Fala Factor by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page A

dreamy under straight blond hair that tumbled across his eyes. The white coat was generously dappled with blood, some of it still moist.
    â€œMrs. Retsch,” he announced in a surprisingly high voice. The woman with the collie stood up nervously, looked for someplace to put her cigarette, found an ashtray, and, head down, moved past the huge blond man and through the door, her collie coughing docilely at her side.
    â€œYou,” the man said looking at me. “You got no animal.”
    He was observant.
    â€œThat’s what I want to see the doctor about,” I said. “I’m looking for a pet. My name’s Rosenfeldt. I made an appointment.”
    â€œBut you got no pet,” he repeated.
    â€œMr …?”
    â€œI’m Bass,” he said. “You’ve got an appointment and no pet.”
    â€œThat’s about it,” I agreed.
    Though I didn’t see that anything had been settled, Bass nodded, wiped his hands on his coat, and looked at the others waiting.
    â€œYou’re next,” he said, pointing at the parrot man. He turned and disappeared through the door.
    Amidst the smell of blood and animal I passed an hour with Collier’s , enjoying particularly a story about Chiang Kai-shek’s vow that China would never fall to the Japanese. He certainly looked determined in the pictures, and his wife at his side looked even better.
    At five, one hour later, the door to the interior of the building opened and the teen with the spaniel emerged and sped past and out. Bass stood looking down at me, so I assumed since I was alone that it was my turn. I stood up and put Collier’s and the Orient aside.
    â€œDoctor’s ready,” he said.
    â€œI’m ready,” I said and followed Bass down a narrow corridor. The walls were white and the little surgery-examining rooms we passed were white and stainless steel and looked clean. The blood smell, however, was strong, as was the sound of whining animals.
    Bass stopped and put out a hand. I almost ran into it.
    â€œIn there,” he said. “Doctor will be with you.”
    I went into the room he was pointing to, and he closed the door behind me. It was like the others we had passed, one chair in a corner, a cabinet, a sink, a counter against the wall with bottles and instruments on it, and in the center of the room, firmly bolted to the floor, a stainless steel table with lipped sides. The table was big enough to hold a fair-sized dog or a very short man. I didn’t think I could fit comfortably on it. I didn’t think anyone, even my friend Gunther, who doesn’t top four feet, could be comfortable on that table.
    My thoughts were on the table when the door opened and a man who looked like Guy Kibbe came in, rosy-cheeked and rubbing his hands together rapidly. His freckled balding head was fringed with white hair that grew down over both ears. He wore an open white jacket over a very neat, three-piece suit with a matching blue striped tie.
    Without looking at me, he moved to the counter, opened a cabinet, turned a knob, and music filled the room. It sounded like a tinny piano.
    â€œHarpsichord,” explained Dr. Olson, turning to me with a benevolent smile, rubbing his palms together. “Louis Couperin, Suite in D Major,” he said. “‘Le Tombeau de M. Blancrocher.’ Seventeenth century. Louis Couperin lived from 1626 to 1661. Some people confuse him with his nephew, François Couperin, who was sometimes called Le Grand Couperin. This is Louis. Listen.”
    We listened for a minute or two with Olson leaning back against the wall, arms folded.
    â€œAnimals like music,” he said. “Most animals anyway. Not orchestras, not the big loud stuff like Beethoven. That scares them, but baroque they go for every time. Bach, Mozart, Haydn. Cats even like Vivaldi sometimes. Don’t know what to make of that. What can I do for you Mr. Rosenfeldt? Bass says its something about