The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance by Stuart M. Kaminsky

said, nodding at Straight-Ahead’s door.
    “He’s as strong as a bull.”
    “Bulls get slaughtered by the thousands every day,” he said. “He’s alive because he’s strong, but things go wrong. One minute a patient is recovering nicely, the next we’re fighting to save his life.”
    “I’ll stay away,” I said. “How are you?”
    He took one hand out of his pocket to push his few strands of mousy hair back.
    “Shorter,” he said with a bitter smile.
    “Shorter?”
    He reached down awkwardly to pull up his right pant leg. His wooden leg was as black as Henry Armstrong’s. I couldn’t tell if it was ebony or mahogany or something else, and I didn’t feel like asking.
    “I’m sorry,” I said.
    “And I’m now an internist,” he said.
    “I thought you were a surgeon.”
    “Surgeon’s have to stand up and do surgery, sometimes for hours,” he explained. “I can’t stand up for more than twenty minutes without pain. Ever hear of a surgeon who operated sitting down?”
    “Why not,” I tried.
    “Go to medical school for four years, then do an internship and a couple of years of residency and we’ll talk about it,” he answered.
    “I got in a couple of years of college,” I said, “and lots of years in the field.”
    “Different fields,” Parry said, nodding at the burly nurse who passed us. “You want me to hire you to go back to that island and find my leg? I don’t think it can be put back on but this war is a devil’s send for surgeons. We get to do so many things, try new ideas. The human guinea pigs are carted in by the dozens. I got to be one of them.”
    “Well, I’d love to stay around here and have you cheer me up, but I’ve got work to do,” I said. “Did you know Herbert Marshall has a wooden leg? Sarah Bernhardt had one. That pitcher for the White Sox, Monty Stratton, had one.”
    “Surgeons all,” he said.
    “Hell, maybe you can pitch or act,” I said.
    The smile was there. Not much of a smile, but a smile. I considered it a small triumph.
    “Get out, Peters,” he said.
    I saluted him with two fingers to my forehead, like Jimmy Cagney in The Public Enemy , and hurried down the hall in search of a telephone.
    I didn’t find one till I had made my way back to the lobby. The Edna May Oliver receptionist spotted me coming from the bowels of the hospital and rose from her chair in indignation, ignoring the old man who was leaning forward to take the visitor’s card from her hand.
    “It’s a boy,” I called, heading for the phones in the corner. The uniformed guard smiled and a young couple waiting on a bench near a window looked up beaming, the woman’s large stomach extending empathy.
    I made three calls with my three nickels. One was to Shelly Minck, the dentist with whom I share space in the Farraday Building. Shelly had things to tell me. I didn’t have time to listen. I told him I’d be coming to the office later.
    “Toby,” he insisted. “I’ve got a new idea for drumming up business.”
    “And I’ve got a life to save, a gun to get back, and a body to find,” I said.
    “Well, what the hell is more important?” Shelly asked.
    “Business first,” I agreed. “The oral hygiene of an ignorant public that yearns for the talents of Dr. Sheldon Minck.”
    “A half-page ad in the telephone directory and the Times ,” he said. “Plates.”
    “You’re going to sell plates, Shel?”
    “Not plates you eat off of,” he said with exasperation. “Plates you eat with, in your mouth.”
    “Right, Shelly. I’ve—”
    “See yourself as others see you,” he said, probably reading a copy he had written on the wall. “Take the mirror test. Plates can look natural. Happy days are here again. Pay later. Don’t worry about money. Plates repaired while you wait. What do you think?”
    “Sounds terrific, Shelly. Now I’m hanging up.”
    “And my picture pointing at a mirror. I mean a picture of a mirror,” he said dreamily. “If I can only get Mildred to