by Lisa Lutz
The bed was made with the same fatigue that has informed my own housekeeping. Covers pulled over pillows, but nothing tucked or smoothed. Clothes were strewn on the chair; paperwork sat atop the dresser. I was about to look through the paperwork when I heard the front door slam shut.
“Rae?” my mother called out. Rae’s car was in the driveway, blocking the garage. The obvious assumption.
“It’s me,” I said, hurrying out of the bedroom and down the stairs. “I had some last-minute work.”
“The office is that way,” Mom said, nodding her head toward the first floor door.
“I was looking for you.”
“I’m right here.”
“I can see that,” I said.
“Why do you have Rae’s car?”
“Surveillance. But she gave me the valet key. I need access to the trunk.”
My mother plucked the key from its hook and handed it to me. Her face was ruddy from crying.
“Here you go.”
Dad lowered himself onto the couch and clicked on the remote. I approached Subject cautiously and sat down in the adjacent chair. I gave him a thorough looking over, which included breathing in the overly cologned aroma wafting in the vicinity. My direct observations did not go unnoticed and likely unnerved Dad.
“What’s that delightful scent you’re wearing?”
“It’s called Charisma,” Dad said.
“I think you’ve got enough of it,” I said.
Then I just sat there staring at him, because something looked different.
“Don’t you have someplace to be?” Dad asked.
“Sadly, no,” I replied. “You’ve lost weight.”
“A little, maybe. I’ve been watching what I eat.”
He was also wearing a new shirt and a bulky cable-knit sweater.
I’ve seen my parents tired, sick, plain worn out, angry, but at this moment I caught them in a state utterly unfamiliar. They looked stunned. And they wanted me out of there as soon as possible.
“Time to go, Isabel,” Mom said, adding, “chop chop,” to the end of the sentence. I’m not sure she’s ever used chop chop before.
She tugged on the back of my sweater, which left me with the option of leaving or allowing my mother to damage my one good sweater.
“See you tomorrow, sweetie,” Mom said as she practically shoved me out the door.
I would have to consult with my siblings before we could put a plan in action. Because my parents were not getting a divorce. Ever.
I dealt with the matter in front of me and popped the trunk to Rae’s car.
There must have been a special that day. Rae had twelve cans of tear gas in her trunk. I found the receipt in the open box that contained them. There was an address for the store in the South Bay. I’d check it out tomorrow during business hours. I got in the car and headed home. As I was driving, I decided to call Henry. His cell phone voice mail picked up on the first ring. I left a message.
“Hi, it’s me. Isabel. I, uh, I’m wondering if it’s safe to drive around in a car with, say, a dozen cans of tear gas in the trunk. Not that I have tear gas in the trunk. This is purely hypothetical. Call me back.”
I found a parking space three blocks from David’s house and decided to leave the contraband in the trunk. I didn’t feel like being alone, so I knocked on their front door.
• • •
After David served me a drink and a bowl of Goldfish and removed his shoes and socks and put on an indoor T-shirt (Free Schmidt!) to reassure me that he wouldn’t ditch me with Princess Banana (Maggie was working late), I voiced my suspicions about Mom and Dad.
“Something is wrong with the unit. I’m not saying that Dad is having an affair, but according to Me2”1—Me Squared is how you say it, a women’s relationship/fashion magazine—“if he did, he got caught based on their behavior tonight.”
“That’s impossible,” David said. “If either of them were going to have an affair, it would be Mom.”
“That’s just because the odds are in Mom’s favor. More people are likely to want to have an affair with her. But sometimes affairs are about insecurity and so then Dad would be the likely candidate.”
“I’m not buying it,” David said. “What’s your evidence?”
“He’s spent at least two nights away from home. He’s lost weight and he’s wearing cologne.”
“He could have been working an overnight job,” David said. “He stinks after a night in a car.”
“I’m the boss,” I said. “I think I’d know if he was working a case.”
“Maybe they’re taking jobs on the side and pocketing the money.”
