Furious, Taggert snarled, “I don’t give a damn whether you approve of me or not. I came here for dental attention and if I’m going to get a lecture...”
Suddenly Dr. Rodney smiled disarmingly. “My friends know me as a great kidder, Mr. Taggert. I beg your pardon.”
Taggert continued to stare, doubtfully, at the dentist. “Well, if you were only kidding...”
“How do you feel, Mr. Taggert? The anesthetic should be taking effect by now. Do you begin to feel a numbness in your cheeks? A difficulty in working your facial muscles? A heaviness in your head?”
“Well, yes,” mumbled Taggert, sinking back into the chair. “I do feel that way.”
“Fine. We can get at that extraction in a few minutes.” The dentist smiled, and to Taggert there was something enigmatic about that smile. He wanted to struggle up again and say that he had changed his mind about having the tooth pulled, but an increasing lethargy bound him. This tilted position was comfortable, and growing more so. He felt himself sinking back into warm comfort, aware that the dentist’s voice was going on, sounding more and more distant.
“Seriously,” Doctor Rodney was saying, “you ought to be proud of the tremendous influence your program has. A few words from you and people’s lives are touched, changed forever. And these, in turn, change other lives dependent upon them, and still others. That mellow voice of yours creates countless ripples, you know that. You have power, Mr. Taggert.”
Yes, thought Taggert sleepily. Power. Power was the headiest wine. People cringed before you. People whined for favors. People jumped to attention.
“I don’t suppose it’s possible to count the thousands of lives you’ve changed, but it must be very many because even I am personally acquainted with a few of your cases. I knew Andrei Lassko, for example. Do you remember the name? No? Well, of course, there have been so many, you can’t be expected to remember. Lassko was a great composer of music, a great conductor. You spread the rumour that Lassko did not write his own music, that a few underpaid hirelings did it for him. An amusing little item to you, but it ruined Lassko. The charge was untrue.
“There was State Senator Tom Berman. A brilliant, honest servant of the people, a type that the country badly needs, with a fine career ahead of him. You made quite a splash by claiming that Berman had underworld tics. You were acclaimed for your fearless expose, but you had nothing to fear; the underworld was not involved. But the public did not forget your attack, and Berman’s career was finished.
“There was Dr. Stansky, the physicist. An easy name to attack. You called him subversive. Years later, an investigation finally cleared him, but his reputation had been damaged and his work interrupted. The country was the loser.
“I might mention the financier, Paul Jackson. You accused him of running a stock swindle. Not directly, of course; it would have been dangerous in this case. But your innuendo was enough. Jackson lost a fortune.
“There are, of course, your innumerable bedroom scandals, your bread and butter, I might say. Illicit affairs, illegitimate children, you do a fine job on them.” The dentist looked at Taggert steadily and continued softly. “Mrs. Dan Sprague. You wouldn’t remember that name, would you? You linked her name to that of a notorious actor. A bedroom scandal. Untrue, but her husband could not be convinced of that. He left her. She committed suicide.”
“Not responsible,” mumbled Taggert. “Not responsible for... crazy things... people do.”
“It must be a comfort not to feel responsible,” said Dr. Rodney’s voice. His features wavered and blurred before Taggert’s eyes. “By the way, just to show you how many people you’ve reached, did you know that Henry Thornwood, the man who sent you to me, is the brother of a lady whose character you’ve blackened?”
“No,” mumbled Taggert. “Didn’t... know.” Didn’t care either. Didn’t care about anything. Darkness was coming. Comfortable darkness. Warm sleep...
Clarity returned. First fuzzy images, then sharpness.
Nothing seemed to have changed; Dr. Rodney still stood before him looking competent and professional. His head and jaw was still numb, devoid of feeling, except for a warm wetness in his mouth.
“Spit out,” said Dr. Rodney pleasantly, indicating the basin with its flowing drain.
“It would have been worse if I hadn’t cauterized,” said Rodney.
Taggert realized that the smell in his nostrils was that of singed flesh and that it came from his own mouth.
“Here’s the tooth,” said Dr. Rodney. He picked up a decayed molar with long roots. “It was far gone, as you see.”
What Taggert started to reply, the sentence that formed in his mind was, “Yes, I’m glad it’s out,” but no words came from his mouth, only a strange croak. To a man who was used to controlling his voice like a tool, this was star-ding. Probably the after effects of the injection. He tried again, and heard the same croak.
Taggert realized he had been looking at something on the tray before him, a longish, pointed, fleshy object. It was an object that had no business in a dentist’s office.
Taggert took a long time at understanding because this was not something that could be accepted. To believe it would open the gates to horror.
“There will be a good deal of pain later,” said Dr. Rodney, still pleasantly, “but you’ll live through it. I think this should bring home to you the point that you’ve made enemies. I merely represent some of your enemies. Mrs. Sprague, the girl who took her own life, was my daughter.” Dr. Rodney went on, “You may wish to prefer charges against me. I must warn you that if you do so, your enemies will take the next step, the final step. I rather think that you’ll drop the matter.”
Dr. Rodney reached into the tray and picked up Taggert’s tongue. “Yes,” he said, “the tooth had to come out, but so did this. It is a diseased and poisonous member. It had to be extracted.”
Death by the Numbers
by Ed Lacy
The maid heard Tim Williams arguing with Mrs. Buck. Then Tim ran away... and Mrs. Buck was dead.
Harbor Point sticks out into the ocean like the fat neck of a steamer clam. It’s a rich village but not much for action — too many solid residents, not enough tourists or working stiffs. It’s at the far end of the county and the last time I came here was for a hit and run manslaughter — about seven months ago.
Chief Bob Moore looked his same hick-self; a man mountain running to lard in his middle-age. Seeing me he said with real surprise, “Well, well, ain’t we honored! Hardly expected the head of County Homicide up for this murder. You sure climbed fast, Jed. Rookie investigator last summer and now it’s Inspector Jed. Took me 19 years to become Chief of our three man police force. Proves a college education pays off.” His sarcasm was followed by a stupid grin of his thick mouth and bad teeth.
“I guess it helps,” I said, paying no attention to his ribbing.
“Never could figure out why you ever wanted to be a cop, Jed. You’re not only young but... well, you don’t even look like a police officer. A runt with narrow shoulders and that brush haircut... hell, you’d pass for a juvenile delinquent of the hotrod set. In my day the first requirement for a cop was to look like the law, big and tough. Man, when my 275 pounds and six-four comes along, why it’s the same as another badge. When I say move, a guy moves!”
“Don’t worry about my being tough, Moore. Also, it’s far too early in the day for corny lines like the bigger they come... You’ve had your gassy lecture, let’s get to work. Who was the murdered woman... Mrs. Buck?”