“No, I can’t explain. It’s just like this buzz-ah, shit!”

“What?” asked a group of anxious reporters. “What is it? A bomb? A disaster? A mass murder? Another political sex scandal?”

Hartley replied, “I just bit down on a shell. I’m going to sue those bastards!”

The networks bleeped out the cusswords. MTV left them in.

Sitting in the dentist’s chair, his mouth numbed and filled with cotton, Hartley breathed in lungful after lungful of laughing gas.

Friggin’ nutshells.

It had started out slowly as a dull ache. Within a week, his right jaw had swollen to twice its size until the pain had become unbearable. Without recourse to quell the agony, he finally summoned up the nerve to see the dentist.

“Cracked down the middle,” the oral surgeon reported. “The tooth can’t be saved. It’ll have to come out.”

Hartley figured the toothache was penance for all his bragging about his good luck. Well, if this was the worst-although it was pretty bad-he could live with it.

If it didn’t happen again.

The gas took the edge off the anxiety, but Hartley’s heart still raced when the surgeon entered the operatory.

“How’re we doing?” the doctor asked.

Hartley thought, I’m sure you’re doing well, but I’m doing shitty. Unfortunately, he was too crocked out to say anything.

“Open up,” the surgeon said. “It’ll only take a minute.”

Hartley managed to open his mouth.

With practiced skill, the dentist placed the forceps around the crown of the back molar. He gripped the handles, then paused. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Ahhhhh,” Hartley responded.

“I hear something.” Another beat. “Do you hear something?”

“Ahhhhhh” was Hartley’s answer. But he did hear something. The buzz in his brain. The voices, as always. But how could the dentist hear it?

“Ahhhhhhhhh,” Hartley responded, trying to talk louder.

“Can’t understand a word you’re saying.” With care, the surgeon rotated the forceps. Up and down, up and down, back and forth, back and forth, until he could feel the ligaments holding the tooth to the gum breaking. “Ah, well.”

Hartley heard the cracking of tooth matter along with the voice. Again he tried to talk, but the gas…

“There it is again,” the surgeon said. “Like someone’s playing a radio inside your head.”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Hartley tried to scream.

“Now, calm down,” the surgeon insisted as he turned up the nitrous portion of the nitrous oxide. “You were doing okay. Just hang in there. It’s almost over.”

Hartley felt his voice box weaken… just couldn’t move. But he could damn well hear.

The surgeon chuckled. “You know, you read about funny things in the dental journals… about radio transmissions that come through dental fillings. I never believed the stories. But maybe that’s what I’m hearing. Has that ever happened to you?”

Hartley couldn’t talk.

“There!” the surgeon said triumphantly. He held a bloody tooth aloft. “Got it.” Slowly, he turned down the nitrous. “Done. Hartley, I’ve got you breathing more oxygen now. You should come around in about a minute or two. I’ll just let you relax.”

The door closed. Again Hartley said nothing. Worse than that, he heard nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

No buzz, no voices, no sound.

All of it gone, gone, gone!

Damn those nutshells. He should have sued the bastards.

But what was the point now?

Gone!

No more Mr. Johnny-on-the-Spot.

No more Radar Robert Roadrunner.

No more the Scoop.

No more parties and special invitations.

No more press conferences.

No more office with a door.

Gone, gone, gone.

So what was left for him? Just a life as an ordinary reporter. As these thoughts came into his brain, Hartley became increasingly depressed. As soon as he was physically able, he reached over to the gas tanks, lowered the oxygen tap to almost nil, and turned the nitrous knob on full blast.

Good old nitrous.

He always wanted to die laughing.

“Mr. Barton’s Head Case” appears here for the very first time in English. It was originally written for a German anthology of short stories that revolved around the biblical theme “Thou Shall Not Murder.” I chose the little-known story of Balaam and Balak, and it evolved into a modern-day fable with all the gravitas of the sixties series My Mother the Car, featuring Jerry Van Dyke. (Strangely, the car in that sitcom not only talked, it spoke in English. Just a step more bizarre than Mr. Ed, the talking horse: “Oh, Willlllburrrr!”)

And God opened the mouth of the she-donkey and she said to Balaam: “What have I done to you that you have struck me these three times?… Am I not your she-donkey on which you have ridden since you have been in existence, until this day? Have I ever been in the habit of doing this to you?”

– Bamidbar (Numbers) 22 parashat Balak

“It’s business,” he said. “nothin’ personal. well, maybe a little personal. Hell, it’s a lot personal. I can’t stand the son of a bitch! You wanna know why?”

Actually, Billy didn’t want to know why. The less he knew, the better. But the man was paying him good money, so he played the game. “Why’s that, Mr. Barton?”

“ ’Cause he’s a goddamn self-righteous son of a bitch, that’s why. Comes from nothin’… less than nothing. Comes from garbage. And now that he’s got a badge, he thinks he’s hot shit.”

“A badge?”

“Yeah, a badge. He’s a Fed.”

“Whoa, whoa, Mr. Barton,” Billy protested. “You didn’t say anything about knocking off a Fed.”

“What?” Barton’s eyes narrowed to slits, swallowed up by the thick lids that topped them. “You think I’m payin’ you all this money to pop Joe Schmuck?”

“You didn’t say anything about a Fed, sir.” Billy touched the knot of his tie, a Stefano Ricci. Put him back heavy in the buck department, but only the best. The jacquard silk had been dyed jewel blue, perfectly setting off his crisp white Brioni shirt. His mocha-colored double-breasted suit was Kiton, a cashmere blend and made to measure. His barrel chest necessitated custom clothes. “Feds got protection, sir. Heavy-artillery protection. At this stage in my life, I’m not sure I want the heat.”

“What stage?” Mr. Barton protested. “C’mon, Billy. What are you? Thirty-five? Forty?”

“Forty-two.”

“You’re a young man.”

“I’ve seen a lot of action, Mr. Barton. I’ve had a good career. You want to go out on a high note, you know what I’m saying?”

“I’m paying for your high note.”

“I’m not saying the money isn’t good. It’s good. Your money is always good, sir. But there are other considerations.”

The old don slid back into his leather chair, interlaced his stubby fingers, and set them in his lap. “You gotta do this for me, Billy. I ain’t givin’ you an option, I’m givin’ you an order.”

Billy regarded Barton in his flashy silver lamé Valentino getup. Same black shirt and tie-yesterday’s statement. The man had no originality, no class. “Sir, with all due respect, and I’m giving you lots of respect ’cause you deserve it, sir. But with all of the respect-due and otherwise-I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this. And if I’m not comfortable, that very much increases the chance of a fuckup. And the one thing you don’t want, sir, is that fuckup. So you can order me to do it. And knowing who you are and all that, I’d do it. But keep in mind what I just told you.”

“You’re gonna fuck this up on purpose?”

“I never fuck up anything on purpose.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Now Barton was irritated. Not good to get him irritated, especially because Billy knew that Barton had a Heckler amp; Koch 9mm Parabellum resting in his desk drawer. Probably had other pieces as well. Not to mention those two gorillas outside the office door, and the two gorillas down the hallway. Barton had more gorillas than the Bronx Zoo. Billy felt naked without his piece, but it was part of the process. Whenever he went to see Mr. Barton, the goons outside always copped his steel.