THE SPELLMANS STRIKE AGAIN

by Lisa Lutz

  The following day, Ex #12 and I were parked together in my car, watching Jim Atherton watching Marco Pileggi, but Connor was trying to get a football game on the radio.

  CONNOR: I could be watching football right now, if I weren’t doing this.

  ISABEL: But then we’d almost never see each other.

  CONNOR: Are you coming to my game on Sunday?

  ISABEL: Maybe. How many points is Declan offering?

  CONNOR: Ya can’t bet against me again.

  ISABEL: There’s no room for sentiment in wagers.

  CONNOR: There’s no bloody balance to this relationship, Isabel. I come on a bloody boring job with you, I tape pieces of shredded paper together, I endure your family, I lose sleep, I get kicked in the middle of the night, and you get free drinks.

  ISABEL: I always say thank you and sometimes I even tip.

  CONNOR: It’s time to take a stand, Isabel. I have a few precious hours a day away from the bar; I’m not spending them sitting in a car, taking pictures of people with neck braces. I’m sorry, Izzy. But I quit.

  Once again, I was alone in my quest to take down Harkey.

  RULE #31—

  VACATE RESIDENCE

  EVERY WEDNESDAY

  AUTHOR: MOM AND DAD

  VETOES: (N/A)

  I assumed there was a logical explanation, like maybe the house was being painted or fumigated, but no, the rationale was far more warped.

  “Rae, did you pack your overnight bag?” Mom asked.

  “You were serious about that?” Rae replied.

  “Yes, you’ll be spending the night at David’s.”

  “I don’t get it,” Rae replied.

  “Just pack your bag or you’ll be late for school.”

  “I won’t step foot out this door until everyone has their shirt on,” Rae said as she passed Dad on her way out of the office.

  Our shirts were laid out on our desks. We didn’t argue, since there wasn’t any point. We all simply donned our FREE SCHMIDT! uniforms and continued the conversation.

  “Somebody better start talking,” I said. “You need the house vacated for twenty-four hours why?”

  “Once a week. Twenty-four hours. No one enters or exits,” Dad said.

  “Well, we do,” my mom added, correcting him.

  “You and Rae need to stay out,” Dad explained, explaining nothing.

  “I’m still waiting for the details, please,” I said.

  “One day, when we’re retired and the house is empty, we need to know that we can handle it,” Mom said.

  “We’re doing a test run once a week,” said Dad.

  “Huh?”

  “Because if we can’t handle it, we need to be prepared,” Mom chimed in.

  “Maybe get a dog or a foreign exchange student,” Dad suggested.

  “I’m vetoing the foreign exchange student idea right now,” Mom said.

  I tried to steer the conversation back to some semblance of rationality: “So, you’re just kicking us out so you can see what it’s like to be alone? Is that what I’m hearing?”

  “In a nutshell,” Dad replied.

  “Why don’t you take a freakin’ vacation like normal people?”

  “Vacations are different,” my mom said.

  “And we don’t actually like them so much,” Dad continued.

  “We need to see what it’s like to be home alone together with no distractions,” said Mom.

  “And face it,” Dad said. “You are all really distracting.”

  Rae resurfaced with a more voluminous backpack.

  “What did I miss?” she asked.

  “Mom and Dad need some quality time together, so we have to vacate the house for twenty-four hours every Wednesday at eight A.M. until Thursday same time.”

  “Why can’t you have quality time while I’m here?”

  There was a brief pause, which filled Rae’s head with probably the wrong idea.

  “Oh my god. I’m going to be sick!” she shouted, and ran for the front door. “Izzy, drive me to school now!”

  My father calmly bellowed to my sister, “It’s not what you think, Rae.”

  A very loud “La la la la” was the only reply he got.

  I gathered any work-related items I might need and said, “I’ll be taking wagers on which one of you snaps first. Send me a text message if you want in.”

  In my car Rae took a few soothing breaths to clear her mind. Then she shivered and shook her head and made this noise that sounded like she was trying to cough up a hairball.

  As I drove her to school, I fished for a few pieces of information. I hadn’t had time to go fishing in a while.

  “How’s everything going with Maggie?”

  “We’re killing ourselves on the Schmidt case. We could use some help.”

  “I’m asking about Maggie as a person, not Maggie the lawyer.”

  “The two are closely connected,” Rae replied.

  “Listen, all I want to know is how things seem between Maggie and David.”

  “Great, as far as I can tell. He drops by the office all the time. They have lunch a lot. He’s brought her flowers once or twice, and candy. I ate most of it, though. He went to that candy store off of Polk. Their licorice is really good. Not stale like you get at the movies or the drugstore.”

  “Tell me about your boyfriend,” I asked.

  “He’s an excellent driver,” Rae replied.

  “Is that his best quality?” I asked.

  Rae ignored my question and said, “His car is in the shop. You need to pick me up from school this afternoon.”

  “Is there a bus strike that I don’t know about?”

  “Izzy, please don’t make me threaten you. Just pick me up from school and everything will be cool.”

  “When was the last time you were actually on a bus?” I asked.

  “Can’t recall.”

  “It’s been that long?”

