by Lisa Lutz
“You look sad. Are you sad, Isabel?”
“I suppose I am.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Here’s your key. Don’t give a copy to anyone.”
“What if I get locked out?”
“I can’t imagine you losing a key, Walter. But if you do, you can call me. I have the spare.”
“Thank you, Isabel. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Lose the blender.”
I returned to 1799 Clay Street during the Gossamer Heights hour. D, Grammy, and FourPete all sat on the couch watching the television together. During commercials, Grammy and D would consult each other about prospective story lines.
“I wish Nicole and Joey would get back together.”
“They were a good couple,” D agreed. “But I think Nicole has her eye on Jameson.”
“I don’t trust that one,” Grammy said.
“He’s up to something,” D replied.
My mother watched the scene from the hallway, sniffling (allergies, not tears), her enemy and her confidant sharing a common interest. My father approached, wrapped his arm around Mom, and kissed the top of her head. I had to admit, something about this scenario was disturbing. Sure, they had Gossamer Heights and Morgan Freeman in common, but it couldn’t be possible that You Know Who and Demetrius were becoming friends.
“How did this happen?” Mom asked, taking another drag on her inhaler.
“Even the best-laid plans of mice and men go oft awry,” Dad said.
DRIVING MRS. SPELLMAN
My mother called me first thing in the morning on a blackout day. Mom and I have an official understanding that we do not speak on Saturdays, unless there’s an emergency.
“This better be an emergency,” I said when I answered the phone.
Sneeze.
“Allergies don’t count.”
Sneeze.
“Did you forget what day it was?”
“They’re making plans,” Mom whispered.
“Who?” I whispered back.
“Ruth [sneeze] and D. They’re spending the day together.”
“That is unusual, and I can understand how it would be distressing. But it’s not grounds for breaking the blackout-day rule,” I firmly replied.
“I think they’re going to a movie,” Mom said.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I replied. “Though it does beg the question: Is Morgan Freeman getting enough rest?”
“Two weeks ago,” Mom said, “I asked D to go with me to a matinee and he said he had too much work to do.”
“Was there work to do?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point.”
“Mom, is this conversation going anywhere? Because I have a long day of doing nothing ahead of me.”
“Something about this isn’t right.”
“I agree.”
“You need to follow them,” Mom said.
“Why don’t you do it?” I said.
“Because Saturday is the one day a week I can get your father to do any physical activity. We have yoga in twenty minutes, and I think we’ll go for a hike in the Marin Headlands a little later.”
“Are you trying to kill him?”
“Isabel, do this for me.”
“I’m going to need some incentive.”
“Overtime and I’ll give you two blackout days to use at your discretion.”
“How about four?”
“Three.”
“Deal.”
“If my intelligence is correct,” Mom said, “they leave in an hour.”
We disconnected the call and I turned off the TV and quickly dressed. D knows what my car looks like, and while he wouldn’t be expecting a tail, a beat-up Buick stickered on your rearview mirror might not go unnoticed. I considered the available options and David’s Prius was the best bet.
I knocked. Maggie answered and let me in. David and Sydney were seated on the living room floor, listening to some classical music station and finger-painting. I should note that David was working on his own art piece and not simply assisting Sydney with hers.
“Are you out of coffee again?” Maggie pleasantly asked. “I just started a fresh pot.”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’m good.”
Maggie invited me inside, nodded in the direction of David and Sydney, and said, “Arts hour. Although it usually lasts at least two.”
“Remember to use your complete color palette, Sydney. Not just blue,” David said.
Sydney then planted another blue thumbprint on the construction paper.
“David, can I borrow your car?”
“Something wrong with yours?”
“No. I need to surveil D and he knows what my car looks like. I’ll bring it back with a full tank.”
“Why are you following D?” Maggie asked. David was clearly uninterested.
“Mom wants to know why he’s spending so much time with Grammy. It’s driving her crazy. Hello, Sydney,” I said.
Sydney took one look at me, her eyes welled up with tears, and she said, “No Izzy. No no Izzy. No Izzy.”1
“She thinks you’re babysitting again,” Maggie said apologetically.
I backed toward the door and stepped out into the foyer. “Relax,” I shouted. “I’m leaving. See?” I said, leaving.
Maggie passed me the car keys. “Sorry,” she said.
“No problem. Thanks, David. Good-bye, Sydney.” I emphasized the last part to hammer home the point.
I opened the garage door, unlocked the Prius, phoned my mother for a status report, and backed out of the driveway onto the street. As I put the car into drive, Maggie raced out of the house with one arm in her coat and approached the passenger-side door. I rolled down the window.
“Take me with you,” she said desperately. She jumped into the car and we were off.
