The Last Word (12 page)

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 was 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.”

“Did you say kids, plural?”

“Yes. We have an understanding.”

“You and I don’t have an understanding.”

“Right. But David and Maggie and I have an understanding.”

“You must be early for your understanding,” I said.

“No. Eleven
A.M.
We’ve been at the park for three hours. That’s exactly two hours more than enough.”

I couldn’t argue with him. That’s a lot of park time and Max looked like
he needed a break. But that was not my problem. I picked up my phone and called my
brother.

“Yello,” he answered. I can’t remember when he started doing that, but I wished I
had some electrical cord attached to him so I could shock him out of the habit.

“Some guy named Max is here. With Princess Banana and some other kid. He’s returning
both the princess and another kid—”

“Max Klein and Claire,” Max clarified.

“Max Klein and Claire from a playdate. Does that make any sense to you?”

“We had to wait an hour for brunch,” David said. “We’re still eating. Do you mind
sticking around?”

“You promised this would never happen again.”

“Please, Isabel.”

“I can’t. I have an appointment,” I said. At the moment, I didn’t look like the sort
of person who had an appointment, but my brother couldn’t see that through the telephone.

“Put Max on,” David said.

Max just listened. He said
uh-huh
a few times in the form of a question mark and he consulted the ceiling.

Then Max said into the phone, “Who is this person? I’m not comfortable leaving my
child with her.”

“You shouldn’t be,” I said, taking the phone from Max. “Listen, David, I fell for
this once, it’s not going to happen again.”

“Izzy, we just got our food. We will eat like Kobayashi.
¹³
Max has an appointment in a half hour. We promised him we’d take Claire. Two kids
for an hour. What’s the big deal?”

“Your daughter is totally uncool.”

“She’s three and a half years old and it’s not our fault.”
¹⁴

“That was your excuse when she was two.”

“Hundred dollars off next month’s rent.”

“Two hundred.”

“One fifty.”

“Deal,” I said, hanging up the phone. “I’ll take the kid,” I said to Max. “Does she
have any food allergies?”

Sydney was in the middle of the living room barking regal orders at a blond-haired,
blue-eyed doll.
Tea, please
. The princess was now trying to affect an English accent. I had a sudden vision of
Sydney as an adult, and it wasn’t pretty. I turned back to the father-and-daughter
duo in the doorway. Claire, judging by the way she was trying to twist out of her
father’s grasp, clearly wanted to join Sydney, or at least be in the vicinity of the
television, but Max held tight.