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."

"Thought so."

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 some¬where 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!"

Wednesday

My dad walked into the bar. Albert Spellman 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."

"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. 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, 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? How my health might be improved? Five months ago, when you took this 'temporary' 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 con¬tact, 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."

Friday

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.

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 six¬teen (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 succeeded. She checked him out of the corner of her eye, wait¬ing 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 sug¬gested 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.
Copyright 2009 by Spellman Enterprises, Inc.