Now You See It

Chapter 16

There were two marked police cars in front of Ott’s house in Sherman Oaks. Seidman pulled in behind them, and we went to the door where a uniformed cop stood guard.

The uniformed cop was an old-timer named Ginty. Ginty had seen it all, including us. He didn’t have to see Seidman’s badge. We went in and down the hall of posters to the living room.

Rand wasn’t on the floor. He was seated in an armchair, note in one hand, gun in the other. Cawelti and a uniformed cop I didn’t know were standing over him.

Cawelti turned and said,

“You got him,” Cawelti said.

“What are you talking about?” said Seidman.

“Peters,” he said, pointing at me. “He set up this phony suicide to protect his client.”

“Suicide,” Seidman repeated.

“Phony,” said Cawelti, looking at Rand who looked at me. “He couldn’t shoot himself in the heart at that angle. No blood on the floor. Note’s not signed. Phony. What are you doing here?”

“Called in,” Seidman lied. “Desk said you were here. I was having coffee with Peters at a drugstore.”

“Just pals,” said Cawelti with as perfect a smirk as man could create.

“Talking about Phil,” Seidman said.

“Won’t wash,” said Cawelti.

“Calling me a liar?” said Seidman flatly.

Maybe there’d be a shoot-out at the Calvin Ott corral. Cop against cop. With the uniformed guy, me, and Rand as witnesses.

“Bullshit,” said Cawelti.

“You have some evidence or just bluff?” asked Seidman. “Seems to me if Peters did this he’d do a hell of a better job. This looks sloppy, amateur.”

“Then it was Blackstone,” said Cawelti. “Phony note to clear him of a murder he can’t squirm out of.”

“Can’t we all be friends?” I said.

Cawelti glared.

“You aren’t funny, Peters. Never were.”

“You need a sophisticated sense of humor to appreciate my droll wit,” I said.

“Why does Blackstone want me at the Roosevelt tonight?” he asked.

“Come and see,” I said.

“Message said he would show how Ott was murdered,” Cawelti said. “Maybe he can explain about this guy and Cunningham, too.”

“Be there and find out,” I said. “Should be a good show.”

“Let’s go,” said Seidman.

“I’ve got more questions,” said Cawelti.

“I’ve got a good lawyer, remember?” I said.

“You going to hold him for something?” Seidman asked.

Cawelti clenched his fists and looked at the uniformed cop, who was trying to be invisible.

“Okay, then we’re going,” said Seidman.

On the way down the hall I expected Cawelti to call out something, probably an echo of some old movie, like “You haven’t heard the last of this, Peters.” Or, “We’ll see who has the last laugh” or “You’ll never get away with this one.”

He said nothing.

I started thinking of that other man, the one who had been with Rand at Columbia, the one Cornel Wilde said he could identify from his hands, the one who had maybe killed Rand, called me at Rand’s apartment, and moved the body to Ott’s living room. I was wondering who and why.

When I got back to the office, Phil was at his desk.

“Kids okay?” I asked.

He nodded. I told him what had happened and then got on the phone. I couldn’t reach Wilde on the Columbia lot, and I didn’t have a home phone for him. I asked Phil if he could get one for me. He got on the phone and, two minutes later, hung it up and gave me a number.

I called it. A woman answered, and I asked for Wilde, who came on almost immediately.

“This is Peters,” I said.

“I remember you.”

“The man you crossed blades with at Columbia. He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He was murdered,” I said. “Maybe by that guy who was with him when he came to blackmail you. Still think you could identify him from his hands?”

“I’m certain.”

I asked him if he could be at the Roosevelt for Blackstone’s party later. He said he would make it.

I hung up and looked at my brother.

“I think I know who it is,” he said.

“The other guy?”

He told me. I said, “We’ll see in a few hours.”

I started to reach for the telephone to call Gunther, and then it hit me. It hit me violently in my tooth, like the stab of a long needle. I think I made a less than manly sound and closed my eyes.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Phil asked.

My eyes were watering. I reached into my pocket for the oil of cloves and pointed at my mouth. I couldn’t talk. Phil watched as I dabbed the liquid onto my tooth with my finger. The pain was still there, sharp, and getting sharper.

“Toothache?” asked Phil, getting out of his chair.

I nodded.

“Open your mouth,” he said, coming over to me.

I opened my mouth. It wasn’t easy.

“What the hell did you do?” Phil asked.

“Taco,” I managed.

He didn’t ask me to explain.

“You need a dentist,” he said. “I’ve got one.”

I pulled the slip of paper with Frank the pharmacist’s brother’s name and number out of my pocket. My hand was shaking.

Phil dialed his dentist’s number. I groaned.

“When did this happen?” Phil asked.

I pointed over my shoulder to indicate that it had been a while. He’s my brother. He understood. He shook his head.

He held the phone to his ear and waited.

“Is Doctor Clough in? I’ve got an emergency…. Okay.”

He hung up.

“Clough is in Denver.”

I handed him the slip of paper with Frank’s brother’s phone number. He looked at it and dialed.

“Tell him I’m a friend of Frank,” I managed to get out, putting my head forward, wondering if what was left of the bottle of oil of cloves would knock me out if I drank it or if it would just kill me. I would have settled for either one.

Phil dialed and waited.

“Dr. Block?”

Phil listened and then said, “When?”

Phil hung up.

“He’ll be back in a few hours.”

I lifted my head and met Phil’s eyes.

“No,” I said.

“How much does it hurt?”

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.

“You see a choice here?” he asked.

Defenestration seemed a reasonable solution, but I shook my head.

“You want me to help you?” he asked as I started to get up, steadying myself with my hands on the desk.

