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.”
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!”
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 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
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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
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 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,XIII
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?”
“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,XIV
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 trash 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 boozeXV
—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?”
walked into the bar. Whatever my father lacks in good looks, my mother makes up for it. Mom is petite and elegant with long auburn hair that comes straight out of a bottle. From a distance, she appears years younger than her age. In fact, Clarence whistled when my mom entered the bar. (Although I can’t say for sure that he was responding to her and not to some alarming news from the world of sports.)
Like my father’s, Mom’s “casual” visits to the Philosopher’s Club were thinly veiled interrogations. To my parents’ credit, though, they managed
to mix things up just a bit. This is a close approximation of my conversation with my mother that day:
ISABEL: What can I get you?
OLIVIA: A daughter with a purpose in life.
ISABEL: Sorry, we’re all out. What’s your second choice?
OLIVIA: I can’t decide between a club soda and a real drink.
ISABEL: I’d prefer you had a real drink.
OLIVIA: Fine. I’ll have a gimlet.
ISABEL: But just one drink. Then I’d like you to be on your way.
OLIVIA: I’ll leave when my business here is done.
[The drink is served; the patron takes a sip and grimaces.]
OLIVIA: It needs more booze.
ISABEL: When I serve it to you with more booze, you say it needs more lime juice. Has it occurred to you that you just don’t like gimlets?
OLIVIA: I used to love them.
ISABEL: Sometimes we need to accept change.
OLIVIA: Is this what you’re getting out of therapy? Learning to embrace your inner bartender?
ISABEL: I’m just doing my time, Mom. That’s all.
OLIVIA: Tell me something. Do you talk about me with Dr. Ira?XVII
ISABEL: We talk about everyone in my life at one time or another. It’s possible I haven’t mentioned BernieXVIII
yet. But I’m sure it will happen eventually.
OLIVIA: Are you blaming me for all of your troubles?
ISABEL: No. Actually, I’ve been blaming David.
OLIVIA: Fair enough.
[Mother/patron crinkles nose when she takes a second sip of her gimlet.
Daughter/bartender sprays an ounce of club soda into her drink.]
ISABEL: Try it now.
OLIVIA: That’s much better. How do I order it if I need to?
ISABEL: You don’t. But if you have to, call it a gimlet watered down with soda.
OLIVIA: Very nice.
ISABEL: So, I’ll trade you one honest answer for one in return.
ISABEL: Did you send some guy into the bar on Tuesday to drill me for information?
OLIVIA: I did that once two months ago. Will you let it die already?
ISABEL: So, that’s a no?
OLIVIA: Yes, it’s a no. My turn?
OLIVIA: Are you dating anyone right now? [Long pause.]
ISABEL: No one to speak of.
OLIVIA: What are you hiding? [Another significant pause.]
ISABEL: Milo and I hooked up a few weeks ago. It’s been awkward ever since.
OLIVIA: That’s so gross, it’s not even funny.
ISABEL: Yeah, you’re right. I thought it might be funny, but when I said it, I just felt nauseous.
OLIVIA: In what direction are you heading, Isabel?
ISABEL: Nowhere, at the moment.
Milo walked into the bar, which isn’t all that unusual, what with it being his bar and all. I usually cover my afternoon shifts solo so Milo has more time off, but Sunday afternoon we always work together and take stock of the inventory. I’ve known Milo going on ten years now; he’s been my employer
for only five months of those. Bar owners’ expectations differ from other employers’: Show up on time, don’t steal, make the right change, and don’t be too generous with the booze. Most nights, I’m at least three for four.
While I cleaned glasses, Milo did the San Francisco Chronicle’s crossword puzzle, which he considers to be some form of actual work. (Something about keeping his mind sharp being good for business—don’t quote me, I wasn’t paying attention.)
“What’s a four-letter word for a lunch staple?”
“Beer,” I replied, because how is Milo staying sharp by asking me to do his crossword puzzles for him?
“That’s not it. It has to be something you eat.”
“It’s not fish. Fish isn’t a lunch staple in any place I know.”
“I still think it’s fish.”
“Soup!” Milo shouted as if it were a different four-letter word.
“Congratulations,” I said. Frankly, I was happy to know he could get at least one clue in the puzzle. Another minute passed in peaceful silence. But then it was over.
“I was talking to a friend of mine the other day,” Milo said as he hung his coat on a rack behind the bar.
“Give it time. It gets better.”
“And then what happened?” I asked with rapt interest.
“He was telling me about this time he went into a bar, was making casual conversation with the bartender, and the next thing he knows, the bartender for no good reason tries to strangle him with his own tie and accuses him of having some kind of conspiratorial relationship with her own mother.”
“I’m sure he’s recovered by now.”
“Not completely. There are a few lingering side effects.”
“For instance?” I asked, playing along.
“He’s got a closet full of ties—a regular clotheshorse, this one—and
yet he’s afraid to wear all of them. Used to be his signature look. Now he’s got to figure out a whole new thing.”
“Izz, he don’t know your mother. We were conversing the other day, he has a situation, he needs a detective, he’d rather not pay an arm and a leg like your parents charge, so I mentioned you might be able to help him out.”