“Maybe,” I said, realizing that I could hardly theorize about the unit’s behavior since they’d barely spoken more than a handful of complete sentences to me in the past six months. “But will you talk to him?” I said.
“Sure,” David said. He took a healthy slug of his drink.
“Long day?”
“You have no idea. It’s been six months. How long can this go on?”
“At least thirty years. You know about Comic-Con, right?”
“Your mob phase lasted only like three weeks,” David said.
“That’s because my bookmaking business didn’t take off.”
David was referring to the time when I was eleven and had managed to watch The Godfather parts 1 and 2 without my parents’ knowledge. I decided that when I grew up I was going to join the mob. I got a conversational Italian book from the library and began taking bets at school. Some sports-related, but mostly random wagers on statistics of certain faculty members’ behavior. For instance, the over/under on how many times Mrs. Weinert would say, “One day you’ll thank me.” Or whether Mr. Thomas would wear his lucky shirt three or four times that week. My odds-making was on point, but I was only eleven and knew nothing about the vig.2 I did, however, excel at shaking down preteens delinquent in their payments.
“Maggie and I thought the princess phase would be long gone by now. This is worse than the banana experiment by miles. Six months later, Sydney won’t go anywhere without her tiara. The color pink has started to give me a headache. If you try to put a pair of pants on her, she goes ballistic. Except for those pink shorts. It’s almost impossible to get a playdate because she orders the other children around as if they’re in her court. Max wants Claire to be more assertive, so he’s willing to throw her into the lion’s den.
“I knew I shouldn’t have let Grammy give her the dress. So, after a month of debating, Maggie and I removed the dress and the tiara from Sydney’s room late last night. Maggie actually put the dress in the fireplace. A thrilling moment, I will admit, but a joy I have paid for dearly. The wailing started first thing in the morning and didn’t let up until about two hours ago when Sydney was completely spent. Maggie went straight to work. Notice how she’s not home yet? I should feel relieved that my daughter is finally asleep, but I know she’s just resting up for another day of battle. You can see a child’s personality form at such an early age, and I was so relieved when I saw how different Sydney was from you and Rae. Now I almost wish that she got some of that Montgomery DNA.”
“Rae has twelve cans of tear gas in the trunk of her car,” I said, “if that makes you feel any better.”
• • •
I left David an hour later so I could rest up for my own battle the next day. Within moments of putting my head on the pillow, I was out cold. And then I was awake.
There was a steady knock on the back door, slightly slower than the rhythm of a woodpecker. My heart raced from being shocked out of REM sleep. I looked at the clock: 2:13 A.M. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed over to the door. There’s no peephole, since it’s not a real apartment and most people don’t know about this entrance. I put my ear to the door to see if I could recognize the breathing pattern, which sounds silly now that I say it.
“Isabel,” a familiar voice whispered. “It’s me.”
I opened the door.
&nb
sp; “What are you doing here, Henry?”
Henry walked into the apartment without an invitation.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he said, slurring his words together.
“Are you drunk?”
“A little,” he said.
“You didn’t drive here, did you?”
“I walked.”
“From where?”
“Edinburgh Castle.”
“That’s a long walk.”
“I got your message,” he said, taking a seat on my couch. “Tear gas canisters should be safe unless the temperature rises considerably or you get in a car accident. I wouldn’t leave them in the trunk for too long. Why do you have tear gas?”
“Did you come here to talk to me about tear gas?” I asked.
“Yes. Why else would I be here?”
“It’s past two in the morning.”
“Were you asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, I’m sorry. Go back to bed.”
Henry stood up and weaved through the hallway to the front (well, back) door.
“How will you get home?”
“I’ll walk or get a cab.”
I followed him to the door.
“Why are you here?”
Henry turned around. He was close enough that I could smell the whiskey coming out of his pores. He pushed me against the wall and kissed me. I let it go on longer than I should have. Then I gently pushed him off.
“What are you doing?”
“I miss you.”
“I don’t think your baby mama would approve of this behavior.”
