Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

“Oh shit,” they both thought. It had to happen. Someday they’d serve someone with a gun. Sean leaped with both arms outstretched to pin the man’s hands in his pants. His brother stepped up behind him, planted his feet, and threw a right hand that hit Gonzalez flush on the chin. Helped by the weight of the other boy on his chest, he slammed backwards into the earth and lay still. Sean grabbed the man’s hand and pulled it out. He was clutching a wallet. While Sean squatted and flipped through it, Matt patted the man down. He had a six-inch switchblade in his right back pocket. Sean handed him the wallet. “Woops.”

All the cards read “Carlos Gonzalez.” He too was short, moustachioed, with curly black hair. They tucked the wallet back into his pants and pulled him away from the tracks.

Gonzalez came around in a couple of minutes. Sean said, “We’re sorry, Mr. Gonzalez. We were looking for Gustavo Martin.”

“Yo soy Carlos Gonzalez.”

“We believe you. Why’d you run?”

No reply.

“Le cremos. Porqué corrio?”

He pointed at Matt’s shirt. “¿Policia?”

“No. No policia.”

“¿Sos de la Migra?”

“No. No Immigration.”

Gonzalez stood up, rubbing his jaw.

“Sorry about that. I thought you were going for a gun. Uh, per-done me, pense que listed buscaba una pistola.”

“No, si tuviera una pistola les hubiera pegado un balazo.” Gonzalez imitated shooting them both.

“I’m sure you would have,” Sean replied. “No guns. No INS. Why don’t we call it a draw and all go away happy.”

They walked away and left him there rubbing his jaw.

“Why are we doing this, Matt? Run it by me one more time.”

“Because the chicks love it. We’re dangerous men. We’re hard and shifty. Men to be reckoned with.”

“Thanks. It’s all coming back now. I must have lost it when I was shitting myself back there, and by the way, don’t wear that shirt again. We’re not the Hardy boys. I don’t want to die in a hail of irony, gunned down by some ESL dropout.”

“No problem. It’s history.”

“And we still have to find Gustavo Martin.”

“Not today. We’ll get his home address and try him there.”

“This doctor, did you arrange to serve him?”

“Called his office, set up an appointment for four o’clock. Should be a piece of cake.”

“With a ground-glass crust. Let’s do it.”

Dr. Gorman’s office was in Tysons Corner, a three-story box of solo practitioners: doctors, dentists, accountants, architects, insurance salesmen, and an individual who advertised himself as a Failure Analyst.

“That’s the best job title I’ve ever seen. You make a living analyzing other people’s screwups. How do you train for that? What was his major?” Matt mused.

“We can ask on the way out. You go on ahead. I’ve got to take a leak,” Sean said and ducked into the men’s room.

When Sean entered Dr. Gorman’s office, there were four other people in the waiting room. It was a battleship grey, with tubular metal chairs arranged around the edges of a purple carpet flecked with white. A central coffee table had a green flowerless plant and a pile of worn magazines.

“Dr. Gorman, please. I’ve got some papers for him,” Sean said.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Gorman isn’t here,” the secretary said, closing her appointment book. She sat behind a sliding-glass panel in the wall, next to an unmarked door.

“What about all these people?”

“We have another doctor covering for him today.”

“Really? I called to set up this appointment. I was told he’d be here.”

“I’m sorry, who are you with?”

“Short Fuse Process Service. How about I leave this with you, Ms...?”

“Not a chance. I’m not authorized to accept service and I’m not taking it. You get out of here or I’ll call the police.” The last part she whispered fiercely.

“Okay. I’ll go, but you tell Dr. Gorman I’m going to his house next. I know he’s got a teenage daughter. She should be home soon from school. I’ll serve her. She’ll love reading this stuff.”

“Get out of here, you despicable piece of...”

“Don’t say it. You’ll piss me off. Right now this is just a job. Don’t make it personal.”

He pulled the door closed behind him. As soon as it settled, the secretary pushed a button on her phone and whispered into the mouthpiece as she pulled the glass panel closed. A bald man with a precisely shaped beard and half-glasses near the end of his nose came up from the back office. They spoke briefly. He grimaced and shook his head at each thing she said. A patient, his hand to his jaw, approached the window and rapped on the glass. The secretary slid it back.

“Excuse me, Dr. Gorman, how long a wait do you think it’s gonna be. My tooth is killing me,” he mumbled.

“I don’t know, I’m running a little behind today,” he snapped irritably.

The patient smiled at this, reached through the opening with the hand he’d held to his face, and dropped a folded piece of paper onto the desk.