Fala Factor Read Free

ignored the filthy anteroom, and went through the next door into Shelly’s suite. The dishes were still piled high in the sink in the corner, with various dental tools peeking up out of pots in which at some unremembered point in time chili had been burned. The coffee was bubbling black in the pot on the hot plate and Shelly, short, bald, and glaring myopically through his thick, slipping glasses, was chewing on his cigar butt and drilling away at the mouth of someone who looked familiar.
    Shelly paused to wipe his sweaty hands on his dirty smock as his voice hummed “The Man I Love.”
    â€œSeidman,” I said, looking at the cadaverous man in the dental chair, “what the hell are you doing here?”
    Seidman refused the not-too-clean cup of water handed to him by Shelly for rinsing and spat into the white porcelain bowl.
    â€œYou’re a detective. Figure it out,” Shelly said, searching for some instrument beneath the pile of metal on the table nearby. “We don’t need William Powell for this one.” He chuckled. “A man is in a dental chair.” Shelly looked up grinning, the blunt instrument he had been seeking now in his hand. “A dentist,” he went on, pointing the instrument at his own chest, “is standing over him and a white cloth covers the man from the neck down.”
    â€œA nearly white cloth,” I said.
    â€œAs you will,” Shelly said, grandly removing his cigar so that he could cough and adjust his glasses. “But one might conclude that the said Seidman is having his dental health looked after.”
    â€œI’m not sure that would be a reasonable conclusion, Shelly,” I said.
    â€œYou can’t insult me, Toby,” Shelly said, turning again to his patient and indicating that he wanted Seidman to open his mouth.
    â€œOh, I can insult you, Shel. It just doesn’t have any effect,” I said, stepping closer and looking at Seidman.
    â€œI dropped by to see you,” Seidman said, arresting Shelly’s hand in midflight, blunt instrument poised. “Minck said he saw something wrong with my front tooth. So …”
    â€œRight, Shelly’s hypnotic,” I agreed. “He reeks of confidence.”
    â€œCan’t insult me,” Shelly sing-songed, moving his head from side to side to get a better look at Seidman’s offending tooth.
    â€œPhil wants to see you. This afternoon,” Seidman managed to say before Shelly inserted the drill and looked back at me through thick lenses to let me know who was in charge here. Sergeant Steve Seidman was my brother’s partner. My brother was Lieutenant Phil Pevsner, Los Angeles Police Department, Wilshire District. Maybe he just wanted to give me the semiannual name lecture. Phil was never quite sure whether he was pleased that I used the name Peters instead of Pevsner. On the one hand, it kept people from associating us with each other. On the other hand, he didn’t like the idea that I didn’t use the name I’d been born with. Hell, I didn’t even use the brains I had been born with. Some wild thing had been born with and in me, a banshee or a dybbuk. I was strange, wonderful, with new worlds to conquer every day, like the lobby of a fleabag hotel on Broadway or the dark night corridors of a defense plant while wearing a gray uniform two sizes too big.
    â€œI’ll drop by,” I told Seidman, but I didn’t think he heard me over the drill. So I shouted to Shelly, “Any messages, Shel? Anything new?”
    â€œSugar rationing books are ready,” he shouted back around his cigar as Seidman’s tooth gave way.
    â€œThat’s not what I had in mind,” I shouted. “Have I had any calls?”
    â€œNo calls,” bleated Shelly.
    â€œThanks,” I said, reaching for the coffee and trying to catch sight of Seidman’s face. I had never seen any expression on Seidman’s pale face, but I was sure