An hour later, Maggie and I had followed Grammy, with D chauffeuring, on what can only be described as a carefully edited tour of the city. He covered the more family-friendly tourist destinations—Fisherman’s Wharf, the Marina, Twin Peaks. Then he traversed the hills: Nob, Russian, and Noe (somehow bypassing the Mission). He skipped Chinatown, Japantown, midtown, and even downtown. Eventually he took a leisurely route through Golden Gate Park and ended up at a restaurant overlooking Ocean Beach. While the odd couple took a lunch break, Maggie and I waited in the parking lot, taking in the view.
“Hungry?” she asked, pulling an oatmeal cookie wrapped in a napkin out of her pocket. For years David had been trying to break her of this habit but had apparently failed. She split the cookie in half and generously offered me the larger piece. I took the other one. Once we finished our snack, I decided it was time to get to the bottom of her jailbreak.
“Don’t families like to spend their weekends together?”
“I suppose that would be normal,” she replied, clearly nonplussed by the turn in the conversation.
“You want to talk about it?”
“You want to talk about your troubles?” Maggie replied.
“No, thank you. But your troubles are for more interesting. And, since I think they involve my brother, I might actually be able to provide some insight.”
Maggie leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes. “He’s just so, so obsessive with her,” she said. “I don’t understand why.”
“You don’t?” I asked. I figured it would be obvious.
“No. I don’t.”
“He’s convinced she’ll turn out like me or Rae, if he doesn’t take action. So he’s taking action.”
Maggie opened her eyes and drew her hand to her forehead. “Oh my God. I never even thought of that.”
“Maybe you could cut him slack,” I said.
Before Maggie could reply, I had the car in reverse, peeled out of the parking space, and raced to the end of the driveway, making a sharp right onto the Great Highway. I hit the gas, trying to make the green light on Fulton Street, but slammed on the breaks when the light t
urned red. Maggie lurched forward.
“What just happened?”
“We were made. D and Grammy just gave us the slip.”
I phoned my mother. She was in between activities and picked up her phone.
“What are they doing?”
“They were having lunch.”
“Lunch?” Mom jealously repeated.
“Does D have a GPS on his car?”
“No, it’s not a company vehicle. Where are they now?”
“I’m sorry, Mom. We lost him.”
THE BLAKE FAKE
The Blakes’ requests for surveillance on their daughter had waned after I turned in the last doctored report. Without being clear on the nature of Vivien’s extracurricular activities, I didn’t feel confident relaying their suspicious nature to her suspicious parents. Let’s just say it was dull reading even for a layman. However, I received an e-mail from Mrs. Blake shortly after my derailed surveillance on Grammy and D. She insisted on a surveillance that evening, claiming to have received an unusual e-mail from her daughter. When pressed for details, Mrs. Blake didn’t respond, she merely repeated her surveillance request and, for the first time, asked for visual documentation, specifically video.
While it was unusual for me to hear directly from Mrs. Blake, I thought nothing of it at the time.
At nine P.M., I commenced surveillance on subject Vivien Blake.
At nine fifteen the coed left her apartment on Dolores Street and walked to a bar on Folsom. She sat down at the bar; spoke briefly with a white male, approximately twenty-five; passed him what appeared to be a roll of bills; and the male slipped something into the palm of her hand, which she quickly pocketed. She then left the bar and walked to an apartment building three blocks away. She pressed the buzzer and waited until the gate was released. I circled the building and found a light on in the first-floor apartment where subject had entered.
Inside were approximately four greasy-haired coeds, smoking cigarettes and weed. I had a clear visual of the unusually well-lit apartment from the back of the building. Using a small digital camera I captured the image inside the unit. Vivien pulled a baggie out of her pocket, presumably the item procured at the bar. She knelt down beside the coffee table, where a small mirror and razor blade were splayed next to overflowing ashtrays and pipes. Vivien tipped some of the contents of the baggie onto the small mirror and edged it into a line with the razor blade. She then took a straw and snorted it, licked her finger, and swept up the rest of the powder, rubbing it into her gums. She offered the pixie dust to a few of the hipsters in the room, but they all waved it away.
Did they really expect me to buy this charade? From experience I can say with certainty that, had it really been cocaine, there would have been a few takers. But snorting powdered sugar isn’t the most pleasant sensation.1
I pressed three on my speed dial.
“I appreciate the homage,” I said to my sister.
If the reference is lost on you, let me briefly explain: Not too many years ago, when I found myself under close parental scrutiny, I retaliated with a little performance piece I called “Isabel Snorts Cocaine,”2 which I managed to convince my sister to both watch and film. I figured if my parents wanted to catch me in some kind of criminal act, I might as well go allout. However, Rae (at the time fourteen) intervened and held an unloaded gun pointed at my actor friends Len and Christopher, who were playing the stereotypical dealers. While I let Rae in on the ruse, I still forced her to show the footage to my parents. And now it became clear to me that all of Vivien’s unusual activities were pure theater. This was just another show for her parents’ benefit. Vivien, aided by Rae, wanted revenge and was using me as a pawn in my own game.
