Dr. Yes

by Colin Bateman

  But she was still smiling.

  I don't know why. I had no intention of visiting at all.

  'Or.'

  'Or?'

  She lifted the cigar cutter. 'One could argue that you haven't a baldy notion what's going on, and that this V-cutter—'

  'What do you mean, baldy notion?' 'Excuse me?'

  'Baldy. There's no need. Receding is—'

  'Would you get over yourself and stop taking everything personally, you twit. You don't get it, do you? You phoned me up in a state of great excitement about the V-cutter, not because you wanted to involve me, but to show off, to boast about the fact that you'd discovered this supposedly crucial piece of evidence. You didn't even think about what I could bring to the table ...'

  'What can you bring to the . ..'

  '. . .even though I work in an effing jewellery store that sells these effing things. Even though I ...'

  'I'm not a child, you can say fucking if you ...'

  '. . .make part of my living being able to talk knowledgeably about these fucking things ...'

  '. . .want to, though that said, it's not very ladylike and I wouldn't suggest speaking like that in front of ...'

  '. . .and I at least know that I only have to flip the fucking thing over to find the hallmark, which not only tells us the type of metal, but who made it ...'

  '. . .the children ...'

  '. . .and when they made it, and look at this, the serial number, which will allow us to track down where it was sold. I have my fucking uses, Mystery Man, and did you say children?'

  'Slip of the tongue.'

  'You're usually pretty precise about what you say.'

  I was looking at her and thinking, my God, with your knowledge of bangles and whatnot, you actually have a use after all, which gave me a brief moment of elation, but this rapidly collapsed into a resigned depression, because the likelihood of me having to call again on such expertise in the future was on the anorexic side of slim, which meant that at her very moment of triumph she had actually rendered herself useless, like a wasp dying after it has stung, although she hadn't stung, but only provided me with some technical information I could quite easily have looked up in a book.

  'In this instance, I was not.'

  She was still smiling. Sometimes I want to wipe that stupid grin off her face. With a big mallet. Just keep hitting her right in the mouth with it until her teeth are flying all over the shop, embedding themselves in the walls.

  Alison picked up the V-cutter. From her pocket she produced a magnifying glass. She had come prepared. It was a jeweller's magnifying glass. Compact. Not like the big Sherlock Holmes one I kept under the counter. I had never had the nerve to take it out of its box, at least after that first time. I had ordered it over the internet in my initial flush of excitement after solving the Case of the Musical Jews. When Jeff saw it he couldn't stop laughing. I told him I was thinking of increasing the stock of crime-fiction- related merchandising we kept in the store, a move I had long contemplated but bravely resisted. But he knew. Jeff knew, and even when he stopped laughing, he smirked, and even when he stopped smirking, it was in his eyes. Alison wasn't the first person in my immediate circle whom I had contemplated battering with a mallet.

  'Well?'

  'Hold your horses.' And then, after another ten seconds, 'Mmmm. Not as straightforward as I thought.'

  'In what...'

  'Lemme go check across the road.' She lifted the V- cutter. 'Back in five.'

  'Could you ... you know, just leave the V-cutter here?'

  'Why? Do you think I'll lose it?'

  'No. Of course not. But you know . . .'

  'Oh, right. It's a crucial piece of evidence, and what if I trip outside the shop and it falls down a drain? Or I drop it crossing the road and a lorry flattens it and renders the serial number indistinct.'

  'I just . . .'

  'Do you want me to sign for it? That's what they'd do at the cop shop if they were checking out evidence for expert evaluation. Better still, why don't I just make a note of the serial number, and then maybe if you have some tracing paper I could make a tracing of the hallmark, and maybe a pencil drawing of it from several different angles, or maybe if you have CAD software I can render a 3D impression of the fucking thing?'

  'Why don't you just take it with you?'

  'Good idea. I will.' She grabbed it and stormed to the door. 'Back in five,' she snapped, and then added, 'Arse.'

  She wasn't smiling now.