“I have a job, Milo.”
“This isn’t a career, Izzy.”
“For you it is.”
Milo tossed his newspaper on top of the bar and sighed dramatically. “I’m cutting your hours to three days a week. It’s time for you to get back in the game or find an entirely new game that doesn’t involve serving booze.”
“How much are my parents paying you?”
“I don’t approve of your random use of Spanish.”
“Ernie’s gonna drop by again today. He’s gonna tell you about his problem. You’re going to offer him your services. You’ll both negotiate a reasonable price. You’ll do a good job for my friend.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
“I’ll trim your hours some more.”
As promised, Ernie Black returned to the bar.
His problem was the kind of problem you hear about all the time, at least in my line of work—or my previous line of work. Scratch that. In every line of work I’ve known,XIX
the suspicious wife (or husband) comes up often.
At the age of fifty, Ernie met the woman of his dreams. She applied for a receptionist position at the muffler shop he co-owns with his brother,
they dated for six months, decided to test their relationship on a four-day vacation in Reno, Nevada, and by the second day, decided to wed. Her name was (and still is, I presume) Linda. Maiden name: Truesdale. She has red hair, brown eyes, and is covered in freckles. I took note of this fact because redheads are easy to follow. Depending on Ernie’s financial situation, I thought I just might cut him a break.
This was Ernie’s first marriage and he wanted it to work. But women had always been a mystery to Ernie and so he tried to solve the mystery through cheap self-help books. When I first met with Ernie (well, the second time) he was reading a battered paperback titled Women: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know and More. He had recently finished a chapter on secrets and realized that his wife had a few.
I asked for the hard facts first, not wanting to be influenced by Ernie’s interpretations. To begin with, his wife would often disappear for hours at a time and use a flimsy excuse for her absence. Ernie never pressed her on this issue because he didn’t want her to feel smothered. Then there were the expensive items of clothing and perfume that would show up after these unexplained excursions, with no dent on their mutual credit card. The money had to come from somewhere. Those hours that passed without him—she had to be doing something. Ernie had a feeling he didn’t like in the pit of his stomach, but he told himself that he was imagining things. It wasn’t until last weekend, when he cleaned out the garage and found a shoebox full of $3,000 in cash, that he decided to look at the matter more closely.
I then asked Ernie what he thought might be going on and he handed me a handwritten sheet of paper that listed, in descending order of preference, his list of possibilities:
A) Nothing’s going on. Everything has a simple explanation.
B) Linda has a shoplifting problem.
C) Linda is having an affair with a man who gives her money and gifts.
D) Linda is having an affair and she has a shoplifting problem.
While I was no expert on Linda, I decided that Ernie should leave with at least a shred of hope. I told him that option D was extremely unlikely. Then I asked him a question my mother always asks whenever we consider taking on a domestic case.
“Ernie, if we do find out that your wife is having an affair, what will you do?”
Ernie consulted his shoes for the answer: “We’d have to go to marriage counseling, I guess.”
His reaction was calm, which was what I was looking for. You can’t predict human behavior, but I would’ve bet a week’s wages on Ernie being a peaceful man. So I decided to take the case.
Then we talked money. Ernie didn’t have much of it, so it was a short conversation. I would be on call for the next time his wife planned an excursion. I cut my usual rate by half, which is 75 percent less than what my parents would charge for the same work. Ernie was getting a deal, but the job seemed easy enough.
It didn’t mean anything to me—I’ll tell you that right now. So don’t get any ideas. There was no significance in me doing a favor for a friend of Milo’s. A few hours of watching a redhead didn’t mean I was back in the game. That’s what I told myself, at least. I
. For an incomplete dossier on Dad, see appendix. II
. Mom hired a recent graduate from the American Conservatory Theater and armed him with a tape recorder and a list of questions to casually integrate into the conversation. For example: 1) Have you ever been in therapy? 2) Is it helping you? 3) Do you plan on being a bartender forever? 4) Are you seeing anyone right now? 5) How many tattoos does he have? III
. Not true. I’ve done all sorts of other things, like go to movies, take strolls in the park, drink coffee, drink other stuff, eat food, sleep, etc. IV
. That was an accident and he knows it. V
. These kinds of questions one should never answer. So I didn’t. VI
. He’s laying it on thick now, working the guilt angle. VII
. Finger quotes. VIII
. Old in the literal sense. He’s eighty-four. IX
. Mortimer Schilling, retired defense attorney. For more information, see appendix. X
. A San Francisco landmark. Easy to locate. Serves a mean black and white milkshake. XI
. Once again, if you’ve failed to read the previous two documents—The Spellman Files and Curse of the Spellmans (both available in paperback!)—and you need further background information, see appendix. XII
. Henry’s diet veers toward extreme health consciousness. If you want any food with flavor in his house, you really must bring your own supplies. XIII
. For David’s dossier, see appendix
. Indeed I do. XV
. Namely, the good stuff. XVI
. Olivia Spellman. For brief dossier, see appendix. XVII
. Um, yes! XVIII
. See appendix. XIX
. Namely, the PI and bartender lines.