Fuzz

by Ed McBain

  He’d have had to run a positive lead to the battery and a negative lead to any metal part of the automobile, since the car itself would have served as a ground, right? So now we’ve got a power source to the clock, and the clock is running. Okay, right, the rest is simple, he’d have had to use an electric balsting cap, sure, there’d have been enough power to set one off, most commercial electric detonators can be fired by passing a continuous current of 0.3 to 0.4 amperes through the bridge wire. Okay, let’s see, hold it it now, let’s look at it.

  The battery provides our source of power.… which is in turn set for a specific time, about eight, wasn’t it? He’d have had to monkey around with the clock so that instead of the alarm ringing, a switch would close. That would complete the circuit, let’s see, he’d have needed a lead running back to the battery, another lead running to the blasting cap, and a lead from the blasting cap to any metal part of the car. So that would look like …

  And that’s it.

  He could have assembled the entire package at home, taken it with him in a tool box, and wired it to the car in a very short time — making certain, of course, that all his wires were properly insulated, to guard against a stray current touching off a premature explosion. The only remaining question is how he managed to get access to the car, but happily that’s not my problem.

  Whistling brilliantly, Sam Grossman picked up the telephone and called Detective Meyer Meyer at the 87th.

  The municipal garage was downtown on Dock Street, some seven blocks from City Hall. Meyer Meyer picked up Bert Kling at ten-thirty. The drive down along the River Dix took perhaps twenty minutes. They parked on a meter across the street from the big concrete and tile structure, and Meyer automatically threw the visor sign, even though this was Sunday and parking regulations were not in force.

  The foreman of the garage was a man named Spencer Coyle.

  He was reading Dick Tracy and seemed less impressed by the two detectives in his midst than by the fictional exploits of his favorite comic strip sleuth. It was only with a great effort of will that he managed to tear himself away from the newspaper at all. He did not rise from his chair, though. The chair was tilted back against the tiled wall of the garage. The tiles, a vomitous shade of yellow, decorated too many government buildings all over the city, and it was Meyer’s guess that a hefty hunk of graft had influenced some purchasing agent back in the Thirties, either that or the poor bastard had been color-blind. Spencer Coyle leaned back in his chair against the tiles, his face long and gray and grizzled, his long legs stretched out in front of him, the comic section still dangling from his right hand, as though he were reluctant to let go of it completely even though he had stopped lip-reading it. He was wearing the greenish-brown coveralls of a Transportation Division employee, his peaked hat sitting on his head with all the rakish authority of a major in the Air Force. His attitude clearly told the detectives that he did not wish to be disturbed at any time, but especially on Sunday.

  The detectives found him challenging.

  “Mr. Coyle,” Meyer said, “I’ve just had a telephone call from the police laboratory to the effect that the bomb …”

  “What bomb?” Coyle asked, and spat on the floor, narrowly missing Meyer’s polished shoe.

  “The bomb that was put in the deputy mayor’s Cadillac,” Kling said, and hoped Coyle would spit again, but Coyle didn’t.

  “Oh, that bomb,” Coyle said, as if bombs were put in every one of the city’s Cadillacs regularly, making it difficult to keep track of all the bombs around. “What about that bomb?”

  “The lab says it was a pretty complicated bomb, but that it couldn’t have taken too long to wire to the car’s battery, provided it had been assembled beforehand. Now, what we’d like to know …”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet it was complicated,” Coyle said. He did not look into the faces of the detectives, but instead seemed to direct his blue-eyed gaze at a spot somewhere across the garage. Kling turned to see what he was staring at, but the only thing he noticed was another yellow tile wall.

  “Would you have any idea who installed that bomb, Mr. Coyle?”

  “I didn’t,” Coyle said flatly.

  “Nobody suggested that you did,” Meyer said.

  “Just so we understand each other,” Coyle said. “All I do is run this garage, make sure the cars are in working order, make sure they’re ready to roll whenever somebody up there wants one, that’s all I’m in charge of.”

  “How many cars do you have here?” Meyer asked.

  “We got two dozen Caddys, twelve used on a regular basis, and the rest whenever we get visiting dignitaries. We also got fourteen buses and eight motorcycles. And there’s also some vehicles that are kept here by the Department of Parks, but that’s a courtesy because we got the space.”

  “Who services the cars?”

  “Which ones?”

  “The Caddys.”

  “Which one of the Caddys?” Coyle said, and spat again.

  “Did you know, Mr. Coyle,” Kling said, “that spitting on the sidewalk is a misdeameanor?”

  “This ain’t a sidewalk, this is my garage,” Coyle said.

  “This is city property,” Kling said, “the equivalent of a sidewalk. In fact, since the ramp comes in directly from the street outside there, it could almost be considered an extension of the sidewalk.”

  “Sure,” Coyle siad. “You going to arrest me for it, or what?”

  “You going to keep giving us a hard time?” Kling asked.

  “Who’s giving you a hard time?”

