It sounded like a tinny piano.
“Harpsichord,” 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, Francois 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.
“Animals 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 a dog?”
“I’m looking for a dog.” I said.
“Wait, 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?”
“Sex?”
Olson looked at me seriously.
“Why 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?”
“I 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.
“I’m attentive,” he said, turning to me.
“My dog is sick,” I said.
“So Bass told me, though it seemed a bit cryptically stated to him when you called.”
“My 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?”
“Alas,” 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.”
“Alas?” I said.
“I beg your pardon?” Olson said, beaming at me.
“I never met anyone before who used
“Well, 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.
“You 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.
“Sore back,” I agreed, “but it comes and goes.”
“Yes.” 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.”
“Taken care of?” I said, pushing the door closed as he opened it.
“Yes.” He smiled. “I could take care of all your problems.”
“I’m determined to get that little black dog, Doc,” I whispered.
“Who are you?” he whispered back, licking his lower lip.
“The name is Peters.” I pushed, feeling that I was getting through to something. “I’m a private investigator looking for a missing dog.”
“A missing dog?”
“You make a nice echo,” I said. “Let’s try for some original material.”
“Leave,” he said, his voice cracking, but the smile still frozen in place. “You’ve come to the wrong place.”
“I don’t think so, Doc,” I said.
“Bass,” Olson said. He hadn’t raised his voice much, so the big blond must have been right outside the door waiting. He came in fast, the door catching me on the shoulder as he pushed through.
“Doc?” he said.
“This man’s name is Peters,” Olson said slowly. “Please look at him.”
Bass looked at me obediently.
“He is not to be allowed in this clinic again,” said Olson, shaking his head sadly. “He is not a lover of animals.”
“He’s not?” said Bass.
“I am too,” I stuck in, but Bass wasn’t listening to my voice. I wondered if he, too, was soothed by baroque music.
“So,” Olson went on, putting an immaculate, paternal hand on Bass’s substantial arm, “I’m afraid he will have to leave now. I would prefer that he not be hurt, but we cannot be responsible if he offers resistance, can we?”
“No, we cannot,” said Bass, grabbing my shoulder as I tried to work my way behind him to the door.
“I’ll leave quietly,” I said, trying to remove my jacket from Bass’s grasp.
“Let us hope so,” sighed Olson. “Alas, Mr. Bass is a former professional wrestler. I would not like you to get hurt on the premises. It might result in some trauma for you, perhaps an emergency situation in which I would have to treat you as a patient.”
“That’s a threat,” I said, unable to free myself from Bass.
“That is a statement of true concern,” said Olson, nodding his head to Bass, who caught the signal, opened the door with his free hand, and pushed me into the narrow white corridor. I slammed against the wall and would have fallen if Bass hadn’t pulled me up. Olson stood in the open door.
“It’s not this easy, Olson,” I said.
The smile on his face almost dropped as he quietly closed the door. Bass gave me a shove down the corridor and I banged off of another wall. The crash of my body sent’a shiver through the walls, and animals all over the place picked it or something up and went jungle-wild. Down in the darkness behind us dogs barked, and a parrot voice screamed, “I’m Henry the Eighth I am.”
I pulled myself up as bloody-coated Bass stalked forward, expressionless.
“Now hold it,” I said, holding up a hand. “I’m going and I don’t need any help.”
He pushed me with an open palm and I staggered back as the sound of Louis Couperin, not to be confused with his nephew Francois Couperin, came from some speaker in the ceiling.
Bass reached out for another push, which would have sent me up against the door to the waiting room. As his hand came out, I pushed it out of the way with my shoulder as I stepped in and threw a solid right at his midsection. I wanted to knock the wind out of him. I never punched at the face. It usually led to a broken hand. The place to hit was the solar plexus. I hit. I know I hit, but Bass’s reaction might have suggested something else to a passing Doberman. Bass looked displeased.
