Authors: Lisa Lutz
“I do,” Dad replied, making real eye contact for the first time all lunch, “but it’s even more bizarre that you’re doing it.”
“Excuse me?”
“You could say no,” Dad replied. “That’s not a word you’re unfamiliar with. Sometimes I think it was the only thing that came out of your mouth for fifteen years.”
“You know what happens when you cross Mom,” I replied.
“I do,” said Dad. “But how bad can it be? You live in your own apartment, have your own life, she can’t ground you, take away bar privileges, dock your pay. I promise that. So why are you doing it?”
Dad made an excellent point. A point I wasn’t prepared to answer. I had to play it cool.
“She has her ways,” I answered and then picked up the check and pretended to be calculating the tip, like someone who has never calculated a tip before. I even used my fingers for show.
My dad rolled his eyes and looked at me with concern and a bit of embarrassment, I think.
“Just double the tax, Isabel,” Dad mumbled.
“Really?” I said. “Is that how it’s done?”
After I paid the check, Dad stared at the table for a minute as if he were trying out some words of wisdom in his head.
“Don’t be too hard on your mother with the dating thing.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“She worries it’s her fault.”
“What’s her fault?”
“How do I phrase this?” Dad said, consulting the ceiling.
“Just spit it out.”
“She thinks your trouble with men is her doing. She wanted her girls to be strong. She thinks maybe she took it too far.”
“Oh my god. She just wants to take credit for everything, doesn’t she?” I said, trying to lighten things up.
I’d asked my dad to lunch to pump him for information, not to have a serious conversation. I was hoping the moment would pass.
“Dad, I’m okay. You need to stop worrying.”
The moment didn’t pass. Dad stared down at the table, afraid to make eye contact.
“Isabel, have you ever thought about going back to therapy, just to check in on things and stuff?”
Dead silence. How did I answer this question?
“I’m going to let you in on a secret, Dad. I never quit therapy. I still see Dr. Rush once a week.”
1
For once, Dad was utterly speechless and didn’t try to fill the void with sentimental aphorisms. He smiled and patted me on the head and said, “That’s my girl.”
As Dad and I strolled back to the Spellman office/homestead, we passed a newsstand. Dad stopped in his tracks and stared at the women’s section of the magazine rack. I figured it was a passing glance, but he stayed put. I slid next to him and tried to follow his eye line.
“Do you want to make him wild in bed or get rid of cellulite for good?” I asked.
Dad grabbed a piece of the gender-specific propaganda off the rack and paid the newsagent. Once the exchange was complete, Dad continued on his way. I followed.
“My gift to you,” Dad said with a wicked smirk on his face.
I pulled the magazine out of the paper bag and read the cover blurbs, hunting for the point of this offering.
Are you a shoe addict? Take the quiz
White lies: Certain truths should not be told
And finally, the eureka moment:
The Dating Bible: Ten things you shouldn’t do on a first date
“That is so sweet,” I said as I slid the magazine back in the bag.
“You probably don’t have to do all ten,” Dad replied.
Back at the office, I authored a new rule.
#33—Communication only by instant message this afternoon
I typed the following:
Me: David is fine. The big blonde is a headhunter he was in talks with.
Mom: You sure?
Me: Positive.
Mom: Thank you.
Me: I’m not doing any more dirty work for you. Got it?
Mom: Don’t forget, you have a date tomorrow at eight
P.M.
Drinks at One Market with a James Fitzgerald. He’s blond and will wear a red handkerchief. Err on the conservative side.
Me: Don’t worry. I’ll err as usual.
Mom: Stop that.
M
y alarm clock shoved me out of bed and growled, “Bloody ’ell, wake up, Isabel!” Connor was already roused by the digital version of himself, which had buzzed rudely at five
A.M.
sharp. I had managed to ignore the first wake-up call since I was in deep REM sleep. However, he had only just gone to bed a few hours back and apparently doesn’t sleep through anything above fifty decibels. Me, under the perfect set of circumstances, I can max out around eighty.