“You don’t expect me to show this video to her parents, do you?” I asked.
“Of all people, I thought you’d understand,” Rae said.
“I take it that it wasn’t Mrs. Blake who requested the surveillance this evening?”
“No. Viv hacked into her mother’s account.”
“I see. Call Vivien,” I said. “Tell her to meet me out front.”
Five minutes later, Vivien surfaced from the apartment. She grinned sheepishly.
“What tipped you off?” she asked.
“All sorts of things,” I replied. “But mostly it was just too easy. The lighting was perfect.”
“I wanted to use a crack pipe,” Vivien said, “but I wasn’t sure what baking ingredient was safe to inhale.”
“I’m glad you played it safe,” I replied.
“So you have the footage?” she asked.
“I have it.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
Fifteen minutes later, Vivien and I were in a café on Mission Street. She was spooning the whipped cream off the top of a double mocha I had just bought her and she suddenly seemed years younger than the woman I had been tailing for the last few months.
“Nice performance the other night, by the way. Taking the BMW to a chop shop. That was impressive. I had you pegged for a degenerate.”
“Thank you,” Vivien replied.
“What do you want, Vivien?”
“I want different parents.”
“Too late. What do you really want?”
“Payback, I guess.”
“And what good will that do you?”
“I don’t know. It’ll even the score.”
“I’m not showing them the video; I’m not giving them a report of activities that were just for show. I’m telling them that they have a normal, law-abiding daughter whom they should cease investigating. They’ll leave you alone if I tell them to. No more phony degeneracy, okay?”
“Just the real deal from now on,” Vivien said.
“You’re free now, Vivien; try to stay that way. Are you going to behave yourself?” I couldn’t believe these words were coming out of my mouth. I felt so old.
“On one condition,” Vivien said.
“What?”
“I want you to find my real parents,” Vivien said.
TAXI DRIVER
Outside Edward Slayter’s office, Charlie Black found me again. He was wearing the same new sweater, but it wasn’t as new anymore. “Hi, Isabel.”
“Hi, Charlie.”
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Of course not.”
“Can I interest you in a game of chess?”
“I think my chess days are over.”
“That makes me sad.”
“It makes me sad too, in a way.”
“Are you watching your friend again? The one that you don’t wave at or speak to?”
“Yes.”
“You worry about him, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“I saw him the other day.”
“That’s his office,” I said, pointing to the building. “And this is your office,” I said, pointing to the cement steps where we were loitering. “You were bound to cross paths at some point.”
“We crossed paths,” Charlie said. “He even waved at me.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Don’t worry. Not about you.”
“What did you talk about?”
“He walked over to me and asked for directions.”
“Directions to where?”
“That was the strange part. He wanted to know where Montgomery Street was.”
“But it’s right over there.”
Montgomery Street is a major road that runs perpendicular to Market, just a few short blocks from Slayter’s office. Any resident of San Francisco should know Montgomery Street, let alone someone who works downtown.
“That’s what I said,” said Charlie. “‘It’s right over there.’ Then he thanked me and said he was confused.”
“Did he ask you any other questions?”
“No. He said he might see me again at the Mechanics’ Institute.”
“Is that all?” I asked.
“Did he do something wrong, Isabel?”
; “I don’t think so.”
“Then why are you watching him?”
I never answered Charlie’s question.
Mr. Slayter exited his office building and walked up to Market Street, where his driver waited for him.
“Excuse me, Charlie.”
“See you later, Isabel.”
I hailed a cab and pointed out Slayter’s black Town Car.
“Follow that car,” I said to the cab driver.
“Why?” the cab driver replied.
“I don’t think that’s any of your concern,” I replied.
The cab driver pulled into traffic and proceeded to casually tail the sedan; his interrogation continued. “It’s my cab. I can ask questions if I want to.”
“And I can refuse to answer them if I want to.”
“Who are we following?”
“You’re following that black Town Car up there. That’s all you need to know.”
“Is your husband in that car?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
The cab was now going well below the speed limit.
“You need to drive faster.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No. If you miss this light, we lose him.”
“Answer the question.”
“Yes. He’s my boyfriend.”
The cab driver floored the gas and raced through the yellow light, weaving through traffic, shortening the distance lost during his slowdown threat.
“Do you think he’s cheating on you?” the cab driver asked.
I checked the license on the dashboard.
“I don’t know, Phil Vitus. They should name a disease after you.”
Phil took his foot off the gas and repeated his question.
“Maybe,” I said, and we accelerated again. “He’s called the same number on his cell phone three days in a row.”
“You shouldn’t be snooping,” Phil said.
“I wasn’t,” I replied. “I needed a number and I looked on his phone.”
“Did you dial the number?”
“No,” I replied.
Phil Vitus clearly thought I was holding out on him, because he slowed down again.
“What kind of crazy game are you playing?” I asked.
“Tell me the truth. Did you dial the number?”
“Yes,” I replied.
