by Lisa Lutz
I didn’t have a choice and we both knew it. I couldn’t run this business alone anymore, and I didn’t want to. I didn’t just need Rae’s money; I needed her help. Whether I was signing a deal with the devil only time would tell, but I signed it on the spot and immediately lost my status as boss.
• • •
Before Rae left, she turned on my computer and had me watch a video of a bone marrow donation procedure, providing her own narration.
“You’ll be anesthetized, so you won’t feel a thing. They’ll stick a long needle into your pelvic bone and take some marrow you won’t need. As you can see, you’ll be lying on your stomach with part of your ass exposed. It’s probably too late to tell you that you should have been cutting back on the Goldfish and maybe doing some squats. Anyway, my point is, the procedure is no big deal. I could have done it without the anesthetic.”
“Good night,” I said.
Sometimes my sister doesn’t understand that bidding adieu actually means leave, so I picked up her backpack and threw it outside. Then she got the hint.
• • •
I had hoped to tie up any loose ends before the procedure, but I remained stalled in my investigation, or more specifically, my incrimination of Willard Slavinsky. We knew he framed Edward, but I had no way of proving it. I felt as if I had failed my boss.
“I had a good run,” Edward said. “I would gladly step down. I just don’t want to do it under a cloud of shame.”
As Edward and I lamented his current predicament, the oddest thought crossed my mind.
What would a conflict resolution specialist do under the same set of circumstances? I’m not in the business of revenge, but sometimes people need to be schooled. Those are two entirely different concepts.
“Call Willard,” I said to Edward. “Invite him over to your office. See if maybe you can come to an understanding.”
“He’s not a fool, Isabel. He won’t confess on tape.”
“Then seduce him.”
“I’m not in the mood for your jokes.”
“I have a plan. Call him and make sure he comes alone.”
• • •
Three hours later, Willard reluctantly dropped by Edward’s office. He had the pinched expression of a man concealing every scrap of emotion. Before Edward said a word, Charlie showed up and offered to get Willard’s parking ticket validated. Charlie passed the ticket to me and I breezed past Evelyn’s vacated desk and stamped the ticket. Then I headed down to the garage and waited for the parking attendant to deliver Willard’s car.
Meanwhile, Edward struck up as benign a conversation as he could.
“I’m not sure what I’ll do with all of my free time,” he said.
“You’ll figure out something,” Willard said.
“There’s always golf.”
“Keeps me out of trouble.”
“Maybe I should play more tennis,” Edward said.
“Tennis is good. Was there a particular reason you wanted to see me?”
Edward’s phone rang.
“Excuse me,” he said, picking up the phone.
“It’s me,” I said as my sister met me in an alley behind a dim sum restaurant in Chinatown. “Can you hold him for fifteen minutes? I’m still waiting for your brother to arrive.”
“I’ll do my best,” Edward said.
“I’m going to hang up,” I said. “But you might want to continue this phone call.”
Edward chatted with a dead line for another five minutes, until Slavinsky started checking his watch and shifting impatiently in his chair. Edward ended his fake conversation and killed the next three minutes complimenting Slavinsky’s casual wear and asking him about his shopping habits. When Willard’s patience had all but dried up, Edward then looked him dead in the eye and said, “Can you sleep at night?”
“I sleep just fine.”
“I know you didn’t do this alone. Who helped you?” Edward asked.
“Where is that boy of yours? I’m going to be late for my tee time.”
“We wouldn’t want that.”
Charlie was huffing and puffing when he rushed into Edward’s office and returned Slavinsky’s ticket.
“Good catching up,” Willard said as he swiftly got to his feet.
“Let’s do this again sometime,” Edward said.
• • •
Fifteen minutes later, a plainclothes police officer flashed his lights and motioned for Slavinsky to pull his Mercedes to the curb.
“Is there a problem, officer?” Slavinsky impatiently asked.
The officer said, “We received an anonymous call about a man driving erratically matching your description. The caller suggested you were carrying explosives.”
“Do I look like the sort of man who carries explosives around with him?”
“I don’t know,” the officer said. “I don’t work in the bomb squad. Do you mind if I check your vehicle?”
“Fine. Whatever. Just make it fast.”
“Please pop your trunk and put your hands on the steering wheel.”
The officer checked the trunk of the car, called in for backup, and asked Slavinsky to step out of his car.
“Is there a problem?”
“Where were you planning on going with twelve cans of tear gas and three dozen sticks of dynamite?”
• • •
One hour later, Henry Stone served up his most disapproving gaze as he directed me to Slavinsky’s interview room.
“Don’t look at me like that. You agreed to this plan,” I said.
“You owe me,” he said.
“I recently came into a bit of money. Will forty bucks do it?”
“I want to be friends. I don’t want you to completely vanish from my life. Those are my terms.”
“Seriously?” I said, eyeing the fidgety Slavinsky through the one-way mirror.
“I’m not letting you into the room,” Henry said, “until you agree.”
