The Last Word (3 page)

“I was talking to Mr. Slayter.”

“He doesn’t eat things that taste good,” I said.

Slayter smirked, Demetrius departed, and I sat up straight, gathered my notebook,
and poised my pen, awaiting further instructions.

“We’re looking at a company called Divine Strategies Inc. They specialize in niche
financial software for religious organizations. They got their start with HolyBooks,
an accounting program for churches, but they’re branching out into other areas. My
people have already done the financials
and checked for any legal issues and they’re clean. I just want a few background checks
on the partners and some of the support staff.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” I asked.

“I just want fresh eyes on it,” Slayter said.

“Anything else?”

“My younger brother is coming to visit.”

“When?”

“Any day now. He likes to surprise me.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“I haven’t seen him in five years.”

“Does he know about . . . ?”

“No.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because he’s family. You have to tell him.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have that close bond you Spellmans share,” Slayter said.

On cue Dad blew his nose so loudly it reverberated throughout the house.

“No need to brag,” I said. “Still, I think you should consider telling him. At least
he won’t be offended if you forget his name. What is it, by the way?”

“Ethan Jones.”

“Half brother, actor, or took his wife’s name?”

“Changed it. He had some trouble a while back.”

“Interesting choice. What kind of trouble?”

“The kind involving prison.”

“Now you’ve got my attention,” I said.

“I should have had it when I walked in the door.”

“Wow. You having a brother who did time is kind of exciting. I don’t have a brother
who did time.”

“That must be very difficult for you.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

“What difference does it make?”

“You can tell me or I’ll waste two hours of my day running a background check.”

“Ponzi scheme,” Slayter said, studying his shoes.

“What happened?”

“A lot of people lost their retirement. He paid back what he could. Did time. Seven
years in a federal prison.”

“The good kind,” I said. “I think I’d do okay in a federal prison.”

Slayter stared out the window, either lost in thought, trying to decipher the argument
between Sanford and his son, or spacing out, which does sometimes happen.

“When he got out,” Slayter said, “he used whatever money he had stashed away and opened
a bar in Los Angeles. He’s good with people. He’s thinking about opening a bar here.
Or so he says.”

“That would be great. Because I’ve been looking for a new place to drink.”

“We need to keep an eye on him.”

“Which eye? Left? Right?”

In my entire relationship with Slayter, I’ve never made him laugh, not even when I
showed up at his office wearing a dress inside out.
³

“Do you have a safe in your office?”

“We do.”

Slayter reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an envelope filled with cash.

“Can you put this in your safe?”

I took the envelope and peeked at the stack of Benjamins inside.

“How much is this?”

“Five grand.”

“Why do you want me to keep five grand in my office?”

“You might need it sometime. Or we’ll get lucky, and you won’t.”

Mr. Slayter got to his feet, which meant that our business here was done. I walked
him to the door.

“See you tomorrow. Our usual time.”

“Tomorrow?” I spun my calendar around so that Slayter could see the entry. “My apologies,
but I can’t make it tomorrow. I have a new-client meeting at eight. I don’t know how
long it will last.”

“Mr. Hofstetler shouldn’t take up more than forty-five minutes of your time.”

It would have been impossible for Slayter to have read that name over my shoulder.

“How did you—”

“I had my secretary make the appointment yesterday. I’m on to you, Isabel.”

•  •  •

I took up running exactly eight weeks ago, when Mr. Slayter phoned me one morning
requesting my presence in Golden Gate Park. He told me to wear sneakers and something
comfortable. How was I to know he had exercise on his mind? I wore a pair of jeans,
a
JUSTICE 4-MERRI-WEATHER
T-shirt, and pair of Jack Purcells.

