Revenge of the Spellmans

by Lisa Lutz

  In case you were thinking the definition had changed, a conversation usually involves two people exchanging words, a back-and-forth, if you will. My dad provided a brief lecture that went something like this:

  “You are a licensed private investigator. That is your trade. And yet, for the last five months, all you have done is serve drinks and collect tips. 3 You have refused to work at a job for which you are highly qualified, which used to give you some real purpose in life. I spent seven long, hard years training you at that job, teaching you everything I know while you talked back, nodded off, screwed up, broke equipment, slammed my hand in a car door, 4 lost me clients, and cost me a fortune in car insurance. Seven long years, Isabel. I can’t get those years back. They’re lost to me forever. Do you know how much more pleasant it would have been to have hired a nice responsible college student looking for a little excitement in his or her life? Someone who didn’t insult my intelligence on a daily basis or leave cigarette butts and empty beer cans in the surveillance van, someone who said ‘Yes, Mr. Spellman’ instead of rolling her eyes and grunting? Can you imagine how my life might be different? 5 How my health might be improved? 6 Five months ago, when you took this ‘temporary’ 7 job, you promised your mother and me that you would start actively thinking about your future, which is directly connected to our future, because it’s connected to the future of this business we have built not just for us, but for you. So, tell me, Isabel, after five months of serving drinks and over two months of seeing a shrink, are you any closer to making that decision?”

  I’m not usually one who follows the adage “Honesty is the best policy,” but my dad’s speech exhausted even me, and so I decided to go with the very short truth.

  “Nope,” I said.

  Dad sucked the last drop of alcohol out of his wineglass. He searched the empty bar as if he were looking for assistance. He made brief eye contact, but he couldn’t hold it. The disappointment was evident. Even I felt some sympathy.

  “Sounds like you could use a real drink, Dad,” I said as I poured him a shot of Maker’s Mark. “This will be our little secret.”

  Thursday

  Thursday is my day off. I wake, read the paper, and drink coffee until noon. Maybe run an errand or two and surf the Internet, prowling for sites that amuse and educate. I kill time until I meet my old 8 friend Morty 9 for lunch. We used to meet at the same Jewish deli every Thursday, until I explained that, as a nonsenior citizen, I am not obsessed with maintaining unbreakable habits. Morty argued that he wanted to go to the same deli every week because he knew he liked the food and could be sure of an enjoyable meal. I argued that it’s better to mix things up. And won. A good thing, as I was getting seriously tired of Morty trying to convince me to get the tongue sandwich.

  This week I persuaded Morty to meet me at Fog City Diner 10 on Battery Street downtown. I took public transportation, but Morty drove his giant Cadillac and was at least twenty minutes late.

  “Where were you?” I asked when he finally sat down at the booth. Morty is typically five minutes early for everything, so it was the obvious question.

  “Got lost on the way over,” Morty said.

  “But you have a navigation system.”

  “I turned it off.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t stand that thing. Always barking orders at me.”

  As Morty studied the menu with his usual dedication, I studied Morty with a more critical eye than usual.

  The third button from the top dangled from his threadbare cotton shirt. The lapel sported a food stain. His hair appeared stringier than usual and his glasses reflected like a car windshield after a brief drizzle.

  “Hand over your glasses,” I said.

  “But then I can’t see the menu,” he replied.

  “You’re going to order a tuna melt and a cup of decaf like you always do in restaurants that don’t serve pastrami.”

  I held out the palm of my hand until Morty relinquished his eyewear. I dipped my napkin in my ice water and cleared the grime from the lenses. I returned his glasses and warned Morty that driving under such a condition was highly dangerous. Morty nodded in agreement the way somebody does when he wants you to stop talking. The waitress swung by our table and took our orders. Morty opted for the meat loaf and gave me a smirk of rebellion. He still ordered decaf, though.

  “How’s Ruth doing?”

  “Fine, I suppose.”

  “As her husband, shouldn’t that be something you know?”

  “She’s in Florida for the week.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Visiting her sister.”

  “Why didn’t you go with her?”

  “What’s with the third degree?”

  “I’m making conversation, Morty. These are all reasonable questions.”

  “I’m not moving to Florida!” Morty suddenly shouted.

  “Who said you were moving there?” I asked.

  “There’s no way in hell.”

  “Got it.”

  “Now let’s change the subject.”

  “Does Ruth want to move to Florida?” I asked, not changing the subject at all.

  “She wanted to move to Italy twenty years ago and that didn’t happen,” was his response.

  “What have you got against Florida?”

  “Don’t get me started,” Morty replied.

  The conversation pretty much ended there. Morty picked at his meat loaf and sulked his way through lunch.