“You were supposed to meet me last week for a drink.”
“I don’t recall us ever choosing an exact date.”
“We did.”
“Then please accept my apologies,” I said.
“There’s something I wanted to tell you.”
“Well, if you’ve changed your mind and now you don’t want to tell me, I’m cool with that. Frankly I’m still wrapping my head around you having a pregnant girlfriend.”
“We’re engaged.”
“Okay. Well, congratulations. I didn’t have time to get you a toaster in the last two seconds. But I will start comparison shopping tomorrow. I do think you should go.”
“Yes. I should go. I’m sorry about that thing I did.”
“No problem. I think it’s called cold feet,” I said.
“Nope. That’s not it,” Henry said.
He reached for the door. Before he left he turned back and said one last thing. Maybe the worst thing anyone has ever said to me.
“If only you were a little bit more normal.”
And he left.
• • •
In the morning, I swapped cars with Rae and left the tear gas where it was. Then I drove my crappy Buick to End Times ’n’ Such, the quaint survivalist shop in Millbrae where the items of warfare were purchased.
“Can you help me?” I said pleasantly to the store clerk. Only recently have I learned that being pleasant can often work in your favor.
“What can I do for you?” said the man in the plaid flannel shirt with a seven-blade knife hitched to his belt. He had an unusual collection of scars on his knuckles and forehead, leaving slices of his eyebrows permanently mowed.
“Do you sell tear gas?”
“We do. Although a customer just bought us out. We’ve got an order for another case. Should be here on Monday.”
“This tear gas you sell. Is it like what the cops use in riots?”
“It’s a lacrimator in a canister. Just in a smaller dose,” the flannel3 man said.
“What’s a lacrimator?”
“A tear-inducing chemical like chloroacetophenone or orthochlorobenzalmalononitrile, which is generally the compound in tear gas.”
“I’m not an expert on the subject.”
“When a lacrimator, which is what Mace is—you should have a bottle on you at all times—makes contact with the eyes, the ocular immune system will produce a physiological reaction that will pump out a salty wash of protein, water, mucus, and oil to help rid eyes of the irritant as quickly as possible. If you inhale the fumes, your lungs will have a similar reaction. Now, most reasonable adults and bears will flee from the substance and symptoms will subside within the hour, and there will be no long-term damage.”
“What happens if you don’t flee?”
“Depends on the individual. I learned in the army, during drills, that I’m mostly immune to the substance. My eyes water a bit and I sneeze sometimes, but that’s about it.”
“Some people are just lucky, I guess.”
“It’s kind of like a superpower,” Flannel Shirt Guy said.
“You could say that,” I said.4
“You looking to buy for your bug-out bag?”
“I’m just getting started on my bug-out bag,5 so I’m considering my options.”
“Well you’re definitely going to want tear gas and probably at least a month’s worth of freeze-dried meals.”
“Can anyone buy tear gas? You don’t need a permit or anything?”
“Why would you need a permit?” Flannel Shirt Guy asked, as if I had offended his sense of universal order.
“Are there any other uses for tear gas besides crowd control and evacuation?” I asked.
“Bears don’t like it much.”
“Bears. Hmm, well, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
“See you Saturday.”
“Saturday?”
“We’ll have a fresh case of lacrimators by the afternoon.”
“Right. See you then.”
I returned to my car and contemplated my next move.
There was an old coffee cup, a plastic water bottle, a newspaper, receipts, and other debris littering the passenger-side floor. I remembered that a few months back Edward had called me for a last-minute ride to the doctor. His driver had taken ill. I had to rush to his house and had no time to clean out my car. Edward found a gum wrapper with a piece of gum in the door handle and a coffee cup on the floor. I actually thought the car was tidy, but he scolded me and told me that I was a grown-up and rubbish should be put in its place. In my family the floor of the car kind of was its place. Anyway, Edward’s voice was in my head, so I quickly gathered the obvious trash and threw it in the bin at the edge of the parking lot. I reached into the passenger-side door handle and found a USB device.
