Authors: Lisa Lutz
In the past, I’ve asked Len and Christopher to put their considerable acting skills to questionable uses, but this time my request was legitimate. I was offering real money and a true test of his craft. And from the looks of things, Len needed a break from his life of leisure.
I found my old friend swathed in a luxurious bathrobe, being warmed by a cup of tea and an old Bette Davis movie on television. There was a scent of lavender in the air, as if a bath had recently been run, and I could catch the smudge of a face mask on the edge of his forehead. Len was clearly well rested, well groomed, and the picture of idle good health. Christopher, just home from work, observed the same particulars (using the set of detective skills that seem to come with any intimate relationship).
The partner with the job instructed Len to get me a drink from the kitchen—the traditional domestic roles firmly in place, in part because one person had spent the day doing nothing at all. Len hopped to his feet, happy for the company and the diversion. Christopher got off his feet and looked at me with a note of pleading.
“Tell me you’ve got a real job for him and not one of your nonsense, no-pay pranks.”
1
Once I’d provided a feature-length version of the assignment, both Len and Christopher were entirely on board, even though the job was Len’s alone.
“Can I use my British accent?” Len asked.
“Mr. Winslow was raised in London, so I wouldn’t use it unless it’s really good,” I cautioned him.
Len turned to Christopher for his approval.
“It’s good. We’ll have to determine which dialect would be the most appropriate, but I think you can pull it off.”
I handed Len Mr. Winslow’s card with the time of his appointment and added my final instructions: “Remember, this is a full-time valet position, although you can come home at night. Don’t take it unless you’re up for it. The pay is fifty dollars an hour. Spend the weekend reading up on what modern valets do—don’t just watch a marathon of
Jeeves and Wooster,
okay? Your job is to take care of Mr. Winslow and keep an eye on the help. Make sure nothing is amiss; report to me every few days. If I drop by the house at some point to meet with Mr. Winslow, you don’t know me. Got it? You’re in there undercover.”
“Anything else, boss?” Len asked with a wink.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Lose the soul patch.”
“Thank god!” Christopher exclaimed, as if it was a long-fought battle and the victory was finally his.
C
onnor phoned me as I was crossing the bridge.
“Where are ya?” he said with a rough edge.
I told him.
“Where are ya headed?”
“I thought I’d drop by the bar and surprise you.”
“It’s not a surprise if ya do it almost every day.”
“Well, would you like a different kind of surprise?” I said, not liking the tone in his voice.
“For instance?”
“Me changing the locks on my apartment,” I suggested.
“Don’t you sass me after the day I’ve had,” Connor said, and for some reason I could pinpoint the exact source of his agitation.
“Did my mother happen to drop by the bar today?”
“She
certainly
did,” Connor replied. “And you, young lady, have some explaining to do.”
An hour and a half later, and forty-five minutes into the explaining, the conversation hadn’t taken any turns, for better or for worse.
“Let me get this straight,” Connor said. “You will be dating other men while you’re seeing me, but I’m not allowed to see other women.”
“You’ve got the basic idea down,” I said, “but somehow when you say it, it sounds unreasonable.”
“It is unreasonable!” Connor shouted.
I should mention that since it was still early in the evening, Connor was the only bartender on shift and so our conversation was pretty much free entertainment for the regulars, primarily Clarence.
“But they’re not real dates,” I calmly replied. “I don’t want to go on them either. But if I go, I think she’ll leave us alone for a while. At least that’s what she promised.”
1
“She didn’t leave me alone today,” he said.
Excellent point, but I didn’t mention that.
“Well, she thought if she broke the news to you, she could put a slant on things that would interfere with our relationship.”
“I think you dating other men will interfere with our relationship as it is.”
“Why can’t I get it through your thick skull? They’re fake dates. I’m going out with lawyers to improve
our
relationship.”
“Why is it that half o’ what you say doesn’t make a damn bit o’ sense?”
“Not half,” I replied. “Crunch your numbers again.”
“You’re right,” Connor replied. “More like 60 percent.”
“Better than a lot of people in this city,” I replied.
“But worse than most.”