  As we exited the diner Morty offered me a ride home and I accepted. I noticed a dent on his Cadillac’s front left fender and asked what happened. He shrugged his shoulders in a What-difference-does-it make? kind of way. He then pulled out of the parking space without checking his rearview mirror and just missed a cyclist who swerved in the nick of time. Morty didn’t notice a thing. A few minutes later, he completely ignored a stop sign, and a short time after that, he started two-lane driving on Van Ness Avenue, until someone in a Mini Cooper laid into the horn. Morty’s response was, “Relax, we’ll all get there eventually.”

  After Morty dropped me at the house, I debated how soon I should contact the authorities. If today was an accurate representation of Morty’s driving, he was a regular menace to society. I opted to give him one more chance; everybody has an off day.

  Friday

  A middle-age man walked into the bar followed by a teenage girl. The man appeared angry, the teenager defiant. Meet my sister, Rae, and her “best friend,” Henry Stone. 11

  Three bar stools divided them. Henry unrolled the New Yorker magazine he was carrying under his arm and began reading. Rae dusted off the already-dusted-off counter and said, “The usual.” Her usual is a ginger ale followed by a reminder that she’s not actually supposed to be in a bar since she’s only sixteen (and a half!) years old. I poured Rae’s ginger ale and served Henry his usual club soda. I waited for the unusual stretch of silence to end. Rae watched Henry out of the corner of her eye. He studied his magazine with rapt attention, uninterested in—or at least pretending quite well to be uninterested in—the rest of the room. As an act of what appeared to be mimicry, Rae pulled out her geometry textbook and gave a performance of rapt attention. Hers failed where Henry’s succeded. She checked him out of the corner
of her eye, waiting for some acknowledgment of her presence. Rae downed her ginger ale and smacked the glass on the counter, making her presence impossible to ignore.

  “I’ll have another,” she said.

  “Does somebody want to tell me what’s going on?” I asked as I served her second round.

  “Nothing. Henry just needs to chillax,” said Rae.

  “Do you have any response to that?” I asked Henry.

  “Isabel,” he said, “this is a bar. Not a soda shop. Adults come here to get away from children. I could have you shut down for serving minors.”

  “Rae, go home,” I said, sensing that Henry needed some space.

  “I don’t think so,” was Rae’s response.

  “I tried,” I said, turning back to Henry.

  Henry finished his club soda and asked for something stronger. I suggested 7UP, but he had bourbon in mind, which meant my sister had done something terribly wrong. I was intrigued.

  “What did you do?” I asked Rae after I served Henry his Bulleit.

  “Tell Henry,” Rae said, “that what I did, I did for his own good.”

  “Did you hear that?” I said to Henry.

  He looked up from the magazine and said, “Hear what?”

  “Um, Rae said that what she did, she did for your own good.”

  “Well, you can tell your sister that it was not her decision to make.”

  “What did he say?” Rae asked, even though Henry’s response was perfectly audible.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I asked.

  “What did he say?” she insisted.

  “He said it was not your decision to make.”

  “Tell him he’ll thank me later.”

  Henry returned to his magazine and continued pretending that Rae existed in some parallel universe where only I could see and hear her. I decided to play along for the time being, since I had to admit I wanted the scoop.

  “She said you’ll thank her later.”

  “Tell her I won’t. Tell her she’s forbidden to come to my house ever again.”

  “You can’t be serious,” she said. Apparently my translating skills were no longer required, because this was directed at Henry’s back.

  “Oh, I’m very serious,” he replied, finishing off the last of his bourbon. I was shocked when he pointed to his glass and asked for another, but I assumed this meant further information would be forthcoming, so I served the drink and eagerly awaited the rest of the story.

  I’ll spare you the long, drawn-out argument and give you the basic facts. Henry, for the last five months, had been dating a public defender for San Francisco County named Maggie Mason. Maggie has an apartment in Daly City—not the quickest commute to the superior court building on Bryant Street. Henry lives in the Inner Sunset. It’s only natural that Maggie would spend time at Henry’s home and not the other way around. Two months ago, she got a drawer in his house; one month ago, she got a shelf in his pantry. 12 Last week Henry made a copy of his key and gave it to her in a jewelry box. My sister, convinced that Henry wasn’t really ready to take the next step, took it upon herself to change the locks in his apartment a few days later. How my sister had access to his home and how this act of subterfuge went unnoticed by the neighbors, I cannot explain. Suffice it to say she did not deny her role in this particular drama. I’m sure you can imagine what happened next: Maggie arrived at Henry’s house after a long day of work. She tried her key and it failed. She interpreted events the way any woman might: Henry gave her the wrong key, which was a subconscious or passive-aggressive communication that he was simply not ready. What had not occurred to Maggie was that my sister was playing saboteur in their relationship. Certainly there had been moments of tension between Maggie and her boyfriend’s odd version of a “best friend,” but Maggie had failed to see Rae’s outright hostility. None of this escaped Henry’s notice.

