Stuart Kaminsky - Now You See It

“Missed him,” he said. “He saw me coming, didn’t even have to run, just got out of the booth, walked to the corner, and turned. When I got there, there was no one.”

“Get a good look?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Dark coat, collar pulled up. It could have been a woman. It could have been Myrna Loy.”

Seidman was a sucker for Myrna Loy.

“I know where Rand is,” I said.

“Lead on,” he said, and we went back to his car.

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.