  Chalk one up to me.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  She was gone longer than five. More like seven and a half. Her ledger was soon going to require a second volume. I would have killed the time reading, or further investigating and probably solving the case at hand, but I was distracted by a phone call. They are rarer than hen's teeth and my business is in a constant state of peril, so I was more or less obliged to answer. With the benefit of caller ID flashing up, I was able to at least establish that it wasn't Liam Benson calling back, so I was happy to pick up. Not happy, given that it meant some kind of interaction with a human being, or possibly a dolphin, but resigned.

  I said, 'Hello, No Alibis, murder is our business, in a strictly nonliteral sense.'

  A woman's voice said, 'I'll give you bloody murder.'

  And ordinarily this would have caused me to slam down the receiver and hide under the counter, but as it happened, I recognised her voice. I said, 'What has she done now?'

  It was Mrs Collins, the owner of the Sunny Delight nursing home where I had sequestered Mother. Although physically she was falling to bits, and mentally she was as mad as a bag of spiders, Mother had always expressed a horror of and revulsion for such establishments, and had made me swear on a bible that I would never send her to one. She believed in God as much as I did, so she must have known it was meaningless. She would also have guessed that my absolute denial that she was going into Sunny Delight because of her deteriorating condition was complete bollocks, and instead chose to accept my justification for her 'temporary' removal from her own home: that she was actually going into hiding as part of the witness protection programme she was being obliged to join because of her involvement in the Case of the Cock-Headed Man. She had demanded to know why I wasn't also part of the scheme and I'd told her that I could look after myself, which had caused her to snort, and Alison also, listening in the background. But the thing was, as long as Mother could convince herself that she was part of such a scheme, then she was happy enough to go. She was finally self-aware enough to know that she wasn't capable of looking after herself any more. And that I couldn't be bothered.

  However, her capacity for causing mayhem did not diminish with her change in circumstances. Calls from Mrs Collins were a weekly, occasionally daily, occurrence.

  'I can hardly bring myself to tell you what she's done.'

  'I'm sure it can't be that bad.'

  'Well you'd be wrong. It is important that our patients are not ... upset. That means that the television programmes they are allowed to watch in the communal area have to be monitored, and where we believe them to be inappropriate, then the channel must be changed.'

  'I understand.'

  'Well your mother does not. The Exorcist, you will also agree, is not suitable afternoon viewing.'

  'How did ...?’

  'Sky Horror Movies. She coerced the pin number out of one of our young nurses.'

  'My mother

  'I had to switch it off. Your mother showed her displeasure by .. .'

  'Yes?'

  'By . . .'

  'Uhuh?'

  'Oh I can't even bring myself to say it.'

  'Please just say it.'

  'She . . . lowered her . . .'

  'Her ... ?'

  'She took down her

  'She took down what?'

  'She lowered her . . . and then she ... in the middle of the ...'

  'She what what and a what what?'

  'She had a . . . shit on the lou
nge carpet!'

  'Oh. God. I'm sorry, I . . .'

  'And that was bad enough.'

  'There's more?'

  'We have all types of residents here. We are not easily shocked. Many of them no longer have control of their faculties. Your mother, despite her stroke, is not one of them. It isn't just that she did it.'

  'It isn't?'

  'It was the look of triumph on her face while she did it. That's what got me the most. The pure, unadulterated pleasure she took from her disgusting act of defiance.'

  That's my ma.

  'Well,' I said, 'I'm really dreadfully sorry. It can't have been very pleasant, to observe or to clean up.'

  'Don't worry on that front; we have Filipinos for that. I just . . . don't know what to do with her.'

  'Have you tried sedation?'

  She laughed. I did not.

  'To be serious for one moment, I really am at the end of my tether. I simply cannot condone or allow this type of behaviour.'

  She paused. I waited. She kept with the pause.

  'What are you saying?'

  'I'm saying we have decided to institute a three strikes and you're out policy. You may consider this a verbal warning. If she gets to number two

  'Number two . . . ?'

  'Please, if there's a second offence, then you will receive a written warning. If it happens again after that, then we will have to ask you to remove her from the home. Is that understood?'