  “I’ll see you at four,” Rae quickly replied, as if she were trying to change the subject.

  Resisting the urge to lecture Rae on the benefits of public transportation, I suddenly had a feeling that I had missed a key moment in Rae’s history.

  “Did something happen to you?” I asked.

  Rae ignored the question and jumped out of the car, but the look on her face after the query was all I needed to know. Something had happened.

  I circled Rae’s school, searching for Logan’s car, just to be sure. I couldn’t locate the car, but Logan was easy to spot, in his preppy-boy clothes chatting with a carbon copy of himself (albeit with a sloppier haircut) around the corner of the school entrance. I pulled my car over to the side and grabbed my binoculars from the glove compartment and watched their exchange, hoping for some kind of vague insight. It never occurred to me that the insight I’d acquire would be so specific.

  Logan’s counterpart handed over an envelope. Logan opened it and counted the cash. Logan then slipped something into the other guy’s pocket. They bumped fists and parted ways. My mind started wandering, which is never good for anyone.

  PART II

  APPEALS

  THE BIG BLONDE

  I didn’t want to investigate David and the big blonde, I swear. Sure, I wasn’t above spying on family members, but I saw a distinction between my underage sister, who could have been associating with a dangerous element, and snooping around behind the back of my perfectly respectable brother—whose back, I should mention, I had snooped behind and come up empty. If it were up to me, I would have liked to have shown David that people can change by doing nothing and letting this big-blonde business work itself out on its own.

  Unfortunately, I had a blackmailing mother on my hands, and the mound of dirt she had on me could not be swept under any carpet I’ve ever seen. I suppose the honest thing to do would have been to come clean and erase her tool of manipulation, but after sixteen years I simply did not want the Prom Night episode to see the light of day.

  And so I followed Mom’s ord
ers. Since I was banned from the office and I had already inadvertently (yes, that’s what I call inadvertent) acquired some kind of dirt on one family member, I decided to keep that the theme of the day and deal with the David issue, which I figured was probably not an issue at all.

  • • •

  At two P.M. on a sunny Wednesday afternoon, I parked a few blocks from David’s residence and pulled out my laptop, mooching off his neighbor’s wireless. I forwarded the e-mail Robbie sent me about gathering e-mail headers on to Len and Christopher and hoped that one of them would see to it that the request was handled.

  Then I decided that I had to take more control over my not-so-personal life. I found a website called www.litidate.com, which looked promising. It contained pictures and detailed profiles, and the members’ bar memberships were verified in case your mother thought you were pulling some kind of faux-lawyer con. Besides, at least with these guys I could pick the ones I was sure wouldn’t want a second date with me. Forty-five minutes later, just as I’d found a few promising candidates, David exited his residence and drove two miles up California, parked on the street, and entered an office building on the corner of Sacramento and Locust.

  I parked my car, entered the building, and was delighted to find that there was a security checkpoint and a sign-in form. I saw my brother’s name and the associated suite number. I signed myself in and took the elevator to the fourth floor. When the elevator doors opened, I cautiously moved along the hallway until I reached Suite 405 and then I read the sign on the door:

  Sharon Tudor, Therapist

  As usual, David’s intrigue was hardly intrigue at all, and if the big blonde was David’s therapist, then maybe I could put my mother at ease and spare David any further meddling. I exited the building and, on my way to my car, spotted Maggie entering the same office building. Huh. This made things more interesting/worrisome, but still, isn’t seeking therapy on your own, without an order by the court, simply a sign of good sense?

  I grabbed my laptop from the trunk of my car and slipped into a coffee shop with Wi-Fi. After caffeinating myself, I searched for Sharon Tudor and found her full profile on her business website. She was definitely the blonde. She was also something else. Something that made me want to have a drink, a real drink, that very instant.

  I found a bar nearby, ordered a house bourbon, and called Morty. I had a feeling he would be around.

  Usually when I phone people, I receive a variety of initial responses, which generally fall into the following categories:

  “What do you want, Izzy?”

  “You again?”

  “Why are you calling me this late?”

  “Speak.”

  “Can you call back later?”

  “This is bad news, isn’t it?”

  “How did you get my number?”

  You get the idea. In contrast, when I call Morty, his replies fall into the following general categories:

  “Izzele, thank God you called. I’m bored out of my mind.”

  “Izzele, talk to me about anything but your ailing health and I’m all ears.”

  “Izzele, get on a plane and get me outta here!”

  Today’s greeting was more subtle, but still, it hit the spot.

  Phone call from the edge #19

  [Transcript reads as follows:]

  MORTY: Izzele, tell me everything that’s new.

  ME: I have some information and I don’t know what to do with it.

  MORTY: I’m all ears.

  ME: You are, aren’t you?1

  [Dead silence.]

  MORTY: Did you call to try out your Don Rickles impression, or are you interested in kibitzing with an old friend?

  ME: The other thing.

  MORTY: Say it.

  ME: It’s not a word that rolls off my tongue.

  MORTY: Say it anyway.

  ME: Kibitz. I called to kibitz.

  MORTY: Thank you. Now go on.

  ME: I think my sister is dating a drug dealer.

  MORTY: Oy gevalt. Your poor mother.

