Ed McBain - Hark!

'Cause he's a rotten son of a bitch,' Carella said.

THE BUILDING NEXT door to 1113 Silvermine Oval was a seventeen-story edifice with six apartments on each floor. By five-thirty that night, Willis and Eileen had knocked on the doors to a hundred and two apartments, and spoken to eighty-nine tenants who were home and who answered their knocking. The first time they'd ever dealt with the Deaf Man, they'd got a description of him from a doorman named Joey. This was a long time ago, after he'd fired a shotgun blast into Carella's shoulder and slammed the stock of the shotgun into his head again and

again and again. One could understand why Carella considered any encounter with the Deaf Man a highly personal matter.

He's around my height, Joey had told Lieutenant Byrnes. Maybe six-one, six-two, and I guess he weighs around a hun' eighty, a hun' ninety pounds. He's got blond hair and blue eyes, and he wears this hearing aid in his right ear.

This was the description they gave the tenants now. Had anyone seen a white male fitting that description, in or around the building, at anytime on Memorial Day?

No one had seen anyone fitting that description.

Not on Memorial Day or any other day.

Outside the building again, Willis said, 'Wanna catch a bite to eat?'

Eileen looked at him.

'Maybe go see a movie afterward?' he said.

She hesitated a moment longer.

Then she said, 'Sure. Why not?'

THATEVENING, CHANNEL Four's Six O'Clock News had a big story to tell.

Someone had tried to kill their star investigative reporter, Honey Blair.

Avery Knowles, the show's co-anchor, first announced it on the air at five minutes past six, following the breaking news about a big fire in Calm's Point, where two children left alone had been playing with a kerosene burner while their mother was out scratching numbers off a lottery ticket at the corner grocery store.

'Earlier today,' Avery said, 'an armed assailant tried to murder someone with whom all of our viewers are familiar. You can only see the story now, here on Channel Four, in Honey Blair's own words.'

Only a handful of literate viewers knew that if they could only see the story now, right here on Channel Four, then they could not also hear the story. However, these were probably not Avery Knowles's own words, but instead the words of some network employee who didn't realize that the correct language should have been 'You can see the story now, only here on Channel Four.'

Standing before the camera in her trademark legs-slightly-apart pose, wearing a mini that was also something of a trademark, Honey said (not in her own words, either, even though they were coming from her own mouth), 'This morning at approximately five minutes to eleven, in front of five-seventy-four Jefferson Avenue, a gunman fired some dozen or more shots into a Channel Four vehicle that was driving me here to the studio. I have no idea why I was the target, but if any of our listeners have any information whatsoever regarding the shooting, please call either the police hotline number at the bottom of the screen or our own hotline number listed just below it. Meanwhile, hear this loud and clear, Mr. Shooter! I don't know what might have ticked you off, but I'm going to keep doing my job, rain or shine, bullets or not! Just keep that in mind, mister!'

The camera cut back to the co-anchors. Millie Anderson, the woman on the team, said, "We're with you, Honey. Folks, if you have any information at all, please call one of those hotlines, won't you?'

She glanced at Avery and said, 'A terrible thing, Ave.' Avery nodded in solemn agreement. Millie looked back into the camera again. 'At the Federal Courthouse downtown this afternoon,' she said, 'two women accused

of...'

Cotton Hawes snapped off his television set.

He was wondering why Honey hadn't mentioned he'd

been in the car with her. Or that someone had tried to kill him as he'd come out of her building Wednesday morning. He was merely a cop, but it seemed to him that in all probability he himself, and not Honey Blair, had been the intended target.

But he guessed that was show biz.

EILEEN DIDN'T THINK she should ask him anything about Marilyn Hollis.

Willis didn't think he should ask her anything about Bert Kling.

So over dinner, they talked mostly about the case. The two cases actually. One past, one future. The murder of Gloria Stanford and whatever monkeyshines the Deaf Man might be cooking up for the days ahead. They had worked together for a good long while now — from way back to when Eileen was still with Special Forces — but they'd socialized only once before, dinner with the four of them, Willis and Marilyn, Eileen and Kling. So to make dinner tonight a bit less awkward, they tried to figure out why the Deaf Man had anagramatically confessed to the murder of Gloria Stanford, and why he was now taunting them with Shakespearean quotes that might or might not indicate some crime he was planning for the future. 'Why us?' Willis wondered aloud. T think it's something personal,' Eileen said. 'I think he has something personal against Steve.' 'Or maybe each and every one of us.' 'Maybe. But why? What'd we ever do to him?' 'He's annoyed because we always mess him up.' 'Wellll,' Eileen said, 'I'm not sure I'd say exactly that, Hal. We've never been the ones who actually foiled his plans.'

'Foiled,' Willis said. 'I love that word. Foiled.'

'So do I.'

'You think we'll foil his plans this time?'

Smiling. Stressing the word. He had a nice smile, Eileen noticed.

'How can we foil his plans if we don't even know what they are?' she asked.

'Oh, he'll tell us, never fear.'

'You think so, huh?'

'I really do.'

'Dream on,' Eileen said.

WHEN MELISSA GOT back to the apartment that evening, the first thing he did was ask her to model the wigs.

Her natural hair color — well, as natural as Miss Clairol could make it — was what they called 'Spring Honey,' a sort of soft blondish hue that she felt suited her chocolate-brown eyes. In a wig shop on Sakonsett Street — which name she supposed derived from the American Indians who had once inhabited this island — she'd found a wig shop named Hair Today that was having what it called its 'Late Spring' sale. There were sales going on all over this city, and nobody could tell her this had nothing to do with the shitty economy. She'd bought two wigs — well, gee, these prices! — a red one in a sort of feather cut like the one she wore her own hair in, and a black one, shoulder length with bangs across the forehead. Looked s-o-oo natural with her brown eyes. Cost a bit less than a hundred each, including tax.

'Nice,' he said. 'You don't look at all like yourself.' 'Is that supposed to be a compliment?' she asked. She'd gone to bed with guys who'd asked her to wear

wigs, and then complained that the drapes didn't match the carpet, any excuse to bat her around, some of these creeps you met.

She sure hoped this wasn't going to be the case here tonight.

The wigs and all.

'WELL, I HAVE to tell you,' Willis said, 'this only confirms my theory that you should never go see a movie anybody both wrote and directed.'

They had just come out of the theater and were strolling up the avenue, most of the shops already closed, the evening still somewhat balmy.

'I kind of liked it,' Eileen said.

You did? Even though it withheld facts we needed to know? I mean, to solve the crime?

"Well, you're a cop. You'd naturally be looking for something like that.'

You're a cop, too. Don't you think he should have given us, like . . . some clues'?

'I was more interested in the personal story. I think women look more for that.'

"Witholding evidence doesn't bother you?'

'Only if the Deaf Man does it.'

'This was worse than what the Deaf Man's doing. At least he's playing fair. He gives us everything we need to know . . .'