I put it in my pocket and drove home. These data storage devices are more common than staplers in a PI office. You can find a couple floating around any of our desks. I stuck this particular device into my computer to see if I could discern who the owner was. Only it wasn’t an ordinary file-storage device. It was a voice-activated recorder that had six hours of audio on it. Since it was in my car, I could only assume it was intended to record me. I clicked on a file and heard the strangely unfamiliar tone of my voice.
8.13.12.mp3
Hey, asshole, haven’t you heard of turn signals? [sound of horn honking] The light has been green for a year now. Let’s move. Are you waiting for a formal invitation to turn left? Satan, learn how to drive. It’s not physically possible to drive any slower, moron. [sound of horn honking]
I think you get my drift. The device also recorded a few banal phone conversations, since I don’t tend to do too much business in the car. It got this gem between me and Princess Banana.
“Is your daddy home? Hello. This is your aunt Isabel. Can you put your daddy on the phone? I don’t understand what you want. Can you put him on the phone? Can you please put him on the phone . . . David, do not let Banana answer the phone. I’m not going to be reprimanded by a three-year-old lunatic who is in some kind of Emily Post/Princess Diana cult whose guru is Grammy Spellman. Also, toddlers shouldn’t be answering phones. It’s inefficient, annoying, and never, ever cute to anyone except the parent or grandparent. And in this case, probably not cute to anyone. Why did I call? You know, I have no fucking clue. Good-bye.”
I had no idea w
ho planted the device. I knew it wasn’t the FBI (it was too low-rent for them) but likely someone connected to Slayter Industries. Either way, the idea that someone might retrieve the recordings and hear verbal rants without a hint of scandal seemed sad. I know more than anyone how tedious a dull surveillance can get. I decided to give my spy something to bite into.
I returned the device to my car, to match the background audio, and turned it on.
“Len, it’s Isabel. There’s something I need to get off my chest. I just embezzled twenty thousand dollars from my boss. Pretty cool, huh?”
* * *
1. Not a footnote.
2. Sometimes I wonder what might have happened to me if I had actually made a profit.
3. He was not wearing a name tag, so this is the best way to describe him. I have nothing against flannel or the wearing thereof.
4. Or, you could not say it.
5. Note to self: Google “bug-out bag” later.
BLEDSOE: ROUND 2
Back at the office I dove headfirst into the embezzler/boss-drugging investigation and solicited Demetrius’s help. I gave D a list of Slayter Industries employees who might have access to bank information and had him check their credit reports and insurance coverage. There were two ways to look at the case. Someone was stealing money either to steal money or to poison the perception of Slayter’s judgment, and I was simply collateral damage.
D read the list out loud: “ ‘Evelyn Glade, secretary; Arthur Bly, accountant; guy with beard who works with Arthur; woman with braces in HR; lady who just bought new car.’ Isabel, I’m going to need names.”
“I’ll get to that,” I said. “I was just brainstorming.”
My next order of business was following up with the members of the Slayter Industries board of directors, any of whom might be voted in as CEO should Slayter be judged incompetent. Aside from Edward, there were three other men and one woman: George Rhinebeck, Reed Farnsworth, Gordon Wells, and Shannon Crane.
I immediately ruled out Reed Farnsworth since he was ninety-two years old, and while I’m in no way an ageist, it seemed highly unlikely that a man who needed a staff of two to even dress for the day would have the energy to stage a corporate takeover. Then I struck Gordon Wells from the list. He spent half the year in Paris and had a net worth of half a billion. I’ve heard the saying that you can’t have too much money, but I’ve also heard Gordon say otherwise. Apparently, his wife has some kind of condition that will eventually be recognized in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders in which she can’t stop renovating homes. They own like five, and all are under constant renovation. Eventually Gordon decided to purchase a twelve-hundred-square-foot log cabin in Montana where he goes one week a year to escape the construction that surrounds him the other fifty-one weeks out of the year.