Revenge of the Spellmans: Document #3 (Volume 3) - Couverture souple

Revenge of the Spellmans THE PHILOSOPHER’S CLUB

Tuesday

An unknown male—approximately fifty-five years old, with an almost full head of gray hair, a slight build, an even slighter paunch, and a weathered but friendly face, garbed in a snappy suit and a not-unpleasant tie—walked into the bar. He sat down at the counter and nodded a silent hello.

“What can I get you?” I said.

“Coffee,” Unknown Male replied.

“Irish coffee?” I asked.

“Nope. Just the regular stuff.”

“You know, they got coffee shops, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“It’s three in the afternoon,” Unknown Male replied.

“It’s still a bar,” I responded, and poured a mug of the stale brew. “Cream and sugar?” I asked.

“Black,” he answered. Unknown Male took a sip and grimaced. He pushed the mug back in my direction and said, “Cream and sugar.”

“Thought so.”

Unknown Male put a five-dollar bill on the bar and told me to keep the change. I rang two dollars into the cash register and put the remaining three into the tip jar.

“You Isabel?” Unknown Male asked.

“Who’s asking?” I replied.

“Ernest Black,” the less-unknown male said, stretching out his hand. “My friends call me Ernie.”

I shook it, because that’s what you do, and then picked up a dishrag and began drying some glasses, because that’s what bartenders do.

“I heard you used to be a detective,” Ernie said.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“I was in here the other day talking to Milo.”

“You and Milo friends?” I asked.

“We’re not enemies. Anyway, Milo said you used to be a detective.”

“Private investigator,” I corrected him, and dried some more glasses.

There was a long pause while Ernie tried to figure out how to keep the conversation going.

“It looks like you’re a bartender now,” Ernie said.

“So it seems.”

“Is this like a career path or more like a rest stop on a longer journey?” he asked.

“Huh?” I said, even though I understood what Ernie was getting at.

“I’m just wondering, are you planning on doing this bartender thing long-term or do you think you might go back into the PI business somewhere down the line?”

I casually put down the glass and the dishrag. I reached over the bar and grabbed Ernie by the not-unpleasant tie he was wearing and leaned in close enough to smell his stale coffee breath.

“Tell my mother that if she wants to know my plans for the future, she should ask me herself!”
Wednesday

My dad walked into the bar. Albert SpellmanI is his name. I’d been expecting him. Three o’clock on Wednesday is his usual time. He likes an empty bar so he can speak freely.

“The usual,” Dad said, mostly because he likes feeling like a regular. Dad’s usual is a five-ounce glass of red wine. He’d rather order a beer or whiskey or both, but his heart condition and my mother prohibit all of the above.

I poured the wine, slid the glass in his direction, leaned on top of the bar, and looked my dad in the eye.

“Mom sent some guy into the bar yesterday to pump me for information.”

“No, she didn’t,” Dad said, looking bored.

“Yes, she did,” I replied.

“Isabel, she did that one time two months ago and she never did it again. I promise you.”II

“You have no idea what she’s doing when you’re not watching her.”

“You could say that about anyone,” Dad said.

“But I’m talking about Mom.”

“I’d like to change the subject, Isabel.”

I sighed, disappointed. I was not interested in the subject my dad had in mind.

“If you’d like to talk about the weather, I’d be alright with that.”

“Not the weather,” said Dad.

“Seen any good movies?” I asked.

“Haven’t been getting out much lately,” Dad said, “what with work and all. Oh yes. Work. That’s what I’d like to talk about.”

“I don’t want to talk about work.”

“You don’t talk. You just listen. Can you do that?”

“I distinctly recall you telling me that I wasn’t a good listener,” I replied. “So, apparently I cannot do that.”

“Isabel!” Dad said far too loudly, but who cares in an empty bar? “We are having this conversation whether you like it or not.”

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.III 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,IV 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?V How my health might be improved?VI Five months ago, when you took this ‘temporary’VII 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 oldVIII friend MortyIX 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 DinerX 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.XI

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.XII 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 t...

YOU THOUGHT YOUR LIFE WAS COMPLICATED

Private investigator Isabel Spellman is back on the case and back on the couch—in courtordered therapy after getting a little too close to her previous subject. As the book opens, Izzy is on hiatus from Spellman Inc. But when her boss, Milo, simultaneously cuts her bartending hours and introduces her to a “friend” looking for a private eye, Izzy reluctantly finds herself with a new client. She assures herself that the case—a suspicious husband who wants his wife tailed—will be short and sweet, and will involve nothing more than the most boring of PI rituals: surveillance. But with each passing hour, Izzy finds herself with more questions than hard evidence.

Meanwhile, Spellmania continues. Izzy’s brother, David, the family’s most upright member, has adopted an uncharacteristically unkempt appearance and attitude toward work, life, and Izzy. And their wayward youngest sister, Rae, a historic academic underachiever, aces the PSATs and subsequently offends her study partner and object of obsession, Detective Henry Stone, to the point of excommunication. The only unsurprising behavior comes from her parents, whose visits to Milo’s bar amount to thinly veiled surveillance and artful attempts (read: blackmail) at getting Izzy to return to the Spellman Inc. fold.

As the case of the wayward wife continues to vex her, Izzy’s personal life—and mental health— seem to be disintegrating. Facing a housing crisis, she can’t sleep, she can’t remember where she parked her car, and, despite her shrinks’ * persistence, she can’t seem to break through in her appointments. She certainly can’t explain whyshe forgets dates with her lawyer’s grandson, orfails to interpret the come-ons issued in an Irishbrogue by Milo’s new bartender. Nor can sheexplain exactly how she feels about DetectiveHenry Stone and his plans to move in with hisnew Assistant DA girlfriend . . .

Filled with the signature side-splitting Spellmanantics, Revenge of the Spellmans is aningenious, hilarious, and disarmingly tender installment in the Spellman series.

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* Yes, plural