Authors: Lisa Lutz
T
hat same night, when I finally had David’s place to myself, I poured myself a drink from the bottle of Jack Daniel’s with my name on it and roamed the sprawling residence, searching for either more incriminating evidence or at least something that could explain the gun.
After an hour and a half, all I’d found was a snack-sized bag of M&M’s in the back of a file cabinet and an unopened box of Red Vines in the linen closet. I thought about the “Do NOT” list, especially its “Do not sleep in my bed” dictum, and decided to refocus my investigative energies on the bedroom. I had already checked between the mattress and the box spring, rummaged through the storage bins on the top shelf of his closet, searched for false bottoms in his dresser drawers, and even scanned the floor for loose boards. Nothing.
I was about to give up on the bedroom when I grabbed a flashlight and crawled under the bed. There was nothing on the floor, but when I twisted onto my back I found a notebook stuck in the slats of the bed frame.
I’ll be honest: I was hoping for something juicy like a diary, although in retrospect the idea of my brother having a diary is rather disturbing, so I guess in the end it was a good thing. Besides, even I would be racked with guilt over reading someone’s diary. Not that I wouldn’t do it, but I would certainly feel bad about it.
What I found was a notebook resembling a ledger. Inside I found something unexpected. It was a handwritten spreadsheet of dates, sporting events, point spreads, bets, wins, and losses. It was in my brother’s handwriting and there was no way to see this notebook as anything but a gambler’s record. But, obviously, the gambler was my brother, and based on the record of wins and losses, he was losing big.
I spent the rest of the evening trying to contemplate a scenario that didn’t paint my brother as a compulsive gambler. The following morning I decided to give myself a break from the David investigation and involve myself in a much more enjoyable activity.
A
s you may have gathered, it was my plan to break every rule on David’s “Do NOT” list. The party was the one rule I was most looking forward to breaking. However, good parties usually involve a celebratory occasion, and since birthdays, New Year’s, and every other booze-oriented holiday were either long past or far away, I had to arrive at an altogether different festive theme. And then it occurred to me—a theme more festive than any other I could think of: the end of my court-ordered therapy.
I planned the party on a Friday morning. The modest guest list included the following individuals: Petra, Morty, Gabe, Daniel (Ex-boyfriend #9, the dentist) and his wife, Len and Christopher, Milo, Mom, Dad, and Rae. My paltry list of invitees confirmed a long-standing opinion of my brother’s—I don’t have enough friends my own age.
As if to confirm that fact, I then phoned Henry (age forty-five) to see if he and Maggie wanted to attend. The conversation went like this:
ISABEL:
I’m having a party on Sunday to celebrate the end of my therapy. Want to come?
HENRY:
Will Rae be there?
ISABEL:
Yes.
HENRY:
I respectfully decline.
ISABEL:
She’ll behave, I promise.
HENRY:
You can’t promise that.
ISABEL:
I’d be happy to uninvite her.
HENRY:
I’ll think about it.
ISABEL:
Bring Maggie, of course.
HENRY:
She’s on a camping trip.
ISABEL:
Oh. Good. I mean, not good. But, then you know there won’t be any Maggie-and-Rae conflicts. Okay, bye.
I hung up the phone and reminded myself that I was supposed to look into the credit file breach for Maggie and I had completely forgotten. I wondered what Dr. Ira would say about that. Was I being passive-aggressive? (See, I learned a few things in therapy.) I decided it was best not to bring up any new material for my final session and simply made a mental note to look into the Maggie matter as soon as possible. But first, I had a party to throw.
My best friend, Petra, arrived early with booze and snacks. I promptly marched her up the stairs into the bedroom and then the closet and demanded that she tell me what was amiss.
“Huh?” was her first reply.
I realized that she’d require more information for an informed inspection, so I mentioned my suspicions about David actually being in Europe. “Can you just look through the closet and see whether the right clothes have been taken for a European vacation?”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable being your informant,” Petra replied.
“How about a drink?” I said. “Would that make you more comfortable?”
I think Petra’s own curiosity got the best of her. She gave David’s ward
robe a quick peek. Then she focused on the suits, quickly filing through them.
“His Hugo Boss is here,” she said.
“Intriguing,” I said, although I wasn’t entirely clear on why it was intriguing.