A long silence followed. I was afraid that Connor would see this last bit in a string of family interventions as his final breaking point. I had to figure out the best way to phrase things.
“Why don’t you look at it this way?” I suggested. “For a half hour, twice a month, I’ll be having coffee or some other kind of beverage with other men. I should point out that I meet with male clients all the time and we drink things together. And rarely do we end up having sex.
Rarely.
”
Connor didn’t respond, but he did this head-nod, which meant that the fight was out of him. I leaned across the bar and kissed Connor on the cheek.
“You’re the best Irish boyfriend I’ve ever had.”
“That’s not funny anymore,” Connor replied, trying to fight off a smile.
Then my phone conveniently rang.
It was Maggie.
“Hi, Isabel. I need a Rae extraction.”
T
wenty minutes later I was at Maggie’s modest office near the Bryant Street courthouse, observing a standoff.
“I would like to go home for the day,” Maggie said. “Rae would not. And apparently she is accustomed to winning these kinds of simple debates.”
Maggie and I stood in the doorway of the file room. Rae had made a desk of the floor and encircled herself with a mass of thick, yellow files. Her attention was so wrapped up in the cases she was studying that my shouting her name elicited only a “Shhhh.”
I flicked off the light switch.
“Hey!”
Rae got to her feet and flicked it back on. I flicked it off. She flicked it on again.
Back and forth until Rae said, “What are you doing here?”
“I was called for an extraction,” I said.
“I have
work
to do,” Rae replied. “Real work. Serious work. People’s lives are at stake here.”
“You also have
home
work and Maggie would like to leave for the day.”
“All things insignificant compared to this,” Rae said, sweeping her hand across the assemblage on the floor.
Maggie tried to reason with her. “Rae, you’ll come back on Wednesday and pick up where you left off.”
Rae simply ignored her “employer” and returned her attention to one of the files.
“Where’s the circuit breaker?” I asked.
Maggie led me into the break room and I flicked off the file room lights. When we returned to the file room Rae had found a flashlight and was continuing her work under its glow.
Maggie is about five foot seven and a hundred and twenty-five pounds. I’m five-eight and more than that.
1
Rae is approximately five foot two and around ninety-five pounds. Suffice it to say, Maggie and I had enough manpower, so to speak, to physically remove her.
After a very brief consultation, we decided that it was the only way.
“I’ll take her head. You take her feet. Watch out,” I said. “She’s a kicker.”
Fifteen minutes later, in the car on the way back to the Spellman house, Rae was deep into her tirade about the abuses in the criminal justice system.
“False confessions are way, way more common than you think. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t confess to a crime I didn’t commit, but you never know. Like, if somebody didn’t let me pee for hours and hours, I think at some point I’d crack,” she said.
“I’d like to see an appeal on a conviction based on no bathroom breaks,” I said.
“It’s not just that,” Rae replied. “There are so many ways a person can be wrongfully incarcerated: biased police lineups, coerced confessions, bad forensics, misuse of informants—the list goes on, and I’m not even thinking about police corruption, like planting evidence and stuff. Which I won’t mention in front of Dad because he’ll get all mad, but it happens.
“So, anyway, Maggie shows me the files she has. These are all guys in prison who say they are innocent. She can only work on one pro bono case at a time and she told me to review the files and pick the three most likely candidates. How am I supposed to decide something that important? How? Do you realize that I am holding a man’s fate in my hands?”
“Rae, do me a favor: Try not to let your ‘volunteer’
2
work turn you into a narcissist.”
I pulled up in front of the Spellman house.
“Why are we here?” Rae asked.
“Because this is your home and it’s where you eat most of your meals and where you tend to sleep.”
“No!” Rae said, shaking her head, annoyed. “I was supposed to go to Henry’s house after Maggie’s.”
“Why?”
“The SATs are in two weeks and he’s helping me study.”
“Have Mom or Dad drive you,” I said, unlocking the door.
“Do you see either of their cars in the driveway?” Rae asked.
She was right. Mom and Dad were out doing … I really don’t know what they do when I’m not around.
“Where are they?”
