Ed Mcbain - Fuzz

“Six-to-five old Dom gets the cement block.”

“I’m not a gambling man,” Kling said.

The church clock began tolling the half-hour. The chimes rang out over the intersection. Some of the lunch hour pedestrians glanced up at the bell tower. Most of them hurried past with their heads ducked against the cold.

“Old Dom seems to be late,” Meyer said.

“Look at old Tony,” Kling said. “He’s about ready to take a fit.”

“Yeah,” Meyer said, and chuckled. The car heater was on, and he was snug and cozy and drowsy. He did not envy La Bresca standing outside on the windy corner.

“What’s the plan?” Kling said.

“As soon as the meeting’s over, we move in on old Dom.”

“We ought to pick up both of them,” Kling said.

“Tell me what’ll stick.”

“We heard La Bresca planning a job, didn’t we? That’s Conspiracy to Commit, Section 580.”

“Big deal. I’d rather find out what he’s up to and then catch him in the act.”

“If he’s in with the deaf man, he’s already committed two crimes,” Kling said. “And very big ones at that.”

“ If he’s in with the deaf man.”

“You think he is?”

“No.”

“I’m not sure,” Kling said.

“Maybe old Dom’ll be able to tell us.”

“If he shows.”

“What time is it?”

“Twenty to,” Kling said.

They kept watching La Bresca. He was pacing more nervously now, slapping his gloved hands against his sides to ward off the cold. He was wearing the same beige car coat he had worn the day he’d picked up the lunch pail in the park, the same green muffler wrapped around his throat, the same thick-soled workman’s shoes.

“Look,” Meyer said suddenly.

“What is it?”

“Across the street. Pulling up to the curb.”

“Huh?”

“It’s the blond girl, Bert. In the same black Buick!”

“How’d she get into the act?”

Meyer started the car. La Bresca had spotted the Buick and was walking toward it rapidly. From where they sat, the detectives could see the girl toss her long blond hair and then lean over to open the front door for him. La Bresca got into the car. In a moment, it gunned away from the curb.

“What do we do now?” Kling asked.

“We follow.”

“What about Dom?”

“Maybe the girl’s taking La Bresca to see him.”

“And maybe not.”

“What can we lose?” Meyer asked.

“We can lose Dom,” Kling said.

“Just thank God they’re not walking,” Meyer said, and pulled the Chrysler out into traffic.

This was the oldest part of the city. The streets were narrow, the buildings crowded the sidewalks and gutters, pedestrians crossed at random, ignoring the lights, ducking around moving vehicles with practiced ease, nonchalant to possible danger.

“Like to give them all tickets for jaywalking,” Meyer mumbled.

“Don’t lose that Buick,” Kling cautioned.

“You think I’m new in this business, Sonny?”

“You lost that same car only last week,” Kling said.

“I was on foot last week.”

“They’re making a left turn,” Kling said.

“I see them.”

The Buick had indeed made a left turn, coming out onto the wide tree-lined esplanade bordering the River Dix. The river was icebound shore to shore, a phenomenon that had happened only twice before in the city’s history. Devoid of its usual busy harbor traffic, it stretched toward Calm’s Point like a flat Kansas plain, a thick cover of snow uniformly hiding the ice below. The naked trees along the esplanade bent in the strong wind that raced across the river. Even the heavy Buick seemed struggling to move through the gusts, its nose swerving every now and again as the blonde fought the wheel. At last, she pulled the car to the curb and killed the engine. The esplanade was silent except for the roaring of the wind. Newspapers flapped into the air like giant headless birds. An empty wicker-wire trash barrel came rolling down the center of the street.

A block behind the parked Buick, Meyer and Kling sat and looked through the windshield of the unmarked police sedan. The wind howled around the automobile, drowning out the calls that came from the radio. Kling turned up the volume.

“What now?” he asked.

“We wait,” Meyer said.

“Do we pick up the girl when they’re finished talking?” Kling asked.

“Yep.”

“You think she’ll know anything?”

“I hope so. She must be in on it, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. Calucci was talking about splitting the take up the middle. If there’re three people in it already …”

“Well, then maybe she’s old Dom’s girl.”

“Substituting for him, you mean?”

“Sure. Maybe old Dom suspects they’re going to dump him. So he sends his girl to the meeting while he’s safe and sound somewhere, strumming his old rhythm guitar.”

“That’s possible,” Kling said.

“Sure, it’s possible,” Meyer said.

“But then, anything’s possible.”

“That’s a very mature observation,” Meyer said.

“Look,” Kling said. “La Bresca’s getting out of the car.”

“Short meeting,” Meyer said. “Let’s hit the girl.”

As La Bresca went up the street in the opposite direction, Meyer and Kling stepped out of the parked Chrysler. The wind almost knocked them off their feet. They ducked their heads against it and began running, not wanting the girl to start the car and take off before they reached her, hoping to prevent a prolonged automobile chase through the city. Up ahead, Meyer heard the Buick’s engine spring to life.

“Let’s go! ” he shouted to Kling, and they sprinted the last five yards to the car, Meyer fanning out into the gutter, Kling pulling open the door on the curb side.

The blonde sitting behind the wheel was wearing slacks and a short gray coat. She turned to look at Kling as he pulled open the door, and Kling was surprised to discover that she wasn’t wearing makeup and that her features were rather heavy and gross. As he blinked at her in amazement, he further learned that she was sporting what looked like a three-day old beard stubble on her chin and on her cheeks.

The door on the driver’s side snapped open.

Meyer took one surprised look at the “girl” behind the wheel and then immediately said, “Mr. Dominick Di Fillippi, I presume?”

Dominick Di Fillippi was very proud of his long blond hair.

In the comparative privacy of the squadroom, he combed it often, and explained to the detectives that guys belonging to a group had to have an image, you dig? Like all the guys in his group, they all looked different, you dig? Like the drummer wore these Ben Franklin eye-glasses, and the lead guitar player combed his chair down in bangs over his eyes, and the organist wore red shirts and red socks, you dig, all the guys had a different image. The long blond hair wasn’t exactly his own idea, there were lots of guys in other groups who had long hair, which is why he was growing the beard to go with it. His beard was a sort of reddish-blond, he explained, he figured it would look real tough once it grew in, give him his own distinct image, you dig?

“Like what’s the beef,” he asked, “what am I doing inside a police station?”

“You’re a musician, huh?” Meyer asked.

“You got it, man.”

“That’s what you do for a living, huh?”

“Well, like we only recently formed the group.”

“How recently?”

“Three months.”

“Play any jobs yet?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“When?”

“Well, we had like auditions.”

“Have you ever actually been paid for playing anywhere?”