“He wouldn’t go to Italy without that suit,” she said.
“Why?” I replied.
“Because he’s madly in love with it.”
“Creepy,” I said. “Could he be cheating on it with another suit?”
“It’s possible,” she replied. “But unlikely.”
“Do you notice anything else?” I asked, realizing that Petra was itching to get out of the bedroom.
“It looks like some blue jeans are missing and some hiking boots. If that’s all, I need to start making the Magic Punch,”
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Petra said on her way out of the bedroom. I contemplated the missing suit for a few minutes, but then the doorbell rang and I realized that my revelers were going to require some attention.
Like most parties—or at least my memories of them—my End of Court-Ordered Therapy Party is best portrayed as a collage of incongruous moments. Here’s how I remember it, upon reflection:
I.
[Rae, upon passing Gabe in the hallway:]
RAE:
Who are you?
GABE:
Gabe.
RAE:
That means nothing to me.
GABE:
I’m Gabe Schilling, grandson of Mort Schilling.
RAE:
The old guy?
GABE:
Yes.
RAE:
I can see the resemblance.
GABE:
Thanks.
RAE:
You always go to parties with your grandpa?
II.
[As Petra came upon my mother in the kitchen:]
PETRA:
Oh, hi.
MOM:
Hi, Petra. How have you been?
PETRA:
Okay. You?
MOM:
I’m looking for toothpicks. Know where I might find them?
PETRA:
Third drawer on the right.
[Awkward silence.]
III.
DAD:
Tell me the truth.
LEN:
Listen to me carefully. I’m about to tell you something extremely important. Pleats are over. Do not wear pleated pants under any circumstances. Do you understand me?
DAD:
That means I’d have to buy an entirely new wardrobe.
CHRISTOPHER:
Just new pants. The shirt is not so bad.
LEN:
The shirt is okay, but I’d get rid of the shoes.
DAD:
I don’t know if I can do all that.
CHRISTOPHER:
Baby steps. Get rid of the pleated khakis.
LEN:
Deal?
DAD:
Deal.
IV.
RAE:
Why did you invite Daniel?
ISABEL:
Because he’s my friend.
RAE:
You should only have to see a dentist once every six months. They shouldn’t be invited to parties.
ISABEL:
You’re lucky you were invited.
RAE:
I know there are some Red Vines hidden around here somewhere. Have you seen them?
ISABEL:
No.
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Why don’t you just eat the party food?
RAE:
[Some adolescent noise I can’t spell.]
V.
MORTY:
What?
MOM:
Can I take your sweater?
MORTY:
I already had one, thanks. It was delicious.
MOM:
How about I refresh your drink?
MORTY:
No, but I could use another ginger ale.
VI.
GABE:
We should do something sometime.
ISABEL:
That’s so vague.
GABE:
I’ll try to think of something more specific.
ISABEL:
Okay. But it can’t be illegal because I can’t handle any more court-ordered therapy.
GABE:
That certainly narrows down our options.
ISABEL:
Don’t I know it.
VII.
HENRY:
Rae, stop offering me junk food. If I’m hungry, I’ll find something to eat on my own.
RAE:
I’m being hospitable.
HENRY:
Take your hospitality somewhere else.
RAE:
Dude, you need to relax.
HENRY:
How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me “dude”?
RAE:
A couple hundred times and maybe I’ll stop.
VIII.
MILO:
Come on, tell me what’s in the punch.
PETRA:
No.
MILO:
Please.
PETRA:
Never.
IX.
DANIEL:
Very interesting crowd, Isabel.
ISABEL:
Uh, thanks, I guess.
ROSA:
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[to Daniel] Don’t you think Isabel would be perfect for Mark?
DANIEL:
That’s a terrible idea.
ISABEL:
Trust me, it’s a bad idea. But thanks.
ROSA:
[to Daniel] How about Jonah? He’s so sweet.
DANIEL:
I’d like him to stay that way.
ISABEL:
Hey, I’m still here.
DANIEL:
I think a congratulations is in order. Three months of therapy. You must be a new woman.
ISABEL:
No, not so new.
ROSA:
I know! My friend Jack. He’s very cute.
ISABEL:
Excuse me. I need to get some more Magic Punch.
