Authors: William Lashner
“Once that was all I ever wanted.”
“Then take it, my boy,” said Whit. “You’d do wonderfully there. Shake all the bluebloods up.”
“I can’t.”
“That is a shame,” said Dr. Bob.
“Except, you want to know something?” I said. “I’m trussed like a turkey, I’ve been shot full of dope, my caps are gone, and I’m totally at your mercy. But the strange thing is, I’m not afraid of you.”
“The brave hero, is that it?”
“No, Whit will tell you. I’m an abject coward. But in the end I know you won’t hurt me.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because you see yourself as a caped crusader, as a moral exemplar in a compromised world. You won’t hurt me, Doctor, because you believe, in the deepest part of your sadly confused soul, that you are good.”
“You had such potential,” he said, shaking his head. “Nurse.”
Nurse MacDhubshith stepped forward with a pair of scissors in one hand and a syringe in the other. She cut open my shirt and pulled from her pocket a small cloth reeking of alcohol. The nurse rubbed my shoulder with the cloth before jamming in the needle. A cold slid up my arm, and I immediately felt the dizziness again.
“One question,” I said as it started to overcome me. “Why the hell didn’t you just mail the tape to her?”
“It wouldn’t have had the same effect as her finding it, quite by chance, playing on her television,” he said.
“Always the trickster.”
“Do you believe in God, Victor?”
Growing drowsier by the second, I mumbled, “I’m…I’m not sure.”
“Well, maybe it’s time to figure it out,” said Dr. Bob from farther away. “Find me when you do, and we’ll talk again. There’s so much good you could accomplish. Open his mouth, Tilda.”
Tilda grabbed my jaw with one of her huge hands. She squeezed at the edges, and my mouth split as easily as the seam of a rotten melon. Before I knew what was happening, a piece of rubber was jammed between my teeth, keeping my jaw wide open.
“Adieu, mon ami. Adieu,”
said Dr. Bob from so far away it was as if he were already across the ocean. “That’s French. I figured it was time to learn another language.”
I had too many teeth.
I lay spread-eagled and naked on my bed, my head throbbing, the skin of my arms and face raw. I was groggy enough not to know the time or the day or where I was going to throw up—though I was going to throw up. I wasn’t even certain if I was alive or dead. But of one thing I was sure: I had too many teeth.
The teeth on the bottom row of my jaw were pressing madly one against the other so that they had to be bursting forward out of my mouth like the rushing torrent of a swollen river upon the breaking of a dam. He had reached into my mouth with his tools and techniques and turned me into a grotesque. He had made of me a monster, a sideshow freak.
Come one, come all, step right up and see for yourself the horror of our age, the beast from which sickened eyes cannot turn away: the inimitable, the indescribable, the incredible lawyer with too many teeth.
Slowly, fighting the terror, I checked the lower jaw with my tongue. Startlingly, everything seemed to be in order, everything seemed even and neat, except for one thing that felt strange. What was that? And then I realized the gap in my teeth was no more.
Dr. Bob had put in my bridge.
I opened my eyes. Sun was streaming through my window, showing my bedroom still trashed from Tilda’s earlier visit. My digital clock said it was 1:30
P
.
M
. And something metal was sticking out of the pillow, right next to where my head had been.
I sat up in terror. What the hell was that? Oh, yes, of course.
It was a metal dentist’s pick, jabbed into the foam, pinning in place a piece of paper. I pulled the paper over the pick.
Care and Cleaning of Your New Dental Bridge.
Even as I was reading it, trying to figure out what it really meant, the nausea overcame me, and I rushed to the bathroom. Not much came out—I don’t know when was the last time I had eaten—but it was still rough enough to strip the enamel off my new prosthetic tooth.
“Welcome to my world,” I said aloud to the bridge.
Showered and shaved, my new tooth brushed along with all the others, I checked my messages. I got a sense of how long I’d been away from the number flashing at me: 17. Beth, Ellie, Beth, Beth, Torricelli, Dalton, Beth, Gleason, a reporter, Judge Armstrong’s clerk, Franny Pepper, Beth, Beth…And the messages were all the same: “Where the hell are you?”
“How long have I been away?” I said to Beth after the histrionics were over and we could get down to business.
“This is the third day you’ve been missing.”
