Ed Mcbain - Fuzz

“I thought you said somebody used your name.”

“Well, they did. She did.”

“Meyer, I’m a busy man,” Chabrier said. “I’ve got a case load here

that would fell a brewer’s horse, now would you please tell me what’s on your mind?”

“A novel,” Meyer said. “It’s a novel named Meyer Meyer. ”

“That is the title of the novel?” Chabrier asked.

“Yes. Can I sue?”

“I’m a criminal lawyer,” Chabrier said.

“Yes, but …”

“I am not familiar with the law of literary property.’

“Yes, but …”

“Is it a good book?”

“I don’t know,” Meyer said. “You see,” he said, “I’m a person, and this book is about some college professor or something, and he’s a short plump fellow …”

“I’ll have to read it,” Chabrier said.

“Will you call me after you’ve read it?”

“What for?”

“To advise me.”

“On what?”

“On whether I can sue or not.”

“I’ll have to read the law,” Chabrier said. “Do I owe you a favor, Meyer?”

“You owe me six of them,” Meyer said somewhat heatedly, “as for example the several times I could have got you out of bed at three o’clock in the morning when we had real meat here in the squadroom and at great risk to myself I held the suspect until the following morning so you could get your beauty sleep on nights when you had the duty. Now, Rollie, I’m asking a very tiny favor, I don’t want to go to the expense of getting some fancy copyright lawyer or whatever the hell, I just want to know whether I can sue somebody who used my name that’s on a record in the Department of Health on a birth certificate, can I sue this person who uses my name as the title of a novel, and for a character in a novel, when here I am a real person, for Christ’s sake!”

“Okay, don’t get excited,” Chabrier said.

“Who’s excited?” Meyer said.

“I’ll read the law and call you back.”

“When?”

“Sometime.”

“Maybe if we got somebody in the squadroom sometime when you’ve got the duty, I’ll fly in the face of Miranda-Escobedo again and hold off till morning so you can peacefully snore the night …”

“Okay, okay, I’ll get back to you tomorrow.” Chabrier paused. “Don’t you want to know what time tomorrow?”

“What time tomorrow?” Meyer asked.

The landlady had arthritis, and she hated winter, and she didn’t like cops too well, either. She immediately told Cotton Hawes that there had been other policemen prowling around ever since that big mucky-muck got shot last night, why couldn’t they leave a lady alone? Hawes, who had been treated to similar diatribes from every landlady and superintendent along the street, patiently explained that he was only doing his job, and said he knew she would want to co-operate in bringing a murderer to justice. The landlady said the city was rotten and corrupt, and as far as she was concerned they could shoot all those damn big mucky-mucks, and she wouldn’t lose no sleep over any of them.

Hawes had thus far visited four buildings in a row of identical slum tenements facing the glittering glass and concrete structure that was the city’s new Philharmonic Hall. The building, a triumph of design (the acoustics weren’t so hot, but what the hell) could be clearly seen from any one of the tenements, the wide marble steps across the avenue offering an unrestricted view of anyone who happened to be standing on them, or coming down them, or going up them. The man who had plunked two rifle slugs into Cowper’s head could have done so from any of these buildings. The only reason the police department was interested in the exact source of the shots was that the killer may have left some evidence behind him. Evidence is always nice to have in a murder case.

The first thing Hawes asked the landlady was whether she had rented an apartment or a room recently to a tall blond man wearing a hearing aid.

“Yes,” the landlady said.

That was a good start. Hawes was an experienced detective, and he recognized immediately that the landlady’s affirmative reply was a terribly good start.

“Who?” he asked immediately. “Would you know his name?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Orecchio. Mort Orecchio.”

Hawes took out his pad and began writing. “Orecchio,” he said, “Mort. Would you happen to know whether it was Morton or Mortimer or exactly what?”

“Just Mort,” the landlady said. “Mort Orecchio. He was Eye-talian.”

“How do you know?”

“Anything ending in O is Eye-talian.”

“You think so? How about Shapiro?” Hawes suggested.

“What are you, a wise guy?” the landlady said.

“This fellow Orecchio, which apartment did you rent him?”

“A room, not an apartment,” the landlady said. “Third floor front.”

“Facing Philharmonic?”

“Yeah.”

“Could I see the room?”

“Sure why not? I got nothing else to do but show cops rooms.”

They began climbing. The hallway was cold and the air shaft windows were rimed with frost. There was the commingled smell of garbage and urine on the stairs, a nice clean old lady this landlady. She kept complaining about her arthritis all the way up to the third floor, telling Hawes the cortisone didn’t help her none, all them big mucky-muck doctors making promises that didn’t help her pain at all. She stopped outside a door with the brass numerals 31 on it, and fished into the pocket of her apron for a key. Down the hall, a door opened a crack and then closed again.

“Who’s that?” Hawes asked.

“Who’s who?” the landlady said.

“Down the hall there. The door that just opened and closed.”

“Musta been Polly,” the landlady said, and unlocked the door to 31.

The room was small and cheerless. A three-quarter bed was against the wall opposite the door, covered with a white chenille bedspread. A framed print was over the bed. It showed a logging mill and a river and a sheepdog looking up at something in the sky. A standing floor lamp was on the right of the bed. The shade was yellow and soiled. A stain, either whiskey or vomit, was on the corner of the bedspread where it was pulled up over the pillows. Opposite the bed, there was a single dresser with a mirror over it. The dresser had cigarette burns all the way around its top. The mirror was spotted and peeling. The sink alongside the dresser had a big rust ring near the drain.

“How long was he living here?” Hawes asked.

“Took the room there days ago.”

“Did he pay be check or cash?”

“Cash. In advance. Paid for a full week. I only rent by the week, I don’t like none of these one-night stands.”

“Naturally not,” Hawes said.

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it ain’t such a fancy place, I shouldn’t be so fussy. Well, it may not be fancy,” the landlady said, “but it’s clean.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“I mean it ain’t got no bugs, mister.”

Hawes nodded and went to the window. The shade was torn and missing its pull cord. He grabbed the lower edge in his gloved hand, raised the shade and looked across the street.

“You hear any shots last night?”

“No.”

He looked down at the floor. There were no spent cartridge cases anywhere in sight.

“Who else lives on this floor?”

“Polly down the hall, that’s all.”

“Polly who?”

“Malloy.”

“Mind if I look through the dresser and the closet?”

“Go right ahead. I got all the time in the world. The way I spend my day is I conduct guided tours through the building.”