The Spellmans Strike Again (20 page)

“We had a Mel Brooks marathon,” my mother answered, a little too quickly.
“Blazing Saddles, High Anxiety,
and
Young Frankenstein.”

“Frahnkenshteen,” my father said, correcting her per Gene Wilder’s pronunciation. I guess you have to have seen it to understand. If you haven’t seen it, then you should put down this document immediately and run, not walk, to your local video store. You should also be ashamed of yourself, if you are over the age of eighteen.

Here’s the problem with my parents’ collective claim to have watched movies all day: I couldn’t quiz them on the films since we’d all seen them at least five to ten times each. There was a deeper lie embedded in there somewhere, I just couldn’t figure out what.

“There are a few holes in your story,” I said.

“There were holes in every story you told from age nine to nineteen,” Mom replied. “Why don’t you just worry about your own work, and Dad and I will keep our marriage in order?”

“Right,” I replied, and focused my attention back on my work.

In the afternoon, when I was grabbing a snack from the kitchen, I noticed the light fixture was missing from the ceiling. This left a raw unfiltered light that was headache inducing. The fixture itself was nowhere to be seen.

When Rae arrived home from school, I asked her where the light fixture had gone.

“How should I know?” Rae replied.

I followed her into the Spellman offices, where Mom was giving Dad a back rub.

“Feel any better?” Mom asked.

“Thanks, dear,” Dad replied.

Rae glared at my parents and in complete silence dictated a new rule.

Rule #44—No more PDA

Then she departed without another word. My mother approached the whiteboard and vetoed the rule, followed by my father.

While I’m no fan of watching my parents grope each other, I had other topics on my mind.

“Why do things keep disappearing from the house?”

“What are you talking about, sweetie?” Mom asked.

“There was the towel rod that David noticed, then the doorknob the other day, and now the light fixture in the kitchen is gone. It’s kind of blinding in there.”

“I was dusting and it broke,” Mom casually replied.

“Since when do you dust?” I asked.

“It happens on occasion,” Mom replied.

“Okay, if that’s your story,” I said, and that was the end of the conversation for the time being. However, I decided then and there that these Lost Wednesdays needed some looking into.

In the early evening I pulled the bags of screenplay fluff into the basement and started the long and miserable process of continuing the assembly of the confetti puzzle. Little progress was made in deciphering the text, but based on the three-hole-punch edges and the blank spaces on the sheets, the documents were almost certainly a screenplay. After two hours of time wasting, I decided there might be another way to figure out the mystery of Pratt.

I parked outside his residence for two hours. He neither came nor went. I made use of the hours by studying astrological charts,
²
but then it occurred to me that my arrests and court-ordered therapy were the consequences of my taking a case too far—often a case that wasn’t even mine. I was hired to pull Shana’s trash. Why was I wasting hours of my own time trying to understand a client’s motivation? I returned to the office and generated Pratt’s bill. I decided that if he paid it, there was no problem. If a man wants to throw away his parents’ hard-earned money, what’s it to me?

DEAD ENDS AND
NEW BEGINNINGS

Chelsea, my free actress, met me for coffee thirty minutes after her first (and only) meeting with Harkey. The plan was for Chelsea to pretend she had an ex-boyfriend who owed her three thousand dollars in rent from when they’d lived together. After Harkey informed her of her legal options—namely, small-claims court—Chelsea was supposed to bat her eyelashes and ask if there was another way, because she was pretty sure that if she served her ex notice of any sort, he would skip town. If Harkey took the bait, he might suggest that he (or one of his guys) pay a visit to the deadbeat ex and maybe pretend to be a cop and maybe shake him down and scare him into paying up. Such behavior would at the very least be worthy of an investigation from the California Bureau of Consumer Affairs. PIs are forbidden to pretend to be persons of authority. We even had an actor lined up to play the lame ex, but it never came to that. Harkey told Chelsea that her only option was within the legal system. She cried and pleaded. I would have recorded the proceedings if it weren’t illegal and I was dealing with an unknown entity (i.e., an actor), so I can’t verify the quality of her performance. My uneducated opinion is that it probably sucked.

