The Last Word (11 page)

Then there was the guy wearing an ascot. While his clothing had endured the same twenty-hour
marathon as his cohorts, he still tried to strike the pose of a man in control. He
was beefier and shorter than Edward but had the same icy blue eyes and deep parenthetical
creases around his mouth. I’d expected a man on his last legs, barely able to sit
upright and perhaps groveling for another loan to play another hand. That was not
the case.

“Darling, what took you so long?” Ethan said with a crisp British accent as he got
to his feet, circled the table, and pulled me into an embrace.

“Tell me you have the money,” he whispered in my ear.

“Tell me why you have an English accent,” I whispered back.

“I will never hear the end of this when I get home,” Ethan said to the group. I’m
not sure anyone was believing that a) Ethan and I were an item and b) I held the purse
strings in the relationship. Then again, I had arrived with five grand in cash.

“How much does he owe you?” I asked the room.

“Forty-five hundred,” said one man. That one had eyes like a ferret and the jowls
of a turkey. His look of amusement sparked in me a deep sense of discomfort. Guys
like that like to help people become their worst selves. I got the feeling these games
were his idea and he encouraged the players who were short on cash to return, because
when a man owes you money, you have him on the ropes. I’d have bet the five grand
that Ferret Eyes had had a lot of men on the ropes in his day.

I turned to Ethan. “How much did you come in with?”

The guy who answered the door, Pit Stains, responded for him. “Three grand.”

I took the five grand from my purse and put it on the table.

“Here’s a little extra. You don’t let him back here again.”

“Anyone who’s paid up is welcome back.”

I reached for the stack of bills on the table. Ferret Eyes gripped my hand over the
cash, gluing me to the table.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” I said. “I’m Isabel. And you are?”

“Bob.”

“What an unusual name,” I said. “How do you spell that?”

My free hand reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.

“Bob, I have a friend who’d like to talk to you.”

I passed the phone to Bob. He listened and then released his grip on my hand. Bob
passed the phone back to me, took the five-hundred-dollar tip off the top, and slapped
it on the table in front of me.

“We’re even,” he said to me. Then he turned to Ethan and said, “Don’t show your face
around here again.”

“It has been a pleasure,” I said.

On the drive back to the city questions darted back and forth like Ping-Pong balls.
Ethan wanted to know who Henry was. Henry wanted to know who Bob was. And all I really
wanted to know was why Ethan had a British accent. The only benefit of being the third
wheel in the car was that I didn’t have to engage in any serious conversation with
Henry.

“So you’re my brother’s consigliere,” Ethan said.

I turned to Henry to translate.

“A confidante, usually in the context of organized crime. But it can be used more
casually,” Henry said.

“I’m his jogging partner,” I said. “And I do some other work for him.”

“Edward’s jogging partner has always been his consigliere,” Ethan said.

“Who was his last jogging partner you met?”

“Oh, it was a few years ago. A Glen somebody.”

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“Died, I think.”

“See,” I said, jabbing Henry in the ribs. “Jogging isn’t good for you.”

Henry pulled the car in front of Slayter’s Nob Hill mansion. Maybe it’s not quite
a mansion, but it’s a pretty big house that stands on its own, which is unusual for
San Francisco.

“Should I wait for you?” Henry asked.

“Your work here is done,” I said.

“Will I see you around?” he asked.

“Until I find a new designated driver,” I said.

Slayter was in his pajamas and robe, poring over every last word of
The Wall Street Journal
, when I delivered his brother to him. Before Edward could toss out any kind of admonishment,
Ethan said, “I will pay back every penny. I assure you.”

“I would prefer it if you didn’t lose money in the first place.”

“So would I,” Ethan lightly replied.

“Why is your brother English?”

“He’s not.”

“I spent several years abroad,” said Ethan.

“Four,” said Edward.

“And I simply couldn’t shake the accent.”

“Like Madonna?” I asked.

Ethan ignored the question, went to the bar, and poured himself a brandy. “I’m knackered,”
he said. “Off to bed.”

When the guest room door shut, Edward said, “Thank you.”

“I think I got him kicked out of that game. But there are always other games.”

“Indeed.”

“He seems like quite a handful,” I said. “Why do you put up with it?”

“I’m sure your parents asked themselves that question more times than they can count,”
he said.

•  •  •

I boycotted jogging Monday morning and arrived early at the office. On my desk was
a photocopy of a sexual harassment complaint referencing a date from 2001. The plaintiff
was named Sheila Givens and the defendants were Brad Gillman and Bryan Lincoln. I’d
heard the defendants’ names before and racked my brain for an answer. D always writes
a note when he leaves any documents on my desk. I assumed it could be only one of
my two disgruntled employees who’d left this for me. I climbed the stairs and knocked
on the door.

“We’re sleeping,” Mom said, not sounding sleepy at all.

“I’m coming in,” I said, counting to five, to give them time to cover up.

I opened the door to find the unit in bed drinking coffee and sharing the newspaper.

“We should get a lock on the door,” Mom said to Dad.

“I’m on it,” he said.

“Which one of you left the complaint on my desk?”

“That would be me,” Mom said.

“Why do these names sound familiar?” I asked.

“They’re two of the executives at Divine Strategies.”

“How did D miss this in his research?”

“Notice how the complaint isn’t stamped?” Mom said. “It was never filed.”

“Then how did you get it?”

“I have my ways.”

My mother has amassed a galaxy of sources throughout the years. With an almost prescient
understanding that a day like this might come, she has never shared these sources
with me. In fact, some of these sources she hasn’t even shared with Dad.

“Well, um, thanks. I appreciate it,” I said.

“No problem.”

“Are you guys coming into work today?”

“I don’t know,” Dad said, shrugging his shoulders. “There’s something at the museum
we’re thinking about seeing.”

There was nothing at the museum they were thinking about seeing. If there were ever
two people who cared less about art, I hadn’t met them. Still, my mother had given
me evidence on a case that I wouldn’t otherwise have had. I considered it progress.

“Have a nice day,” I said.

I returned to the office and searched for anyone named Sheila Givens who lived in
San Francisco, Contra Costa, or Marin County during the time of the complaint. I narrowed
the search to women who would now be no older than fifty-five or younger than thirty-two.
I had five names left and I ran a credit check on each one, hoping the employment
history would go back far enough to reference Divine Strategies. I found the plaintiff
Sheila
Givens living in Tiburon. I phoned her home line and got her answering machine. Since
the complaint was never filed, I had to assume it wasn’t a subject she wished to discuss,
so I left a message claiming to be from an asset recovery firm and waited for her
call.

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.”