by Lisa Lutz
I politely and then impolitely asked for my job back. I even pretended that bygones were bygones and simply showed up for work day after day. If we were a major conglomerate, a security team would have promptly surfaced and escorted me out of the building with my one sad box of belongings. Instead, each day of each week, I was shown the door and then invited back for family dinner on Sunday.
After a great deal of soul-searching and scheming, I did the only thing I could do. I warned the person whom our clients were surveilling, one Edward Slayter, of the potential danger posed by his scheming wife (now ex). Mr. Slayter, a wealthy businessman, became my benefactor in a way. When he heard that I was fired because of my work on his behalf, he offered to intervene, in this case negotiating a buyout with my siblings, who, for the record, took my side.10 At the time, the parental unit had a 40 percent share of the company, Rae had 15 percent, David had 15 percent, and I had 30 percent. After Slayter bought out my siblings’ shares, I owned 60 percent, which, according to the company bylaws, gave me the authority to hire and fire employees and veto power over all major company decisions. My first order of business was giving me my old job back.
But power comes at a cost. The coup made me enemy number one to my father and rendered me permanently beholden to Edward Slayter. So, even though I’m technically the boss of Spellman Investigations, Edward Slayter is kind of the boss of me. Our deal is quite simple. I do jobs for him at a discounted rate and when he asks me to do something, I generally do it.
That’s just so you understand why I’ll be jogging in seven pages.
* * *
1. I’ve probably clocked in a full workweek of Plants vs. Zombies hours, I’m ashamed to say. But Dad played as if he were an employee of PopCap Games.
2. I’ll explain all that later.
3. Put one in large print on the ceiling of my parents’ bedroom.
4. For brief dossiers on family members and a few other relevant parties, see appendix.
5. Why not?
6. Her math gets iffy when she’s angry.
7. Demetrius, at that point, walked over to the chalkboard and wrote, I will not get involved.
8. All available in paperback!
9. “Crime and No Punishment: Misdemeanor Rates Skyrocket as Criminals Realize Prison Time Is Shorter for Nonfelonies” (2011). See appendix.
10. Or they really needed money. But I prefer my first theory.
RUNNING ON EMPTY
MEMO
To All Spellman Employees:
At 10:00 on Tuesday morning, Mr. Slayter will be joining us for a meeting about a potential assignment. Please dress appropriately for the occasion.1
Signed,
The Management
Edward Slayter arrived at 10:00 A.M. sharp, which meant that he arrived five minutes early and waited in his car. I learned in the young days of my serfdom that when Slayter said 8:15, he didn’t mean 8:10 or 8:20 or 8:16. He meant 8:15. So, you’d allow for traffic, often arrive early and loiter outside his office, and occasionally argue with a security guard over the NO LOITERING sign.
As I traversed the twelve-foot expanse of the office to meet Mr. Slayter at the door, I caught a half-clad woman on my father’s computer screen. I clicked off the monitor just as Slayter’s eyes clocked the image. Since I haven’t yet gone into great length about my father, let me briefly defend his honor. The Playboy.com website was my father’s way of illustrating to Slayter that I had no control over my employees. For the record, Dad doesn’t make a habit of ogling naked women or perusing porn sites.2
“Missing-persons investigation,” I said, explaining away the naked woman.
Edward raised his eyebrow and gave me a kiss on both cheeks. Let me be clear: Everything was strictly professional between me and my new boss, but Spellman Investigations was kind of his pet project and, as far as I could tell, so was I.
Professor Merriweather got to his feet when Slayter entered the room.
I made introductions.
“Edward, this is Demetrius, our best employee.”
“From the looks of it,” Edward said, “he’s your only employee.”
“We had a last-minute surveillance job. Couldn’t find anyone else. I’m afraid I had to send the unit into the field.”
Just then the theme from Sanford and Son blasted from the television in the upstairs bedroom.
Slayter turned to me and squinted with his right eye, his nonverbal manner of communicating that he doesn’t believe me. I was rather familiar with that look.
“Neighbors,” I said, completing the lie.
“I see,” Slayter said. He turned to Demetrius. “Nice to see you again, um—oh, I’m terrible with names.”
“Demetrius,” I repeated.
“Nice to see you again, sir,” Demetrius said, playing along.
They had never met. Slayter compensated by always assuming he’d met a person and always claiming to be bad with names. He had Alzheimer’s. Maybe I should have led with that. It wasn’t that advanced, but names and nouns and locations could be a problem. The disease was early onset and the diagnosis was grim, but for now the symptoms were minimal and Slayter insisted on business as usual. The only people who knew so far were me, Mr. Slayter, his doctors, and Charlie Black, his navigational consultant. I’ll get to him later. The web of secrecy was to protect a business that my boss had slaved over for twenty-five years. He had been the CEO of Slayter Industries since the beginning and owned 25 percent of the company. He was the only shareholder on the board of directors and there’d never been a vote that hadn’t fallen on his side. He was the boss, is my point. Kinda like what I had going on at Spellman Investigations. Slayter had made it clear that he would continue to run his company, a venture capital firm, until he and his doctor decided it was time to quit. At least that was the plan. For now, we did his bidding.
“I was really hoping to meet your parents today,” Slayter said.
“I’m sorry that didn’t work out. Next time,” I said, sliding a chair next to my desk.
Slayter waited until I was seated behind my desk before he took a seat. This dance used to take an unusually long time until I figured it out. Women sit first. Once I told him that was stupid and it didn’t go over very well. I just sit down now. What’s the big deal? It’s not like I can’t vote.
“Does anyone want coffee?” Demetrius asked.
“No, thank you,” Slayter said pleasantly.
“Can I interest you in a freshly baked blueberry muffin?” D asked.
“Yes!” I said.
The glorious smell had been wafting into the office for the last twenty minutes.
“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.