Fuzz

by Ed McBain

  “I’m supposed to give you this,” the kid said, and reached up to hand Murchison the sealed envelope.

  “Thanks,” Murchison said, and accepted the envelope without looking at the kid, and then suddenly raised his head and said, “Hold it just a second.”

  “Why, what’s the matter?”

  “Just hold it right there a second,” Murchison said, and opened the envelope. He unfoled the single sheet of white paper that had been neatly folded in three equal parts, and he read what was on the sheet, and then he looked down at the kid again and said, “Where’d you get this?”

  “Outside.”

  “Where?”

  “A guy gave it to me.”

  “What guy?”

  “A tall guy outside.”

  “Outside where?”

  “Near the park there. Across the street.”

  “Gave you this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Said I should bring it in here and give it to the desk sergeant.”

  “You know the guy?”

  “No, he gave me five bucks to bring it over here.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “A tall guy with blond hair. He had a thing in his ear.”

  “What kind of a thing?”

  “Like he was deaf,” the kid said, and wiped his hand across his nose again.

  That was what the note read.

  So they studied the note, being careful not to get any more fingerprints on it than Sergeant Murchison had already put there, and then they stood around a runny-nosed twelve-year-old-kid wearing a blue ski parka three sizes too large for him, and fired questions at him as though they had captured Jack the Ripper over from London for the weekend.

  They got nothing from the kid except perhaps his cold.

  He repeated essentially what he had told Sergeant Murchison, that a tall blond guy wearing a thing in his ear (A hearing aid, you mean, kid?) yeah, a thing in his ear, had stopped him across the street from the police station and offered him five bucks to carry an envelope in to the desk sergeant. The kid couldn’t see nothing wrong with bringing an envelope into the police station, so he done it, and that was all, he didn’t even know who the guy with the thing in his ear was. (You mean a hearing aid kid?) Yeah, a thing in his ear, he didn’t know who he was, never even seen him around the neighborhood or nothing, so could he go home now because he had to make a stop at Linda’s Boutique to pick up some dresses for his sister who did sewing at home for Mrs. Montana? (He was wearing a hearing aid, huh, kid?) Yeah, a thing in his ear, the kid said.

  So they let the kid go at two-thirty without even offering him an ice cream cone or some gumdrops, and then they sat around the squadroom handling the suspect note with a pair of tweezers and decided to send it over to Lieutenant Sam Grossman at the police lab in the hope that he could lift some latent prints that did not belong to Sergeant Murchison.

  None of them mentioned the deaf man.

  Nobody likes to talk about ghosts.

  Or even think about them.

  “Hello, Bernice,” Meyer said into the telephone, “is your boss around? Yeah, sure, I’ll wait.”

  Patiently, he tapped a pencil on his desk and waited. In a moment, a bright perky voice materialized on the line.

  “Assistant District Attorney Raoul Chabrier,” the voice insisted.

  “Hello, Rollie, this is Meyer Meyer up here at the 87th,” Meyer said. “How’s every little thing down there on Chelsea Street?”

  “Oh, pretty good, pretty good,” Chabrier said, “What have you got for us, a little homicide up there perhaps?”

  “No, nothing like that, Rollie,” Meyer said.

  “A little ax murder perhaps?” Chabrier said.

  “No, as a matter of fact, this is something personal,” Meyer said.

  “Oh-ho!” Chabrier said.

  “Yeah. Listen, Rollie, what can you do if somebody uses your name?”

  “What do you mean?” Chabrier asked.

  “In a book.”

  “Oh-ho!“ Chabrier said. “Did somebody use your name in a book?”

  “Yes.”

  “In a book about the workings of the police department?”

  “No.”

  “Were you mentioned specifically?”

  “No. Well, yes and no. What do you mean?”

  “Did the book specifically mention Detective 3rd/Grade Meyer …”

  “Detective 2nd/Grade,” Meyer corrected.

  “It specifically mentioned Detective 2nd/Grade Meyer Meyer of the …”

  “No.”