  “Tell your sister,” said Henry, “that she is no longer welcome in my home.”

  “We’re back to that again?” I asked.

  Rae’s response was not the wisest. “I have a key,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “I had the locks changed this morning!” Henry replied to my sister at a volume I did not know his voice was capable of.

  “Total waste of money,” Rae replied.

  Henry finished his second drink, stood up in a huff, and said in his most threatening tone, “Mark my words, Rae: This isn’t over.” Henry nodded a silent good-bye to me and left the bar.

  Rae nervously folded her cocktail napkin in quarters, then eighths, and attempted sixteenths. Her defiance softened and worry lines crinkled her smooth brow.

  “He’s really angry, Rae.”

  “I know,” she replied.

  “I’ve met Maggie. She seems nice. What do you have against her?”

  “Nothing,” Rae said. “It’s just that if somebody doesn’t do something about it, he’s going to marry her.”

  Saturday

  1400 hrs

  A lawyer walked into the bar. Sorry, there’s no joke here. It was my brother, David, 13 sporting three-day-old stubble and casual attire—cargo pants, sneakers, and a GUINNESS IS GOOD FOR YOU T-shirt, which I’m almost positive was mine. My point is, David’s ensemble was in direct conflict with his usual dress code. It was as if he were wearing a costume for someone planning a day at the park. Instead of ordering what was advertised on his shirt, David asked for a Bloody Mary, just to make me work. I added extra Tabasco and pepper, just to make him suffer.

  “What are you doing drinking on a Saturday afternoon?”

  “My vacation starts today.”

  “Some vacation,” I replied, scanning the surroundings for emphasis.

  “I leave for Europe on Monday.”

  “For how long?”

  “Four weeks.”

  “Nobody tells me anything,” I said.

  “It’s a last-minute thing,” David replied.

  “You traveling alone?” I asked.

  “No,” David said in a way that indicated the discussion was over. I, of course, did not agree to the inexplicit request.

  “So, who are you traveling with?”

  Familiar with my questioning tactics, David stayed his course. “I was thinking I should have someone watch my place while I’m gone, and since you live in a dump, 14 I figured I wouldn’t have to pay you.”

  “Not that you couldn’t afford to.”

  My brother handed me an envelope, leaned across the bar, and kissed me on the cheek. “The key and instructions are in there. I leave for the airport around ten A . M . on Monday. Don’t enter the premises until at least ten thirty, in case I’m running late. I will return exactly four weeks later in the afternoon, so make yourself scarce by noon of the third Monday from this Monday. Got it?”

  “Don’t you want me to hang around so you can bore me with all your travel photos?”

  “Not really,” David replied. “Now, behave while I’m gone,” he said, raising a stern eyebrow. Then he left.

  I cracked the envelope the second David exited the bar. As promised, it contained a key and a typewritten sheet of paper.

  RULES FOR ISABEL WHILE STAYING IN MY HOME

  Do…

  Take in the mail every day.

  Take out the tr
ash when the bag is full. Put garbage bins on the sidewalk Thursday evening.

  Reduce, reuse, and recycle. Try to make this world a better place.

  Sleep in the guest room.

  Sophia cleans on Tuesday. Tidy up before she comes.

  Water all indoor plants. There are instructions next to each plant.

  Do NOT…

  Mess with the sprinkler system. It’s on a timer.

  Add porn sites to the Favorites list on my computer.

  Use my electric toothbrush. I don’t care if you buy a new head.

  Throw any parties.

  Sleep in my bed.

  Move any furniture.

  Drink any of the following booze 15 : J. Walker Black Label

  Glenlivet 18 Year

  Grey Goose Vodka

  Rémy Martin VSOP

  After I recovered from the insult of the list, I phoned David to clarify a few matters.

  “Did you forget to include your itinerary?” I asked.

  “No,” David replied. “I’m not sure where I’ll be.”

  “How will I reach you if there’s an emergency?”

  “Just call my cell phone.”

  I hung up the phone without any more answers than when I started. There was only one thing I could say for certain: David was lying to me. About what, I couldn’t say.

  As I contemplated my brother’s suspicious behavior, the afternoon regulars began to arrive.

  Clarence Gilley strode in shortly after four. He pretends he’s on a schedule when it comes to drinking. Four o’clock is his start time and if he shows up any time after that he says, “Sorry I’m late. It won’t happen again.” I like Clarence. He tips well, tells me a single joke each visit, and then he remains silent, studying the sports section of the Chronicle for the next four hours.

  Saturday’s joke: An amnesiac walks into a bar. He asks, “Do I come here often?”