“I’m not going to your wedding,” I said, clarifying the terms. “And don’t invite me to any baby showers.”
“Fine.”
I held out my hand. “So we’re friends,” I said.
“We’re friends,” he said.
“It’s really over, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
I looked him in the eye. I couldn’t remember the last time I did that. He had the kindest eyes, eyes you knew were never lying to you. You cannot say that about most eyes. Henry refused to take my hand. He kissed me on the cheek and left. As endings go, this one was unsatisfying. It was like a leaky faucet that finally got fixed, only you had gotten so used to the leak, you almost didn’t care. Also, you had some guy in an interview room waiting for you, so you really had no way to segue out of that metaphor.
• • •
It didn’t take Willard long to sort out his predicament, especially after I walked in.
“Isabel,” he said. “I believe I called an attorney.”
“I don’t know anything about that. I just happened to be in the station and saw you here in the box, as they call it on some TV shows from the early nineties.1 Thought I’d say hi. Hi. Can I get you anything? Water? Soda? I know where they keep the water and the soda.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to fix Edward’s problem. You and Edward own enough shares of the company that you can dictate any decisions made by the board of directors. If you wanted, you could get them all to forget about his little indecent-exposure incident, which has already been settled in court, and reinstate him as CEO.”
“Why would I do that?”
“So they’ll drop the terrorism and hate crime charges against you,” I said. “Where have you been?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“The tear gas and explosives in the trunk of your car when you were obviously en route to your country club.”
“You put them there.”
“No, I didn’t. You were going to blow up
the place.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you were really mad that they recently let in a Jew and a black. And not one of those Sammy Davis Jr. twofers.”
“As usual, I have no idea what you’re talking about, Isabel.”
“I think that’s an excellent defense. It’s certainly my go-to defense, but what about the e-mails?”
“What e-mails?” Slavinsky asked. He was turning the shade of a Campbell’s soup can. The red part, of course.
So, I showed him the e-mails, which contained very brief threats to his country club from the e-mail address statusquo@[redacted].com. The tone was a bit off for a rich/angry/elitist racist, but it did the trick.
“I didn’t write these e-mails, I don’t know who this statusquo person is, and I most certainly do not share this sentiment.”
“That might very well be true, but as you know, sometimes the truth is irrelevant.”
“You still need proof,” Willard said smugly. His tomato-soup face was returning to its usual shade of princess pink.
“But we can prove that the e-mails were sent from your computer,” I said.
“That’s impossible,” Willard shouted, slamming his fist on the screwed-down table.
I whispered, “It’s actually not impossible. Our computer expert checked the headers and can trace the e-mails through the IP address back to your home computer.”2
“You won’t get away with this.”
“No. You won’t get away with it. Trust me, these e-mails were written on your computer. I had no idea you had so much anger in you.”
Willard studied the e-mails, his face white as a sheet, his hands trembling like a drunk with DTs. Mostly he was furious, trying to keep it under containment. His eyes darted around the room as he tried to figure out his next chess move. As has been established, I suck at chess, so I can’t really draw a proper analogy. I can only tell you that Willard was cornered and he had no way out. I made sure of that.
“How do I make this go away?” he eventually asked.
“When Edward is CEO again, I’ll make sure all the evidence disappears. Do we have a deal?”
“This is outrageous.”
“Do we have a deal?”
“Yes.”
“One more thing,” I said. “I know you didn’t do this alone. What is your relationship with Lenore or Nora?”
“We’re involved.”
“How much did she help?”
“She helped.”
“Did she drug Edward?”
“Yes.”
“I want to know how.”
“The first time, his bourbon. Once he was knocked out, we drove him to Oakland and dropped him off. The second time, in the teapot in his office. Once he and Charlie were unconscious, we got him out of the building.”
“Then stripped him naked and dropped him in front of the elementary school?”
Willard cleared his throat.
“Why, Willard? You have enough money. I’ve seen where you live.”
“He got lucky. He married a rich woman who was stupid enough to not have a prenup and then all of this is his. I didn’t think he deserved it. I helped him make decisions every step of the way. It was as much mine as his.”
“What about Damien? You recommended him. Was he in on any of it?”
“He was just a recommendation,” Willard said. “Are we done here?”
“You are most definitely done. Obviously, I don’t think you and Edward should work together anymore.”
I left Slavinsky in the box and phoned Edward as I left the police station.
“I’m on my way.”
“Want me to see if I can find any uranium on the black market?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said. “I think we’re good.”
I returned to Edward’s office. I suppose I had a spring in my step for the first time in months, so Edward knew our plan had succeeded.
“It worked, I take it?”
“It worked. It couldn’t have been easy to get your hands on that much dynamite in ninety minutes.”
“I know people,” Edward said.
“Please don’t say anything that I would have to deny in a court of law.”
“I’m sure you say that to all the boys.”
“I wish I could have video-recorded it for you. It was so satisfying.”
