Minck.
Violet wasn’t at her desk in the little waiting-reception room. No one was in the room, but inside, on Shelly’s chair sat an enormous man with a dark beard. Dr. Sheldon Minck had one knee on the man’s chest and a tight grip on the pliers or whatever it was he held in his hand.
“Biggest I’ve ever seen, Toby,” he said, glancing at me, his glasses perched at the end of his nose and slipping fast. “I’m going to mount it.”
“Like a fish,” I said.
“Sure.”
The giant in the chair sat with his hands at his sides He seemed to be snoring gently.
“He’s out,” Shelly said. “Friend of Jeremy’s. Wrestler. The Mountain. Famous.”
“Never heard of him,” I said, skeptical about Jeremy sending any friend of his to the sixth-floor-forceps-wielding escapee from dental hell.
“I feel like … like Captain Abe on top of Moby Dick,” Shelly said, wiping his brow with his soiled sleeve.
“Ahab,” I corrected. “And Ahab never caught Moby Dick. Moby Dick killed him.”
“He did?” asked Shelly, pausing for an instant. “Just goes to show you.”
“Show me what?”
“Don’t look for happy endings,” he said with a great grunt and a two-handed pull.
Something went “pop” and Shelly flew back, two hands still clinging to the pliers.
“Got it,” he said.
It was a damn big tooth.
“I’m going to clean it and mount it,” he said, adjusting his glasses as he got up. “Or maybe I should hang it inside of a glass box.”
“First you might want to stop your patient from bleeding to death.”
“Right, right,” he said, moving to the sleeping, snoring Mountain, putting the tooth carefully on the nearby tray and picking up a white gauze pad that looked more or less clean.
I moved to my cubbyhole office door.
“You’ve got people waiting,” he said, stuffing the scrunched piece of gauze into the hole from which the massive tooth had been plucked. “Gunther and that other guy from yesterday, the one who looks like George Kaplan. Man’s got good teeth, but even almost perfect teeth can be made absolutely perfect. You tell him.”
I nodded and went into my office. Cary Grant and Gunther were deep in conversation, but they stopped and Grant said, “What is that man doing out there?”
“He had an ancestor who participated in the Spanish Inquisition,” I said. “Shelly’s been trying to live up to the family tradition since he got his dental degree.”
“I’d say his ancestor would be proud of him,” said Grant.
I moved around my desk, pushed the bag of tacos toward them, and sat.
“He thinks he can make your teeth perfect,” I said.
“I’ve learned to live with imperfection,” Grant said, pointing to a familiar mole on his cheek. “That way you don’t tempt the gods.”
“Avoiding hubris,” said Gunther.
“Indeed,” said Grant. “What’s that smell?”
“Greasy tacos,” I said. “Have a couple.”
Grant reached for the bag and pulled out a taco. I did the same, dripping sauce across assorted notes and letters. Gunther declined the treat.
“Any more George Halls?” I asked Gunther. “Neither of the two you gave me is the one we’re looking for.”
Gunther, his feet nowhere near touching the floor, took his notebook from his jacket pocket, opened it, and said, “Pasadena, a Georges Halle.” He spelled it. “I called him. He is, like me, Swiss. I am certain he is not the one you seek.”
“I had my secretary check casting agents,” said Grant. “She’s still working on it. No George Hall so far.”
“Our George may not be from around here,” I said.
“No,” said Grant, carefully approaching the taco so that no grease dripped on his jacket or trousers, “I think he is. I was looking for local people and that’s what our Mr. Volkman promised to deliver.”
“So,” I said, “we have nothing but the three cards in Volkman’s pocket. We can each take one or go together,” I said. “But …”
“I’d be recognized,”
Violet wasn’t at her desk in the little waiting-reception room. No one was in the room, but inside, on Shelly’s chair sat an enormous man with a dark beard. Dr. Sheldon Minck had one knee on the man’s chest and a tight grip on the pliers or whatever it was he held in his hand.
“Biggest I’ve ever seen, Toby,” he said, glancing at me, his glasses perched at the end of his nose and slipping fast. “I’m going to mount it.”
“Like a fish,” I said.
“Sure.”
The giant in the chair sat with his hands at his sides He seemed to be snoring gently.
“He’s out,” Shelly said. “Friend of Jeremy’s. Wrestler. The Mountain. Famous.”
“Never heard of him,” I said, skeptical about Jeremy sending any friend of his to the sixth-floor-forceps-wielding escapee from dental hell.
“I feel like … like Captain Abe on top of Moby Dick,” Shelly said, wiping his brow with his soiled sleeve.
“Ahab,” I corrected. “And Ahab never caught Moby Dick. Moby Dick killed him.”
“He did?” asked Shelly, pausing for an instant. “Just goes to show you.”
“Show me what?”
“Don’t look for happy endings,” he said with a great grunt and a two-handed pull.
Something went “pop” and Shelly flew back, two hands still clinging to the pliers.
“Got it,” he said.
It was a damn big tooth.
“I’m going to clean it and mount it,” he said, adjusting his glasses as he got up. “Or maybe I should hang it inside of a glass box.”
“First you might want to stop your patient from bleeding to death.”
“Right, right,” he said, moving to the sleeping, snoring Mountain, putting the tooth carefully on the nearby tray and picking up a white gauze pad that looked more or less clean.
I moved to my cubbyhole office door.
“You’ve got people waiting,” he said, stuffing the scrunched piece of gauze into the hole from which the massive tooth had been plucked. “Gunther and that other guy from yesterday, the one who looks like George Kaplan. Man’s got good teeth, but even almost perfect teeth can be made absolutely perfect. You tell him.”
I nodded and went into my office. Cary Grant and Gunther were deep in conversation, but they stopped and Grant said, “What is that man doing out there?”
“He had an ancestor who participated in the Spanish Inquisition,” I said. “Shelly’s been trying to live up to the family tradition since he got his dental degree.”
“I’d say his ancestor would be proud of him,” said Grant.
I moved around my desk, pushed the bag of tacos toward them, and sat.
“He thinks he can make your teeth perfect,” I said.
“I’ve learned to live with imperfection,” Grant said, pointing to a familiar mole on his cheek. “That way you don’t tempt the gods.”
“Avoiding hubris,” said Gunther.
“Indeed,” said Grant. “What’s that smell?”
“Greasy tacos,” I said. “Have a couple.”
Grant reached for the bag and pulled out a taco. I did the same, dripping sauce across assorted notes and letters. Gunther declined the treat.
“Any more George Halls?” I asked Gunther. “Neither of the two you gave me is the one we’re looking for.”
Gunther, his feet nowhere near touching the floor, took his notebook from his jacket pocket, opened it, and said, “Pasadena, a Georges Halle.” He spelled it. “I called him. He is, like me, Swiss. I am certain he is not the one you seek.”
“I had my secretary check casting agents,” said Grant. “She’s still working on it. No George Hall so far.”
“Our George may not be from around here,” I said.
“No,” said Grant, carefully approaching the taco so that no grease dripped on his jacket or trousers, “I think he is. I was looking for local people and that’s what our Mr. Volkman promised to deliver.”
“So,” I said, “we have nothing but the three cards in Volkman’s pocket. We can each take one or go together,” I said. “But …”
“I’d be recognized,”
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