short on cash to return, because
when a man owes you money, you have him on the ropes. I’d have bet the five grand
that Ferret Eyes had had a lot of men on the ropes in his day.
I turned to Ethan. “How much did you come in with?”
The guy who answered the door, Pit Stains, responded for him. “Three grand.”
I took the five grand from my purse and put it on the table.
“Here’s a little extra. You don’t let him back here again.”
“Anyone who’s paid up is welcome back.”
I reached for the stack of bills on the table. Ferret Eyes gripped my hand over the
cash, gluing me to the table.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” I said. “I’m Isabel. And you are?”
“Bob.”
“What an unusual name,” I said. “How do you spell that?”
My free hand reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.
“Bob, I have a friend who’d like to talk to you.”
I passed the phone to Bob. He listened and then released his grip on my hand. Bob
passed the phone back to me, took the five-hundred-dollar tip off the top, and slapped
it on the table in front of me.
“We’re even,” he said to me. Then he turned to Ethan and said, “Don’t show your face
around here again.”
“It has been a pleasure,” I said.
On the drive back to the city questions darted back and forth like Ping-Pong balls.
Ethan wanted to know who Henry was. Henry wanted to know who Bob was. And all I really
wanted to know was why Ethan had a British accent. The only benefit of being the third
wheel in the car was that I didn’t have to engage in any serious conversation with
Henry.
“So you’re my brother’s consigliere,” Ethan said.
I turned to Henry to translate.
“A confidante, usually in the context of organized crime. But it can be used more
casually,” Henry said.
“I’m his jogging partner,” I said. “And I do some other work for him.”
“Edward’s jogging partner has always been his consigliere,” Ethan said.
“Who was his last jogging partner you met?”
“Oh, it was a few years ago. A Glen somebody.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“Died, I think.”
“See,” I said, jabbing Henry in the ribs. “Jogging isn’t good for you.”
Henry pulled the car in front of Slayter’s Nob Hill mansion. Maybe it’s not quite
a mansion, but it’s a pretty big house that stands on its own, which is unusual for
San Francisco.
“Should I wait for you?” Henry asked.
“Your work here is done,” I said.
“Will I see you around?” he asked.
“Until I find a new designated driver,” I said.
Slayter was in his pajamas and robe, poring over every last word of The Wall Street Journal , when I delivered his brother to him. Before Edward could toss out any kind of admonishment,
Ethan said, “I will pay back every penny. I assure you.”
“I would prefer it if you didn’t lose money in the first place.”
“So would I,” Ethan lightly replied.
“Why is your brother English?”
“He’s not.”
“I spent several years abroad,” said Ethan.
“Four,” said Edward.
“And I simply couldn’t shake the accent.”
“Like Madonna?” I asked.
Ethan ignored the question, went to the bar, and poured himself a brandy. “I’m knackered,”
he said. “Off to bed.”
When the guest room door shut, Edward said, “Thank you.”
“I think I got him kicked out of that game. But there are always other games.”
“Indeed.”
“He seems like quite a handful,” I said. “Why do you put up with it?”
“I’m sure your parents asked themselves that question more times than they can count,”
he said.
• • •
I boycotted jogging Monday morning and arrived early at the office. On my desk was
a photocopy of a sexual harassment complaint referencing a date from 2001. The plaintiff
was named Sheila Givens and the defendants were Brad Gillman and Bryan Lincoln. I’d
heard the defendants’ names before and racked my brain for an
when a man owes you money, you have him on the ropes. I’d have bet the five grand
that Ferret Eyes had had a lot of men on the ropes in his day.
I turned to Ethan. “How much did you come in with?”
The guy who answered the door, Pit Stains, responded for him. “Three grand.”
I took the five grand from my purse and put it on the table.
“Here’s a little extra. You don’t let him back here again.”
“Anyone who’s paid up is welcome back.”
I reached for the stack of bills on the table. Ferret Eyes gripped my hand over the
cash, gluing me to the table.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” I said. “I’m Isabel. And you are?”
“Bob.”
“What an unusual name,” I said. “How do you spell that?”
My free hand reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.
“Bob, I have a friend who’d like to talk to you.”
I passed the phone to Bob. He listened and then released his grip on my hand. Bob
passed the phone back to me, took the five-hundred-dollar tip off the top, and slapped
it on the table in front of me.
“We’re even,” he said to me. Then he turned to Ethan and said, “Don’t show your face
around here again.”
“It has been a pleasure,” I said.
On the drive back to the city questions darted back and forth like Ping-Pong balls.
Ethan wanted to know who Henry was. Henry wanted to know who Bob was. And all I really
wanted to know was why Ethan had a British accent. The only benefit of being the third
wheel in the car was that I didn’t have to engage in any serious conversation with
Henry.
“So you’re my brother’s consigliere,” Ethan said.
I turned to Henry to translate.
“A confidante, usually in the context of organized crime. But it can be used more
casually,” Henry said.
“I’m his jogging partner,” I said. “And I do some other work for him.”
“Edward’s jogging partner has always been his consigliere,” Ethan said.
“Who was his last jogging partner you met?”
“Oh, it was a few years ago. A Glen somebody.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“Died, I think.”
“See,” I said, jabbing Henry in the ribs. “Jogging isn’t good for you.”
Henry pulled the car in front of Slayter’s Nob Hill mansion. Maybe it’s not quite
a mansion, but it’s a pretty big house that stands on its own, which is unusual for
San Francisco.
“Should I wait for you?” Henry asked.
“Your work here is done,” I said.
“Will I see you around?” he asked.
“Until I find a new designated driver,” I said.
Slayter was in his pajamas and robe, poring over every last word of The Wall Street Journal , when I delivered his brother to him. Before Edward could toss out any kind of admonishment,
Ethan said, “I will pay back every penny. I assure you.”
“I would prefer it if you didn’t lose money in the first place.”
“So would I,” Ethan lightly replied.
“Why is your brother English?”
“He’s not.”
“I spent several years abroad,” said Ethan.
“Four,” said Edward.
“And I simply couldn’t shake the accent.”
“Like Madonna?” I asked.
Ethan ignored the question, went to the bar, and poured himself a brandy. “I’m knackered,”
he said. “Off to bed.”
When the guest room door shut, Edward said, “Thank you.”
“I think I got him kicked out of that game. But there are always other games.”
“Indeed.”
“He seems like quite a handful,” I said. “Why do you put up with it?”
“I’m sure your parents asked themselves that question more times than they can count,”
he said.
• • •
I boycotted jogging Monday morning and arrived early at the office. On my desk was
a photocopy of a sexual harassment complaint referencing a date from 2001. The plaintiff
was named Sheila Givens and the defendants were Brad Gillman and Bryan Lincoln. I’d
heard the defendants’ names before and racked my brain for an
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