I considered my ECOT
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party a smashing success. By the end of the night, I could almost feel the three-month cloud of therapy giving way to a clear sky. The next day I would say good-bye to Dr. Ira for good and I could barely contain my bliss.
THERAPY SESSION #12
[Partial transcript reads as follows:]
ISABEL:
So this is good-bye.
DR. IRA:
For you and me, it is.
ISABEL:
Of course, just for you and me. Who else would it be good-bye for?
DR. IRA:
There’s something I need to talk to you about.
ISABEL:
Right now you’re wishing I brought in that cake, aren’t you?
DR. IRA:
No, I’m not. Listen, Isabel. There’s a form that I need to fill out for the court, acknowledging that you’ve complied with the terms of your sentencing. I’m having some trouble filling out that form.
ISABEL:
I’d be happy to fill it out for you and you could just sign it.
DR. IRA:
I must admit that I’ve failed you, Isabel.
ISABEL:
Don’t say that, Dr. Ira. I think you’ve done a great job.
DR. IRA:
We haven’t begun to crack the surface of what makes you tick.
ISABEL:
You underestimate yourself, Doc. A crack was made. Maybe even a dent.
DR. IRA:
I don’t believe so.
ISABEL:
Have you been talking to my parents?
DR. IRA:
As I’ve explained to you on numerous occasions, I do not talk about our work here with other people.
ISABEL:
So, you admit work was done.
DR. IRA:
[sigh] Isabel, please, I’m doing this for your own good.
ISABEL:
What
are
you doing, exactly?
DR. IRA:
I’ve arranged with the court for you to continue therapy with another doctor. It’s hard for me to admit this, but I just was not the right therapist for you. My colleague, Dr. Sophia Rush, may be better suited for treating you.
ISABEL:
But I’m done with therapy. According to the court documents, I just had to complete twelve sessions.
DR. IRA:
Not anymore. Now you have another twelve sessions to complete—twenty-four total.
ISABEL:
You can’t be serious.
DR. IRA:
You’ll thank me later.
I
never did thank Dr. Ira. After my unfortunate therapy session, I returned to David’s house, to the aftermath of a party that now seemed to mock me. I collected the errant bottles and cans and dropped them in the recycling bin. I cleaned a few unwashed glasses and dishes and scanned the room for other evidence of merriment. David wouldn’t be home for a week, but his housekeeper was something of a snitch and I’ve learned from experience that she can’t be bought.
As I finished up my strategic cleaning, my cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“I’m bored.”
“Who is this?”
“Izzele, did I ever tell you how annoying that is?”
“Sorry. Hi, Morty.”
“I’m bored. Get me out of here.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t care. Anywhere. Just hurry up.”
Morty is not the easiest octogenarian to entertain. Other than lunch, I have no idea what sort of leisure activity appeals to him. However, the last time I
mentioned a game of shuffleboard at the community center, my aged friend went through the roof, so I opted against anything so geriatric. I decided to kill two birds and bring Morty along on my off-the-books surveillance.
Now would be a good time to tell you about my plan. After I got the feeling from Bob that the surveillance on Linda might be more involved than I previously imagined, I decided to put a tail on Bob to see if he led me to his employer. I planned my next surveillance outing for the following Monday, not knowing at the time that I’d have company. I told Morty I’d pick him up at 11:15, but I couldn’t find my car until 11:35.
Allow me just a moment to enlighten you about the state of parking in San Francisco. There is none. There have been nights I’ve returned home and hunted for close to an hour for a space, only to expand my perimeter to nearly half a mile from my residence. In theory, my parking life should have improved during my stay at David’s place, but since he left his own car in the garage and offered his driveway to a neighbor with long-term houseguests, I was out on the streets. This particular day, I thought I’d parked my car on Eddy between Hyde and Leavenworth. I found my car on Geary and Hyde with absolutely no memory of parking it there.
I honked my horn in front of Morty’s house—there’s no sound reason why Morty deserves door-to-door service. Besides, even after I was twenty minutes late, he made me wait another five minutes.
“I thought I should make a pit stop before we hit the road,” Morty said as he got into the car. “I brought something for us to nosh on, just in case.”
“Buckle up,” I said.
“I invited Gabe. When he heard we were going on a stakeout, he just had to come along. He lives in the Mission, right on the way, so don’t tell me it’s inconvenient.”
