The Last Word (32 page)

“Ninety-nine.”

“Yep.”

“That was a lovely story, Isabel. I must say, no one can distract me from my troubles
quite like you. Well, I better go. I’ll need my rest for whatever is coming next.”

He said, “Turtle, radiator, zoo.”

“Right,” I said as I watched Edward walk away.

I hadn’t given him any words that day.

After Slayter left I thought about what else I could have done and came up blank.
From the moment I set foot in Slayter Industries, I’d had a sense that I was out of
my element, that this new world I was suddenly ensconced in was one I couldn’t ever
truly comprehend. I understand individuals and their personal motivations, but when
those same individuals become a part of something bigger, some amorphous corporate
ball of greed, I can’t anticipate the logical next move, because it has long ago stopped
being human. Your average human being has a conscience and the world is structured
with checks and balances to shed light on that individual should he or she become
something ugly and cruel. But a company can hide its corruption; the individuals responsible
can sit innocently and united behind their desks for years before they are discovered.
They are as guilty as the guy robbing the liquor store in the ski mask, only they’re
free to show their faces. I had no idea whether I should be looking for the worker
bee or the nest, or both, and my nearsightedness cost my boss his job.

•  •  •

Life and other matters
³
had postponed my Gruber visit. And, deep down, I had always hoped that there was
another option besides a groveling apology.
But it was possible that Robbie could do more for me than just fix my work computers
and so the next morning, I planned my visit.

D made a fresh batch of his signature junk food; I put on a vintage
Star Wars
T-shirt that was way too tight, retied the bow around the basket, applied a thick
coat of black eyeliner, and made the drive of shame to Gruber’s cheap basement apartment
in the Mission-Duboce triangle. While dogs and owners frolicked day and night in Duboce
Park, Robbie was just steps away in his cave, figuring out ways to keep his virtual
hands on my cyber-throat.

I rang his doorbell and waited. I could hear his heavy Cheeto breath on the other
side of the door.

“Who is it?” he asked.

Robbie is not the kind of man who can open the door in the middle of the day to a
face obscured by a gift basket bow.

“It’s Isabel,” I said.

Robbie’s also not the kind of man who can open the door in the middle of the day to
someone named Isabel.

“What do you want?” he said through wood.

“I want to talk.”

“What are you holding?”

“A gift basket.”

“What’s in it?”

“Lots of things. If you open the door, you can find out.”

“Leave the basket and return to your car. Keep your cell phone on.”

I followed Robbie’s instructions. I could see him peer through the curtains to be
certain I was not lying in wait outside his door. I waved from the driveway. Robbie
swiftly retrieved the basket and closed his front door.

He phoned me ten minutes later.

“Is this sincere?”

“Yes. I’m very, very sorry,” I said. “The power got to my head. We need you. And,
also, we need you to stop messing with our system.”

“I’m not confirming or denying,” he mumbled.

“I understand.”

“How do I know the crack mix isn’t laced with a laxative?” he asked.

“I’ll eat some in front of you,” I said. I was feeling snackish.

“That means inviting you inside.”

“There is this other matter I’d like to discuss.”

“Take off your jacket,” Robbie said.

“Robbie, have you ever known me to wear a gun?”

“Remove your jacket.”

I did as I was told, but I had no doubt that the jacket removal was Robbie’s lascivious
ploy to get a better look at my boobs in the snug shirt. I comforted myself in knowing
that one day there would be payback. There’s always payback when it comes to Robbie.
It’s just a matter of patience.

In Robbie’s piece o’ shit apartment I ate three mouthfuls of the crack mix in front
of him until he told me to stop. Obviously he wanted to have some for later. I sat
by his desk as he freed up the Spellman computer system.

“I have to know. How’d you do it?” I asked.

“I set up an alert on my phone to monitor when the computers were active in your office.
Based on the keystrokes, I could tell when you were at work, regardless of what monitor
you were working on. Mostly I just messed with you, but occasionally I’d mix it up
and slow another computer down.”

“Impressive,” I said.

“I thought so,” Robbie said. “Once I coded a logarithm that made your computer run
at the pace of the J train. Wasn’t as satisfying as I had hoped. It was on schedule
that day.”

