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

a dog?”
    â€œI’m looking for a dog.” I said.
    â€œWait, wait, listen to this part.” Olson said, holding a finger up to his lips. His hands were clean and looked as if they had just been powdered. “That trill, holding back, the undulation. What can you compare it to, Mr. Rosenfeldt?”
    â€œSex?”
    Olson looked at me seriously.
    â€œWhy not,” he said. “Heightened emotion, combination of mind and body like good music. The animals have it. They are not inferior to us, not at all. We’ve just moved away from our origins, made things more artificial. That makes us think we’re better. Is thinking better than feeling, Mr. Rosenfeldt?”
    â€œI came about a dog,” I said.
    Olson scratched the inside of his ear with a clean pinky and with a sigh moved to the cabinet, reached in, and turned off the record.
    â€œI’m attentive,” he said, turning to me.
    â€œMy dog is sick,” I said.
    â€œSo Bass told me, though it seemed a bit cryptically stated to him when you called.”
    â€œMy dog is dying,” I said without emotion. “I’d like another just like it, a small black Scotch terrier, just like the president’s Fala. You familiar with the dog?”
    â€œAlas,” sighed Olson, “I’m not in the business of selling dogs, only in keeping them healthy. Perhaps if you bring your dog in there might be something we can do to help him or, if you are correct, make his final days less painful.”
    â€œAlas?” I said.
    â€œI beg your pardon?” Olson said, beaming at me.
    â€œI never met anyone before who used alas in normal conversation,” I pushed. Olson was not unsettling as easily as I hoped he might, which suggested that he was one hell of a liar or had nothing to hide.
    â€œWell, you have now and may your life be enriched for the experience, Mr. Rosenfeldt,” Olson went on. “I’m afraid we have no business together unless you or your missus wishes to bring your pet into the clinic. Believe me, if anything can be done, I will do it.”
    He put out a friendly hand across the small room to guide me to the door. I pushed away from the wall and took a step toward it before turning.
    â€œYou sure you wouldn’t know where I could pick up a dog to replace Fala,” I said. “It would save me and other people a lot of trouble.”
    Olson shook his head sadly and, arm out, came to my side to guide me to the door. “I’m afraid I simply cannot give you solace or help,” he said. “Many people want black or white Scotch terriers. Now, I’ve had a long day with my patients. Between us, Mr. Rosenfeldt, there is no essential difference between what I do and that which is done by an expensive Beverly Hills surgeon who makes incisions into movie stars. The anatomy of the mammal is essentially the same regardless of species. The knowledge needed to treat, to cure, is essentially the same. Ah, but the mystique is different. As a veterinary surgeon, I remove the mystique. For example, I see you have a slight limp. Sore back?”
    He guided me with a surprisingly strong arm to the door of the room.
    â€œSore back,” I agreed, “but it comes and goes.”
    â€œYes.” He chuckled. “If I were a big downtown surgeon, I could put you right up on that table and have you taken care of within an hour.”
    â€œTaken care of?” I said, pushing the door closed as he opened it.
    â€œYes.” He smiled. “I could take care of all your problems.”
    â€œI’m determined to get that little black dog, Doc,” I whispered.
    â€œWho are you?” he whispered back, licking his lower lip.
    â€œThe name is Peters.” I pushed, feeling that I was getting through to something. “I’m a private investigator looking for a missing dog.”
    â€œA missing dog?”
    â€œYou make a nice echo,” I said. “Let’s try