Dr. Yes (6 page)

    'Yes,
I'd like to enquire about the possibility of having one of your makeovers.'

    'Absolutely,
sir. Could I have your name, please?'

    'George.'

    'George?
And your surname?'

    'Pelecanos.'

    His new
novel had just come in, and I had a business and its reputation to protect.

    'Like
the writer?' she asked, unexpectedly.

    'Ahm,
yes.'

    'I
understand
completely,
sir. Many of our clients prefer the cloak of anonymity.
Though I should stress that this is just like going to your own doctor; it's
absolutely confidential. Perhaps I could take your phone number and ...'

    'I'd
prefer if you didn't.'

    'Perhaps
your e-mail ...'

    'No,
she checks them as well. You see, it's to be a surprise for my wife.'

    'So
it's your wife who will be having the . . . ?'

    'No,
it's for me, I'm the bog-ugly one.'

    'Well,
I'm sure you're not. But I understand completely, sir, what a wonderful idea.'

    'I
just want to come in and have a chat, see what's involved.'

    'Yes,
sir, absolutely. A consultation with Dr Yeschenkov. Now I'm afraid there is a
charge for that. Fully redeemable if you do join our programme.'

    'How
much would that be?'

    'That
would be just four hundred and ninety-nine pounds.'

    'I
mean for the consultation.'

    'Yes,
sir. Would you like me to check for an appointment?'

    I
decided to think of it as an investment. 'Yes, absolutely.'

    'All
right, then! Let me see. How about the twenty- fourth

    'That's
too ...'

    '...of
May. That's the earliest we have. I'm afraid he's a very busy man.'

    'So
you've, ahm, nothing today, then?'

    'No,
sir, I'm afraid

    'I
could just like pop in and show him my head.'

    'I'm
sorry, sir, that's impossible.'

    'Just
a quick once-over; he could give me an estimate.'

    'Sir
. . .'

    'It's
kind of urgent. What about tomorrow? I'll be passing your place around
lunchtime. I could just jump up and down at his window and he could give me the
thumbs-up or the thumbs—'

    'Sir!
Dr Yeschenkov is not even working tomorrow.'

    'Well
you would say—'

    'Sir,
he'll be playing golf and under strict instructions not to be—'

    'Well
maybe I'll run into him at the club

    'Oh. You're
a member at Malone too, sir?'

    'Absolutely.'

    I was
playing her like a glass harp.

    'Well
that's different. And he does actually do a special rate for fellow members.
It's a wonderful club, isn't it, sir? Play there myself, very active ladies'
membership. What's your handicap?'

    'Calipers,'
I said, and hung up.

    I'd
wrung the information out of her like a hamster in a mangle. Now I could seek
out Dr Yes at the golf club and quiz him about Arabella's mysterious
disappearance without having to enter his lair or pay that frankly ridiculous
fee for a consultation.

    The
phone rang and I said, 'Hello, No Alibis, Murder is Our Business.'

    And
the same woman's voice said, 'I'm sorry, we seemed to get cut off. What were
you saying about calipers? And you're from No Alibis? I
love
that shop!'

    Let
me explain why I took Pearl, for that was her name, for coffee. First of all,
in chatting to her on the phone I realised that although she claimed to be a
crime fiction aficionado, she was all at sea when it came to her actual choice
of books. She needed help, she needed guidance. For God's sake, she was still
reading Patterson! It is my primary function in this difficult world to steer
those who are hopelessly lost towards the light. I am a beacon. A saviour of
souls. But I'm not a literary snob, not even for my chosen genre. Yes, of
course there are heavyweights out there who are very good, but I'm just as much
a champion of pulp fiction or dark and witty noir or even grandmotherly cosies,
as long as they don't feature animals who actually physically contribute to the
solving, of a case. It's my job to match the right book to the right reader.
Also, and perhaps more importantly, she was

    Dr
Yeschenkov's gatekeeper, and in meeting her and engaging her in friendly chat I
would surely gain an insight not only into him, but also into the circumstances
surrounding the disappearance of the lovely Arabella. I had played her once, I
would play her again.

    She
was warm and friendly and fascinated on the phone, and in retrospect, I have to
admit, I was a little flattered. Our conversation was continually interrupted,
however, by her having to answer calls on her switchboard. In response I also
disappeared several times, pretending that I had to deal with a customer.

    She
said, 'It's lovely talking to you, but impossible!'

    'I
know,' I said. 'Sorry, a bit hectic here too.' Thankfully she couldn't actually
see or hear the tumble- weed. 'Do you know what I should do? I should pick out
some books for you. Take a look at them, no obligation to buy.' She laughed. I
was
so
good at this. 'Why don't you pop in at lunch time?'

    'I'd
love to - but I only get half an hour and that's barely enough for coffee and a
sandwich. Actually, I usually go to that Starbucks just near you.'

    'Well
tell you what, I could pop across with them.'

    'Really?
Would you do that? That would be
marvellous.'

    I
was
pretty marvellous. 'How will I recognise you?' I asked.

    'Don't
worry,' she said, I’ll recognise you. You'll be carrying books. About one?'