“Jesus, no wonder I had nothing in my gut when I puked. What’s going on in the trial?”
“The judge put us in recess until you got back. He said next time you showed up in court, you’d better bring either a damn good story or your toothbrush.”
“I have a story,” I said. “But I’ll take my toothbrush all the same. Never underestimate the value of good oral hygiene, Beth. That’s the lesson I’m holding on to from all this. Is Franny Pepper in town?”
“I put her up at the Sheraton.”
“Nice.”
“Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Later,” I said.
“Is it interesting, at least?”
“Interesting as hell. Now, this is what I need you to do. Tell the judge I’m back, that I’m prepared to finish up the trial starting tomorrow morning. First we need Mrs. Winterhurst ready to testify how she recommended Dr. Pfeffer to Leesa Dubé and how Leesa became his patient. Then I need Whitney Robinson in court. He’ll be home with his daughter. Drop a subpoena on him, I need him tomorrow. I wish I still had a statement he made on tape, that would make his testimony certain, but I can badger the truth out of him without it. Then have Franny Pepper ready to go after that.”
“Did you find something?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Is it good?”
“Good enough.”
“What do I tell François?”
That stopped me for a moment. It all seemed so clear just an instant ago: I was still alive, my teeth were fixed, I had the trial in my hand. And then I remembered who my client was and what Bob had said about him. I didn’t know if I could trust what Bob had told me, but when I thought back on everything, I realized that in all our dealings, he had never lied to me. He had embarrassed me, made my life a living hell, kidnapped me and pumped me full of drugs and performed unauthorized dental surgery, sure, but he had never lied to me. Which meant that my doubts about François remained profound. There was the young daughter waiting for him. What about her?
“Victor,” said Beth. “What do I tell François?”
“I have to go,” I said. “Just make sure to get everything done.”
“While I’m doing all this, what are you going to do?”
“Me, I’m going live the dream and put a dentist behind bars.”
When I hung up with her, I called Torricelli.
I was eating a falafel I bought off a cart on Sixteenth Street. This was the first thing I had eaten in three days and it wasn’t sitting well in my empty stomach—fried chickpeas, I should have known—but still I was so ravenous I couldn’t stop chomping. My face was buried deep in the pita when Torricelli suddenly appeared.
“That’s a sight I’d like to forget,” said Torricelli.
I lifted my head and smiled, the white tahini sauce smeared on my cheeks.
“It’s dripping on your tie,” he said.
I looked down, a white splatter on the red. “So it is. Fortunately, I’m no longer wearing the yellow silk number.” I took my napkin and wiped the splatter clean away. “This baby is made out of a special Teflon-coated polymer. The dry cleaner who sold it to me said it wasn’t just stainproof, it was bulletproof, too.”
“Handy. You know, Carl, when you didn’t show up in court, I was strangely worried about you.”
“You don’t say.”
“You’re like a toe fungus; you’ve grown on me.”
“Thank you, I think. And remind me never to see you in sandals. Do you have what we need?”
“Pattycake, baby.”
“Then let’s do it.” I moved to toss the rest of my sandwich into a nearby trash can, thought better of it, and took another bite.
Side by side we walked into the Medical Arts Building, rode the elevator to Dr. Bob’s floor, walked past the sign with his name on it and into the now familiar beige waiting room. A few patients were idly turning the pages of old magazines as they restrained their natural terror. I gazed around once more for old times’ sake, soaked in the Muzak, the sterile cheerfulness.
“Oh, Mr. Carl,” said Deirdre, the pretty and pert receptionist. “It is so nice to see you again. And it is good to see you, too, Detective Torricelli. I don’t think either of you has an appointment today. But, Mr. Carl, I’m so glad you came in, because I have something for—”
“Is the doctor in?” I said, interrupting her.
“He’s seeing a patient now. But if you wait—”
“We’ll just pay a quick visit,” I said, heading toward the door. “I know the way.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Carl, that’s not allowed. You can’t go back—”
“It’s all right, Deirdre,” said Torricelli, flashing his badge. “Official business.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. Just make sure nobody leaves, please.”
I opened the door to the hallway, expecting to see Tilda barring my entrance, but no Tilda, no bar. I could hear the whir of a drill in one of the examination rooms. The sound produced an involuntary shudder.