The last thing Harkey said to Chelsea as she was exiting his office: “Say hi to Ms. Spellman for me.”

•   •   •

I decided to drown my sorrows and seek some comfort from my own ex. Specifically, Ex #12. It took only a half a pint to tell him the whole story, and I was drinking fast.

“That’s all?” he said.

“I could add some color to it, if you’re looking for more information. For instance, Chelsea was wearing a pink sweater and skinny jeans.”

“So are ya done now?”

“Excuse me?”

“With this whole Harkey mess. Is it over?”

“I was thinking I just needed a better actor. I went for the looks instead of talent, which is a common mistake it seems.”

“Seriously?” Connor said, looking downright grumpy.

“Have you been to the movies lately?” I asked.

“I’m talking about Harkey,” he said.

“Well, I don’t think giving up is the answer. If I don’t take him down, who will?”

“Retirement or death,” Connor replied.

My cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Morty here. I have news. Big news. The kind of news you might want to be sitting down for.”

“Hang on a second.”

I went into Connor’s office to find a comfortable chair and avoid the distraction of the jukebox.

“What is it?”

“Gabe and the shiksa are engaged.”

“Then it’s time you started calling her Petra.”

“If that isn’t a goy name, I don’t know what is.”

“Do you really think an engagement is sitting-down news? I think the sitting-down imperative should be limited to a more shocking headline.”

“I’m old. I like most of my news sitting down.”

I did then sit down, for the record. “Well, it is newsworthy. I’ll give you that. Although it’s kind of weird hearing it from you first, Morty. Don’t you think she should have called me?”

“I got off the phone with Gabe only five minutes ago. She’ll probably call you any second now.”

As it turned out, my call-waiting buzzed through and it was Petra’s line.

“That’s her,” I said.

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later. Do me a favor, Izzele, eat an apple today.”

“Why?”

“It’s never too early to think about your health.”

I clicked over to the other line.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“I know. I have caller ID.”

“I know you know. That’s why I said ‘It’s me’ rather than my name.”

“What’s up?” I asked. “It’s been a while.”

“It certainly has,” Petra replied. “Your hair must look like shit.”
¹

“It doesn’t look great.”

“You should make an appointment.”

“I will.”

“What are you doing right now?”

“Uh, nothing, come to think of it.”

“I’ll see you in a half hour,” she said.

On my way out of the bar, Connor said, “Where are ya going now?”

“Haircut,” I replied.

“Well, don’ cut too much off. I like it long.”

His instruction, for obvious reasons, didn’t sit right with me. I approached the bar and leaned in so Connor would have to mirror my move. Then I could whisper.

“It’s my hair, if you haven’t noticed. I’ll do whatever I want with it.”

As I turned to walk away, Connor said in his lightest leprechaun voice, “I’ll see ya later, gorgeous.”

“Don’t wait up!” I shouted over my shoulder. “I have a date tonight.”

That would have been a superb exit line if Ex #12 weren’t a bartender who frequently returns home just before dawn. No matter how long the date lasted, I’d still be in bed before him.

Connor laughed mockingly and said, “Have a lovely time.”

An hour later, as Petra was hacking away at my hair, she finally broke the news to me.

“Gabe and I are engaged.”

“Finally,” I said.

“We’ve only been dating six months.”

“The ‘finally’ was in reference to giving me the news, not the length of your courtship.”

“You knew?”

“Morty called me right before you.”

“Wow. You and the old guy are tight.”

“I guess so.”

“Are you sure you want it this short?”

“I’m making a statement,” I replied.

Petra kept cutting and then there was a lull. This happens when you haven’t seen someone in a few months. History counts for only so much. A lull can happen with anyone.

“You must be happy that they’re moving back,” Petra said.

“Who?” I asked.

“Morty and Ruth.”

“They’re moving back?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Petra asked.