  “It didn’t mention you?”

  “No. Not that way.”

  “I thought you said somebody used your name.”

  “Well, they did. She did.”

  “Meyer, I’m a busy man,” Chabrier said. “I’ve got a case load here

  that would fell a brewer’s horse, now would you please tell me what’s on your mind?”

  “A novel,” Meyer said. “It’s a novel named Meyer Meyer.”

  “That is the title of the novel?” Chabrier asked.

  “Yes. Can I sue?”

  “I’m a criminal lawyer,” Chabrier said.

  “Yes, but …”

  “I am not familiar with the law of literary property.’

  “Yes, but …”

  “Is it a good book?”

  “I don’t know,” Meyer said. “You see,” he said, “I’m a person, and this book is about some college professor or something, and he’s a short plump fellow …”

  “I’ll have to read it,” Chabrier said.

  “Will you call me after you’ve read it?”

  “What for?”

  “To advise me.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether I can sue or not.”

  “I’ll have to read the law,” Chabrier said. “Do I owe you a favor, Meyer?”

  “You owe me six of them,” Meyer said somewhat heatedly, “as for example the several times I could have got you out of bed at three o’clock in the morning when we had real meat here in the squadroom and at great risk to myself I held the suspect until the following morning so you could get your beauty sleep on nights when you had the duty. Now, Rollie, I’m asking a very tiny favor, I don’t want to go to the expense of getting some fancy copyright lawyer or whatever the hell, I just want to know whether I can sue somebody who used my name that’s on a record in the Department of Health on a birth certificate, can I sue this person who uses my name as the title of a novel, and for a character in a novel, when here I am a real person, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Okay, don’t get excited,” Chabrier said.

  “Who’s excited?” Meyer said.

  “I’ll read the law and call you back.”

  “When?”

  “Sometime.”

  “Maybe if we got somebody in the squadroom sometime when you’ve got the duty, I’ll fly in the face of Miranda-Escobedo again and hold off till morning so you can peacefully snore the night …”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll get back to you tomorrow.” Chabrier paused. “Don’t you want to know what time tomorrow?”

  “What time tomorrow?” Meyer asked.

  The landlady had arthritis, and she hated winter, and she didn’t like cops too well, either. She immediately told Cotton Hawes that there had been other policemen prowling around ever since that big mucky-muck got shot last night, why couldn’t they leave a lady alone? Hawes, who had been treated to similar diatribes from every landlady and superintendent along the street, patiently explained that he was only doing his job, and said he knew she would want to co-operate in bringing a murderer to justice. The landlady said the city was rotten and corrupt, and as far as she was concerned they could shoot all those damn big mucky-mucks, and she wouldn’t lose no sleep over any of them.

  Hawes had thus far visited four buildings in a row of identical slum tenements facing the glittering glass and concrete structure that was the city�
��s new Philharmonic Hall. The building, a triumph of design (the acoustics weren’t so hot, but what the hell) could be clearly seen from any one of the tenements, the wide marble steps across the avenue offering an unrestricted view of anyone who happened to be standing on them, or coming down them, or going up them. The man who had plunked two rifle slugs into Cowper’s head could have done so from any of these buildings. The only reason the police department was interested in the exact source of the shots was that the killer may have left some evidence behind him. Evidence is always nice to have in a murder case.

  The first thing Hawes asked the landlady was whether she had rented an apartment or a room recently to a tall blond man wearing a hearing aid.

  “Yes,” the landlady said.

  That was a good start. Hawes was an experienced detective, and he recognized immediately that the landlady’s affirmative reply was a terribly good start.

  “Who?” he asked immediately. “Would you know his name?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Orecchio. Mort Orecchio.”

  Hawes took out his pad and began writing. “Orecchio,” he said, “Mort. Would you happen to know whether it was Morton or Mortimer or exactly what?”

