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

“Or a basketball, swimming, soccer, or lacrosse team,” Hawes suggested.

“Why football?”

“What’s he trying to tell us?”

“He’s already told us all we need to know.”

“Maybe he’s just saying it’s all a game to him.”

“But why a football game?”

“Why not? A game’s a game.”

“Not to the Deaf Man.”

“This isn’t even the football season.”

“Baseball’s the game right now.”

“So why football?”

“Anyway, he’s already told us everything.”

“That’s what I said two minutes ago.”

“Did somebody call the Eight-six?”

“I did. Yesterday afternoon.”

“Will they be covering the bank tomorrow?”

“Like a dirty shirt.”

“Maybe he’s going to use eleven men on the job,” Hawes said.

“What do you mean?”

“A football team. Eleven men.”

“No, wait a second,” Carella said. “What’s the only thing he hasn’t told us?”

“He’s told it all. The date, the name of the bank, the address...”

“But not the time .”

“Eleven,” Hawes said.

“Eleven o’clock,” Meyer said.

“Yeah,” Carella said, and reached for the phone. “Who’s handling this at the Eight-six?”

The cops of the 86th Precinct were similar to the cops of the 87th Precinct, except that they had different names. Cops, like all other minority groups, are difficult to tell apart. Before Carella’s call, Detective First-grade Albert Schmitt had already been in touch with Mr. Alton, the manager of the First Federal Bank. But now, supplied with new information about the anticipated holdup, he paid him another visit.

Mr. Alton, a portly little man with thinning white hair, was still visibly distressed over the first visit from the police. This new visit, pinpointing the time the bank would be robbed, contributed little toward soothing his dyspepsia.

“But I don’t understand,” he said. “Why would they be telling us exactly when they’re coming?”

“Well, I don’t quite know,” Schmitt said thoughtfully. “Maybe they won’t be coming at all, sir. Maybe this is just an elaborate hoax, who knows?”

“But you say this man has a record of...”

“Oh yes, he’s given us trouble before. Not me personally, but the department. Which is why we’re taking these precautions.”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Alton said, shaking his head. “Friday is our busiest day. We cash checks for three payrolls on Friday. If you substitute...”

“Well, that’s just what we think he’s after, Mr. Alton. Those payrolls.”

“Yes, but if you substitute your men for my tellers, how can we possibly serve our customers?”

“Would we be serving them better if we allowed this man to walk off with half a million dollars?”

“No, of course not, but...” Alton shook his head again. “What time will your men be here?”

“What time do you open?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“That’s what time we’ll be here,” Schmitt said.

In the squadroom of the 87th, perhaps because the boys felt they would soon be rid of the Deaf Man forever, they were telling deaf jokes.

“This man buys a hearing aid, you see,” Meyer said, “and he’s explaining to his friend how much he likes it. ‘Best investment I ever made in my life,’ he says. ‘Before I put this thing in my ear, I was deaf as a post. Now, if I’m upstairs in the bedroom and the tea kettle goes off, I can hear it immediately. If a car pulls into the driveway, I can hear it when it’s still a mile away. I’m telling you, this is the best investment I ever made.’ His friend nods and asks, ‘How much did it cost?’ The guy looks at his watch and answers, ‘A quarter to two.’ ”

The telephone rang.

Kling, laughing, picked it up and said, “87th Squad, Detective Kling.”

“Bert, it’s me.”

“Oh, hi, Augusta.”

“There’s this guy,” Hawes said, “who plays the violin beautifully. Whenever he plays the violin, people stop fighting, dogs and cats stop clawing at each other, he figures it’s a real instrument for world peace.”

“Bert, I’ll be finished here in about a half hour,” Augusta said. “How soon can you get away?”

“Not till four,” Kling said. “Why?”

“I thought we might make love this afternoon.”

“So he goes to the United Nations,” Hawes said, “and they finance a test trip to the African jungle, figuring if he can play his violin for the wild animals there and make them stop fighting with each other, why then they’ll finance a world-wide tour to promote peace.”

“Well, uh,” Kling said, and glanced at the other men, “I guess I can get away a little earlier. Where are you now?”

“I’m...”

“Just a second, let me find a pencil.”

“In the middle of the jungle, he stops under a huge cork tree, takes out his violin, and begins playing,” Hawes said.

“Go ahead,” Kling said into the phone.

“The animals begin gathering around him — lions, rhinos, hippos, jackals, giraffes, all the animals of the jungle. This beautiful music is pouring from the violin, and the wild animals are all sitting around him in a circle, with their arms around each other, nobody fighting, everybody listening peacefully.”

“Yes, I’ve got it,” Kling said into the phone.

“But as the guy keeps playing,” Hawes said, “a leopard creeps along a branch of the tree over his head, and suddenly leaps down at him, and eats him alive.”

“See you in a half hour,” Kling said, and hung up.

“The animals are appalled,” Hawes said. “A lion steps out of the circle and says to the leopard, ‘Why did you do that? This man came all the way from America to the wilds of the jungle here, and he brought his violin with him, and he played this beautiful music that made us all stop fighting. Why did you do such a terrible thing?’ And the leopard cups his paw behind his ear and says, ‘Huh?’ ”

Everyone burst out laughing except Kling.

“If Mike Ingersoll stops by,” he said gruffly, like a detective investigating an important case, “I’ll be at the Blair apartment.”

In the dim silence of Augusta Blair’s bedroom, they made love.

It was not so good.

“What’s the matter?” Augusta whispered.

“I don’t know,” Kling whispered back.

“Am I doing something wrong?”

“No, no.”

“Because if I am...”

“No, Augusta, really.”

“Then what is it?”

“I think I’m a little afraid of you.”

“Afraid?”

“Yes. I keep thinking, What’s a dumb kid from Riverhead doing in bed with a beautiful model?”

“You’re not a dumb kid,” Augusta said, and smiled, and touched his mouth with her fingertips.

“I feel like a dumb kid.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re so beautiful.”

“Bert, if you start that again, I’ll hit you right on the head with a hammer.”

“How’d you know about a hammer?”

“What?”

“A hammer. About it being the best weapon for a woman.”

“I didn’t know.”

They were both silent for several moments.

“Relax,” she said.

“I think that’s exactly the problem,” Kling said.

“If you want me to be ugly, I can be ugly as hell. Look,” she said, and made a face. “How’s that?”

“Beautiful.”

“Where’s my hammer?” she said, and got out of bed naked and padded out of the room. He heard her rummaging around in the kitchen. When she returned, she was indeed carrying a hammer. “Have you ever been hit with a hammer?” she asked, and sat beside him, pulling her long legs up onto the bed, crossing them Indian fashion, her head and back erect, the hammer clutched in her right hand.