.”

  “Tell me about your charity work,” he said.

  “It’s important to give back. That’s what I learned from Uncle Ed. Did you know that Irish coffee was invented in San Francisco?”11

  “I don’t know how you have the time for charity work, what with running your investigative agency and all.”

  We have a website. Apparently the man knows how to Google. I could have spent the night hanging on to shreds of the charade, but what was the point? He was watching me eat a meal the size of a small cat. Clearly I was no relation to Edward Slayter.

  “What else do you know?” I asked.

  “Pretty sure you’re not his niece.”

  “But he’s kind of like an uncle and a boss and a benefactor all rolled up into one.”

  “Why did he lie?”

  “Maybe he thinks having an investigator on his payroll makes him seem paranoid.”

  “Is he paranoid?”

  “Everyone is paranoid.”

  “Do you do any charity work?”

  “I do some work with kids.”

  I would pay for that comment. Hell, I’d already paid for that comment.

  After I witnessed Damien spill half of his dinner on his lap and consume two local microbrewed ales, we decided to call it a night. I pulled my car into the loading zone in front of his building.

  “That was fun and educational,” he said.

  “Make sure that’s in the report to the boss.”

  “Well,” he said, still sitting in the car.

  Since I’d picked him up, was I supposed to get the car door? Does the women’s movement involve binary chivalry?

  “Well,” I said.

  I thought maybe a handshake was in order. As I extended my hand, he leaned over to, I suppose, kiss my cheek. I ended up poking him in the gut.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not clear on how normal people end platonic evenings.”

  “You were going for a handshake? After all we’ve been through together?”

  “I suppose it was a bit formal.”

  “I think so,” Damien said.

  “Stay where you are, so no one
gets hurt,” I said as I unbuckled my seat belt, leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Good night, Damien.”

  “Good night, Isabel.”

  • • •

  That Saturday morning, I found myself alone in David and Maggie’s house, availing myself of their bountiful breakfast and caffeinated options, reading the paper in my pajamas, and trying to forget that I lived in the dungeon ten feet below. I had no idea where they were, only that they were graciously gone. Since I was alone in their remarkably comfortable home, I reclined on the couch and turned on cartoons. There was an excellent episode of Phineas and Ferb playing: “Lawn Gnome Beach Party of Terror.” In this episode, Phineas and Ferb decide to build a beach in their backyard and Perry, their pet platypus who is also a secret agent,12 is on the case of the disappearing lawn gnomes. Having disappeared lawn gnomes in my past, I was particularly engrossed in the drama when the chirpy doorbell interrupted me. I ignored it at first, thinking it was the mailman or some delivery guy. They could have come back tomorrow, but the doorbell rang again and again and I could see someone attempting to peer through the window, even though the blinds were drawn.

  I swung open the door to find a man with two children standing on the stoop. One of the children, I should mention, was Princess Banana. Since no other adult was around and I was already leaping to very bad conclusions, I pretended to not notice this fact.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Hi, I’m Max,” the adult said.

  I had a vague recollection that this was a friend of David’s, but it was wise to play dumb.

  “You selling something, Max?”

  Sydney, in her princess dress, now missing a few layers of crinoline, brushed past me and started shouting for her parents.

  “Banana,” I said. “Mommy and Daddy are out.”

  “No, Izzy,” Princess Banana said, pointing at me.

  “This is one thing we agree on,” I said to my niece. “No Banana.” Then I turned to the only other adult in the vicinity. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m returning the kids from their playdate.”