Ed Mcbain - Fuzz

“Who’re you?” Brown asked.

“He delivered an envelope,” Genero said.

“Here we go,” Hawes said.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Give me some advice on my rights,” the kid said.

“Tell me your name, or I’ll kick your ass in,” Brown said. “How do you like that advice?” He had just witnessed what a pair of young hoods had done to Carella, and he was in no mood to take nonsense from a snotnose.

“My name is Michael McFadden, and I won’t answer no questions without a lawyer here,” the kid said.

“Can you afford a lawyer?” Brown asked.

“No.”

“Get him a lawyer, Hal,” Brown said, bluffing.

“Hey, wait a minute, what is this?” McFadden asked.

“You want a lawyer, we’ll get you a lawyer,” Brown said.

“What do I need a lawyer for? All I done was deliver an envelope.”

“I don’t know why you need a lawyer,” Brown said. “You’re the one who said you wanted one. Hal, call the D.A.’s office, get this suspect here a lawyer.”

“Suspect?” McFadden said. “Suspect? What the hell did I do?”

“I don’t know, kid,” Brown said, “and I can’t find out because you won’t let me ask any questions without a lawyer here. You getting him that lawyer, Hal?”

Willis, who had lifted the phone receiver and was listening to nothing more vital than a dial tone, said, “Tie-line’s busy, Art.”

“Okay, I guess we’ll just have to wait then. Make yourself comfortable, kid, we’ll get a lawyer up here for you soon as we can.”

“Look, what the hell,” McFadden said, “I don’t need no lawyer.”

“You said you wanted one.”

“Yeah, but, I mean, like if this is nothing serious …”

“We just wanted to ask you some questions about that envelope, that’s all.”

“Why? What’s in it?”

“Let’s open the envelope and show the kid what’s in it, shall we do that?” Brown said.

“All I done was deliver it,” McFadden said.

“Well, let’s see what’s inside it, shall we?” Brown said. He folded his handkerchief over the envelope, slit it open with a letter opener, and then used a tweezer to yank out the folded note.

“Here, use these,” Kling said, and took a pair of white cotton gloves from the top drawer of his desk. Brown put on the gloves, held his hands widespread alongside his face, and grinned.

“Whuffo does a chicken cross de road, Mistuh Bones?” he said, and burst out laughing. The other cops all laughed with him. Encouraged, McFadden laughed too. Brown glowered at him, and the laugh died in his throat. Gingerly, Brown unfolded the note and spread it flat on the desk top:

“What’s that supposed to mean?” McFadden asked.

“You tell us,” Brown said.

“Beats me.”

“Who gave you this note?”

“A tall blond guy wearing a hearing aid.”

“You know him?”

“Never saw him before in my life.”

“He just came up to you and handed you the envelope, huh?”

“No, he came up and offered me a fin to take it in here.”

“Why’d you accept?”

“Is there something wrong with bringing a note in a police station?”

“Only if it’s an extortion note,” Brown said.

“What’s extortion?” McFadden asked.

“You belong to The Terrible Ten, don’t you?” Kling asked suddenly.

“The club broke up,” McFadden said.

“But you used to belong.”

“Yeah, how do you know?” McFadden asked, a trace of pride in his voice.

“We know every punk in this precinct,” Willis said. “You finished with him, Artie?”

“I’m finished with him.”

“Good-by, McFadden.”

“What’s extortion?” McFadden asked again.

“Good-by,” Willis said again.

The detective assigned to tailing Anthony La Bresca was Meyer Meyer. He was picked for the job because detectives aren’t supposed to be bald, and it was reasoned that La Bresca, already gun shy, would never tip to him. It was further reasoned that if La Bresca was really involved in a contemplated caper, it might be best not to follow him from his job to wherever he was going, but instead to be waiting for him there when he arrived. This presented the problem of second-guessing where he might be going, but it was recalled by one or another of the detectives that La Bresca had mentioned frequenting a pool hall on South Leary, and so this was where Meyer stationed himself at four o’clock that afternoon.

He was wearing baggy corduroy trousers, a brown leather jacket, and a brown watch cap. He looked like a longshoreman or something. Actually, he didn’t know what he looked like, he just hoped he didn’t look like a cop. He had a matchstick in his mouth. He figured that was a nice touch, the matchstick. Also, because criminal types have an uncanny way of knowing when somebody is heeled, he was not carrying a gun. The only weapon on his person was a longshoreman’s hook tucked into the waistband of his trousers. If anyone asked him about the hook, he would say he needed it on the job, thereby establishing his line of work at the same time. He hoped he would not have to use the hook.

He wandered into the pool hall, which was on the second floor of a dingy brick building, said “Hi,” to the man sitting behind the entrance booth, and then said, “You got any open tables?”

“Pool or billiards?” the man said. He was chewing on a matchstick, too.

“Pool,” Meyer said.

“Take Number Four,” the man said, and turned to switch on the table lights from the panel behind him. “You new around here?” he asked, his back to Meyer.

“Yeah, I’m new around here,” Meyer said.

“We don’t dig hustlers,” the man said.

“I’m no hustler,” Meyer answered.

“Just make sure you ain’t.”

Meyer shrugged and walked over to the lighted table. There were seven other men in the pool hall, all of them congregated around a table near the windows, where four of them were playing and the other three were kibitzing. Meyer unobtrusively took a cue from the rack, set up the balls, and began shooting. He was a lousy player. He kept mentally calling shots and missing. Every now and then he glanced at the door. He was playing for perhaps ten minutes when one of the men from the other table sauntered over.

“Hi,” the man said. He was a burly man wearing a sports jacket over a woolen sports shirt. Tufts of black hair showed above the open throat of the shirt. His eyes were a deep brown, and he wore a black mustache that seemed to have leaped from his chest onto the space below his nose. The hair on his head was black too. He looked tough and he looked menacing, and Meyer immediately made him for the local cheese.

“You play here before?” the man asked.

“Nope,” Meyer said without looking up from the table.

“I’m Tino.”

“Hello, Tino,” Meyer said, and shot.

“You missed,” Tino said.

“That’s right, I did.”

“You a hustler?” Tino said.

“Nope.”

“We break hustlers’ arms and throw them down the stairs,” Tino said.

“The arms or the whole hustler?” Meyer asked.

“I got no sense of humor,” Tino said.

“Me, neither. Buzz off, you’re ruining my game.”

“Don’t try to take nobody, mister,” Tino said. “This’s a friendly neighborhood pool hall.”

“Yeah, you sure make it sound very friendly,” Meyer said.

“It’s just we don’t like hustlers.”

“I got your message three times already,” Meyer said.

“Eight ball in the side.” He shot and missed.

“Where’d you learn to shoot pool?” Tino said.

“My father taught me.”

“Was he as lousy as you?”