Mr. Slayter, in shorts and a T-shirt in state-of-the-art moisture-wicking fabric,
waited for me on a bench outside the de Young Museum. I’d never seen my new boss so
casual, but I figured he couldn’t wear pressed suits twenty-four/seven. It seemed
indecent looking at his exposed legs, maybe because he had the legs of a man half
his age—a healthy man half his age. Edward was one of those people who did everything
in his power to stay young, which made his disease particularly cruel. To avoid gawking
at Slayter’s well-toned calf muscles, I turned to Charlie Black, Slayter’s navigational
consultant, who was circling on his bicycle.

“Hey, Charlie. What’s going on?”

“We’re running,” Charlie said.

“I’ve never seen anyone run on a bicycle before,” I said. Then I made direct eye contact
with Mr. Slayter, demanding an explanation.

“Isabel,” he said, giving me a once-over. “You might want to invest in more appropriate
attire.”

“Have you been talking to my mother?”

“Let’s get started. Have you stretched?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Nineteen ninety-eight. August, I think.”

“We’ll warm up first.”

“Charlie, what’s going on?” I asked Charlie because I figured he’d understand my confusion.

“Mr. Slayter likes to multitask. Sometimes he likes to do business while he runs.”

“I see. Edward, I hate to break it to you, but I’m not a runner.”

“Do you do any cardiovascular activity?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

Mr. Slayter looked at his watch and started running without further comment.

“He’s pretty fast, so I’d get a move on if I were you,” Charlie said as he circled
me on his bicycle.

I chased my new boss down John F. Kennedy Drive past the pond, where a gang of pigeons
blocked the sidewalk, and caught up before he reached the underpass at Crossover Drive.

“Hold up,” I said, gasping for air and doubling over with a side cramp.

I wish I could cite heat exhaustion for my weak showing, but if you’ve ever been in
San Francisco during summer, you know that’s not the case. While the rest of you clowns
are cramped in air-conditioned cubicles or sweating it out on porches, fanning yourselves
in the shade and drinking lemonade, waiting for the sun to set, we’re pulling on cardigans,
hoping that the fog will break. At least in some parts of the city. There is no “San
Francisco summer.” Golden Gate Park is often socked in with a heavy layer of fog until
afternoon. Then again, the sun can hit the Mission in the morning and start burning
off the pools of urine from the night before by midafter-noon. The Van Ness corridor
at times is a wind tunnel that can send the
most modest outfit adrift. You should never speak about weather in San Francisco except
in the immediate moment.

That morning, in the park, it was chilly and the fog was like a gauzy filter on a
camera for an aging movie star. The moist air had a moldy scent with a hint of pine.

Slayter slowed to a walk while Charlie pedaled beside us. He took my arm and said,
“Walk it off.”

“I really don’t think this jogging is for me,” I said. “Maybe I could ride the bike.”

“My last running partner retired and moved to Florida. You’ll have to do for now.”

Most people can’t make me exercise against my will, but as I’ve explained, Slayter
kind of owns me, and if he wants to have meetings while simultaneously trying to kill
me, there’s not much I can do about it. Slayter and I parted ways after he suggested
I stretch against one of the park benches. I made a feeble show of it until I saw
his car disappear in the distance. Then I collapsed on the park bench and watched
a gang of fake hippies and their pit bull puppy take over the bike path and get in
an argument with a pair of well-equipped cyclists who were itching for a brawl. The
cops showed up and ruined what was gearing up to be an excellent show. I limped back
to my car and returned to the office.

The next morning, Mr. Slayter’s secretary phoned me and scheduled regular jogging
meetings on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. My protest was met with a gift certificate
to a sports apparel shop and a note that somehow managed to convey in the most subtle
manner that I should buy not only running shoes but a sports bra. I believe the note
read:
You might also want to consider any long-term gravitational side effects and purchase
any items that might offset that particular issue.

•  •  •

After the torture of one week’s exercise, I decided that it was my body and I should
be able to do what I wanted with it, even if that meant absolutely nothing. The next
time Evelyn called to confirm our running appointment,
and the time after that, I said I was unavailable. Edward would promptly get on the
line for the specifics of my unavailability. Our conversations usually went something
like this:

ISABEL:
My grandmother died.
⁴

SLAYTER:
My condolences. But I have never heard of a seven
A.M.
funeral.

