Free Revenge of the Spellmans by Lisa Lutz

mirror for traffic, that the only mystery here was why Linda was friends with Sharon. It was my plan to go home and inform Ernie that he could feel confident in his wife’s faithfulness.
    Linda pulled her Honda Civic north onto Taylor Street. As I veered onto the road after her, I was cut off by a light blue Nissan with darkened windows. Since it’s always wise to keep one car length between you and your subject, I decided against laying into the horn. Linda turned left onto Sacramento, followed by the rude Nissan, followed by me. It looked like Linda was going to continue up to Van Ness Avenue and make a left, heading for the freeway—her usual route. Ernie and I agreed I should save him money at all costs, so I phoned him and asked if his wife was planning on returning home after her lunch. Ernie said Linda had just called him. She was on her way home. Since I was only a few minutes from my own home, I saw no point in continuing the surveillance.
    Linda signaled for a left turn when she reached Van Ness. The Nissan was still right behind her and also signaled. The Nissan had made a U-turn on Taylor Street between California and Sacramento streets. Since California and Sacramento run parallel, there’s no logical reason for the Nissan to have made a U-turn when it could have simply turned right onto California and reached the same destination. As much as I wanted to go home, this surveillance wasn’t over.
    The Nissan stayed on the Honda’s tail from Van Ness and Sacramento all the way to Linda’s residence in Burlingame. Linda never noticed her pursuer, and the pursuer never noticed me. Linda parked in her driveway; the Nissan parked a few doors down. I noted the license plate number on the Nissan and debated whether to phone Ernie or not. I opted against it, since I couldn’t figure out how to ask him, without causing alarm, why someone else might be following his wife.
    I returned to the Spellman household to run the license plate. Slipping past what sounded like a very serious family meeting in the living room, I gathered scraps of the conversation, including “future,” “no choice,” “education,” and “important.” I ignored Rae’s pleading look and entered the office. Family conflicts had eaten up enough of my leisure time.
     
    It took me five minutes to learn that the Honda-tailing Nissan was registered to a Robert Goodman. A common name. It could’ve been anyone, but I felt a tic of familiarity.
    Robert Goodman?
    Bob Goodman?
    Bob Nogoodman, as my Dad used to call him. 2
    Bob, for a sporadic eighteen months, had been a part-time employee of Spellman Investigations. His tenure with the firm ended at least five years back, when my mother discovered that his surveillance reports were purefiction. Unfortunately, Bob had few skills beyond surveillance, or, more specifically, sitting on his ass all night long.
    I made a photocopy of Bob’s personal information from the file and noticed a Post-it in my dad’s handwriting that said, “If he doesn’t answer his cell, try the 500 Club.”
    This might seem a little too easy, but Bob used to consider the 500 Club his own personal living room. I drove straight to Seventeenth and Guerrero, hunted for parking, and found a space adjacent to Dolores Park. When I arrived, Bob was sitting at the bar. I ordered a beer, waited a beat, and then slipped into my ploy.
    “Bob? Is that you?” I asked as I guided my beer and my behind over to the bar stool next to him. Bob couldn’t place me at first, so his preliminary expression was one of suspicion. Bob had never been a friendly man. Did I mention that before? 3 Then Bob remembered me.
    “Oh, hey there, Izzy,” Bob said without a gram of excitement.
    “It’s been a while,” I said.
    “I guess.”
    “How long has it been?”
    “A while,” said Bob, staring at the game on the TV.
    “What have you been up to?” I asked, hoping to draw him into some kind of conversation.
    “Nothing much.”
    “Are you