To avoid further agitating the already agitated and sleep-deprived Ex #12, I dressed quickly and inelegantly and slipped into the kitchen to make coffee. Only, the bag that holds the coffee was empty and after an extended hunt for more of the same, I came up short. I returned to the bedroom and tapped the heel of the sleep-deprived bed-grouch and demanded to know where he hid my coffee.
He muttered something inaudible, which I concluded meant that we had run out and he had not replenished our supply.
I controlled the temper tantrum that would have usually surfaced and said with calm rationality, “You are the worst boyfriend in the history of the world.”
Ex #12 lifted his head, smiled sheepishly, and said, “An’ yoo arr even worse than that. There’s plenty of coffee to be had outside these doors.”
“Satan,” was my clever reply.
“Will I see ya later?” Connor asked, still thick with a groggy Irish slur.
“No, I have a date tonight.”
“Right. Forgot. Now give us a kiss and get the ’ell outta here so I can sleep. I have nightmares to get back ta.”
I kissed Connor on the lips. His breath still stank of whiskey. I flicked him on the forehead to remind him that not replenishing the coffee supply is a punishable offense and then I did as I was told. I got the hell out of there.
The notion that coffee can be had anywhere, anytime is a patent untruth. Most decent coffee shops don’t open until six
A.M.
I planned to be at my post before then, so I traveled the two miles to my parents’ house, entered the premises through the office window (habit), and quietly started the coffee brewing.
The peaceful quiet of dawn was broken by my sister’s whine.
“Why aren’t you wearing your shirt?” Rae asked, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, sporting pajamas and tangled bed hair.
I looked down at the wrinkled blue Oxford that I’d pulled from the pitch-dark closet. I thought there was a chance I could lie my way out of the conflict, so I said, “It’s under my shirt.”
“Prove it,” Rae replied, as I knew she would, so it was silly to even try.
“I forgot, okay. It’s early. I don’t even know what you’re doing up.”
“Finishing an English paper. I think I have an extra shirt lying around,” Rae said. “I’ll get it for you.”
Rae disappeared while I poured a travel mug of coffee. When my sister returned, she handed me the new Spellman uniform—a blue T-shirt with yellow felt letters unevenly ironed on the front.
Free Schmidt!
I proceeded to unbutton my shirt, planning to layer the uniform under my usual wrinkled attire, but Rae would have none of it.
“Put it on
over
your shirt,” Rae said in a whiny, demanding tone.
“No,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like people staring at my boobs all day.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” Rae replied.
“That’s because you’re a walking billboard,” I replied.
Rae shook her head with a dramatic sense of disappointment and said, “A man spends fifteen years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit and you’re worried about people staring at your chest?”
There was no point in continuing the conversation. I threw the
FREE SCHMIDT!
shirt over my long-sleeved button-down and exited the house with my mug of coffee.
After six weeks of surveilling Dr. Hurtt and Harkey, all I had was a subject they had in common: Marco Pileggi, patient of Dr. Hurtt’s and subject of Mr. Harkey’s insurance investigation. Without seeing the surveillance reports themselves (which wouldn’t become available unless there was a trial) I couldn’t be certain that anything untoward was happening with the investigation. Marco Pileggi appeared legitimately injured. He wore his neck brace at all times and didn’t do things like climb ladders, hang Christmas lights, or prowl the Tenderloin for hookers. If Marco wasn’t doing anything wrong then Harkey could hardly doctor a report saying otherwise. I was staring at the deadest of dead ends and even at that very moment I wasn’t ready to admit it.
My cell phone rang at six fifteen
A.M
., just as I was settling into reading the paper, drinking my coffee, and hoping that Harkey’s men would lead me in the direction of a serious violation of investigative codes.
The number was listed as private.
“Hello?”
“I’m watching you, Isabel.”