ISABEL:
I have a doctor’s appointment.

SLAYTER:
Why would you schedule a doctor’s appointment for a time when you already had an
appointment on your calendar?

ISABEL:
I don’t feel well.

SLAYTER:
Exercise will improve your hangover.
⁵

ISABEL:
I really don’t want to do this anymore.

SLAYTER:
Sometimes it’s good to do things we don’t want to do.

Eight weeks later, I’d mostly given up the fight. The morning after my unusual conversation
about Slayter’s alias-sporting brother, I was back at the park. It was a crisp Wednesday
morning in July, with fog as thick as smoke from a wildfire. Edward and I ran in unison
around the soccer field. Four loops, four miles is our usual on Wednesday. I always
let him do most of the talking, so I can do most of the breathing, but I have finally
grown accustomed to these bouts of exercise and will reluctantly admit that it was
doing me some good. For instance, after a four-mile run with Slayter, returning home
to find my parents wearing their ugly-American costumes at work (matching Hawaiian
shirts, Bermuda shorts, and Ray-Ban sunglasses on nylon straps) didn’t get my hackles
up like it used to.

On this run, the day after the foiled meeting with my parents, Edward decided to impart
some advice.

“It must be difficult running a business when you don’t have the respect of your employees,”
he said.

I could have launched into an extensive defense, explaining family history
and my parents’ predilection for gamesmanship, but breathing took priority.

“It is.”

“Did you read the book I gave you?”

“I skimmed it.”

When the trouble began after my coup, Mr. Slayter gave me several books that had influenced
his management style.

“Have you completed step one?”

“Working on it,” I said, slowing my pace to cut back on the chitchat and because I
didn’t want to lie any further. The book Slayter was referring to, called
How to Undo a Fiasco
, included exercises. Chapter 1 encouraged you to make a list of all of your transgressions
over the last ten years. For me that could have taken upwards of a year.

“Have you tried listening to them—opening a dialogue to discuss what happened and
how they feel? Maybe they just need to be heard, and then you can move on.”

That was from one of the other books he gave me. I can’t remember which one. Or maybe
it’s just common sense.

“I’ll try that,” I said. “Again.” Because I was pretty sure I’d tried that before.

“Please do. And report back to me. I think it’s important that I meet your parents
before the fissure in communication becomes as deep as a canyon.”

When we reached the end of the third loop, I slowed to a walk.

“Good run,” I said.

“We only did three loops, Isabel.”

“No, we did four,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Edward turned to Charlie and said, “Charlie, how many miles have we covered?”

I ducked behind Slayter and made the universal sign that means
Don’t rat me out
.

“Three, sir,” Charlie, the rat, said.

“Isabel, I can’t believe you would exploit my condition for your own benefit.”

“I swear, I thought we did four laps.”
⁶

“Two more,” Slayter said, as punishment.

“Only one more.”

“Two. I forgot about the third. It happens.”

Slayter picked up the pace. I trudged in his wake, drafting off of him. It helps a
little and Slayter finds it annoying, which also improves my mood.

After the final loop, I came to a complete stop and lay down on the grass.

Charlie was across the field, riding in our direction. Slayter extended his hand,
meaning for me to get up. He pulled me to my feet. For an old guy, he sure was strong.

“Albino, gingivitis, and . . .” Slayter trailed off, staring at the white sky.

In case you were wondering, my boss hadn’t contracted some rare language virus. At
the beginning of every jogging session or other meeting, if I remember, I try to give
Slayter three words to remember at the end of the meeting. Sometimes I forget the
three words, which makes the whole thing a disaster, but now we make sure Charlie
hears the words.

“Three-card monte,” Slayter said, snapping his fingers. “Let’s stick to single words
only in the future.”