“Nice work,” I said. “I hope we can put the past behind us.”

“I never forget anything,” Robbie said. “You might want to watch that Donald Trump
shit in the future.”

Then Robbie did his best Donald Trump impression.
You’re fired. You’re fired
. The only way to get him to stop was to dangle the equivalent of a shiny bag of Cheetos
in front of him.

“Would you be able to hack into my boss’s computer system and figure out who is embezzling
money from him?”

“Hacking is a crime.”

“You’d be solving a crime.”

“I’d need your boss’s permission. And probably in-house access.”

“But, then, could you do it?”

“Sure.”

“Do you own any clothes that don’t look like you just came from a Unabomber convention?”

1
. I could imagine him using finger quotes to describe it that way.

2
. I guess if I’m taking scraps from Bernie, it is time to rethink my entire existence.

3
. The crack mix had melted in the gift basket when I became distracted by the Slayter
disappearance.

D
ad had been in the hospital for over a week now. He had already received his induction
chemo, of idarubicin and cytarabine. Now he was given antibiotics and antinausea medication,
not that it always did the trick. What was left of Dad’s hair was falling out in clumps.
I’ve always thought it was fortunate that Dad was tall, so the top of his head was
out of most people’s line of vision, but the thing about chemo is that it gets rid
of
all
of your hair. I worried that he would appear like a Muppet without a brow.

Tralina began cracking the whip on the number of visitors she allowed in the room,
and the visitors always had to wash their hands first and wear face masks. When I
arrived in the afternoon, Dad was asleep. I couldn’t concentrate on anything, so I
just watched the droplets of rain on the window drip like clear paint.

Dad woke up and promptly vomited in a plastic receptacle. What was left of his hair
was matted down to his sweaty pate, and his eyes were bloodshot and glassy. I felt
nauseated looking at him, but I knew if I showed him how scared I was, he’d feel it.

“Do you want me to get Tralina?” I asked.

“Why? So she can hold my hair?”

“Are you okay?”

“Imagine the worst hangover you’ve had,” Dad said.

“That sounds awful.”

“It’s worse.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“Ice chips.”

I was glad for a chore and took a moment to breathe in the fresh air of the antiseptic
hallway. It hadn’t really occurred to me before that there was a real possibility
my father could die. Then I did everything humanly possible to beat that thought out
of my head. I even imagined Robbie Gruber naked.

“One order of ice chips, sir,” I said when I reentered the room.

Tralina was back fluffing Dad’s pillows.

“Maybe I should start smoking the ganja,” Dad said. “What do you think, Tralina?”

“I tink you haf enough drugs in ya body as it is.”

“But I hear it makes you feel better. Do you know where I can get some?”

Dad winked.

“You tink because I’m Jamaican, I’m da hospital ganja dealer.”

“I thought you might know someone,” Dad said.

“I have Popsicles. Cherry, strawberry.”

“Cherry.”

Tralina left and I gave my dad a cup of ice.

“I bet you know where to score me some weed,” Dad said.

“Just because I had a steady supply fifteen years ago doesn’t mean I know where to
get you quality product now. Maybe you should discuss this with your doctor.”

“I don’t want the prescribed stuff. The word on the ward is that it’s bullshit. I
want some quality grass. Maybe Rae has some connections.”

“The only thing Rae smokes is those candy cigarettes with the single puff of powdered
sugar that floats into the air.”

“I’ll ask Maggie,” Dad said. “All those convicts she hangs out with, surely one of
them knows somebody who knows somebody.”

“You do that,” I said.

“So,” Dad said. “How’s your embezzlement investigation going?”

“I’ve got Gruber on it.”

“You made peace with Gruber.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Still, I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t be. I haven’t done a single bit of solid investigative work in the last six
months. Does deductive reasoning go with age?”

Dad never answered the question. Tralina interrupted with a cherry Popsicle and then
David arrived in a state of complete panic.

“Dad, have you told Grammy Spellman yet?”

Dad pretended like this was a fact he had to think about. He looked upward and to
his right.

“I don’t recall.”

“You didn’t, Dad.”

