by Lisa Lutz
“Ninety-nine.”
“Yep.”
“That was a lovely story, Isabel. I must say, no one can distract me from my troubles quite like you. Well, I better go. I’ll need my rest for whatever is coming next.”
He said, “Turtle, radiator, zoo.”
“Right,” I said as I watched Edward walk away.
I hadn’t given him any words that day.
After Slayter left I thought about what else I could have done and came up blank. From the moment I set foot in Slayter Industries, I’d had a sense that I was out of my element, that this new world I was suddenly ensconced in was one I couldn’t ever truly comprehend. I understand individuals and their personal motivations, but when those same individuals become a part of something bigger, some amorphous corporate ball of greed, I can’t anticipate the logical next move, because it has long ago stopped being human. Your average human being has a conscience and the world is structured with checks and balances to shed light on that individual should he or she become something ugly and cruel. But a company can hide its corruption; the individuals responsible can sit innocently and united behind their desks for years before they are discovered. They are as guilty as the guy robbing the liquor store in the ski mask, only they’re free to show their faces. I had no idea whether I should be looking for the worker bee or the nest, or both, and my nearsightedness cost my boss his job.
• • •
Life and other matters3 had postponed my Gruber visit. And, deep down, I had always hoped that there was another option besides a groveling apology. But it was possible that Robbie could do more for me than just fix my work computers and so the next morning, I planned my visit.
D made a fresh batch of his signature junk food; I put on a vintage Star Wars T-shirt that was way too tight, retied the bow around the basket, applied a thick coat of black eyeliner, and made the drive of shame to Gruber’s cheap basement apartment in the Mission-Duboce triangle. While dogs and owners frolicked day and night in Duboce Park, Robbie was just steps away in his cave, figuring out ways to keep his virtual hands on my cyber-throat.
I rang his doorbell and waited. I could hear his heavy Cheeto breath on the other side of the door.
“Who is it?” he asked.
Robbie is not the kind of man who can open the door in the middle of the day to a face obscured by a gift basket bow.
“It’s Isabel,” I said.
Robbie’s also not the kind of man who can open the door in the middle of the day to someone named Isabel.
“What do you want?” he said through wood.
“I want to talk.”
“What are you holding?”
“A gift basket.”
“What’s in it?”
“Lots of things. If you open the door, you can find out.”
“Leave the basket and return to your car. Keep your cell phone on.”
I followed Robbie’s instructions. I could see him peer through the curtains to be certain I was not lying in wait outside his door. I waved from the driveway. Robbie swiftly retrieved the basket and closed his front door.
He phoned me ten minutes later.
“Is this sincere?”
“Yes. I’m very, very sorry,” I said. “The power got to my head. We need you. And, also, we need you to stop messing with our system.”
“I’m not confirming or denying,” he mumbled.
“I understand.”
“How do I know the crack mix isn’t laced with a laxative?” he asked.
“I’ll eat some in front of you,” I said. I was feeling snackish.
“That means inviting you inside.”
“There is this other matter I’d like to discuss.”
“Take off your jacket,” Robbie said.
“Robbie, have you ever known me to wear a gun?”
“Remove your jacket.”
I did as I was told, but I had no doubt that the jacket removal was Robbie’s lascivious ploy to get a better look at my boobs in the snug shirt. I comforted myself in knowing that one day there would be payback. There’s always payback when it comes to Robbie. It’s just a matter of patience.
In Robbie’s piece o’ shit apartment I ate three mouthfuls of the crack mix in front of him until he told me to stop. Obviously he wanted to have some for later. I sat by his desk as he freed up the Spellman computer system.
“I have to know. How’d you do it?” I asked.
“I set up an alert on my phone to monitor when the computers were active in your office. Based on the keystrokes, I could tell when you were at work, regardless of what monitor you were working on. Mostly I just messed with you, but occasionally I’d mix it up and slow another computer down.”
“Impressive,” I said.
“I thought so,” Robbie said. “Once I coded a logarithm that made your computer run at the pace of the J train. Wasn’t as satisfying as I had hoped. It was on schedule that day.”
“Nice work,” I said. “I hope we can put the past behind us.”
“I never forget anything,” Robbie said. “You might want to watch that Donald Trump shit in the future.”
Then Robbie did his best Donald Trump impression. You’re fired. You’re fired. The only way to get him to stop was to dangle the equivalent of a shiny bag of Cheetos in front of him.
“Would you be able to hack into my boss’s computer system and figure out who is embezzling money from him?”
“Hacking is a crime.”
“You’d be solving a crime.”
“I’d need your boss’s permission. And probably in-house access.”
“But, then, could you do it?”
“Sure.”
“Do you own any clothes that don’t look like you just came from a Unabomber convention?”
* * *
1. I could imagine him using finger quotes to describe it that way.
2. I guess if I’m taking scraps from Bernie, it is time to rethink my entire existence.
3. The crack mix had melted in the gift basket when I became distracted by the Slayter disappearance.
AGGRESSIVE TREATMENT
Dad had been in the hospital for over a week now. He had already received his induction chemo, of idarubicin and cytarabine. Now he was given antibiotics and antinausea medication, not that it always did the trick. What was left of Dad’s hair was falling out in clumps. I’ve always thought it was fortunate that Dad was tall, so the top of his head was out of most people’s line of vision, but the thing about chemo is that it gets rid of all of your hair. I worried that he would appear like a Muppet without a brow.
