Ed Mcbain - Fuzz

“Well, no, man, not yet. Not actually. I mean, man, even The Beatles had to start someplace , you know.”

“Yeah.”

“Like, man, they were playing these crumby little cellar joints in Liverpool, man, they were getting maybe a farthing a night.”

“What the hell do you know about farthings?”

“Like it’s a saying.”

“Okay, Dom, let’s get away from the music business for a little while, okay? Let’s talk about other kinds of business, okay?”

“Yeah, let’s talk about why I’m in here, okay?”

“You’d better read him the law,” Kling said.

“Yeah,” Meyer said, and went through the Miranda-Escobedo bit. Di Fillippi listened intently. When Meyer was finished, he nodded his blond locks and said, “I can get a lawyer if I want one, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I want one,” Di Fillippi said.

“Have you got anyone special in mind, or do you want us to get one for you?”

“I got somebody in mind,” Di Fillippi said.

While the detectives back at the squadroom fuzzily and fussily waited for Di Fillippi’s lawyer to arrive, Steve Carella, now ambulatory, decided to go down to the fourth floor to visit Patrolman Genero.

Genero was sitting up in bed, his wounded leg bandaged and rapidly healing. He seemed surprised to see Carella.

“Hey,” he said, “this is a real honor, I mean it. I’m really grateful to you for coming down here like this.”

“How’s it going, Genero?” Carella asked.

“Oh, so-so. It still hurts. I never thought getting shot could hurt. In the movies, you see these guys get shot all the time, and they just fall down, but you never get the impression it hurts.”

“It hurts, all right,” Carella said, and smiled. He sat on the edge of Genero’s bed. “I see you’ve got a television in here,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s the guy’s over in the next bed.” Genero’s voice fell to a whisper. “He never watches it. He’s pretty sick, I think. He’s either sleeping all the time or else moaning. I don’t think he’s going to make it, I’ll tell you the truth.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know. He just sleeps and moans. The nurses are in here day and night, giving him things, sticking him with needles, it’s a regular railroad station, I’m telling you.”

“Well, that’s not so bad,” Carella said.

“What do you mean?”

“Nurses coming in and out.”

“Oh no, that’s great? ” Genero said. “Some of them are pretty good-looking.”

“How’d this happen?” Carella asked, and nodded toward Genero’s leg.

“Oh, you don’t know, huh?” Genero said.

“I only heard you were shot.”

“Yeah,” Genero said, and hesitated. “We were chasing this suspect, you see. So as he went past me, I pulled my revolver to fire a warning shot.” Genero hesitated again. “That was when I got it.”

“Tough break,” Carella said.

“Well, you got to expect things like that, I suppose. If you expect to make police work your life’s work, you got to expect things like that in your work,” Genero said.

“I suppose so.”

“Well, sure, look what happened to you,” Genero said.

“Mmm,” Carella said.

“Of course, you’re a detective,” Genero said.

“Mmm,” Carella said.

“Which is sort of understandable.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you expect detectives to get in trouble more than ordinary patrolmen, don’t you? I mean, the ordinary patrolman, the run-of-the-mill patrolman who doesn’t expect to make police work his life’s work, well, you don’t expect him to risk his life trying to apprehend a suspect, do you?”

“Well,” Carella said, and smiled.

“Do you?” Genero persisted.

“Everybody starts out as a patrolman,” Carella said gently.

“Oh, sure. It’s just you think of a patrolman as a guy directing traffic or helping kids cross the street or taking information when there’s been an accident, things like that, you know? You never figure he’s going to risk his life, the run-of-the-mill patrolman, anyway.”

“Lots of patrolmen get killed in the line of duty,” Carella said.

“Oh, sure, I’m sure. I’m just saying you don’t expect it to happen.”

“To your self , you mean.”

“Yeah.”

The room was silent

“It sure hurts,” Genero said. “I hope they let me out of here soon, though. I’m anxious to get back to duty.”

“Well, don’t rush it,” Carella said.

“When are you getting out?”

“Tomorrow, I think.”

“You feel okay?”

“Oh yeah, I feel fine.”

“Broke your ribs, huh?”

“Yeah, three of them.”

“Your nose, too.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s rough,” Genero said. “But, of course, you’re a detective.”

“Mmm,” Carella said.

“I was up the squadroom the other day,” Genero said, “filling in for the guys when they came here to visit you. This was before the shooting. Before I got it.”

“How’d you like that madhouse up there?” Carella said, and smiled.

“Oh, I handled it okay, I guess,” Genero said. “Of course, there’s a lot to learn, but I suppose that comes with actual practice.”

“Oh, sure,” Carella said.

“I had a long talk with Sam Grossman …”

“Nice fellow, Sam.”

“… yeah, at the lab. We went over those suspect notes together. Nice fellow, Sam,” Genero said.

“Yeah.”

“And then some kid came in with another one of those notes, and I held him there till the guys got back. I guess I handled it okay.”

“I’m sure you did,” Carella said.

“Well, you’ve got to be conscientious about it if you expect to make it your life’s work,” Genero said.

“Oh, sure,” Carella said. He rose, winced slightly as he planted his weight, and then said, “Well, I just wanted to see how you were getting along.”

“I’m fine, thanks. I appreciate your coming down.”

“Oh, well,” Carella said, and smiled, and started for the door.

“When you get back,” Genero said, “give my regards, huh?” Carella looked at him curiously. “To all the guys,” Genero said. “Cotton, and Hal, and Meyer and Bert. All of us who were on the plant together.”

“Oh, sure.”

“And thanks again for coming up …”

“Don’t mention it.”

“… Steve,” Genero ventured as Carella went out.

Di Fillippi’s lawyer was a man named Irving Baum.

He arrived at the squadroom somewhat out of breath and the first thing he asked was whether the detectives had advised his client of his rights. When assured that Di Fillippi had been constitutionally protected, he nodded briefly, took off his brown Homburg and heavy brown overcoat, placed both neatly across Meyer’s desk, and then asked the detectives what it was all about. He was a pleasant-looking man, Baum, with white hair and mustache, sympathetic brown eyes, and an encouraging manner of nodding when anyone spoke, short little nods that seemed to be signs of agreement. Meyer quickly told him that it was not the police intention to book Di Fillippi for anything, but merely to solicit information from him. Baum could see no reason why his client should not cooperate to the fullest extent. He nodded to Di Fillippi and then said, “Go ahead, Dominick, answer their questions.”

“Okay, Mr. Baum,” Di Fillippi said.

“Can we get your full name and address?” Meyer said.

“Dominick Americo Di Fillippi, 365 North Anderson Street, Riverhead.”

“Occupation.”

“I already told you. I’m a musician.”

“I beg your pardon,” Baum said. “Were you questioning him before I arrived?”