Tralina was checking Dad’s vitals and shaking her head. “Ya poor mama. Ya need ta
let her know immediately.”

“At least before you lose all of your hair,” I said.

When Mom showed up, Tralina insisted one Spellman exit. I had been there all morning,
so I took off.

Gruber had sent me three text messages in the last hour. I headed over to Slayter
Industries to see what the Cheeto-chomping hacker had to show me.

I dropped by Evelyn’s desk. She appeared more buttoned up and less styled than usual.
Her hair was in a bun and her lips had faded, like maybe she had left her lipstick
at home. Two discarded cups of Caffe Trieste sat on her desk. She had the coffee jitters.
I wanted to ask her if she was all right. It was obvious she wasn’t. But I also knew
that my asking, knowing that she was in a weakened state, would hurt her more than
pretending I didn’t notice. So I pretended I didn’t notice.

I asked her where Gruber was stationed. She stared back at me blankly. I provided
a generous description of him: “A larger gentleman in a suit with sporadic facial
hair.”

“Pamela Desmond’s office. She’s on maternity leave,” Evelyn briskly replied.

“Thank you,” I said.

She trained her gaze on her computer screen.

As I roamed the cylindrical hallway, I knew I had to pass Damien’s office, but I thought
I had a good shot of slipping by unnoticed. Until, of course, I came upon Damien and
an unknown woman with a blond pageboy haircut, walking straight in my direction. I
put on my best cheery face.

“Damien,” I said in a perky voice very few get to hear. I used to think only animals
and small children could hear it.

“Isabel,” Damien said, his eyes shifting with massive nervous energy.

“How’s it going?” I said, looking directly at his female companion.

She was studying me with calculated jealousy. I decided to put her out of her misery.
It wasn’t her fault her fiancé was a cad. Well, actually, it was. Frankly, I think
you know when you’re dating that kind of guy, and you should probably cut your losses
the second you figure it out. But this wasn’t any of my concern. The only thing of
value I could accomplish would be to give Damien a few more uncomfortable moments.
I think he deserved at least that.

“You must be Karen,” I said. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

I extended my hand. Karen shook it limply.

“Thank you,” Karen said. “So how do you and Damien know each other?”

“We go to the same barbershop,” I said.

“Oh,” Karen said.

“Just kidding. I work here sometimes. I’m the boss’s private investigator. I know
everybody’s secrets. Even Damien’s.”

There was some delightful uncomfortable laughter.

“I hope you’re not lactose intolerant,” I said.

“Excuse me?” said Karen.

“I never buy gifts from the registry. I always send cheese. The stinkier the better,
if you ask me.”

“It’s been great running into you, Isabel,” Damien said. His eyes were swimming with
gratitude and confusion.

I could have hung around a bit longer and let Damien stew in his questionable betrothed
ethics, but there are far, far better uses of my time.

“Nice meeting you. I got to run. I have a consultation with a computer hacker.”

I like to think that was a dignified exit. Sure, there was some tiny ache in my gut,
maybe my spleen or gallbladder (an organ you don’t need), that felt like I just should
have known better. No man or woman likes to be a fool, but here’s the thing my mother
taught me long ago, and it is a lesson that stuck.
¹
You can spend hours speculating on a man’s motivations, trying to pinpoint what clue
you missed, what missteps you made, when the relationship turned, or why he didn’t
like you as much as you thought he did. And you could sit around like a fool letting
someone else hold court in your mind when you were hardly a blip on his radar. Or
you can just let it go and look at the person in the rearview mirror and keep driving.

To be honest, my mother never had to have this talk with me. I was too private to
share my youthful heartbreak publicly. But I remember once as a teenager watching
my mother nurse Aunt Martie after a particularly brutal breakup. For two months Martie
barely left her house; she cried constantly and obsessed relentlessly about the women
her ex was likely dating. (In the current climate of social media, she would have
been on Facebook all day long.) My mother, finally, at her wits’ end, grabbed Aunt
Martie by the shoulders, shook her violently, and said, “The sexual revolution didn’t
happen so you could sit by the phone sobbing like some stupid little girl. Enough.
Fucking pull yourself together. He’s just one guy.”