by Lisa Lutz
As I walked toward the hallway to the locker rooms, I saw the cocoa-legged opponent in the hallway talking with a preppy gentleman wearing a royal-blue shirt and powder-blue wristbands. His pricey cologne floated above the sweaty air. I quickly bent before the water fountain, trying to remain unnoticed.
“Daniel, you got time for another game?” said Preppy Gentleman. “Frank got called into surgery and had to cancel. I have the court.”
Daniel. Daniel. I had a name now for Cocoa Legs.
“I was heading back to the office,” Daniel said.
Now I knew Daniel had an office. You see how this whole PI thing works?
“Come on, you killed me the last time. Let me redeem myself.”
Perhaps I am stating the obvious, but this conversation was very wrong. Daniel couldn’t beat Jake Peters, but he could beat a preppy guy who gave the impression that he came out of the womb with a tennis racket? Since my water consumption was brimming on ridiculous, I walked over to the pay phone as the men finished their conversation.
“All right,” Daniel said. “You have one hour for payback. That’s it.”
I don’t imagine that I am the only person to notice the details. But I am the only one I know who would forgo her responsibilities to discover an explanation for an errant one.
I returned to my sister in the foyer and told her to keep her eyes peeled for Jake and to stay off the radios. They were too awkward in the club.
“Call my cell when he comes out of the shower.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have to check on something,” I said as I grabbed a section of her newspaper.
I returned to the courts and once again sat down on the adjoining bleachers.
Daniel served and the preppy lunged for the ball but couldn’t make the return: 15-love. Daniel served again. This time Preppy returned the serve and a sharp manic volley followed, which ended with Preppy landing an out-of-bounds shot: 30-love. I was, without a doubt, observing an entirely different tennis player. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the game. It was as compelling as the previous game was dull. I kept watching, hoping to construct a logical explanation, but there was none. This was simply schizophrenic tennis playing.
My phone was set to vibrate and I picked up.
“Subject is on the move,” Rae said.
I knew I couldn’t break away.
“Can you handle him on your own?” I asked, knowing this was irresponsible.
“Of course,” Rae said, already out the door. “Mom gave me cab money just in case.”
I briefly reconsidered what I was doing, but instead I said, “Keep your cell phone on, stay in public, and don’t do anything that is going to piss me off. Got it, Rae?”
“I got it.”
I began to feel too conspicuous sitting down on the bleachers for so long. So I returned to the upper level and entered the bar, sitting by the window and observing the rest of the game. I could no longer hear the scorekeeping, but the result of the match was obvious and I was more confused than ever.
I returned to the bottom level and waited for Daniel to exit the locker room. I called Rae on her cell phone.
“Rae, where are you?”
“I’m outside the Mitchell Brothers O’Farrell Theatre in the Tenderloin. Subject entered the establishment approximately ten minutes ago. I tried to go inside, but they didn’t buy my fake ID.”
“That’s because you are fourteen.”
“But my ID says I’m twenty-one.”
“Stay put, don’t talk to strangers, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Izzy, I think this is a strip club, with women strippers.”
“It is,” I replied.
“You know what I’m thinking?” asked Rae.
“No.”
“I don’t think Mr. Peters is gay.”
“Yes. I would agree.”
Daniel, freshly showered and wearing blue jeans, a worn T-shirt, and flip-flops, exited the locker room and headed upstairs. I should have returned to my sister, but I needed an explanation and followed him instead.
Daniel sat down at the bar and ordered a beer. Not wasting any time, I sat down next to him. He turned to me slightly and smiled. Not the smile of a pickup artist, but the friendly open smile of one person acknowledging another’s presence. Up close I could see that his heavy-lidded eyes were the lightest shade of brown. His almost black hair, still damp and fragrant from some fantastic shampoo, formed a perfect cowlick over his forehead. His teeth were straight and unstained, but without the glare and perfection of your average talk show host. Suddenly I realized I had been staring way too long.
When the bartender served Daniel his drink, I woke myself from this daze and laid some bills on the counter.
“I’m buying,” I said.
Daniel turned to me. “Do I know you?” he asked without a hint of suspicion.
“Definitely not.”
“But you want to buy me a drink?”
“It’s not exactly free.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m offering a simple exchange. I buy you a beer, you answer a question. How does that sound?”
“I’d like to hear the question first,” he said, not touching his beer.
“You played two tennis matches this morning. The first one was against a man in his late forties who was substantially out of shape. Neither of you appeared to be skilled at the sport. I found this odd, since this is an exclusive tennis club, which implies that it caters to people who know how to play the game. Had one or the other of you been a capable opponent, that would have eased my curiosity.”
“Of course.”
“You lose the match against the inept opponent and you demolish the capable one.”
“‘Demolish.’ I like the sound of that.”
“So now it’s time for you to explain.”
“Some people need to win and some people need to lose,” Daniel said, taking a sip of his beer.
The simplicity of the answer took me aback. The fact that a man would use tennis as a leveler of the universe struck me as, well, beautiful. I am unaccustomed to immediate and unabated crushes. But I was experiencing one at that moment.
“That’s it?” I asked, preparing for my getaway.
