Ed Mcbain - Fuzz

“Did he sound like a kid?” Carella asked.

“No, he sounded like a grown man.”

“Did he say when he’d call again?”

“No. All he said was ‘More later.” ’

“Did he say when or where you were supposed to deliver the money?”

“Nope.”

“Did he say where you were supposed to get it?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe he expects us to take up a collection,” Carella said.

“Five grand is only five hundred and fifty dollars less than I make in a year,” Meyer said.

“Sure, but he’s undoubtedly heard how generous the bulls of the 87th are.”

“I admit he sounds like a crank,” Meyer said. “Only one thing bothers me about what he said.”

“What’s that?”

“Shot to death. I don’t like that, Steve. Those words scare me.”

“Yeah. Well,” Carella said, “why don’t we see if he calls again, okay? Who’s relieving?”

“Kling and Hawes should be in around five.”

“Who’s on the team?” Byrnes asked.

“Willis and Brown. They’re relieving on post.”

“Which case?”

“Those car snatches. They’re planted on Culver and Second.”

“You think it’s a crank, Meyer?”

“It could be. We’ll have to see.”

“Should we call Cowper?”

“What for?” Carella said. “This may turn out to be nothing. No sense alarming him.”

“Okay,” Byrnes said. He looked at his watch, rose, walked to the hatrack in the corner, and put on his overcoat. “I promised Harriet I’d take her shopping, the stores are open late tonight. I should be home around nine if anybody wants to reach me. Who’ll be catching?”

“Kling.”

“Tell him I’ll be home around nine, will you?”

“Right.”

“I hope it’s a crank,” Byrnes said, and went out of the office.

Carella sat on the edge of the desk, sipping his coffee. He looked very tired. “How does it feel to be famous?” he asked Meyer.

“What do you mean?”

“Carella looked up. “Oh, I guess you don’t know yet.”

“Don’t know what yet?”

“About the book.”

“What book?”

“Somebody wrote a book.”

“So?”

“It’s called Meyer Meyer .”

“What?”

“Yeah. Meyer Meyer . It was reviewed in today’s paper.”

“Who? What do you mean? Meyer Meyer , you mean?”

“It got a nice review.”

“Meyer Meyer?” Meyer said. “That’s my name.”

“Sure.”

“He can’t do that!”

“She. A woman.”

“Who?”

“Her name’s Helen Hudson.”

“She can’t do that!”

“She’s already done it.”

“Well, she can’t . I’m a person , you can’t go naming some character after a person. “ He frowned and then looked at Carella suspiciously. “Are you putting me on?”

“Nope, God’s honest truth.”

“Is this guy supposed to be a cop?”

“No, I think he’s a teacher.”

“A teacher, Jesus Christ!”

“At a university.”

“She can’t do that!” Meyer said again. “Is he bald?”

“I don’t know. He’s short and plump, the review said.”

“Short and plump! She can’t use my name for a short plump person. I’ll sue her.”

“So sue her,” Carella said.

“You think I won’t? Who published that goddamn book?”

“Dutton.”

“Okay!” Meyer said, and took a pad from his jacket pocket. He wrote swiftly on a clean white page, slammed the pad shut, dropped it to the floor as he was putting it back into his pocket, swore, stooped to pick it up, and then looked at Carella plaintively and said, “After all, I was here first.”

The second call came at ten minutes to eleven that night. It was taken by Detective Bert Kling, who was catching, and who had been briefed on the earlier call before Meyer left the squadroom.

“87th Squad,” he said, “Kling here.”

“You’ve undoubtedly decided by now that I’m a crank,” the man’s voice said. “I’m not.”

“Who is this?” Kling asked, and motioned across the room for Hawes to pick up the extension.

“I was quite serious about what I promised,” the man said. “Parks Commissioner Cowper will be shot to death sometime tomorrow

night unless I receive five thousand dollars by noon. This is how I want it. Have you got a pencil?”

“Mister, why’d you pick on us? “ Kling asked.

“For sentimental reasons,” the man said, and Kling could have sworn he was smiling on the other end of the line. “Pencil ready?”

“Where do you expect us to get five thousand dollars?”

“Entirely your problem,” the man said. “ My problem is killing Cowper if you fail to deliver. Do you want this information?”

“Go ahead,” Kling said, and glanced across the room to where Hawes sat hunched over the other phone. Hawes nodded.

“I want the money in singles, need I mention they must be unmarked?”

“Mister, do you know what extortion is?” Kling asked suddenly.

“I know what it is,” the man said. “Don’t try keeping me on the line. I plan to hang up long before you can effect a trace.”

“Do you know the penalty for extortion?” Kling asked, and the man hung up.

“ Son of a bitch,” Kling said.

“He’ll call back. We’ll be ready next time,” Hawes said.

“We can’t trace it through automatic equipment, anyway.”

“We can try.”

“ What’d he say?”

“He said ‘sentimental reasons.” ’

“That’s what I thought he said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Search me,” Hawes said, and went back to his desk, where he had spread a paper towel over the dropcloth, and where he had been drinking tea from a cardboard container and eating a cheese Danish before the telephone call interrupted him.

He was a huge man, six feet two inches tall and weighing two hundred pounds, some ten pounds more than was comfortable for him. He had blue eyes and a square jaw with a cleft chin. His hair was red, except for a streak over his left temple where he had once been knifed and where the hair had curiously grown in white after the wound healed. He had a straight unbroken nose, and a good mouth with a wide lower lip. Sipping his tea, munching his Danish, he looked like a burly Captain Ahab who had somehow been trapped in a civil service job. A gun butt protruded from the holster under his coat as he leaned over the paper towel and allowed the Danish crumbs to fall onto it. The gun was a big one, as befitted the size of the man, a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum, weighing 44 1/2 ounces, and capable of putting a hole the size of a baseball in your head if you happened to cross the path of Cotton Hawes on a night when the moon was full. He was biting into the Danish when the telephone rang again.

“87th Squad, Kling here.”

“The penalty for extortion,” the man said, “is imprisonment not exceeding fifteen years. Any other questions?”

“Listen …” Kling started.

“ You listen,” the man said. “I want five thousand dollars in unmarked singles. I want them put into a metal lunch pail, and I want the pail taken to the third bench on the Clinton Street footpath into Grover Park. More later,” he said, and hung up.

“We’re going to play Fits and Starts, I see,” Kling said to Hawes.

“Yeah. Shall we call Pete?”

“Let’s wait till we have the whole picture,” Kling said, and sighed and tried to get back to typing up his report. The phone did not ring again until eleven-twenty. When he lifted the receiver, he recognized the man’s voice at once.

“To repeat,” the man said, “I want the lunch pail taken to the third bench on the Clinton Street footpath into Grover Park. If the bench is watched, if your man is not alone, the pail will not be picked up, and the commissioner will be killed.”