Tralina began cracking the whip on the number of visitors she allowed in the room, and the visitors always had to wash their hands first and wear face masks. When I arrived in the afternoon, Dad was asleep. I couldn’t concentrate on anything, so I just watched the droplets of rain on the window drip like clear paint.
Dad woke up and promptly vomited in a plastic receptacle. What was left of his hair was matted down to his sweaty pate, and his eyes were bloodshot and glassy. I felt nauseated looking at him, but I knew if I showed him how scared I was, he’d feel it.
“Do you want me to get Tralina?” I asked.
“Why? So she can hold my hair?”
“Are you okay?”
“Imagine the worst hangover you’ve had,” Dad said.
“That sounds awful.”
“It’s worse.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“Ice chips.”
I was glad for a chore and took a moment to breathe in the fresh air of the antiseptic hallway. It hadn’t really occurred to me before that there was a real possibility my father could die. Then I did everything humanly possible to beat that thought out of my head. I even imagined Robbie Gruber naked.
“One order of ice chips, sir,” I said when I reentered the room.
Tralina was back fluffing Dad’s pillows.
“Maybe I should start smoking the ganja,” Dad said. “What do you
think, Tralina?”
“I tink you haf enough drugs in ya body as it is.”
“But I hear it makes you feel better. Do you know where I can get some?”
Dad winked.
“You tink because I’m Jamaican, I’m da hospital ganja dealer.”
“I thought you might know someone,” Dad said.
“I have Popsicles. Cherry, strawberry.”
“Cherry.”
Tralina left and I gave my dad a cup of ice.
“I bet you know where to score me some weed,” Dad said.
“Just because I had a steady supply fifteen years ago doesn’t mean I know where to get you quality product now. Maybe you should discuss this with your doctor.”
“I don’t want the prescribed stuff. The word on the ward is that it’s bullshit. I want some quality grass. Maybe Rae has some connections.”
“The only thing Rae smokes is those candy cigarettes with the single puff of powdered sugar that floats into the air.”
“I’ll ask Maggie,” Dad said. “All those convicts she hangs out with, surely one of them knows somebody who knows somebody.”
“You do that,” I said.
“So,” Dad said. “How’s your embezzlement investigation going?”
“I’ve got Gruber on it.”
“You made peace with Gruber.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Still, I’m proud of you.”
“Don’t be. I haven’t done a single bit of solid investigative work in the last six months. Does deductive reasoning go with age?”
Dad never answered the question. Tralina interrupted with a cherry Popsicle and then David arrived in a state of complete panic.
“Dad, have you told Grammy Spellman yet?”
Dad pretended like this was a fact he had to think about. He looked upward and to his right.
“I don’t recall.”
“You didn’t, Dad.”
Tralina was checking Dad’s vitals and shaking her head. “Ya poor mama. Ya need ta let her know immediately.”
“At least before you lose all of your hair,” I said.
When Mom showed up, Tralina insisted one Spellman exit. I had been there all morning, so I took off.
Gruber had sent me three text messages in the last hour. I headed over to Slayter Industries to see what the Cheeto-chomping hacker had to show me.
I dropped by Evelyn’s desk. She appeared more buttoned up and less styled than usual. Her hair was in a bun and her lips had faded, like maybe she had left her lipstick at home. Two discarded cups of Caffe Trieste sat on her desk. She had the coffee jitters. I wanted to ask her if she was all right. It was obvious she wasn’t. But I also knew that my asking, knowing that she was in a weakened state, would hurt her more than pretending I didn’t notice. So I pretended I didn’t notice.
I asked her where Gruber was stationed. She stared back at me blankly. I provided a generous description of him: “A larger gentleman in a suit with sporadic facial hair.”
“Pamela Desmond’s office. She’s on maternity leave,” Evelyn briskly replied.
“Thank you,” I said.
She trained her gaze on her computer screen.
As I roamed the cylindrical hallway, I knew I had to pass Damien’s office, but I thought I had a good shot of slipping by unnoticed. Until, of course, I came upon Damien and an unknown woman with a blond pageboy haircut, walking straight in my direction. I put on my best cheery face.
“Damien,” I said in a perky voice very few get to hear. I used to think only animals and small children could hear it.
“Isabel,” Damien said, his eyes shifting with massive nervous energy.
“How’s it going?” I said, looking directly at his female companion.
She was studying me with calculated jealousy. I decided to put her out of her misery. It wasn’t her fault her fiancé was a cad. Well, actually, it was. Frankly, I think you know when you’re dating that kind of guy, and you should probably cut your losses the second you figure it out. But this wasn’t any of my concern. The only thing of value I could accomplish would be to give Damien a few more uncomfortable moments. I think he deserved at least that.
“You must be Karen,” I said. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”
I extended my hand. Karen shook it limply.