“That’s it.”
“What’s your name?” I asked, still planning on moving from the barstool.
“Daniel Castillo.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a dentist.” It was like a punch in the stomach, like I was being punished for everything I had ever done wrong.
“Day off?” I asked, certain that the color had drained from my face.
“Yes. Saturday and Sunday, just like everybody else.”
“Well, have a nice day,” I said as I was halfway out the door.
Daniel caught up with me outside, just as I’d reached my car.
“What was that back there?” he asked.
“Is there a problem?”
“What is your name?”
“Isabel.”
“How about a last name?”
“I don’t give out that kind of information.”
“What do you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“For a living. What do you do?”
From the moment that I said it and since, I have regretted and paid for the following response.
“I’m a teacher.”
I said it because, well, men like teachers. I said it because if I told him what I really did, he would be uncomfortable. He would be concerned that I had been tailing him. He would want to know what I was doing at the tennis club and I would not be able to tell him. So saying “teacher” seemed so much easier at the time.
“You don’t seem like a teacher.”
“Why is that?” I said, somewhat offended.
“I don’t think you have the patience for it.”
“You’re quick to judge.”
“Can I interest you in a game of tenni
s?”
“No. I don’t play.” Since I was wearing a tennis dress, had been previously observed in a tennis club, and was carrying a racket, this was not the smartest response. I had to change the subject fast.
“I’ll see you around, Doc,” I said and quickly got into the car.
Daniel slowly turned and walked away. I watched him until he disappeared through the entrance of the club. The entire time all I was thinking was, Could this be Ex-boyfriend #9?
Rae was talking to a couple of prostitutes when I pulled up outside the Mitchell Brothers O’Farrell Theatre. She said good-bye to Tiffani and Dawn when she got into the car. I sent Rae into a liquor store and let her stock up on candy for our stakeout. We ate bridge mix, licorice, and cheese puffs as we watched men of varying ages, sizes, and colors enter and exit the establishment, like waves lapping against the sand.
“The cheese puffs are too messy for the car, Rae.”
“But we needed some substantial food.”
“There is nothing substantial about a cheese puff,” I said as I tossed a chocolate-covered filbert out the window.
“That’s so wasteful, Isabel.”
“Nobody eats the filberts.”
“I would.”
“When?”
“In an emergency.”
“What kind of emergency are you talking about?”
“The kind where you run out of the almonds and the cashews and the peanuts and everything but the filberts.”
“And how would that happen?”
“Uncle Ray moves in and eats everything but the filberts.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer that he just eat the whole bridge mix rather than everything but the filberts? I mean, the filberts sitting there alone, don’t they just remind you of what you’re missing?”
“No. I’d still want the filberts for an emergency.”
“What planet are you from?”
“Earth.”
“That was a rhetorical question, Rae.”
“So what?”
“So you’re not supposed to answer them.”
“No. You don’t have to answer them, but you can if you want.”
This argument could have gone on indefinitely, but the subject was moving, and so were we.
That evening Rae and I worked on the surveillance report together, demolishing the entire bag of bridge mix (filberts included). Our mother phoned Mrs. Peters and explained to her that Mr. Peters was definitely of the heterosexual persuasion and suggested couples counseling. I remained in the office until midnight, finishing some paperwork.
I told myself I wasn’t going to do it, but I did. Daniel Castillo is a fairly common name, but not so common when you can tie him to a dental practice. By 1:00 A.M., I had a Social Security number, date of birth, marital status (single), as well as his business and home addresses. I promised myself that this was a thing of the past. This thing I did. This thing my mother did to me. But I had to know more about Daniel Castillo and learning about him the ordinary way was both unreliable and time-consuming.
Petra was giving me one of her quarterly I can no longer be seen in public with you haircuts when I asked the question I was planning on asking her all week.
“When’s the last time you went to the dentist?”
“I don’t know. About a year, maybe.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you had your teeth cleaned?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I can’t go to this dentist.”
“What are we talking about here?”
“I met a dentist,” I blurted out before I was really ready to say it.
“A dentist? Are you crazy?”
“I like him. I just have to make sure he’s worth it.”
Staged Dental Appointment #1
Petra made a 3:00 P.M. appointment for the following Monday at the offices of Daniel Castillo, DDS. The deal was that I would pay for the cleaning and she would carefully integrate nine previously prepared questions into casual conversation. The criterion for my questions was to cover ground that I could not uncover through background research and short-term surveillance. I expected some protest when I handed her the neatly typed sheet of paper, but Petra didn’t balk. She memorized the nine questions, then headed inside.
Two hours later, we met at the Philosopher’s Club and ordered drinks. I had insisted Petra bring a recorder into the examination room, so I could listen to the proceedings without the filter of her shoddy memory.
“Are you ready?” she said, one eyebrow held aloft in wicked anticipation. She turned on the tape recorder.
[click of recorder]
P. CLARK: This is Petra Clark speaking. It is a foggy Thursday afternoon and I am about to visit the offices of Daniel Castillo, DDS, for the purposes of spying on him for one Isabel Spellman.
