Ed Mcbain - Fuzz

Sitting cozy and warm in the back room of John the Tailor’s shop, playing checkers with Hal Willis (and losing seven games in a row since it turned out that Willis had belonged to the checkers club in high school, an elite group calling itself. The Red and The Black ) , Carella wondered how he would get home after La Bresca and Calucci hit the shop.

He was beginning to doubt that they would hit at all. If there was one thing he did not understand, of course, it was the criminal mind, but he was willing to venture a guess that no self-respecting crook would brave the snow and the cold outside on a night like this. It would be different if the job involved a factor that might change in a day or so, like say ten million dollars of gold bullion to be delivered at a precise moment on a specific day, making it necessary to combine pinpoint timing with insane daring, but no such variable was involved in this penny-ante stickup. The men had cased the shop and learned that John the Tailor carried his week’s earnings home in a metal box every Friday night after closing. He had doubtless been performing this same chore every Friday night for the past seven thousand years, and would continue to do it without variation for the next thousand. So, if not this Friday night, what are you doing next Friday, John? Or, better yet, why not wait until May, when the trees are budding and the birds are singing, and a man can pull off a little felony without the attendant danger of frostbite?

But assuming they did hit tonight, Carella thought as he watched Willis double-jump two of his kings, assuming they did hit, and assuming he and Willis behaved as expected, made the capture, and then called in for a squad car with chains, how would he get home to his wife and children after La Bresca and Calucci were booked and

put away for the night? His own car had snow tires, but not chains, and he doubted if the best snow tires made would mean a damn on that glacier out there. A possibility, of course, was that Captain Frick would allow one of the RMPs to drive him home to Riverhead, but using city property for transporting city employees was a practice heavily frowned upon, especially in these days of strife when deaf people were running around killing city officials.

“King me,” Willis said.

Carella snorted and kinged him. He looked at his watch. It was seven-twenty. If La Bresca and Calucci hit as expected, there was little more than a half-hour to go.

In Pete Calucci’s rented room on North Sixteenth, he and La Bresca armed themselves. John the Tailor was seventy years old, a slight stooped man with graying hair and failing eyes, but they were not taking any chances with him that night. Calucci’s gun was a Colt Government Model .45, weighing thirty-nine ounces and having a firing capacity of seven, plus one in the chamber. La Bresca was carrying a Walther P-38, which he had bought from a fence on Dream Street, with eight slugs in the magazine and another in the chamber. Both guns were automatic. The Walther was classified as a medium-power pistol whereas the Colt, of course, was a heavy gun with greater power. Each was quite capable of leaving John the Tailor enormously dead if he gave them any trouble. Neither man owned a holster. Calucci put his pistol into the right-hand pocket of his heavy overcoat. La Bresca tucked his into the waistband of his trousers.

They had agreed between them that they would not use the guns unless John the Tailor began yelling. It was their plan to reach the shop by ten minutes to eight, surprise the old man, leave him bound and gagged in the back room, and then return to Calucci’s place. The shop was only five minutes away, but because of the heavy snow, and because neither man owned an automobile, they set out at seven twenty-five.

They both looked very menacing, and they both felt quite powerful with their big guns. It was a shame nobody was around to see how menacing and powerful they looked and felt.

In the warm snug comfort of the radio motor patrol car, Patrolman Richard Genero studied the bleak and windswept streets outside, listening to the clink of the chains on the rear wheel tires, hearing the two-way short wave radio spewing its incessant dialogue. The man driving the RMP was a hair bag named Phillips, who had been complaining constantly from the moment they’d begun their shifts at three forty-five P.M. It was now seven-thirty, and Phillips was still complaining, telling Genero he’d done a Dan O’Leary this whole past week, not a minute’s breather, man had to be crazy to become a cop, while to his right the radio continued its oblivious spiel, Car Twenty-one, Signal thirteen. This is Twenty-one, Wilco, Car Twenty-eight, signal …

“This reminds me of Christmas,” Genero said.

“Yeah, some Christmas,” Phillips said. “I worked on Christmas day, you know that?”

“I meant, everything white.”

“Yeah, everything white,” Phillips said. “Who needs it?”

Genero folded his arms across his chest and tucked his gloved hands into his armpits. Phillips kept talking. The radio buzzed and crackled. The skid chains clinked like sleigh bells.

Genero felt drowsy.

Something was bothering the deaf man.

No, it was not the heavy snow which had undoubtedly covered manhole number M3860, a hundred and twenty feet south of the southern curb of Harris, in the center of Faxon Drive, no, it was not that. He had prepared for the eventuality of inclement weather, and there were snow shovels in the trunk of the black sedan idling at the curb downstairs. The snow would merely entail some digging to get at the manhole, and he was allowing himself an extra hour for that task, no, it was not the snow, it was definitely not the snow.

“What is it?” Buck whispered. He was wearing his rented police sergeant’s uniform, and he felt strange and nervous inside the blue garment.

“I don’t know,” Ahmad answered. “Look at the way he’s pacing.”

The deaf man was indeed pacing. Wearing electrician’s coveralls, he walked back and forth past the desk in one corner of the room, not quite muttering, but certainly wagging his head like an old man contemplating the sorry state of the world. Buck, perhaps emboldened by the bravery citation on his chest, finally approached him and said, “What’s bothering you?”

“The 87th,” the deaf man replied at once.

“What?”

“The 87th, the 87th,” he repeated impatiently. “What difference will it make if we kill the mayor? Don’t you see?”

“No.”

“They get away clean,” the deaf man said. “We kill JMV, and who suffers, will you tell me that?”

“Who?” Buck asked.

“ Not the 87th, that’s for sure.”

“Look,” Buck said gently, “we’d better get started. We’ve got to dig down to that manhole, we’ve got to …”

“So JMV dies, so what?” the deaf man asked. “Is money everything in life? Where’s the pleasure?”

Buck looked at him.

“Where’s the pleasure? ” the deaf man repeated. “If JMV —” He suddenly stopped, his eyes widening. “JMV,” he said again, his voice a whisper. “JMV!” he shouted excitedly, and went to the desk, and opened the middle drawer, and pulled out the Isola telephone directory. Quickly, he flipped to the rear section of the book.

“What’s he doing?” Ahmad whispered.

“I don’t know,” Buck whispered back.

“ Look at this!” the deaf man shouted. “There must be hundreds of them, thousands of them!”

“Thousands of what?” Buck asked.

The deaf man did not reply. Hunched over the directory, he kept turning pages, studying them, turning more pages. “Here we are,” he mumbled, “no, that’s no good … let’s see … here’s another one … no, no … just a second … ahhh, good … no, that’s all the way downtown … let’s see, let’s see … here … no …” mumbling to himself as he continued to turn pages, and finally shouting “Culver Avenue, that’s it, that’ll do it!” He picked up a pencil, hastily scribbled onto the desk pad, tore the page loose, and stuffed it into the pocket of his coveralls. “Let’s go!” he said.