Stuart Kaminsky - Now You See It

Shelly-now in the chips with money from a company that had bought one of his dental hygiene inventions, money from his recently dead wife Mildred, and money from the sale of his house at a hefty profit-had hired Pancho to write a movie about Shelly’s life, a movie which Shelly would produce.

“Pancho’s just going to observe,” Shelly had told me in the hall when I told him about the meeting. “This will be a great chance for him to see me in action as a detective. That’s what he’s going to concentrate on. You know, respected dentist by day, fearless private investigator by night, and on weekends.”

“You’re not a private detective,” I had reminded Shelly on the landing outside his office.

“I know. I know,” he had said impatiently. “But we’ve worked together on so many cases. I’ve helped a lot. You know that, Toby. I’ve helped a lot.”

That was true, but he had also nearly gotten me killed more than once, and I had been called upon at least five times to keep him from getting killed or sent to prison.

“Pancho’s in your old office,” Shelly had said earnestly.

I had rented a cubbyhole with a door and window in Shelly’s office till Phil and I had become partners. The cubbyhole was big enough for a desk and two chairs, one behind the small desk, one in front of it.

“You’ll love him,” Shelly had assured me, thick hand on my shoulder. “I’m telling you. Have I ever led you wrong?”

“Always, Shel,” I said.

“Well,” he said, waving it away, “That was in the past. Pancho’s worked with the best. He’s Dutch.”

“I see the connection,” I said.

“Good,” Shelly had said, adjusting his glasses.

I knew he had a patient in his dental chair, waiting. Even with the door to his office closed and the inner door shut, I could hear some poor victim gently moaning.

“You should get back to whoever’s in there,” I had said.

Shelly looked at his office door as if he had never seen it and then smiled sadly.

“Mrs. Shmpiks,” he said, shaking his head. “Molars like rotten little rocks. A challenge. But I’m up to it.”

“You always are,” I said. “Pancho can stay in his office when we meet.”

“Toby, please,” Shelly said, putting his hands together. “I’m pleading with you. This is important to me. He’ll be quiet.”

“I don’t think Phil will go for it,” I said.

“He’s your brother.”

“Yeah.”

“Toby, after all we’ve been through together,” said Shelly.

There were actually tears in his eyes. The door to his office had opened and his receptionist, Violet Gonsenelli, who also took messages for me and Phil, stuck her head out and said flatly, “I think your patient is dying.”

“She’s not dying. She’s not dying,” Shelly said. “She’s hurting. It’s natural. She’s fine.”

“I think she’s dying,” Violet said.

Violet was young, brunette, pretty, and the wife of a promising middleweight whose climb in the ratings had been postponed by the war. Rocky was somewhere in the Pacific.

“Okay, Shel. I’ll talk to Phil. Don’t be late.”

And now Pancho Vanderhoff sat at our conference table.

On the wall behind my desk in the corner were two things: a painting of a woman holding two babies, and a photograph of a young Phil, me, and our father with Phil’s German shepherd, Kaiser Wilhelm, in front of us. Our father was wearing his grocer’s apron. He had an arm around each of us. Young Phil didn’t look any happier in the photograph than he did standing next to the blackboard. The painting was a genuine Salvador Dali, given to me by Dali in appreciation for a job I did for him. Only a few people knew knew it was a real Dali. Three of them-me, Gunther and Jeremy-were seated at the table.

There was coffee in large reinforced Dixie cups and three bags of tacos from Manny’s down the street. All of this would go on Blackstone’s bill.

Everyone but Gunther was working on a taco. Phil and Gunther also worked on their coffee. Pancho Vanderhoff had consumed three tacos by the time Phil said, “Okay, let’s get started.”

It was a few minutes after noon.

“Toby and I went to the hotel this morning to check out the space at the Roosevelt. The dining room, lobby, kitchen, toilets, exits,” Phil said.

He turned to the blackboard and drew a rough but accurate sketch of the spaces. Then, in the box labeled “dining room,” he drew a rectangle and then made eight circles in front of the rectangle, numbering them from one to eight. He said, “These are the tables. There’ll be eight people at each table. Here….”

He pointed at the rectangle.

“Here, on a three-inch high platform, Calvin Ott, also known as Marcus Keller, will be seated with Blackstone.”

“Ott is the one we’ll be watching,” said Shelly with a knowing nod.

“No,” said Phil. “Ott is the one Toby and I will be watching. Jeremy, you’ll be at table four, near the kitchen. You watch the kitchen door, the people at your table and tables five and six and the exit door near the kitchen.”

Jeremy nodded.

“Gunther, you’ll be at table one, watching the entrance to the dining room, and tables one, two, and three.”

“I understand,” said Gunther.

“Minck, you’ll be at seven, watching that table and eight plus the exit behind you.”

“Why do I only get two tables?” Shelly asked. “The others get three.”

I knew what Phil was thinking. He paused, held it in. He didn’t want Shelly watching any tables, but we were running thin on free help.

“Those two tables are the most likely ones to have people who might want to hurt Blackstone,” Phil lied.

He had been a cop for nearly thirty years. He was a better liar than I was, and I’m pretty damned good.

Shelly nudged Pancho Vanderhoff, who was working on his fourth taco. Pancho nodded.

“Toby?”

“Wear tuxes,” I said. “If you don’t own one, rent one. Blackstone will pay.”

I knew Gunther had a tux. I knew Phil and I didn’t. I didn’t know about the others.

“Pancho will be there,” said Shelly.

“This dinner is for magicians,” Phil said.

“Something might happen,” said Shelly. “It could be a big scene in Dentist in Disguise . I’ll pay for his ticket and his tux.”

“It is a dinner, isn’t it?” asked Pancho, cheeks full.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you happen to know what will be on the menu?” asked Pancho.

“No,” Phil said.

I knew he was close to throwing them all out. There was the voice of a demon ominously lurking behind his words. I got up.

“Other questions?” I asked.

“What do we do if we see something happen?” asked Gunther.

“Stop it,” said Phil.

“Where will you and Toby be?” asked Jeremy.

“Here and here,” said Phil, pointing to a spot next to the kitchen and another one at table six. This last was directly in front of the rectangle that marked the platform on which Ott and Blackstone would be sitting.

“We’ll be watching Ott and Blackstone,” he said.

“You’ll have guns?” asked Pancho, sensing the meeting was almost over and pocketing a wrapped taco.

“You don’t need to know that,” said Phil.

We would be armed, though there was almost no chance that I would shoot with a room full of people. I’m not a bad shot, I’m a terrible one. I’ve accidentally shot myself twice on cases. Phil was a good shot, but he far preferred to use his hands and fists. Phil took crime very personally.

“We meet in the Roosevelt lobby at seven-thirty,” Phil said. “Come earlier, if you like, but no later. That’s it.”

I took a final bite of the taco I had been working on and bit into something hard. I fished what looked like a small gray pebble from my mouth and dropped it in the wastebasket near the table.