The Undertaker

To my left was a large, U-shaped reception desk with a very large, blond-haired woman holding court behind it. She was dressed in a white nurse's uniform and she eyed me up and down like a St. Bernard in heat. It wasn't that she was unattractive, but she was far too heavily made up for my taste. And way too big. With her broad shoulders, long arms, and round, rosy- cheeks, she could easily fill the heavy weight slot on the Russian women's wrestling team.

I smiled. She smiled. “Hi, I wonder if I could see Dr. Varner.”

“And, you have an appointment?” She cocked her head coyly to the side and asked in a deep, husky voice.

“An appointment? Uh, no, I'm afraid I don't.”

“Then it would be tres impossible,” she shook her head. “You see, Doctor Varner is on rounds now. After that, he has appointments and several surgeries that will run well into the evening. That's why the poor man never sees anyone without a referral and an appointment. I'm sure you understand.”

“Ah, certainement! With his schedule, of course I can. But tell me, what is the Doctor working on now?”

“Well, there's the new Herbal and Holistic Medicine Unit,” she ticked them off on her fingers for dramatic effect. “And Weight-loss and Body Recontouring Unit, Substance and Psychic Dependency, Cosmetic Re-engineering, Glandular and Hormonal Re-balance, and of course Dr. Varner's own Personal Preference Surgery.”

“Ah, Personal Preference Surgery. I remember now.”

“You remember? You mean you've been here before?”

“Oh, my, yes, I'm one of the Doctor's former patients.”

“One of Doctor Varner's? Ree-ally?”

I leaned forward and whispered, “That's why I must see him.”

“Personal Preference?” she asked again, still not sure.

“Yes! And very personal, as I'm sure you know.”

“Oh, yes!” Her eyes flashed.

“So,” I gave her a big smile, “if you could be a big dear and give him a message that Peter Talbott has come back to see him, I just know he'll pop right out and see me.”

“Well,” she seemed to glow. “If you'll have a seat for a smidge, I'll let him know you're here. But with his schedule, it may still be quite impossible.”

She picked up the telephone and I stepped to where I had a full view of the double doors that led back to the clinic and waited for the explosion. It didn't take long. Within a minute or two, a fat little man in a white smock with a stethoscope hanging around his neck burst into the waiting room. “What is the meaning of this outrage!” he sputtered. His nervous eyes darted around the small lobby until they settled on me. “Who are you?”

“Me? I'm Peter Talbott.”

“Peter Tal…?” he frowned, almost losing it.

“Yeah, the real one,” I answered, a confident smile forming on my lips. Weak link? One look at Varner and I knew that with a little pressure, he'd crack like a hot chestnut. “And I think we should talk, don't you?”

“Talk? Talk to you?” he scoffed. “Why should I?”

“Because it's me or the State cops and there's nothing your pals Tinkerton or Greene can do to help you then. You're going down.”

The receptionist was in shock as she watched the show unfold. Her eyes moved back and forth between us like a referee at a tennis match. “I'm terribly sorry, Dr. Varner,” she pleaded. “I had no idea.”

“That is all right, Bruce, it isn't your fault.” Varner reached out and patted her hand. “We don't want you to pop any stitches, now do we.” Varner turned and held the door open for me. “All right, come back to my office. If you insist on talking to me, we will talk.”

I glanced over at Bruce as I walked by, but she didn't look very happy about the situation. “A former patient?” She hissed. “I should have known.”

Varner ushered me through the double doors into the clinic and down the corridor to the left. The thin blue carpet of the lobby quickly gave way to gray-flecked linoleum, white semi-gloss enamel, and harsh fluorescent lights. His office was two doors down. I felt supremely confident as I walked in and took a chair across from his desk. It was Varner who was fidgeting nervously as he closed the door behind us. I knew I had him.

“See here. I don't know who you are, young man, but I run a legitimate business here. What right do you have to come here and bother me and my staff like this?”

“You mean Bruce? Oh, he'll get over it. You? I doubt it.”

“I shall have you arrested.”

“Go ahead,” I leaned forward and pushed the desk phone toward him. “Call the cops. If you don't, I will, but it won't be your buddy Virgil Dannmeyer who comes this time. It'll be the State Police and the State Attorney General's Office with search warrants. Neither Tinkerton nor his Washington pals can help you then.”

His face turned red, and he was having trouble pulling off the outraged innocence act.

Behind him, the wall was covered with framed diplomas, medical degrees, and board certifications. “Anias P. Varner, Doctor of Medicine,” I read aloud. “You weren't in the Marine Corps, were you?”

“The Marine Corps?” he sounded flustered. “What are you…?”