  ME: Let’s not jump to conclusions yet.

  MORTY: You just did.

  ME: He could be selling term papers or chemistry test answers for all I know.

  MORTY: [sarcastically] And that would be a blessing. He sounds like a thug.

  ME: He’s something. I don’t know if “thug” is the word. I have to investigate.

  MORTY: How’s the Irish guy?

  ME: Nice leap, Morty. We’re talking about thugs and you bring up my boyfriend. He’s an honest businessman, that’s what he is.

  MORTY: There was a lull in the conversation; I switched topics, that’s all.

  ME: There was no lull.

  MORTY: There was most definitely a lull.

  [Awkward silence. You could call it a lull.]

  MORTY: You’ve got more in that muddled head of yours, Izzele. Spill it.

  ME: Here’s my real problem. My mother saw a blond woman exiting my brother’s house one day. We brokered a deal. I can pick 50 percent of my lawyer dates if I find out who the blonde is. Well, I found out who the blonde is.

  [Long pause as I ask myself why I’m talking about this with an eighty-five-year-old man.]

  MORTY: [impatiently] So who is she?

  ME: [mumbled] She’s a sex therapist.

  MORTY: A what?

  ME: A sex therapist.

  MORTY: I still didn’t get that.

  ME: A sex therapist!!

  MORTY: Is that like a hooker?

  ME: NO!

  MORTY: It sounds like a fancy name for a hooker.

  ME: No, no, no. She’s like a psychologist, only she specializes in sex stuff.

  MORTY: Interesting.

  [Long pause. Absolutely a lull.]

  ME: I don’t want to have this information.

  MORTY: Neither do I.

  ME: And I don’t want my mother to have this information. It’s none of her business and David wouldn’t want her to know either.

  MORTY: So don’t tell her.

  ME: She explicitly asked me to gather this information for her. I have to return to her with some information or she won’t leave me alone. And, honestly, I can’t go out with two of her lawyers a month. It’s way too much.

  MORTY: You’re a grown woman, Izzele. Why can’t you simply say no to your mother?

  ME: I just can’t.

  MORTY: That doesn’t sound like you. You have a mind of your own and follow it whether it makes good sense or not.

  ME: I just can’t cross her this time.

  MORTY: You did something, didn’t you?

  ME: No. It’s not that.

  MORTY: What did you do? Tell me.

  ME: My battery’s dying. I’ll call you later.

  MORTY: I wasn’t born yesterday, Izzele.

  ME: Don’t I know it.

  THE ENGLE PROBLEM

  I put on a black wig in the style of a sharp bob and a tan trench coat and parked two blocks away from Rae’s school. I phoned my sister from the car and told her that something had come up and she’d have to find another ride. I suggested David, since I knew his counseling session would be over. I then waited in my car across the street from her school and watched the entrance/exit.

  When I caught sight of Logan Engle, I exited my vehicle and followed him on foot. He circled the school and took his post by the parking lot gate. A younger male student approached him and I observed yet another exchange of goods. Now I only had to find out what his product was.

  I approached quickly and quietly. I wore sneakers, not boots, which would have worked much better with this outfit but don’t contribute to stealth.

  “What are you selling?” I asked.

  “What are you selling?” he asked, all cocky and young and thinking that the world was at his fingertips, not knowing the frustration and heartache that would eventually beset him. I know I’m being dramatic. But Logan looked to me like the kind of guy who peaks in high school.

  I pulled forty dollars fro
m my pocket.

  “What will this buy me?”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “Do I look like a cop?”

  “You look like a woman who needs a hairdresser.”

  “Is my wig crooked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, I was in the neighborhood. I’ve spent the day spying on my cheating ex. I see you in your preppy uniform, swapping goods with a kid, and I think, you’re not smart enough to be selling term papers, so I draw a conclusion, because I’m good at drawing conclusions. You’re selling weed and I could use some weed right now. I got forty bucks. What will it get me?”

  I shoved the bills into Logan’s pocket. The kid swept the street with his eyes and handed me a baggy. Bingo. Now that I knew what I was dealing with, so to speak, I got to the bottom of things.

  “You know someone named Rae Spellman?” I asked.

  “Who are you?” he said, his color fading from fear.

  To be honest, I was enjoying myself.

  “Here’s all you need to know,” I said. “I’m not a snitch. It’s not my style. But I want to know who Rae Spellman is to you.”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Enough with the questions. Start spilling.”

  “She’s no one. She’s just a thorn in my side.”

  “She’s not your girlfriend?”

  “No way. Talk about high maintenance. I already have to wear this stupid shirt all the time.”

  Logan lifted up his sweater and revealed a FREE SCHMIDT! T-shirt underneath.

  “So why are you always driving her places?”

  “Because I have to!” Logan said, sounding desperate.

  “Why?”

  “Because she knows about my side business. She’s holding it over my head.”

  “She’s blackmailing you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you stoned when you drive her?”

  “Nah. I never touch the stuff. It makes me paranoid.”

  “One more question: Does she ever take the bus?”

  “I don’t think so. I get the feeling something bad happened to her one time.”

  “You know what?”

  “Nah.”