  “Just Mort,” the landlady said. “Mort Orecchio. He was Eye-talian.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Anything ending in O is Eye-talian.”

  “You think so? How about Shapiro?” Hawes suggested.

  “What are you, a wise guy?” the landlady said.

  “This fellow Orecchio, which apartment did you rent him?”

  “A room, not an apartment,” the landlady said. “Third floor front.”

  “Facing Philharmonic?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Could I see the room?”

  “Sure why not? I got nothing else to do but show cops rooms.”

  They began climbing. The hallway was cold and the air shaft windows were rimed with frost. There was the commingled smell of garbage and urine on the stairs, a nice clean old lady this landlady. She kept complaining about her arthritis all the way up to the third floor, telling Hawes the cortisone didn’t help her none, all them big mucky-muck doctors making promises that didn’t help her pain at all. She stopped outside a door with the brass numerals 31 on it, and fished into the pocket of her apron for a key. Down the hall, a door opened a crack and then closed again.

  “Who’s that?” Hawes asked.

  “Who’s who?” the landlady said.

  “Down the hall there. The door that just opened and closed.”

  “Musta been Polly,” the landlady said, and unlocked the door to 31.

  The room was small and cheerless. A three-quarter bed was against the wall opposite the door, covered with a white chenille bedspread. A framed print was over the bed. It showed a logging mill and a river and a sheepdog looking up at something in the sky. A standing floor lamp was on the right of the bed. The shade was yellow and soiled. A stain, either whiskey or vomit, was on the corner of the bedspread where it was pulled up over the pillows. Opposite the bed, there was a single dresser with a mirror over it. The dresser had cigarette burns all the way around its top. The mirror was spotted and peeling. The sink alongside the dresser had a big rust ring near the drain.

  “How long was he living here?” Hawes asked.

  “Took the room there days ago.”

  “Did he pay be check or cash?”

  “Cash. In advance. Paid for a full week. I only rent by the week, I don’t like none of these one-night stands.”

  “Naturally not,” Hawes said.

  “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it ain’t such a fancy place, I shouldn’t be so fussy. Well, it may not be fancy,” the landlady said, “but it’s clean.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  “I mean it ain’t got no bugs, mister.”

  Hawes nodded and went to the window. The shade was torn and missing its pull cord. He grabbed the lower edge in his gloved hand, raised the shade and looked across the street.

  “You hear any shots last night?”

  “No.”

  He looked down at the floor. There were no spent cartridge cases anywhere in sight.

  “Who else lives on this floor?”

  “Polly down the hall, that’s all.”

  “Polly who?”

  “Malloy.”

  “Mind if I look through the dresser and the closet?”

  “Go right ahead. I got all the time in the world. The way I spend my day is I conduct guided tours through the building.”

  Hawes went to the dresser and opened each of the drawers. They were all empty, except for a cockroach nestling in the corner of the bottom drawer.

  “You missed one,” Hawes said, and closed the drawer.

  “Huh?” the landlady said.

  Hawes went to the closet and opened it. There were seven wire hangers on the clothes bar. The closet was empty. He was about to close the door when something on the floor caught his eye. He stooped for a closer look, took a pen light from his pocket, and turned it on. The object on the floor was a dime.

  “If that’s money,” the landlady said, “it belongs to me.”

  “Here,” Hawes said, and handed her the dime. He did so knowing full well that even if the coin had belonged to the occupant of the room, it was as impossible to get latent prints from money as it was to get reimbursed by the city for gasoline used in one’s private car on police business.

  “Is there a john in here?” he asked.

  “Down the hall. Lock the door behind you.”

  “I only wanted to know if there was another room, that’s all.”

  “It’s clean, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

  “I’m sure it’s spotless,” Hawes said. He took another look around. “So this is it, huh?”

  “This is it.”

  “I’ll be sending a man over to dust that sill,” Hawes said.

  “Why?” the landlady said. “It’s clean.”

  “I mean for fingerprins.”

  “Oh.” The landlady started at him. “You think that big mucky-muck was shot from this room?”