  “We’d like to be home reading the funnies too,” Kling said, “instead of out busting our asses on a bombing. Now how about it?”

  “None of our mechanics put a bomb in that car,” Coyle said flatly.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know all the men who work for me, and none of them put a bomb in that car, that’s how I know.”

  “Who was here yesterday?” Meyer asked.

  “I was.”

  “You were here alone?”

  “No, the men were here too.”

  “Which men?”

  “The mechanics.”

  “How many mechanics?”

  “Two.”

  “Is that how many you usually have on duty?”

  “We usually have six, but yesterday was Saturday, and we were working with a skeleton crew.”

  “Anybody else here?”

  “Yeah, some of the chauffeurs were either picking up cars or bringing them back, they’re in and out all the time. Also, there was supposed to be an outdoor fishing thing up in Grover Park, so we had a lot of bus drivers in. They were supposed to pick up these slum kids and take them to the park where they were going to fish through the ice on the lake. It got called off.”

  “Why?”

  “Too cold.”

  “When were the bus drivers here?”

  “They reported early in the morning, and they hung around till we got word it was called off.”

  “You see any of them fooling around near that Cad?”

  “Nope. Listen, you’re barking up the wrong tree. All those cars got checked out yesterday, and they were in A-number-One shape. That bomb must’ve been put in there after the car left the garage.”

  “No, that’s impossible, Mr. Coyle.”

  “Well, it wasn’t attached here.”

  “You’re sure of that, are you?”

  “I just told you the cars were inspected, didn’t I?”

  “Did you inspect them personally, Mr. Coyle?”

  “No, I got other things to do besides inspecting two dozen Caddys and fourteen buses and eight motorcycles.”

  “Then who did inspect them, Mr. Coyle? One of your mechanics?”

  “No, we had an inspector down from the Bureau of Motor Vehicles.”

  “And he said the cars were all right?”

  “He went over them from top to bottom, every vehicle in the place. He gave us a clean bill of health.”r />
  “Did he look under the hoods?”

  “Inside, outside, transmission, suspension, everything. He was here almost six hours.”

  “So he would have found a bomb if one was there, is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mr. Coyle, did he give you anything in writing to the effect that the cars were inspected and found in good condition?”

  “Why?” Coyle asked. “You trying to get off the hook?”

  “No, we’re …”

  “You trying to pass the buck to Motor Vehicles?”

  “We’re trying to find out how he could have missed the bomb that was undoubtedly under the hood of that car, that’s what we’re trying to do.”

  “It wasn’t that’s your answer.”

  “Mr. Coyle, our lab reported …”

  “I don’t care what your lab reported or didn’t report. I’m telling you all these cars were gone over with a fine-tooth comb yesterday, and there couldn’t have been a bomb in the deputy mayor’s car when it left this garage. Now that’s that,” Coyle said, and spat on the floor again, emphatically.

  “Mr. Coyle,” Kling said, “did you personally see the deputy mayor’s car being inspected?”

  “I personally saw it being inspected.”

  “You personally saw the hood being raised?”

  “I did.”

  “And you’d be willing to swear that a thorough inspection was made of the area under the hood?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you actually see the inspector checking the area under the hood?”

  “Well, I didn’t stand around looking over his shoulder, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Where were you, actually, when the deputy mayor’s car was being inspected?”

  “I was right here.”

  “On this exact spot?”

  “No, I was inside the office there. But I could see out into the garage. There’s a glass panel in there.”

  “And you saw the inspector lifting the hood of the deputy mayor’s car?”

  “That’s right.”

  “There are two dozen Caddys here. How’d you know that one was the deputy mayor’s car?”

  “By the license plate. It has DMA on it, and then the number. Same as Mayor Vale’s car has MA on it for ‘mayor,’ and then the number. Same as the …”

  “All right, it was clearly his car, and you definitely saw …”

  “Look, that guy spent a good half-hour on each car, now don’t tell me it wasn’t a thorough inspection.”

  “Did he spend a half-hour on the deputy mayor’s car?”

  “Easily.”

  Meyer sighed. “I guess we’ll have to talk to him personally,” he said to Kling. He turned again to Coyle. “What was his name, Mr. Coyle?”

  “Who?”

  “The inspector. The man from Motor Vehicles.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He didn’t give you his name?” Kling asked.

  “He showed me his credentials, and he said he was here to inspect the cars, and that was that.”

  “What kind of credentials?”

  “Oh, printed papers. You know.”

  “Mr. Coyle,” Kling asked, “when was the last time a man from Motor Vehicles came to inspect?”

  “This was the first time,” Coyle said.

  “They’ve never sent an inspector down before?”

  “Never.”

  Slowly, wearily, Meyer said, “What did this man look like, Mr. Coyle?”

  “He was a tall blond guy wearing a hearing aid,” Coyle answered.