“You don’t just invite someone along on surveillance. It’s not like going to a movie.”
Morty paused to think about it. “Actually, it kind of is.”
We drove five minutes to Gabe’s house. Morty rang the buzzer since he had to “use the little boys’ room” again. It occurred to me that the time span for which Morty was capable of sitting in a car without a restroom break was most likely two hours on the outside. The drive to Burlingame was at least a half hour. This surveillance would be short-lived at best. As Gabe and his grandfather returned to my car, I reworked my plan. I made a right turn at Sixteenth and Mission and headed back north.
“Where are we going?” Morty asked, concerned that I had changed my mind.
“I need to get something at my parents’ house.”
“You should have thought of that sooner. Now we’re going out of the way.”
“Morty, when I agreed to bring you along on this surveillance, what was rule number one?”
“No singing?”
“That was rule number four.”
“No dental noises?”
1
“That was number three.”
“Oh yeah. No complaining.”
2
“Thank you. I need to pick up a GPS from my parents’ house, okay? I wasn’t planning on using one, but since you have to pee all the time, we might not be able to stay on the subject for very long.”
During the ten-minute drive to the Spellman residence, Morty regaled Gabe and me with a detailed medical discussion of his prostate issue. The speech ended with the following inspirational wisdom for his grandson: “Kid, don’t think this won’t happen to you. God willing you live to eighty, you have a ninety percent chance of having this very same problem.
Ninety percent.
You can just forget about sleeping through the night.”
Thankfully, I reached my parents’ house and was able to escape the car
and the prostate Q & A that followed the lecture. I double-parked down the block and handed Gabe the keys.
“Why don’t you park in the driveway?” Morty asked. “It’s empty.”
“Because I don’t want my parents to know I was here,” I replied as I exited the vehicle.
I casually slipped along the side of my parents’ residence. Remember, there’s a window there with easy access to the office. I keep a milk crate nearby to ease entry. I stepped on top of the crate and listened for voices. The office appeared empty. I pushed the slightly ajar window up and threw myself over the windowsill. I toppled headfirst into the office a bit more clumsily than usual and banged my elbow on the heater.
My parents own two GPS devices, which come in handy for tracking individuals and picking up a lost tail. They’re less useful if you’re more interested in what the person is doing than where he or she is doing it. I opened the drawer where we house the equipment and noticed that one of the devices was already missing. I took the remaining GPS and hoped that its absence would go unnoticed. I needed the instrument just long enough for Bob Goodman to show me who he was working for.
Thirty minutes later, Morty and I were sitting in my car, parked a block away from Ernie’s house. I had just sent Gabe on a research-and-reconnaissance mission. For reasons I never did establish, he’d brought his skateboard along on the surveillance. This worked in our favor. He skated down the block toward the Black residence, hunting for a car with a man sitting in it. Along the way, Gabe flipped his board a few times.
“It would never work out,” Morty said with an air of authority.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“You know.”
“I really don’t.”
“You and Gabe. It would never work.”
“Where did this come from?”
“First of all, if you two were to last, you’d have to convert.”
“To what?”
“Judaism. And that requires some studying and I know how you hate that.”
“Don’t you think you’re rushing things?”
“Secondly, you still got it bad for that cop.”
“I do not!”
“You should give the cop your number,” Morty said, like he always says.
“He has my number.”
“Give it to him again.”
“That’s enough, Morty.”
Morty, apparently, doesn’t understand the saying “That’s enough.” So he continued: “Thirdly, I don’t know how his mother would feel about him dating a woman with a criminal record. And fourthly—”
Gabe skated back to the car. I had to figure out a threat that would silence the old man. “Unless you want to spend the rest of your days taking the bus or hailing cabs, you will mind your own business,” I said.
“I think he likes you, Izzele, so let him down easy when the time comes,” Morty said, and then pantomimed locking his mouth shut and throwing away the key.
“Did he say something to you?” I whispered right before Gabe got back into the car, but Morty was fully committed to his pantomime act.
Gabe seemed to enjoy his little adventure. He reported the facts like a professional: “A male, anywhere from fifty to fifty-five years old, about thirty pounds overweight, wearing a Raiders cap and driving a late-nineties Nissan with a Raiders bumper sticker, was parked two doors down from the Subject’s residence.”