  “It’s possible,” Hawes said.

  “Will that mean trouble for me?”

  “Not unless you shot him,” Hawes said, and smiled.

  “You got some sense of humor,” the landlady said.

  They went out of the apartment. The landlady locked the door behind her. “Will that be all,” she asked, “or did you want to see anything else?”

  “I want to talk to the woman down the hall,” Hawes said, “but I won’t need you for that. Thank you very much, you were very helpful.”

  “It breaks the monotony,” the landlady said, and he believed her.

  “Thank you again,” he said, and watched her as she went down the steps. He walked to the door marked 32 and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again and said, “Miss Malloy?”

  The door opened a crack.

  “Who is it?” a voice said.

  “Police officer. May I talk to you?”

  “What about?”

  “About Mr. Orecchio.”

  “I don’t know any Mr. Orecchio,” the voice said.

  “Miss Malloy …”

  “It’s Mrs. Malloy, and I don’t know any Mr. Orecchio.”

  “Could you open the door, ma’am?”

  “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “I won’t …”

  “I know a man got shot last night, I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Did you hear the shots, Miss Malloy?”

  “Mrs. Malloy.”

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Would you happen to know if Mr. Orecchio was in last night?”

  “I don’t know who Mr. Orecchio is.”

  “The man in 31.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Ma’am, could you please open the door?”

  “I
don’t want to.”

  “Ma’am, I can come back with a warrant, but it’d be a lot easier …”

  “Don’t get me in trouble,” she said. “I’ll open the door, but please don’t get me in trouble.”

  Polly Malloy was wearing a pale green cotton wrapper. The wrapper had short sleeves. Hawes saw the hit marks on her arms the moment she opened the door, and the hit marks explained a great deal about the woman who was Polly Malloy. She was perhaps twenty-six years old, with a slender youthful body and a face that would have been pretty if it were not so clearly stamped with knowledge. The green eyes were intelligent and alert, the mouth vulnerable. She worried her lip and held the wrapper closed about her naked body, and her fingers were long and slender, and the hit marks on her arms shouted all there was to shout.

  “I’m not holding,” she said.

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “You can look around if you like.”

  “I’m not interested,” Hawes said.

  “Come in,” she said.

  He went into the apartment. She closed and locked the door behind him.

  “I don’t want trouble,” she said. “I’ve had enough trouble.”

  “I won’t give you any. I only want to know about the man down the hall.”

  “I know somebody got shot. Please don’t get me involved in it.”

  They sat opposite each other, she on the bed, he on a straight-backed chair facing her. Something shimmered on the air between them, something as palpable as the tenement stink of garbage and piss surrounding them. They sat in easy informality, comfortably aware of each other’s trade, Cotton Hawes detective, Polly Malloy addict. And perhaps they knew each other better than a great many people ever get to know each other. Perhaps Hawes had been inside too many shooting galleries not to understand what it was like to be this girl, perhaps he had arrested too many hookers who were screwing for the couple of bucks they needed for a bag of shit, perhaps he had watched the agonized writhings of too many cold turkey kickers, perhaps his knowledge of this junkie or any junkie was as intimate as a pusher’s, perhaps he had seen too much and knew too much. And perhaps the girl had been collared too many times, had protested too many times that she was clean, had thrown too many decks of heroin under bar stools or down sewers at the approach of a cop, had been in too many different squadrooms and handled by too many different bulls, been offered the Lexington choice by too many different magistrates, perhaps her knowledge of the law as it applied to narcotics addicts was as intimate as any assistant district attorney’s, perhaps she too had seen too much and knew too much. Their mutual knowledge was electric, it generated a heat lightning of its own, ascertaining the curious symbiosis of lawbreaker and enforcer, affirming the interlocking subtlety of crime and punishment. There was a secret bond in that room, an affinity — almost an empathy. They could talk to each other without any bullshit. They were like spent lovers whispering on the same pillow.