  I sighed. 'Yes. Okay. I'll come and have a word with her. I'll make sure it won't happen again.'

  Neither of us, obviously, believed that.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  Alison came steaming through the door just as I hung up. She was smiling again.

  'How clever am I?' she asked.

  There was a simple answer to that. But I contented myself with a simple 'Well that remains to be seen.'

  She put the V-cutter back on the counter and said, 'See, not a scratch on it.'

  'I'm not sure if that constitutes clever. Careful, maybe.'

  'Oh shut up and listen. I know you don't have a very high opinion of me

  'I never . . .'

  '. . . but I know my stuff, and I knew that wasn't a UK hallmark. It's really only us, the Dutch and the Swiss who go in for hallmarking anyway, and America, where this baby's from, don't give a toss.'

  'America? Do you . . . ?' 'They may not hallmark, but they leave what we call a maker's mark. See this . . . ?'

  She pointed to something on the cutter.

  'No.'

  'There.'

  'Sorry, no. Not with my eyesight.'

  'Well get out your thingamajig.'

  'Excuse me?'

  'Your Sherlock Holmes spyglass.'

  'What on earth are you talking about?'

  'Jeff told me all about it. Get it out and have a look. It's a clue.'

  'I haven't a clue what you're talking about. And Jeff's a notorious liar and fabricator. He said you were a two-faced cow.'

  Her eyes narrowed. 'And what did you say?'

  'I'm allergic to cows. And therefore you can't be one. A cow.'

  'Right. I'm not getting into this. Just look and learn. This manufacturer uses a particular symbol to represent the year it was made. What you would be seeing if you had the gumption to take out your little toy is the image of a small bugle. That tells us that this was manufactured in 2005 by the Palio company out of Providence, Rhode Island. And this . . . super- minuscule number obviously allows them to keep track of their products, which allows me to e-mail them and ask where this was purchased, which I did, and they responded ...'

  'You did this in seven and a half minutes?'

  'No, five. Two and a half were getting there and back. Impressed?'

  'No, I was wondering why so long.'

  She gave me a sarcastic smile and said, 'There's like an international fraternity of jewellers; we help each other.'

  'The fellowship of the rings.'

  She ignored me. She slapped a piece of paper on to the counter. 'So now it's over to you. Here. This is the cell phone number for Joe's Cigars. As far as I can determine, it's basically a cart set up beside the valet parking entrance for Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. That's where your V-cut was purchased.'

  'Vegas?'

  'Vegas.'

  'And what do you want me to do, phone some cart and ask if it, he or she remembers selling someone a V-cut at some point in time, in Vegas, where everyone smokes cigars?'

  'Yes. That's the number. I even included the international code. The point is, according to the serial number, the V-cut was delivered to Joe's within the past six weeks. It was a special order. Joe ordered just one, not a box of them. You and I know that Vegas is all about high rollers, high stakes, big cigars. Joe must sell a lot of V-cutters. So why order just one? Most cutters cost five or ten dollars; this one cost Joe fifty dollars wholesale. Makes you think he's bringing it in for someone, and that if you press the right buttons, like the ones on your phone, he might tell you who it was.'

  'Why don't you do it? You're on a winning streak.'

  'Because you're the boss, you're the man, it's your job.'

  'I don't like phones and I don't like people, and what if I can't get rid of him? Have you any idea how expensive international calls are, especially to a mobile phone?'

  Alison folded her arms. She tapped her fingers on the counter.

  I said, 'Okay, damn your eyes, I'll call him. But could you go and stand over there?'

  'Why?'

  'I don't like being looked at or listened to while I make a call.'

  'What if I have something relevant to contribute?'

  I raised an eyebrow. She shook her head and crossed the shop, although not far enough. Nevertheless I moved to the phone and tapped in the numbers. I turned my back to her while I waited for an answer. The dialling tone switched to an international pulse.

  It was answered with a 'Hey.'

  'Hello, can I speak to Joe?'

  'Joe dead.'

  It was, even given my line of work - bookselling - totally unexpected.