I shook my head “no” and managed to stagger toward the door. Phil got there first and opened it.

In the hall, I took a step back, but the pain got me. Phil put a hand on my shoulder, guiding me where I didn’t want to go, to the door of Sheldon Minck, the devil’s dentist.

My brother opened the door, and Violet looked up from the telephone. She hung up the phone and said,

“What happened?”

Violet is a dark beauty who regularly took my money on bets I made with her about a variety of sporting events, mostly boxing. Until I met Violet, I had thought I was a near expert on the fight game.

“Someone in there with Minck?” Phil asked.

“No,” said Violet. “Tooth?”

“Yeah,” said Phil, moving to the inner door.

“You sure you want to see Dr. Minck?” she said.

“Emergency,” said Phil.

“It’d have to be,” said Violet.

We went in. Shelly was sitting in his chair, listening to the radio. Something classical was playing, and Shelly was eating a sandwich with his left hand and conducting the orchestra on the radio with his right, which also held a half-finished cigar.

He looked up, got up, and Phil put me in the chair.

“What happened?” Shelly asked.

“Tooth,” said Phil. “Fix him up enough so we can get him to a real dentist.”

“I am a …” Shelly began indignantly.

“Fix him,” said Phil softly, looking at Shelly who nodded.

“Get rid of the sandwich,” said Phil. “Get rid of the cigar. Go wash your hands.”

Shelly adjusted his glasses and waddled over to the sink where he dropped the sandwich and cigar in the trash.

“Soap,” said Phil.

Shelly turned on the water and picked up a bar of soap, showing it to Phil.

I think I groaned. The door was about ten feet away. I knew I could make it that far. I didn’t know how much further. I closed my eyes and heard the water running.

“Those instruments clean?” Phil asked.

“Violet cleaned them this morning,” Shelly said, his voice quivering.

“Move,” said Phil.

I considered opening my eyes and decided not to. I could smell garlic and tobacco as Shelly leaned over me.

“Open your mouth, Toby,” he said.

I refused.

“Open up,” Phil said.

I opened and felt Shelly’s pudgy fingers entering where I thought they would never enter.

“Wow,” he said. “That must hurt like hell.”

It was a great diagnosis.

“I’ve got to give you a shot,” he said.

How many screams had I heard from this chair when I sat in the little office a few feet away where Pancho the phantom screenwriter was probably now seated pencil in hand searching for something creative to say about the man who was about to do mortal damage to my mouth?

I closed my mouth. Phil told me to open it. I considered defying him. Then I remembered the last time I had defied my brother when he was close enough to reach out and grab me. I opened my mouth.

“Don’t hum,” I whispered.

“Huh?” said Shelly.

“Don’t hum. Don’t sing,” I managed to get out.

“Okay,” he said. “Keep your mouth open. This is going to hurt a little, maybe.”

My mouth already hurt more than a little, and there was no “maybe” about it.

“There,” Shelly said.

I opened my eyes.

“You okay?” Shelly asked.

“Didn’t feel it,” I said.

Shelly was sweating. Shelly was smiling. He leaned over his tray of tools of torture, squinting at them through the super-thick lenses of his glasses. He started to hum.

“No,” I said.

He stopped humming. I looked at Phil who stood with his arms folded.

“Open wide,” Shelly said.

He had something in his hand. I didn’t want to look at it. Then I heard the familiar sound of the drill. I think I passed out.

I had a dream. Violet was sitting in my lap. She smelled like oil of cloves. She was putting five-dollar bills in my pockets and smiling as she said, Zale, Galento, Louis, Tenn Hoff. In the background, Vaughn Monroe was singing I’ll Walk Alone. I was afraid Violet’s husband Rocky would come through the door in uniform, drop his duffle bag when he saw his wife in my lap, and then kill me. I hoped that death didn’t come from a right to my molar.

No one came through the door. Vaughn Monroe kept crooning. Violet kept putting money in my pockets and then there was darkness.

“Toby?” I heard a definitely worried voice. “You there?”.

I tried to open my eyes. They refused.

“Toby,” came a different voice. My brother’s. “Come out of it.”

I forced my eyes open and saw Shelly. His cheek was twitching. Behind him stood Phil.

“Are you alright?” asked Shelly. “How does it feel?”

I felt my tooth with my tongue. It was smooth, no piece missing.

“I got rid of the decay and gave you a gold filling,” said Shelly.

“Tobias,” said Phil.

“Feels fine,” I said, still running my tongue over my tooth.

I looked at Shelly, who was blinking madly and wiping sweat from his face with his sleeve.

“You’re kidding?” he said.

“No,” I said. “Feels fine.”

I sat up. I was a little weak, but there was no pain, no throbbing, nothing but normal feeling.

I stood.

“Can I smoke now?” Shelly asked.

“Go ahead,” said Phil hand on my arm.

“I’ll be damned,” I said.

“Eventually,” said Phil.

“I feel fine,” I said. “It didn’t hurt.”

I looked at Shelly. He was fishing in the pocket of his jacket, which was on a hanger near the door to what had been my office. Shelly beamed at me.

“What do we owe you?” Phil asked.

Shelly found a cigar and waved his arm.

“No charge,” he said. “Anytime.”

“Thanks Shel,” I said.

“Nothing,” he said, sticking a fresh cigar in his mouth. “See you at the Roosevelt later.”

Phil and I moved into the reception area where Violet sat waiting for us.

“You’re alright?” Violet asked.

“Perfect,” I said.

Violet looked at Shelly’s door and then at us.

“That’s the first time since I’ve been working here,” she said.

“We’ve got work to do,” I said to Phil.

“We’ve got work to do,” I agreed.