Эд Макбейн - Let’s Hear It For The Deaf Man

“How many?” Carella whispered.

“I can make out at least four,” Meyer whispered back.

“You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The worst part about kicking in a door is that you never know what might be on the other side of it. You can listen for an hour, you can distinguish two different voices, or five, or eight, and then break in to find an army with sawed-off shotguns, determined to blow you down the stairs and out into the gutter. Meyer had heard four distinctly different voices, which was exactly what Carella thought he had heard. They were all men’s voices, and he thought he recognized two of them as belonging to Ox and Yank. He did not think the bikies would be armed, but he had no way of knowing whether his supposition was true or not. There was nothing to do but go in after them. There was nothing to do but take them.

Carella nodded at Meyer, and Meyer returned the nod.

Backing across the hall, gun clutched in his right hand, Carella braced himself against the opposite wall, and then shoved himself off it, right knee coming up, and hit the door with a hard flat-footed kick just below the lock. The door sprang inwards, followed by Carella at a run, Meyer behind him and to the left. Ox and Willie were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking wine. Yank was standing near the refrigerator, talking to a muscular black man.

Ox threw back his chair, and a switchblade knife snapped open in his hand. He was coming at Carella with the knife clutched tight in his fist when Carella fired. The first slug had no effect on him. Like a rampaging elephant, he continued his charge, and Carella fired again, and then once more, and still Ox came, finally hurling himself onto Carella, the knife blade grazing his face and neck as he pulled off another shot, the muzzle of the gun pushed hard into Ox’s belly. There was a muffled explosion. The slug knocked Ox backward onto the kitchen table. He twisted over onto his side, bubbling blood, and then rolled to the floor.

Nobody was moving.

Yank, at the refrigerator with the muscular black man, seemed ready to make a break. The look was in his eyes, the trapped look of a man who knows it’s all over, there’s nothing to lose, stay or run, there’s nothing to lose. Meyer recognized the look because he had seen it a hundred times before. He did not know who any of these men were, but he knew that Yank was the one about to break, and was therefore extremely dangerous.

He swung the gun on him.

“Don’t,” he said.

That’s all he said.

The gun was steady in his hand, leveled at Yank’s heart. A new look came into Yank’s eyes, replacing the trapped and desperate glitter that had been in them not a moment before. Meyer had seen this look, too; there was nothing new under the sun. It was a look composed of guilt, surrender, and relief. He knew now that Yank would stay right where he was until the cuffs were closed on his wrists. There would be no further trouble.

Willie Harcourt sat at the kitchen table with his eyes wide in terror. Ox was at his feet, dead and bleeding, and Willie had urinated in his pants when the shooting began. He was afraid to move now because he thought they might shoot him, too; he was also ashamed to move because if he did they would see he had wet himself.

“Is there a phone in here?” Carella asked.

“N-n-no,” Willie stammered.

“What’s your name, mister?” Carella asked the black man.

“Frankie Childs. I don’t know these guys from a hole in the wall. I came up for a little wine, that’s all.”

“You’re bleeding, Steve,” Meyer said.

Carella touched his handkerchief to his face.

“Yeah,” he said, and tried to catch his breath.

The boys were beginning to enjoy themselves.

After all, if there had to be bank robberies (and in their line of work, there most certainly had to be bank robberies), they preferred dealing with a criminal who at least tried to make it all a little more interesting. For where indeed was there any joy in coping with some jerk whose idea of a brilliant holdup was to walk in and stick a gun in a person’s face? The boys had to admit it — the Deaf Man brought a spot of needed cheer to that dingy old squadroom.

“Who do you suppose it is?” Byrnes asked.

Hawes looked at the photostat, which had arrived in Tuesday morning’s mail, and then said, “He looks a lot like Meyer.”

“Except Meyer hasn’t got as much hair.”

“I fail to see the humor,” Meyer said, and then studied the picture more carefully. “Now that you mention it, he does resemble my Uncle Morris in New Jersey.”

“You think he’s an actor?” Hawes asked.

“My Uncle Morris? He’s a haberdasher.”

“I mean this guy.”

“I doubt it,” Byrnes said. “He looks too intelligent.”

“He might be an actor, though,” Meyer said. “Somebody out of Great Expectations .”

“He does look English.”

“Or Bleak House ,” Meyer said.

“He looks like an English lawyer,” Hawes said.

“Maybe he’s Charles Dickens himself,” Meyer said.

“Maybe. English lawyers and English writers all look alike.”

“Maybe he’s a famous English murderer.”

“Or a famous English sex fiend.”

“ All the English are famous sex fiends.”

“He does look very sexy,” Byrnes said.

“It’s the hair. It’s the way he’s got the hair teased.”

“I like his tie, too.”

“His cravat.”

“Yes, but also his tie.”

“Who the hell is he?” Byrnes asked.

“Who the hell knows?” Meyer said.

The Deaf Man held out the slate and asked, “Do you understand all of it so far?”

“Yes,” Harold said. “I go into the vault with the bank manager...”

“His name is Alton.”

“Right. I clean out the place, and then take him back to the office.”

“Meanwhile,” Roger said, “Danny and me are in the car, right outside the teller’s window.”

“And you, Florence?”

“I’m in my stalled car at the head of the driveway.”

“In the manager’s office,” Harold said, “I clobber him and tie him up.”

“I’m out of the car by then,” Danny said, “busting the window.”

“I run out of the manager’s office, go through the gate, and jump out the broken window.”

“I help him climb through.”

“We both get in the car...”

“I step on the gas,” Roger said.

“I pick you up, Mr. Taubman, at the front of the bank,” Florence said.

“And we’re off and running.”

“Perfect,” the Deaf Man said. “Any questions?”

“Do we come straight back here, or what?”

“No. I’ve already reserved rooms for all of us at the Allister.”

“Why there?”

“Why not?”

“Why not right here at the Remington?”

“This is a flea bag. I chose it for our meetings only because it’s inconspicuous.”

“That’s just my point. The Allister’s right in the middle of everything.”

“Exactly. You, Roger, and Danny are three respectable businessmen checking into one of the biggest hotels in the city. Florence and I are man and wife arriving from Los Angeles. We’ll meet in Roger’s room at three o’clock, and share the money at that time. On Saturday morning, we’ll all check out and go our separate ways.”

“Five hundred thousand bucks,” Harold said, and whistled softly.

“Give or take a few thousand,” the Deaf Man said. “Any other questions?”

“The only part that bothers me is the double cross,” Roger said.

“Let me worry about that,” the Deaf Man said. “All you have to worry about is doing your part. I rather imagine a hundred thousand dollars will ease your conscience considerably.”