  'I... I... I.. . Oh. I'm very sorry. Ahm. My sincere condolences. How did he ...?'

  'He shot.'

  My eyes flitted up to Alison's. She had moved closer, stealthily, while my back was turned. My heart rate was up. My shirt was sticking to my back already. I shook my head at her. She mouthed, 'What?' I mimed putting a gun to my head and shooting.

  That's . . . terrible . . . What happened?' I asked.

  'He owed money, he shot. It's Vegas.'

  'When . . . when was this?'

  'Nineteen fifty-six. We over it now.'

  'Nineteen . . .! Oh - I misunderstood.'

  'Hey, everyone asks for Joe, no Joe since fifties. Been my family since 'sixty-two, me here since 'eighty- seven. Everyone call me Joe 'cos it say Joe above my head. I don't mind. Every day I'm Joe, go home, I'm not Joe. I'm Manuel Gerardo Ramiro Alfonzo Aurelio Enrique Zapata Quetzalcoatl. Most people find it easier just call me Joe. What I do for you?'

  'Well, my name is Donald, Donald Westlake,' I said, for I have a business and its reputation to protect. 'I'm a police officer, I'm calling from ah, Scotland Yard in London, England.'

  'I heard of that. What the problem?'

  'We're trying to trace the owner of a V-cut cigar cutter, to do with a big case, a murder case. Traced it as far as you, wondering if you could help us. There are obviously official channels we could go through, but sometimes it's easier to get it straight from the horse's head. Mouth.'

  'Yeah, sure, okay, do what I can. V-cut you say? Sell a lot of V-cut, not sure I . . .'

  'This one was probably a special order, expensive, you brought it in in the past few weeks, I have the serial number here.'

  'Special order? Okay. Gimme that number.'

  I gave him the number. He said he needed five minutes, could I hold on? I said no, I'd call back.

  During the five minutes, the only word exchanged between Alison
and me was 'Cheapskate.' She was the one who said it. There were a thousand words I could have fired back. She wouldn't have understood the half of them. Instead, I gave her the fingers. She gave them back.

  She was the mother of my child. For now.

  I called Joe. He said, 'How I know you are who you say you are?'

  I said, 'Well, you don't. Except I am, and I will swear to that on my mother's grave.'

  'Shit, how I know she ain't still alive?'

  'Well, you don't. But I wouldn't lie about my mother; you Mexicans can relate to that.'

  Alison rolled her eyes at me. I rolled them back. She reached across and put us on speakerphone.

  Joe said, 'You Mexicans? What the fuck are you, Scottish?'

  'Aye.'

  'You Mexicans. You got no jurisdiction here, I don't got to tell you nothing about Buddy Wailer!'

  'Buddy Wailer?'

  'That's right, you heard, way over there in Scotland, in your stupid-ass kilts. Buddy Wailer, you don't want to get involved with Buddy Wailer.' 'Joe, listen to me.'

  'I ain't Joe.'

  'Well listen to me, Manuel Gerardo Ramiro Alfonzo Aurelio Enrique Zapata Quetzalcoatl.'

  'How'd you do that?'

  'Do what?'

  'Remember my name. Nobody remember my name.'

  'Names are important. It's my job, Manuel.'

  There was static on the line for half a minute. No, that's a lie, with digital lines there isn't really static. There was nothing for thirty seconds. Then he said: 'Okay, what you want to know?'

  'This Buddy Wailer? He bought the V-cut?'

  'He a collector, he a regular here. Sure, I order for him.'

  'What can you tell me about him?'

  There was another long pause. Longer.

  'Manuel?'

  'I tell you this about Buddy Wailer, and this all. He tall, real tall. He thin, real thin. He never say much, he nice to me, but my friend, one time my friend, works in the hotel, was in Buddy Wailer's room, delivers something, towels maybe. Buddy not in the room, he leaves them in the bathroom, he come out, sees like gift box, hatbox, on the bed. My friend, he curious, high-roller room, what this guy Buddy got in the box, 'spensive gift for some girl? He open the box. You know what in the box?'