Revenge of the Spellmans (2 page)

[Partial transcript reads as follows:]

DR. RUSH:
1
Two weeks ago you mentioned that you were being blackmailed.

ISABEL:
Did I?

DR. RUSH:
Yes.

ISABEL:
Must have slipped my mind.

DR. RUSH:
Would you like to talk about it?

ISABEL:
Nah.

DR. RUSH:
Well, I’d like to talk about it.

ISABEL:
It’s really not that big a deal.

DR. RUSH:
Do you know your blackmailer?

ISABEL:
I’m in the process of narrowing down the list of suspects.

DR. RUSH:
How does your blackmailer communicate with you?

ISABEL:
Anonymous notes.

DR. RUSH:
What do they say?

ISABEL:
I
really
don’t want to talk about it.

DR. RUSH:
If these sessions went according to your plan, you’d sit here in silence for an hour eating your lunch.

ISABEL:
One time
I asked you if I could eat lunch.
One time.

DR. RUSH:
Tell me what the gist of the notes is and then we can move on.

ISABEL:
“I know your secret. If you want to keep it you will meet my demands.”

DR. RUSH:
So, what’s your secret?

ISABEL:
I thought we were moving on.

DR. RUSH:
We are. To what your secret is.

ISABEL:
[sigh] My blackmailer knows where I live. At least I think that’s the secret he or she is referring to.

DR. RUSH:
Where do you live?

ISABEL:
I don’t want to lie to you, Dr. Rush.

DR. RUSH:
I’m flattered.

ISABEL:
I don’t want to tell you the truth, either.

DR. RUSH:
Are you being serious, Isabel?

ISABEL:
I sense judgment in your tone, Doctor.

DR. RUSH:
Right now I’m just confused. The judgment part will come later.

ISABEL:
You’re funnier than Dr. Ira.
2

DR. RUSH:
My couch is funnier than Dr. Ira.

ISABEL:
See?

DR. RUSH:
You really aren’t going to tell me where you live?

ISABEL:
If it makes you feel any better, most people don’t know where I live.

DR. RUSH:
My feelings don’t come into play here.

ISABEL:
It’s nice to have one person I don’t have to worry about.

DR. RUSH:
Are you getting enough sleep?

ISABEL:
No. But I drink a lot of coffee and take the bus, so things even out.

DR. RUSH:
Why can’t you sleep?

ISABEL:
I’ve got a lot on my mind.

DR. RUSH:
[impatiently] For instance?

[Long pause.]
3

ISABEL:
Something strange is going on with my brother.

DR. RUSH:
We’re not talking about your brother.

ISABEL:
It’s my therapy. I thought I got to choose the topics.

DR. RUSH:
Let me ask you a question: Have you been hired to investigate your brother?

ISABEL:
He’s family. You don’t need a paycheck to investigate family.

DR. RUSH:
I’d like to return to the topic of blackmail.

ISABEL:
Why?

DR. RUSH:
Because it’s a clearly defined stressor in your life.

ISABEL:
It’s not that stressful. I’d really like to switch topics now.

DR. RUSH:
If you can come up with a topic as good as blackmail, I’m game. [Long pause while I pretend to think of a worthy subject.]

DR. RUSH:
I’m onto you and your long pauses.
4

ISABEL:
Okay. I’m being bribed by a political consultant.

DR. RUSH:
Seriously?

ISABEL:
Yes.

DR. RUSH:
Why?

ISABEL:
Because he thinks I know something. But I don’t know anything…yet.

DR. RUSH:
What does he think you know?

ISABEL:
If I knew that, then I’d know.

DR. RUSH:
[sigh] Is this bribe incident connected to the blackmail?

ISABEL:
Absolutely not.

DR. RUSH:
What makes you so sure?

ISABEL:
The bribe is serious. The blackmail is child’s play.

DR. RUSH:
I need you to be more specific.

ISABEL:
My blackmailer is making me wash cars and go to the zoo.

DR. RUSH:
Go to the zoo?

ISABEL:
It was supposed to be SFMOMA,
5
but I thought I could go to the zoo instead. My mistake. My point is they are entirely unconnected.

[Long, long pause.]

DR. RUSH:
[sigh] Bizarre forms of blackmail, bribery, secret residences. The odds of all of this happening to one person, Isabel—

ISABEL:
It sounds worse than it is.

DR. RUSH:
Let’s look at this from a different perspective. Your imagination has gotten you into trouble in the past. That’s why you’re in therapy. You can’t deny that you tend to put a paranoid slant on most things you observe.

ISABEL:
That was the old me.

DR. RUSH:
Are you sure?

ISABEL:
I’ve made progress, Dr. Rush. Lots of progress.

[Long, long pause.]

ISABEL:
Haven’t I?

Two months earlier…

Tuesday

A
n 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 Spellman
1
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.”
2

“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.
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.