Ed Mcbain - Fuzz

“Well, Buck,” the deaf man said, “we’re sending out a hundred pieces of first-class mail at five cents postage per envelope, so that comes to a grand total of five dollars–if my arithmetic is correct.”

“Your arithmetic is always correct,” Ahmad said, and smiled.

“ This is the damn part I can’t get,” the girl said, and struck the same note over and over again, as though trying to pound it into her memory.

“Keep at it, Rochelle,” the deaf man said. “You’ll get it.”

Buck lifted his glass, discovered it was empty, and went to the coffee table to refill it, moving with the economy of an athlete, back ramrod stiff, hands dangling loosely at his sides, as though he were going back for the huddle after having executed a successful line plunge.

“Here, let me help you,” the deaf man said.

“Not too heavy,” Buck said.

The deaf man poured a liberal shot into Buck’s extended glass. “Drink,” he said. “You deserve it.”

“Well, I don’t want to get crocked.”

“Why not? You’re among friends,” the deaf man said, and smiled.

He was feeling particularly appreciative of Buck’s talent tonight, because without it this phase of the scheme would never have become a reality. Oh yes, a primitive bomb could have been assembled and hastily wired to the ignition switch, but such sloppiness, such dependency on chance, had never appealed to the deaf man. The seriousness with which Buck had approached the problem had been truly heart-warming. His development of a compact package (the inverter had weighed a mere twenty-two pounds and measured only ten by ten by five) that could be easily transported and wired in a relatively short period of time, his specific demand for an inverter with a regulated sine-wave output (costing a bit more, yes, $64.95, but a negligible output in terms of the hoped-for financial realization), his insistence on a briefing session to explain the proper handling of the dynamite and the electric blasting cap, all were admirable, admirable. He was a good man, Buck, a demolition expert who had worked on countless legitimate blasting jobs, a background essential to the deaf man’s plan; in this state, you were not allowed to buy explosives without a permit and insurance, both of which Buck possessed. The deaf man was very pleased indeed to have him in his employ.

Ahmad, too, was indispensable. He had been working as a draftsman at Metropolitan Power & Light, earning $150 a week in the Bureau of Maps and Records, when the deaf man first contacted him. He had readily appreciated the huge rewards to be reaped from the scheme, and had enthusiastically supplied all of the information so necessary to its final phase. In addition, he was a meticulous little man who had insisted that all of these letters be typed on high-quality bond paper, with each of the hundred men receiving an original rather than a carbon or a photocopy, a touch designed to allay any suspicion that the letter was a practical joke. The deaf man knew that the difference between success and failure very often depended on such small details, and he smiled at Ahmad in appreciation now, and sipped a little more of his scotch, and said, “How many have you typed so far?”

“Fifty-two.”

“We’ll be toiling long into the night, I’m afraid.”

“When are we going to mail these?”

“I had hoped by Wednesday.”

“I will finish them long before then,” Ahmad promised.

“Will you really be working here all night?” Rochelle asked, pouting again.

“You can go to bed if you like, dear,” the deaf man said.

“What good’s bed without you?” Rochelle said, and Buck and Ahmad exchanged glances.

“Go on, I’ll join you later.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Then have a drink, and play us another song.”

“I don’t know any other songs.”

“Read a book then,” the deaf man suggested.

Rochelle looked at him blankly.

“Or go into the den and watch some television.”

“There’s nothing on but old movies.”

“Some of those old films are very instructive,” the deaf man said.

“Some of them are very crappy, too,” Rochelle replied.

The deaf man smiled. “Do you feel like licking a hundred envelopes?” he asked.

“No, I don’t feel like licking envelopes,” she answered.

“I didn’t think so,” the deaf man said.

“So what should I do?” Rochelle asked.

“Go get into your nightgown, darling,” the deaf man said.

“Mmm?” she said, and looked at him archly.

“Mmm,” he replied.

“Okay,” she said, and rose from the piano bench. “Well, good night, fellas,” she said.

“Good night,” Buck said.

“Good night, miss,” Ahmad said.

Rochelle looked at the deaf man again, and then went into the other room.

“Empty-headed little bitch,” he said.

“I think she’s dangerous to have around,” Buck said.

“On the contrary,” the deaf man said, “she soothes the nerves and eases the daily pressures. Besides, she thinks we’re respectable businessmen promoting some sort of hare-brained scheme. She hasn’t the vaguest notion of what we’re up to.”

“Sometimes I don’t have the vaguest notion either,” Buck said, and pulled a face.

“It’s really very simple,” the deaf man said. “We’re making a direct-mail appeal, a tried-and-true method of solicitation pioneered by businessmen all over this bountiful nation. Our mailing, of course, is a limited one. We’re only sending out a hundred letters. But it’s my hope that we’ll get a highly favorable response.”

“And what if we don’t?”

“Well, Buck, let’s assume the worst. Let’s assume we get a one-percent return, which is the generally expected return on a direct-mail piece. Our entire outlay thus far has been $86.95 for a lever-action carbine; $3.75 for a box of cartridges; $64.95 for your inverter; $7.00 for the electric clock; $9.60 for a dozen sticks of dynamite at eighty cents a stick; sixty cents for the blasting cap; $10.00 for the stationery; and $5.00 for the postage. If my addition is correct …” (He paused here to smile at Ahmad.) “… that comes to $187.85. Our future expenses–for the volt-ohm meter, the pressure-sensitive letters, the uniform, and so on–sould also be negligible. Now, if we get only a one-percent return on our mailing, if only one person out of the hundred comes through, we’ll still be reaping a large profit on our initial investment.”

“Five thousand dollars seems like pretty small change for two murders,” Buck said.

“ Three murders,” the deaf man corrected.

“Even better,” Buck said, and pulled a face.

“I assure you I’m expecting much more than a one-percent return. On Friday night, we execute–if you’ll pardon the pun–the final phase of our plan. By Saturday morning, there’ll be no disbelievers.”

“How many of them do you think’ll come through?”

“Most of them. If not all of them.”

“And what about the fuzz?”

“What about them? They still don’t know who we are, and they’ll never find out.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I know I’m right.”

“I worry about fuzz,” Buck said. “I can’t help it. I’ve been conditioned to worry about them.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. Don’t you realize why they’re called fuzz?”

“No. Why?”

“Because they’re fuzzy and fussy and antiquated and incompetent. Their investigatory technique is established and routine, designed for effectiveness in an age that no longer exists. The police in this city are like wind-up toys with keys sticking out of their backs, capable of performing only in terms of their own limited design, tiny mechanical men clattering along the sidewalk stiff-leggged, scurrying about in aimless circles. But put an obstacle in their path, a brick wall or an orange crate, and they unwind helplessly in the same spot, arms and legs thrashing but taking them nowhere.” The deaf man grinned. “I, my friend, am the brick wall.”