“No,” I replied, trying to figure out what scam Morty pulled to make that happen.

“I just heard the news, so it’s new. I’m sure he’ll tell you any day now.”

“Right,” I said.

Then Petra started blow-drying my hair, which dried up the conversation.

After being coiffed I returned to my car and tried to mess up my hair enough so that I resembled myself. Then I called Morty, hoping for the scoop. But the call went straight to voice mail. Then I phoned Henry to see if he’d gotten those fingerprint results back. Voice mail again. I decided to drive home and change for my lawyer date that night. While struggling with the decision between donning a conservative skirt and sweater set or that potentially perilous wraparound dress, I phoned David for a pep talk. The lawyer date was putting me in a bad mood and I needed a distraction.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Try saying ‘hello’ first and then maybe I’ll answer the question,” David replied.

“Sorry. I’ve been working on my pleasantries.”

“Work harder.”

“So how have you been?”

“Good. And you?”

“Fine. I got a haircut today. Petra’s engaged. Rumor has it Morty is moving back to the city.”

“That was fast,” David casually replied.

“Which of the above are you referring to?”

David thought about it. “All three, I guess.”

“Do you have an opinion on any of them?”

“Not that I feel like sharing.”

“Come to think of it, you rarely feel like sharing.”

“Are you calling for a reason,” David asked, “or is this just one of those ‘Hey, how are you doing?’ calls?”

“So, what are you doing?” I asked again, thinking enough time had passed.

“Reading.”

“What?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Is it porn? Because if it is, you shouldn’t say ‘reading.’ I think ‘looking’ would be the more appropriate term.”

“It’s not porn.”

“Hmmm. I can’t imagine why you’d want to keep it secret. Is it one of those
Pot Roast for the Soul
books?”

“No.”

“Would you find it in the self-help aisle of your local bookstore?”

“This conversation is nearing its end,” David said.

“I can sense that you would like me to switch topics, so I’m going to, because I’m evolving into the kind of person who switches topics when she senses the cue.”

“Well done.”

“Thank you,” I replied, glad for some validation.

“You know that evolution is a constant process, right? Improving yourself doesn’t end when you’ve stopped getting arrested regularly.”

“Are you always evolving?” I asked.

“I’d like to think so,” David replied.

“How does that work, exactly?” I inquired, not to mock, but out of genuine curiosity.

“It’s different for everyone,” David replied.

“But since we’re related, maybe your method could work on me.”

David sighed extra hard, which meant he was done talking with me on this topic. If I wanted to see how David was evolving, or whatever it was he was doing with all his free time, I would have to find another way to unearth that mystery. For now, I changed the subject.

“How’s Maggie?” I asked.

“That was a very clumsy transition,” David replied.

“I’m also working on my transitions.”

“Good.”

“So how is Maggie?”

“She’s fine.”

“She’s not under any unnecessary stress?”

“No more than usual.”

“Have you noticed any changes in her personality?”

“Why are you asking?”

“I thought maybe Rae or Mom or somebody else was stressing her out.”

“Has she seemed stressed to you?” David asked.

“No,” I said. And that was the truth.

“I asked her to move in with me. Could that be causing her stress?”

This is when I realized I’d blown it. I had no idea what was causing Maggie stress, but now I was convincing my brother that he was the source of it.

“I’m sure that’s not the reason,” I said.

“Maybe she’s just not prepared for all this,” David said.

“You mean prepared for our family?”

“Yes.”

“I see,” I replied. Then I felt kind of bad. Like David’s relationship might run more smoothly if he and Maggie didn’t have all of us to contend with. “Forget I asked the question,” I said. “I’m sure everything is fine and if she
is
stressed, I assure you it is Rae’s fault.”

I’ve discovered that Rae is the best diagnosis for all stress-related conditions.

“You’re probably right,” David agreed.

There was a lull and then David surprised me with a question of his own.

“And how are things with you and Connor?”

“Who?” I asked.

“You’re hilarious,” he replied without conviction.