“Thank you,” Karen said. “So how do you and Damien know each other?”
“We go to the same barbershop,” I said.
“Oh,” Karen said.
“Just kidding. I work here sometimes. I’m the boss’s private investigator. I know everybody’s secrets. Even Damien’s.”
There was some delightful uncomfortable laughter.
“I hope you’re not lactose intolerant,” I said.
“Excuse me?” said Karen.
“I never buy gifts from the registry. I always send cheese. The stinkier the better, if you ask me.”
“It’s been great running into you, Isabel,” Damien said. His eyes were swimming with gratitude and confusion.
I could have hung around a bit longer and let Damien stew in his questionable betrothed ethics, but there are far, far better uses of my time.
“Nice meeting you. I got to run. I have a consultation with a computer hacker.”
I like to think that was a dignified exit. Sure, there was some tiny ache in my gut, maybe my spleen or gallbladder (an organ you don’t need), that felt like I just should have known better. No man or woman likes to be a fool, but here’s the thing my mother taught me long ago, and it is a lesson that stuck.1 You can spend hours speculating on a man’s motivations, trying to pinpoint what clue you missed, what missteps you made, when the relationship turned, or why he didn’t like you as much as you thought he did. And you could sit around like a fool letting someone else hold court in your mind when you were hardly a blip on his radar. Or you can just let it go and look at the person in the rearview mirror and keep driving.
To be honest, my mother never had to have this talk with me. I was too private to share my youthful heartbreak publicly. But I remember once as a teenager watching my mother nurse Aunt Martie after a particularly brutal breakup. For two months Martie barely left her house; she cried constantly and obsessed relentlessly about the women her ex was likely dating. (In the current climate of social media, she would have been on Facebook all day long.) My mother, finally, at her wits’ end, grabbed Aunt Martie by the shoulders, shook her violently, and said, “The sexual revolution didn’t happen so you could sit by the phone sobbing like some stupid little girl. Enough. Fucking pull yourself together. He’s just one guy.”
Maybe that was the part that always stuck. I never wanted my mother to look at me with such horrified disrespect. Then again, she has on many occasions, most notably when I was caught trying to steal half the liquor cabinet from Lieutenant McClane’s widow at her husband’s wake. In my defense, I was only fifteen and I heard she was a teetotaler.
• • •
I was so accustomed to seeing Robbie out of his element that it was shocking to see him suited up in a corporate environment looking almost in place. Apparently Robbie is the black sheep of his family, which really is good news for Robbie’s family, but even better news for our undercover operation. When Robbie’s only brother got married last summer, the groomsman suit (alas, he did not make the cut for best man) was dictated from on high (his mom) and micromanaged from the measurements to the impeccable design. My point is, Robbie’s suit fit, and a really good suit can make shoulders appear on the most amoeba-shaped individuals. In short Robbie looked normal, which meant that when he roamed the corporate offices, people saw an IT consultant, not a computer geek2 who lived in a blacked-out room surrounded by sci-fi movie memorabilia figurines and posters of Megan Fox and Yoda.
“The system doesn’t look compromised,” Robbie said. “My guess is that whoever made the transfers did so from a computer inside Slayter Industries.”
“Can you tell who is making the transfer
s?”
“No. I’m trying to narrow down maybe which IP address it came from, but that wouldn’t tell me who did it. Your embezzler could be logging in as someone else. If you want to give me a list of suspects, I can probably hack into their personal computers, especially if they’re using Wi-Fi, and maybe check their financial data, see if there are any suspicious deposits.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“I got news for you, Spellman. What I just did was illegal.”
“What do I care? You’re talking to an accused embezzler.”
As I walked Gruber to the elevator bank, we passed Evelyn’s desk, where she and Arthur were having yet another hilarious conversation about something.
“Who is that guy?” Gruber asked.
“Arthur, the accountant.”
“Is he funny?” Robbie asked.
“Not in the slightest.”
“Is he rich?”
“Not really.”
“How long has she worked here?”
“Seven years.”
Robbie studied the duo carefully as he waited for the elevator to arrive.
“That’s your girl,” he mumbled.
The elevator doors parted and Robbie stepped inside. I slipped in after him.
“What are you talking about?” I asked as the elevator doors closed.
“An accountant has all the routing numbers. But that guy is too stiff to break the rules. He orders his shirts on full starch. Nobody does that anymore. That lady wouldn’t give that guy the time of day unless she was getting something from him.”
“I can’t believe that Evelyn could be the mastermind behind a giant conspiracy against my boss. She’d have to do a lot more than sweet-talk a lonely accountant.”
“I’m not saying the chick is the mastermind, but she’s got something going on with the accountant. You want me to look into it?”
I whispered, “You mean hack into her personal computer and check her finances?”
“What, are you wearing a wire?”3 Robbie asked sarcastically. “Yea or nay, and it’ll cost you.”
I gave him the thumbs-up signal. The elevator doors parted and Robbie waved good-bye.
“I got to bolt,” Robbie said. “Have a date with my lady friend tonight. She loves me in this suit.”
