Jonathan Lethem: Gun, with Occasional Music

“No,” he said, managing a smile. “I spent an hour with the inquisitors today. They warmed me up for you.”

“Sorry for forcing the issue, but my client is running out of time.”

“Yes,” he said. “I got that impression.”

“Maybe you can help me with that. Just what is their case against Angwine?”

“They said they found a threatening letter—right here, apparently.” He indicated the desk. “They asked if I ever met him, and I said no. I spend very little time in the office lately. I’ve turned the practice over to Maynard, put it in his hands. Apparently Angwine was a patient, at least to begin with. He’s in the appointment book twice, going back about three weeks. Jenny didn’t remember him from the description, but then we see a lot of patients.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And I guess you don’t concentrate so much on the faces. Did you see the note?”

“No. I wish I had. The inquisitors were here before I even knew about Maynard’s death.”

“Do you have any theories about what went sour between Angwine and Stanhunt?”

He made himself appear to be thinking it over, which invariably meant he wasn’t. “No,” he said eventually. “Not really. I assume it was something personal.”

“Everything you handle is personal,” I said. “Can you be more specific?”

“Something between them, I mean. Unrelated to the practice.”

“I see,” I said, and in a way I did. Testafer was a man trying to create distance between himself and something he found altogether distasteful. His vagueness could have been a cover for some involvement, but it also suited his personality.

“Maynard and I were never close,” he explained. “I was ready to retire, but it’s always preferable to keep a practice open if you can. Maynard was a good doctor, someone I could hand it over to without embarrassment. Ours was a highly successful business relationship, and there was mutual respect, but we were never close.”

“You’re young for retirement. What are you, fifty-five? Fifty-eight? You must have made a caboodle.”

Testafer winced at my usage. “I’m almost sixty, Mr. Metcalf. You’re a very good guesser.”

He managed not to mention the caboodle. I decided it was a waste of time to push him any further. He was giving me the company line. I’d have to case him out from the angles.

“Where does this leave you now?” I asked. “Will you look for a new golden boy, or close this thing down?”

Now I’d gotten him a little angry. “I have my patients to think of. I’ll begin seeing them again, until other arrangements can be made.”

“Of course. What about Mrs. Stanhunt? Does she inherit Maynard’s half of the practice, or does it all revert to you?”

“Mrs. Stanhunt and I haven’t been in touch yet. But she’ll be taken care of…” He was improvising, and it made him nervous.

“Until other arrangements can be made?” I suggested.

“Well, yes.”

I tossed him a curve ball. “I don’t suppose Danny figures in your plans.”

He looked at me carefully. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t be afraid,” I said. “I must have made a mistake.”

“I suppose you did.”

I fiddled with my cuff long enough to bother him. He wasn’t eager to talk about Danny, whoever Danny was.

“What can you tell me about the place where Celeste Stanhunt stays?”

“Pansy Greenleaf lives there with her son,” he said. “Only he isn’t home much anymore. He’s a—babyhead.” He used the term regretfully.

“I noticed. She seems to have elevated an evolved kitten into a sort of child substitute. What does Mrs. Greenleaf do for a living?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said sardonically. “I never thought to ask.” The emphasis he put on the last word let me know he meant to be insulting. “She was a friend of the Stanhunts,” he added in a dismissive tone.

“Who you didn’t ever get close with,” I filled in.

“That’s right.”

I pretended to notice the time. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. You’ve been very helpful.”

“My pleasure,” he said, swallowing hard. He looked eager to see me gone.

“If you think of anything I ought to know…” I wrote my number down on a prescription pad, then got up. “I’ll let myself out. So long.”

I went out into the hall, closing his door behind me. The nurse was gone. I opened the door to the reception area and slammed it, but with me still inside, then went over to have a look at the office files.

First I checked for Orton Angwine: no file. I flipped through a random folder or two, but everything looked pretty standard. If there was something wrong with these files, it would take another urologist to spot it.

I could hear Testafer moving around in the office behind me, so I figured I didn’t have long—if he opened the door, I’d be directly in his line of sight. On the other hand, he didn’t look like the type to raise a big fuss if he caught me. He was already afraid of me, afraid of what my investigation might uncover, or he wouldn’t have tried so hard to appear cooperative, maybe wouldn’t have agreed to see me at all.

The problem was, I didn’t know why he was afraid of me. I could ask him who Danny was, for instance, but then he’d know that I didn’t. And without him worried I’d get nothing at all.

I picked up another file. It seemed pretty harmless: a sixty-seven-year-old guy named Maurice Gospels with congestive urethritis—whatever that was. I closed the cabinet and tucked the file inside my coat. Then I stepped back over to the office and turned the knob.

Testafer was bent over the desk, sucking through a metal straw at a pocket mirror dusted with white powder. His head jerked up as I entered the room, and a trail of half-snorted make fell out of his nose. He didn’t say anything, and for a minute neither did I. It was like looking into a mirror twenty years down the line.

“Here,” I said, and tossed the folder onto his desk. He covered the mirror with his hands to protect the make. “This is the stuff Stanhunt let out of the office. I don’t have a use for it anymore.”

Testafer leafed frantically through the Maurice Gospels folder, looking for something incriminating, while a dry white stripe made its way down his upper lip and dotted his chin. Me, I left.

I DROVE BACK TO MY OFFICE, STEELING MYSELF FOR THE inevitable confrontation with the boys from the Inquisitor’s Office. It had to happen sooner or later. If I was lucky, they’d lead me back to Orton Angwine. If this investigation had a future, it would only be with his help, and the only live prospect for my wallet’s future was his money. I didn’t feel too bad about that. If I didn’t help him, the money wouldn’t be of much use to him anyway.

But the waiting room was empty, except for a pair of evolved rabbits in miniature three-piece suits. They were looking at photo magazines and only gave me the fleetingest red-eyed glances as I bustled through to my part of the suite. I could hear the dentist’s cleaning equipment buzzing away at something in the back room. Someone had to clean their bridgework, I guess, and my dentist wasn’t doing so well that he could afford to turn away the business.

I hung my coat up on the hat tree and sat down behind the desk, then took a few deep breaths and got out my card and ran it through the decoder in my drawer. The inquisitors have been known to stretch the truth about just how much they’re taking off or adding to your card. I had a little trouble remembering exactly what my karma had been before the episode in the lobby of the California anyway.

The stripe on my card read out at sixty-five points, which wasn’t too bad. The inquisitors usually restored any points I’d lost during the course of an investigation, and they sometimes grudgingly awarded me a few extra if my work made the Office look good. Sixty-five was comfortable; big enough to work with, but small enough that the boys wouldn’t be tempted to penalize me in the spirit of fun anymore. Sixty-five was humble in the eyes of the Office; much more would be overreaching myself. Low karma was one of the things you learned to live with on this job.