It was Harkey’s voice; I would recognize that counterfeit growl anywhere.
“What a coincidence; I’m watching you too, or more specifically, I’m watching Jim Atherton watching Marco Pileggi. Another insurance case, I assume.”
“What do you think you’re going to find?”
“With a PI as crooked as you, the sky’s the limit.”
“I’m careful, Isabel.”
“You didn’t used to be.”
“And yet you couldn’t prove anything.”
“Not yet.”
“You shouldn’t have started this, Isabel.”
“I didn’t start it; you struck first, actually.”
“Like I said before. I had nothing to do with that audit.”
“I just hope all
your
books are in order.”
“You should stop worrying about me, Isabel, and clean your own house. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your parents, would you?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. They’re used to it. Besides, eliminating the competition would be great for business.”
“I thought you’d be a more worthy adversary.”
“What makes you think I’m not?”
“There’s trouble under your nose and you don’t even see it.”
“An empty threat, I think.”
“You’re wasting your time, sweetheart.”
“Maybe. But I’m young. I’ve got more time to waste than you.”
I liked my exit line. It left my threat in the air. But the fact of the matter was this investigation was a total waste of time. If I wanted to find Harkey’s Achilles, I’d have to attack from another angle.
Before my lawyer date that night, I decided to check in on one of my paying cases and see whether any progress had been made. I phoned the Winslow home and caught Len breathless and impatient.
“Len, it’s Isabel.”
“Darling, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“This won’t take long.”
“We’re already late for the theater,” Len replied.
“The theater?”
“Yes. Mr. Winslow and I are on our way to see Shaw tonight and we’re already late.”
“Who’s Shaw?”
“George Bernard Shaw, Isabel. We have orchestra seats for
Don Juan in Hell.
”
“Is that a play?”
“I cannot
believe
you just asked that question,” Len said in the most condescending tone.
“Remember, that accent isn’t real.”
“We have fifteen minutes to get across town, Isabel.”
“Len, have you made any progress on this investigation?”
“We’ll chat tomorrow, darling. And I’ll tell you all about the play.”
“Can’t wait,” I said, but Len had already disconnected the call.
I thought it was safe to assume that no progress had been made.
JAMES FITZGERALD
[Partial transcript reads as follows:]
JAMES
: So, Isabel, what do you like to do for fun?
ISABEL
: Shopping is my first love.
*1
JAMES
: I see.
ISABEL
: What about you?
JAMES
: In the winter I like to ski. Are you into any snow sports?
ISABEL
: No, but I think some of the outfits are really cute.
JAMES
: You’re a PI, I hear.
ISABEL
: And you’re a lawyer. I love lawyers.
JAMES
: Why exactly?
ISABEL
: They’ve come in handy a few times.
JAMES
: Oh.
ISABEL
: And they make tons of money.
*
JAMES
: Not all of us.
ISABEL
: But you do all right, don’t you?
JAMES
: Uh, I guess so.
ISABEL
: Whew. So, are you a player or do you want to get married and have kids?*
JAMES
: Eventually, I’d like those things.
ISABEL
: How many kids do you want?*
JAMES
: I don’t know. Not too many.
ISABEL
: I want four. One girl. One boy. And a pair of twins. Is that redundant? A pair of twins?
JAMES
: Yes.
ISABEL
: Oh well, the English language is so not my thing.
JAMES
: Waiter, can I get another drink?
WAITER
: And for the lady? Are you finished with your vodka tonic?
ISABEL
: Yes, keep ’em coming.
2
[Long, awkward silence while I work on a new line of defense.]
ISABEL
: So where did you go to school?
JAMES
: Princeton.
ISABEL
: Oh, that’s one of the good ones, isn’t it?
JAMES
: How about you?
ISABEL
: Garfield High and then I did some time at community college. And then I actually did some time.
JAMES
: Excuse me?
ISABEL
: That was a joke. But a true one.
JAMES
: What are your long-term goals?