    'About
one.'

    'Marvellous.
It's a date.'

    I
have to admit, I got a little glow inside when she said that, although
obviously she meant nothing by it.

    I
was, I suppose, at a slight disadvantage, because I had no idea what she looked
like. Not only would I be carrying books, but as a customer of No Alibis she
undoubtedly already knew me to see, whereas I forget my customers as soon as
they leave, and occasionally while they're still there. It was, however,
reasonable to assume she would not look like a dog's dinner, given that she was
the first person people would see when they came along to Dr Yeschenkov's
clinic for an estimate, and if she looked like she'd been beaten with the ugly
stick, potential customers would probably change their minds as soon as they
saw her. On the other hand, if she was a real stunner, I would have remembered
her being in the shop. What I did know was that she sounded funny and bubbly,
had said she wasn't into horror or gore or any of the more explicit authors,
but that Christie bored her and she never quite 'got' any of the Scandinavians.
Her tastes seemed to quite mirror mine, so selecting what I felt was right for
her wasn't a problem. I picked up an Elmore Leonard, a Robert B. Parker, a
Pelecanos, for obvious reasons, and, a little out of left field, Graham
Greene's
Our Man in Havana.
I fixed my remaining hair and scooted across
to Starbucks a little before one, so that I could have exactly the coffee I
needed ordered and delivered before she arrived in case she thought I was in
any way weird. I work my way through the menu once a month and any deviation
leads to chaos and confusion, particularly in the paperwork that scrupulously
records my intake. I couldn't afford to have her arrive first and buy me
something out of sequence.

    I was
studying a leaflet about their East African coffee, and how for every one-pound
bag of it they were contributing to a global fund for the treatment of those
living with Aids on that continent, and thinking how little I cared about that fact,
when her now familiar voice said. 'This must be you?'

    It
was indeed me, and it was indeed her.

    And
she was the MOST BEAUTIFUL CREATURE ON GOD'S EARTH.

    Beaming
down at
me.

    She
had luxuriously long black hair, a sprinkle of freckles on her pure white
cheeks beneath deep-pool green eyes and above a smile dazzling enough to make
Mormons jump off cliffs. She was gloriously free of make-up and wore a top that
revealed nothing but suggested everything.

    I
just nodded, stunned, and she put her hand out and said, 'Hi, it's me, Pearl.
Pearl, hi.'

    Although
I am normally loath to shake anyone's hand, I made an exception. She was not
the sort of woman that bugs would exist on. They would give her a pass; they
would say not much point in hanging around here, she's out of our league.

    I
said, eventually, 'Let me get you a coffee. What do you fancy ... ?'

    She
glanced up at the menu before saying: 'I'll have what you're having.' I
ordered. As I waited at the delivery desk, Pearl picked up the books I'd left
on the table, and studied their covers, and then flipped them over to read the
back. She smiled up at me again. 'Fantastic, fantastic, I can't wait to get
into them.'

    I
smiled back.

    I
felt glad to have landed on this planet. I returned to the table.

    I
said, 'Pearl's a lovely name; you don't hear it much these days.'

    'Mum
always loved it.'

    'Mother
of Pearl.'

    'Usually
I get Pearl's a singer.'

    'The
only other Pearl I know is . . .' And I tapped the Robert B. Parker book.
'Spenser's dog in this .. .'

    'Are
you comparing me to a dog?'

    I
laughed. I reddened. I was thinking, if you're a dog, you're the most beautiful
dog I've ever seen. She burst into laughter.

    'I'll
take that as a compliment,' she said.

    'Did
I say that out loud?'

    Under
the table, her foot touched mine.

    It
was just an accident.

    We
were on our second coffee. I was still on menu. She had listened, fascinated,
to my views on the

    current
state of crime fiction, and to assessments of the career of Leonard and the
television work of Pelecanos, and to my explanation - but not justification,
definitely not justification - for the Greene. The master himself might have
dismissed
Our Man
as merely an entertainment, but sometimes authors can
be too close to their works. In my humble opinion, it is a much better novel
than any of his 'worthies'. I was on top form; she could have listened to me
all day, I'm sure, but I was there for a reason. She handed over twenty pounds
for the books. I waited while she rifled her handbag for the additional fifteen
pence. Once that business was satisfactorily completed, I moved on to the
equally pressing reason for my having lured her into my home from home in the
first place.

    I
said, 'I can't believe you've been in the shop before. I'm sure I would have
remembered you.'

    'Most
times there's an older woman working there? To tell you the truth, she was a
bit scary. I never stayed long.'

    'That
would be Mother. She's no longer with us.'

    'You
mean she's . . . passed on?'

    'Not
yet. As the Stranglers used to sing, she's "Hanging Around". She's in
a home for the very, very annoying. Actually, though, we do have someone in
common.'

    'Really?
Who?'

    'Name
of Augustine W—'

    'Wogan!
Oh God, how do you know . . . ?' She tutted. 'Of course! How silly of me. He's
a crime writer. Though I've never read one of his books, and now I'm quite sure
I never want to. What a pain in the neck!'