DR. CASTILLO: Hello, Ms. Clark. I am Dr. Castillo.
P. CLARK: Nice to meet you, Doctor.
DR. CASTILLO: This is your first time here, I see. Can I ask how you were referred?
P. CLARK: Who remembers those things?
DR. CASTILLO: Okay. How is your memory on your last cleaning?
P. CLARK: I’ve had better.
DR. CASTILLO: I meant, do you recall when you had your last cleaning?
P. CLARK: About a year ago. I remember because it was right after my divorce. Have you been divorced, Doctor? [Question #3]
DR. CASTILLO: (clearing his throat) Um, no. I have not. Shall we get started?
P. CLARK: Are you married? [Question #2—single status already established, question asked to gauge reaction.]
DR. CASTILLO: No. Please open wide.
[Dr. Castillo puts on a pair of latex gloves and examines patient’s mouth.]
P. CLARK: [indistinguishable grunting noises]
DR. CASTILLO: Did you say something?
P. CLARK: Do you prefer local or general anesthesia? [Question #5]
DR. CASTILLO: Ms. Clark—
P. CLARK: I insist you call me Petra.
DR. CASTILLO: Petra, no anesthesia should be necessary for this procedure.
P. CLARK: Oh, I know. I just mean, generally speaking, which do you prefer?
DR. CASTILLO: It depends on the individual situation. However, I prefer to use a local whenever possible. I can’t clean your teeth unless you open your mouth.
[thirty seconds of teeth cleaning]
DR. CASTILLO: Please rinse.
[sound of spitting]
P. CLARK: But isn’t there something to be said for having a patient totally knocked out? [follow-up to Question #5]
DR. CASTILLO: Yes, there is.
P. CLARK: Have you always lived in the Bay Area, Doctor? [variation on Question #6—Where are you from?]
DR. CASTILLO: I was born in Guatemala. My parents and I moved here when I was nine. I need you to open your mouth again.
[thirty seconds of teeth cleaning]
DR. CASTILLO: Please rinse.
[sound of spitting]
P. CLARK: So you’re bilingual? [Petra Question #1]
DR. CASTILLO: Yes. Tell me about your flossing regime.
P. CLARK: Often.
DR. CASTILLO: Is that every day?
P. CLARK: No. But it seems like it. Are you depressed? [Petra Question #2]
DR. CASTILLO: No. Why do you ask?
P. CLARK: I heard dentists have emotional problems.
DR. CASTILLO: I’m fine, thanks. But I appreciate your concern.
P. CLARK: It was my pleasure.
[sound of teeth cleaning]
DR. CASTILLO: Please rinse.
[sound of spitting]
P. CLARK: Have you ever had a problem with drugs or alcohol? [Question #7]
DR. CASTILLO: Do you work for the Chronicle or something?
P. CLARK: No. I’m a hairstylist. Here’s my card. So—drugs, alcohol?
DR. CASTILLO: No thank you. I’m good for now, Ms. Clark. You know, this would go a lot faster if I didn’t have to keep telling you to open y
our mouth.
[sound of cleaning]
DR. CASTILLO: Please rinse.
[sound of spitting]
P. CLARK: So, Doctor, what do you do for fun? [Question #4]
[sound of sighing]
DR. CASTILLO: I play tennis.
P. CLARK: Other than tennis?
DR. CASTILLO: I’m a dentist. What more fun do I need?
P. CLARK: So you like inflicting pain? [Petra Question #3]
DR. CASTILLO: Your questions are making me uncomfortable.
P. CLARK: Forgive me, Doctor, I’m just a very curious person. Are you Catholic?
[variation on Question #9—Religious orientation]
DR. CASTILLO: Yes.
P. CLARK: Do you believe in a woman’s right to choose? [Petra Question #4]
DR. CASTILLO: I beg of you, please open your mouth.
P. CLARK: That sounded a little naughty, don’t you think?
[sound of sighing]
DR. CASTILLO: Do you want to have your teeth cleaned or not?
P. CLARK: Why else would I be here?
DR. CASTILLO: Frankly, I don’t know.
[long pause]
DR. CASTILLO: Are you going to keep it open?
[inaudible grunting noises; sound of teeth cleaning]
DR. CASTILLO: Please rinse and don’t speak afterward.
[sound of spitting]
P. CLARK: So are you aggressive or conservative?
DR. CASTILLO: Excuse me?
P. CLARK: With your taxes. Do you file aggressively or conservatively?
[Question #8]
DR. CASTILLO: [flat-out annoyed tone] I don’t see how that is any of your concern.
P. CLARK: You’ve had your fingers in my mouth for the last twenty minutes. I think I’m entitled to a little bit of personal information.
DR. CASTILLO: I’m conservative. We’re in the final stretch here, Ms. Clark.
Open wide.
[sound of teeth cleaning]
DR. CASTILLO: Rinse.
[sound of spitting]
MS. CLARK: Do you ever date your patients? [Question #1]
DR. CASTILLO: No. Absolutely not. Never. [long pause] Don’t make me tell you again.
[inaudible grunting noises, indicating that patient has opened her mouth and will keep it open; sound of teeth cleaning]