“Morty, I’m going to need your help. Are you game?”
“What’s my cover?” Morty asked, followed by a wink.
If I had been with Rae, we’d already be on our way home, but I was dealing with amateurs. I made it simple for them: “Morty, you distract the guy in the car while Gabe places the GPS device on the vehicle.”
In response, they came up with an impressive number of questions.
“What does the car look like again?”
“It’s blue. But just look for the car with a man sitting in it.”
“What does the guy look like again?”
“It will be the only blue car with a man sitting in it.”
“How long do I need to stall him for?”
“As long as it takes Gabe to attach the GPS.”
“What if he makes me?”
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“Okay, so you got that out of your system now?”
“Yes, I do. Now what’s my cover?”
“Just pretend you’re old and lost,” I said. “Scratch that. Just pretend you’re lost.”
“Where do I want to go?”
It wasn’t pretty, but Morty and Gabe completed their assignment. Bob, who was never famous for his observational skills, had no idea that a GPS device was now safely attached to his car.
Since the GPS would be doing most of my work for me, the Schilling men and I decided to get lunch. While Morty was in the bathroom, Gabe and I planned our subtle integration of the Florida conversation. The final execution went something like this:
MORTY:
How’s the turkey?
ISABEL:
Dry. Just the way I like it. Is the pastrami to your liking?
MORTY:
Better than ever.
GABE:
Better than, say, Cheerios?
MORTY:
What are you getting at?
GABE:
On average, for how many meals per day are you eating a bowl of Cheerios?
MORTY:
Are you spying on me?
GABE:
I had my eye on your recycling.
MORTY:
Mind your own recycling.
ISABEL:
That can’t be healthy, Morty.
MORTY:
Sometimes I slice up a banana in it.
GABE:
Maybe you could slice up some broccoli, too, or maybe some zucchini.
ISABEL:
Gross. I’m trying to eat here.
GABE:
You can’t tell me you don’t miss Nana.
MORTY:
Of course I miss her.
ISABEL:
You call your grammy “Nana”?
GABE:
You call your nana “Grammy”?
MORTY:
I’m ready for a subject change.
GABE:
Me, too. We know about the deal between you and Nana.
ISABEL:
I thought you were a man of your word.
GABE:
As a lawyer you must realize you are in breach of contract.
MORTY:
That’s enough out of both of you.
ISABEL:
Fifty-five years of marriage and this is how you repay her.
MORTY:
[furious] The discussion is over.
GABE:
No, Grandpa, it isn’t. You’re moving to Florida whether you like it or not.
MORTY:
That’s it.
At this point Morty put his sandwich down, wiped his hands on his napkin, and walked out of the deli. If he were a cartoon character, steam would have been coming out of his ears. A few minutes later Morty returned to the deli and asked Gabe for cab fare. He did it with as much dignity as could be expected under the circumstances. Then he made his final, less dramatic, exit.
After Morty exited the deli on hostile terms, Gabe provided further details on what I discovered was a very firm deal made between Mr. and Mrs. Schilling. As far as I could tell, Morty was indeed in breach of contract.
Gabe and I then worked out a plan to nudge—no, steamroll—the man into moving to Florida. Essentially our strategy was to cut him off. It would be hard, but once Morty realized that he had no one in this city, he would go kicking and screaming.
Then Gabe suggested a movie. We picked up a discarded
SF Weekly
from an empty table and scanned the listings. Gabe pulled a quarter from his pocket and said, “Heads or tails. Winner chooses the movie.” I chose tails and in a typical illustration of my luck, the quarter landed with George Washington faceup.
“Let me get a look at that quarter,” I said, just to be certain. After inspection, I agreed it was a legitimate piece of currency.
Gabe chose a foreign film. I won’t provide the name because I have no particular interest in sharing with you the torment that I endured for the first forty-five minutes. At the forty-seven-minute mark, Gabe turned to me and said, “I’m bored.”
“I’m even more bored,” was my reply.
“Want to make out?” Gabe asked as if he were suggesting another bowl of popcorn.
“Or we could just leave,” I said, intrigued by the offer but too forewarned by my previous conversation with Morty to entertain it in any way.
We left. I’ll tell you more about Gabe later. Now it is time to update you on the Rae/Maggie/Henry Stone situation.