“Let’s go,” I said as Torricelli and I headed straight for the drilling.
The patient lay on the orange chair, wingtips shaking, his mouth agape, suction in place, as Dr. Bob, his back to us, mask on, cap on, rubber gloves tight, plied his barbarous trade.
“Robert Pfeffer,” said Torricelli, “I have a warrant for your arrest on the charge of kidnapping.”
The dentist extracted his hands from the patient’s mouth, turned to stare at the two of us. The patient lifted his head and stared, too, suction still in place, mouth still agape.
“I tried to stop them, Doctor,” said Deirdre, rushing in behind us, “but they just barged in.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” said the dentist. I noticed that his voice had deepened and he had changed the style of his glasses. “I’m in the middle of a procedure.”
He pulled down his mask, showing off a bushy black mustache. Not Dr. Bob, not Dr. Bob at all.
“Uh-oh,” said Torricelli. “Sorry about that. We’re looking for Dr. Robert Pfeffer, also known as Robert Pepper. Do you know where he is?”
“I can’t help you,” said the other dentist.
“Where’d he go?” I said.
“I don’t know,” said the dentist. “I’m Dr. Domsky. This is my office now. Pfeffer sold me his practice.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. I had been trying to buy his practice for quite some time, and suddenly he agreed on the condition I take over right away. I haven’t had time to change the sign.”
“How’d you pay?”
“He insisted on a cashier’s check.”
“I bet he did.” I turned to Deirdre. “Where is he?”
“He didn’t tell me anything,” she said. “But he gave me a very nice bonus.”
“No hint?” said Torricelli. “No nothing?”
“No, sir,” said Deirdre. “But he did leave something specifically for you, Mr. Carl. That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
“He’s gone,” I said.
“Seems so,” said Torricelli. “I wasn’t sure I believed your cock-and-bull story, but it looks like there might be something to it. I’ll tell Mia Dalton the news and put out an APB.”
“You won’t find him,” I said.
“No, I don’t think we will.”
The patient still on the chair said, “Ahweehahooih?”
“Of course,” said Dr. Domsky. “If you don’t mind, gentlemen.”
“No, that’s fine,” said Torricelli, reaching into his pocket. “Here’s my card. If you hear from him, give me a call. Sorry to disturb you.”
Dr. Domsky looked at the card appraisingly. “Torricelli, huh? And you’re Carl. I seem to recognize those names. You don’t happen to be patients of this office, do you?”
I looked at Torricelli, who looked back at me and shrugged.
“As a matter of fact,” I said.
“I would really appreciate if you gave me a chance to keep your business.”
“Dr. Domsky is a wonderful dentist,” said Deirdre. “He has such gentle hands.”
“Oh, I bet he does,” I said.
Back at the desk, while I was waiting for Deirdre to retrieve whatever it was Dr. Bob had left for me, I noticed that the smile hall of fame had been taken down off the wall. It would be up somewhere else soon enough, I was sure, and I had a decent idea of where.
“Here you go, Mr. Carl,” said Deirdre.
It was a manila envelope with my name on it, holding something small and rectangular. I ripped it open, slid the object into my palm. My tape recorder. I pressed play, and out came Whit’s voice:
“…went through her neck. He said it was a nightmare of blood. He ran away and called Dr. Pfeffer, who said he’d take care of it, and he—”
I clicked it off.
“What’s that?” said Torricelli.
“A parting gift, I suppose,” I said.
I hefted the tape recorder in my hand even as I rubbed my tongue across the inside of my new false tooth. Whatever righteous anger I held toward Dr. Bob seemed to bleed out of me just then, replaced by a perverse gratitude. Maybe it was because of my perfectly fitting bridge. There is something about a medical professional competently healing your maladies that leaves you in his thrall. But there was something else, too. In our own bizarre way, we had battled like two heavyweights, subject to some strange set of rules I had never figured out. Neither of us had won decisively, we had fought to a draw, but that suited me just fine. And by his leaving me the tape recorder, he was giving me a tip of the hat before he moved on toward another prizefight in another town.
“What are you going to do now?” said Torricelli.
“First I think I’ll go over the calendar with Deirdre and schedule a cleaning and checkup for about three months from now. You can never be too careful with your teeth. And then tomorrow I’m going to march into court and win my case.”
And that’s just what I did.