“They have a yoga class on Monday evening. Then they go to a vegetarian restaurant afterward.”
“When the house starts smelling like patchouli, you let me know right away,” I said.
“Sure thing,” Rae replied. “Now, how about that ride to Henry’s?”
Henry’s apartment isn’t that far from my place, so I agreed. However, I took the opportunity to bring up an issue that had been on my mind.
“You have money, Rae,” I pointed out.
“Yes. Do you need a loan?”
“No, but I think you should use some of that money to buy a used car since you are so opposed to public transportation.”
“I don’t want to use my own money on that,” Rae said. “I think eventually someone will buy me one.”
I pulled up in front of Henry’s house.
“It’s been fun catching up,” I said. “Let’s do it again in six months.”
“Aren’t you coming inside?” Rae asked.
“Nope.”
“You should come inside,” Rae said. “I think Henry has some information for you.”
“What kind of information?” I asked suspiciously.
“Something about Rick Harkey,” Rae said as she got out of the car.
I took the bait, just like a dumb fish.
C
learly my appearance in Stone’s home had been orchestrated, but the players were so casual about the fact that I didn’t see any point in drawing conflict from this particular event.
“I’m starving,” Rae said as she entered his apartment and carefully hung her coat on the rack.
“I ordered pizza,” Henry replied.
The previous statement, coming from almost any non-lactose-intolerant human, would not come off as borderline insane, but Henry is more than something of a health nut and in the three years I have known him, I have not heard him utter those three magical words.
“What’s going on here?” I asked, my eyes shifting around the room for evidence of something seriously amiss, like bandits hiding in the back room.
Rae followed my line of thinking and explained, “It’s not what you think, Izzy. Whole-wheat crust, and he orders it with broccoli and spinach. And he makes you eat a salad on top of that. Feel better?”
“Yes,” I replied, and then turned to Henry.
“I hear you have some information for me.”
“Have a seat,” Henry said. “I’ll get you a beer.”
“I was just hoping for the information.”
“Why don’t you stay for dinner?”
“I have plans.”
“Your boyfriend works nights and your best friend is in Florida and probably in bed by now. What kind of plans?” Henry asked, sounding nice and all, but it was too pushy to be really nice.
Maybe he didn’t want to spend a full evening with Rae and needed to be sure an adult was around for an extraction later. I could sympathize, and since I was in fact hungry and wouldn’t mind some pizza, even if it did have broccoli on it, I sat down on the couch, conceding some kind of defeat.
Henry served me a beer, which eased the pain.
The SAT practice began shortly after that, which increased the pain. I asked if I could watch television, but my question was met with glares, so I turned to Henry’s bookshelf and picked up a volume that I hadn’t seen before in his collection:
The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
Henry noted the selection I’d chosen from the shelf.
“I got it for Rae, but she refuses to read it.”
“That book is so prehistoric,” Rae said.
“It’s a classic,” he said.
“That’s what prehistoric people say about prehistoric things.”
“‘Atavistic,’” Henry said, changing the subject. “Definition and use it in a sentence.”
I opted to focus on the words on the page rather than the ones floating around the room punctuated by random bickering. It had been years since I had read anything by Doyle, but while turning those pages, a flood of memories washed over me. When I was thirteen my father foisted the Sherlock Holmes canon on me with a relentless zeal. I rejected it at every turn, merely because it was suggested by an adult. Sometime later, I was grounded and all forms of entertainment were removed from my bedroom. During one of my food-delivery windows (steamed broccoli and brown rice) my father included an old paperback of
The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
I spent the first few hours of my house arrest making artwork out of my dinner and trying to plot my escape (all exit routes were carefully contained). But eventually—twelve hours in—I turned to Sherlock Holmes. It was the first time in my life I’d found comfort in a book. Only, as further punishment, my father had removed the final pages of each adventure. So I read the Incomplete
Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
and by the end of the night, I thought I would go mad. When my father finally released me, I rode my bike straight to the San Francisco Public Library to have the endings fully realized. My mother thought this marked a promising literary turn in my adolescence. Sadly for her, that trip was the last voluntary library visit of my teenage years.