  Fats Donner was a mountainous stool pigeon with a penchant for warm climates and the complexion of an Irish virgin. The complexion, in fact, overreached the boundaries of common definition to extend to every part of Donner’s body; he was white all over, so sickly pale that sometimes Willis suspected him of being a junkie. Willis couldn’t have cared less. On any given Sunday, a conscientious cop could collar seventy-nine junkies in a half-hour, seventy-eight of whom would be holding narcotics in some quantity. It was hard to come by a good informer, though, and Donner was one of the best around, when he was around. The difficulty with Donner was that he was likely to be found in Vegas or Miami Beach or Puerto Rico during the winter months, lying in the shade with his Buddha-like form protected against even a possible reflection of the sun’s rays, quivering with delight as the sweat poured from his body.

  Willis was surprised to find him in the city during the coldest March on record. He was not surprised to find him in a room that was suffocatingly hot, with three electric heaters adding their output to the two banging radiators. In the midst of this thermal onslaught, Donner sat in overcoat and gloves, wedged into a stuffed armchair. He was wearing two pairs of woolen socks, and his feet were propped up on the radiator. There was a girl in the room with him. She was perhaps fifteen years old, and she was wearing a flowered bra and bikini panties over which she had put on a silk wrapper. The wrapper was unbelted. The girl’s near-naked body showed whenever she moved, but she seemed not to mind the presence of a strange man. She barely glanced at Willis when he came in, and then went about the room straightening up, never looking at either of the men as they whispered together near the window streaming wintry sunlight.

  “Who’s the girl?” Willis asked.

  “My daughter,” Donner said, and grinned.

  He was not a nice man, Fats Donner, but he was a good stoolie, and criminal detection sometimes made strange bedfellows. It was Willis’ guess that the girl was hooking for Donner, a respectable stoolie sometimes being in need of additional income which he can realize, for example, by picking up a little girl straight from Ohio and teaching her what it’s all about and then putting her on the street, there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio. Willis was not interested in Donner’s possible drug habit, nor was Wilis interested in hanging a prostitution rap on the girl, nor in busting Donner as a “male person living on the proceeds of prostitution,” Section 1148 of the Penal Law. Willis was interested in taking off his coat and hat and finding out whether or not Donner could give him a line on a man named Dom.

  “Dom who?” Donner asked.

  “That’s all we’ve got.”

  “How many Doms you suppose are in this city?” Donner asked. He

  turned to the girl, who was puttering around rearranging food in the refrigerator, and said, “Mercy, how many Doms you suppose are in this city?”

  “I don’t know,” Mercy replied without looking at him.

  “How many Doms you know personally?” Donner asked her.

  “I don’t know any Doms,” the girl said. She had a tiny voice, tinged with an unmistakable Southern accent. Scratch Ohio, Willis thought, substitute Arkansas or Tennessee.

  “She don’t know any Doms,” Donner said, and chukled.

  “How about you, Fats? You know any?”

  “That’s all you’re giving me?” Donner asked. “Man, you’re really generous.”

  “He lost a lot of money on the chamionship fight two weeks ago.”

  “Everybody I know lost a lot of money on the championship fight two weeks ago.”

  “He’s broke right now. He’s trying to promote some scratch,” Willis said.

  “Dom, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “From this part of the city?”

  “A friend of his lives in Riverhead,” Willis said.

  “What’s the friend’s name?”

  “La Bresca. Tony La Bresca.”

  “What about him?”

  “No record.”

  “You think this Dom done time?”

  “I’ve got no idea. He seems to have tipped to a caper that’s coming off.”

  “Is that what you’re interested in? The caper?”

  “Yes. According to him, the buzz is all over town.”

  “There’s always some buzz or other that’s all over town,” Donner said. “What the hell are you doing there, Mercy?”

>   “Just fixing things,” Mercy said.

  “Get the hell away from there, you make me nervous.”

  “I was just fixing the things in the fridge,” Mercy said.

  “I hate that Southern accent,” Donner said. “Don’t you hate Southern accents?” he asked Willis.

  “I don’t mind them,” Willis said.

  “Can’t even understand her half the time. Sounds as if she’s got shit in her mouth.”

  The girl closed the refrigerator door and went to the closet. She opened the door and began moving around empty hangers.

  “Now what’re you doing?” Donner asked.

  “Just straightening things,” she said.

  “You want me to kick you out in the street bare-assed?” Donner asked.

  “No,” she said softly.

  “Then cut it out.”

  “All right.”

  “Anyway, it’s time you got dressed.”

  “All right.”

  “Go on, go get dressed. What time is it?” he asked Willis.

  “Almost noon,” Willis said.

  “Sure, go get dressed,” Donner said.

  “All right,” the girl said, and went into the other room.

  “Damn little bitch,” Donner said, “hardly worth keeping around.”

  “I thought she was your daughter,” Willis said.

  “Oh, is that what you thought?” Donner asked, and again he grinned.

  “Willis restrained a sudden impulse. He sighed and said, “So what do you think?”

  “I don’t think nothing yet, man. Zero so far.”