“I’m sure.”
“So what happens next?” Edward asked.
“Willard will recommend to the board that you be reinstated as CEO and you buy him out. I think this partnership has run its course.”
“And that’s that. He gets away with everything he’s done?” Edward asked.
“There’s still a police record, and we have the interviews if he gets any wild ideas in the future.”
“It doesn’t seem like enough, does it?”
“No,” I said. “That’s why I got him a subscription to American Renaissance3 magazine and had a KKK hood put in his locker at the country club.”
“Isabel!” Edward exclaimed, somewhere between mortification and amusement. “Do you have any sense of decency?”
“A little.”
Edward sat there, contemplating what we had done and what we would be doing to Willard over the next few weeks. His amused smile turned into a slight chuckle. Then he began laughing convulsively, I think more out of relief than anything else.
* * *
1. Homicide: Life on the Street.
2. Robbie Gruber was going to get another porn gift basket.
3. A white supremacist magazine. Please don’t look it up. Even out of curiosity.
THE LAST FOOTNOTE
Honestly, I don’t think I have anything more to say. I could keep documenting my life until I find that perfect moment to end these reports. Maybe it would be a transient instant of bliss that would fool you into believing in happily ever after, but it wouldn’t fool me. I have no idea what’s in store for me, but there will be no walking off into the sunset. I could kill a few more decades waiting for a goddamn epiphany and then reflect back on my youth and say something so wise, you’d want to quote it back to your friends again and again, but it would take me months to come up with that wise saying and I probably wouldn’t even mean it. Or I could just keep writing about my misadventures into my twilight years: “My walker is on the fritz again; even the tennis balls need replacing. My neighbor Ellie wants me to look into who is stealing her newspaper. I’m getting too old for this shit. One day, maybe, I’ll retire and . . .”
Sometimes people die mid–narrative sentence. Rather than leave you with a half-baked ending thirty, forty years from now, I’m going to take my final bow. This is no easy feat, since I’m lying on a gurney.
The anesthesiologist just gave me some really awesome sedatives.
Before I go, or before I go under, there’s a lot of information to disburse and I don’t want to leave you hanging, so I better get started.
Edward Slayter was offered his old CEO position back, but he declined. He said he was going to try to live his life while he could still remember it. The first thing on his agenda was firing Damien, just to be safe. Then he took a road trip with Ethan, like the one they planned when they were teenagers, only they didn’t drive across the country, they went to Reno and gambled and saw some shows that I decided I wouldn’t ask them about. Charlie then drove Ethan and Edward to Lompoc, so Ethan could turn himself in. The brothers said good-bye and Edward promised to visit whenever he could.
Edward, no longer CEO but still the key decision-maker in his company, encouraged the board of directors to look for a CEO who was not a white male. You’d be surprised how many people fall into that category.
Evelyn Glade returned 90 percent of the money she embezzled, got probation, dumped her boyfriend, and got engaged to Arthur Bly. I’m not sure why or how he forgave her involvement with the company embezzlement, but I suspect their relationship always ran deeper than I thought. Do I think it’s a perfect match? No. But I think they’re bot
h getting what they want.
Grammy is on a yearlong seniors’ cruise. She corresponds by postcard and the occasional text message. All she writes is, I’m alive. Hope UR 2.
Princess Banana has given up her tiara. She now wears a blue mechanic’s jumpsuit and wields a wrench. She talks about working at an auto repair shop. It’s amazing how quickly children grow up.
Rae and Vivien set out to completely massacre the reputation of Lightning Fast Moving Company. Right now their Yelp rating average is a two, and last we checked they were filing for bankruptcy.
Vivien is on academic probation. Apparently she spent more time writing those Yelp reviews than working on her papers. Her parents have insisted that she take a short break from Spellman Investigations.
Morgan Freeman1 has at least three films coming out this year.
Charlie Black, navigational consultant, apparently never forgot about Sweatergate. Perhaps overestimating the risk of my going under general anesthesia, he decided to absolve me of my sins. How he figured out this particular sin, I never learned.
“I forgive you for stealing my sweater,” Charlie said magnanimously. “You must have really liked it.”
“I loved it,” I said.
And I meant it.
Now on to the more important stuff, before they wheel me away. I broke the news to my parents about the deal I brokered with Rae. They seemed pleased until Rae started running prospective cases by the company.
“I’ve got a possible client who would like us to make his girlfriend stop sneezing. And another potentially lucrative case involving a custody dispute over a boa constrictor.”
“What were you thinking?” my mother asked me when we finally had a moment alone.
“I was thinking what everyone is thinking all of the time: How can I make this last just a little bit longer?”
Although I don’t think anyone is thinking that at the opera.
As they steered my father’s gurney down the hallway, I shouted, “You owe me.”
“Don’t I know it,” he replied.
Mom looked at me all gooey-eyed and held my hand.
“Mom, relax. He’s going to be fine.”
“I know,” Mom said. “It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Why?”
