Ed McBain_87th Precinct 22

by Fuzz

  “This has got to be it,” Kling said.

  “The payoff of the burley joint summit meeting,” Meyer said.

  “Right. La Bresca’s going to tell old Dom he’s in for a three-way split. Then Calooch’ll decide whether or not they’re going to dump him in the river.”

  “Six-to-five old Dom gets the cement block.”

  “I’m not a gambling man,” Kling said.

  The church clock began tolling the half-hour. The chimes rang out over the intersection. Some of the lunch hour pedestrians glanced up at the bell tower. Most of them hurried past with their heads ducked against the cold.

  “Old Dom seems to be late,” Meyer said.

  “Look at old Tony,” Kling said. “He’s about ready to take a fit.”

  “Yeah,” Meyer said, and chuckled. The car heater was on, and he was snug and cozy and drowsy. He did not envy La Bresca standing outside on the windy corner.

  “What’s the plan?” Kling said.

  “As soon as the meeting’s over, we move in on old Dom.”

  “We ought to pick up both of them,” Kling said.

  “Tell me what’ll stick.”

  “We heard La Bresca planning a job, didn’t we? That’s Conspiracy to Commit, Section 580.”

  “Big deal. I’d rather find out what he’s up to and then catch him in the act.”

  “If he’s in with the deaf man, he’s already committed two crimes,” Kling said. “And very big ones at that.”

  “If he’s in with the deaf man.”

  “You think he is?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not sure,” Kling said.

  “Maybe old Dom’ll be able to tell us.”

  “If he shows.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Twenty to,” Kling said.

  They kept watching La Bresca. He was pacing more nervously now, slapping his gloved hands against his sides to ward off the cold. He was wearing the same beige car coat he had worn the day he’d picked up the lunch pail in the park, the same green muffler wrapped around his throat, the same thick-soled workman’s shoes.

  “Look,” Meyer said suddenly.

  “What is it?”

  “Across the street. Pulling up to the curb.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s the blond girl, Bert. In the same black Buick!”

  “How’d she get into the act?”

  Meyer started the car. La Bresca had spotted the Buick and was walking toward it rapidly. From where they sat, the detectives could see the girl toss her long blond hair and then lean over to open the front door for him. La Bresca got into the car. In a moment, it gunned away from the curb.

  “What do we do now?” Kling asked.

  “We follow.”

  “What about Dom?”

  “Maybe the girl’s taking La Bresca to see him.”

  “And maybe not.”

  “What can we lose?” Meyer asked.

  “We can lose Dom,” Kling said.

  “Just thank God they’re not walking,” Meyer said, and pulled the Chrysler out into traffic.

  This was the oldest part of the city. The streets were narrow, the buildings crowded the sidewalks and gutters, pedestrians crossed at random, ignoring the lights, ducking around moving vehicles with practiced ease, nonchalant to possible danger.

  “Like to give them all tickets for jaywalking,” Meyer mumbled.

  “Don’t lose that Buick,” Kling cautioned.

  “You think I’m new in this business, Sonny?”

  “You lost that same car only last week,” Kling said.

  “I was on foot last week.”

  “They’re making a left turn,” Kling said.

  “I see them.”

  The Buick had indeed made a left turn, coming out onto the wide tree-lined esplanade bordering the River Dix. The river was icebound shore to shore, a phenomenon that had happened only twice before in the city’s history. Devoid of its usual busy harbor traffic, it stretched toward Calm’s Point like a flat Kansas plain, a thick cover of snow uniformly hiding the ice below. The naked trees along the esplanade bent in the strong wind that raced across the river. Even the heavy Buick seemed struggling to move through the gusts, its nose swerving every now and again as the blonde fought the wheel. At last, she pulled the car to the curb and killed the engine. The esplanade was silent except for the roaring of the wind. Newspapers flapped into the air like giant headless birds. An empty wicker-wire trash barrel came rolling down the center of the street.

  A block behind the parked Buick, Meyer and Kling sat and looked through the windshield of the unmarked police sedan. The wind howled around the automobile, drowning out the calls that came from the radio. Kling turned up the volume.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “We wait,” Meyer said.

  “Do we pick up the girl when they’re finished talking?” Kling asked. “Yep.”

  “You think she’ll know anything?”

  “I hope so. She must be in on it, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know. Calucci was talking about splitting the take up the middle. If there’re three people in it already …”

  “Well, then maybe she’s old Dom’s girl.”

  “Substituting for him, you mean?”

  “Sure. Maybe old Dom suspects they’re going to dump him. So he sends his girl to the meeting while he’s safe and sound somewhere, strumming his old rhythm guitar.”

  “That’s possible,” Kling said.

  “Sure, it’s possible,” Meyer said.

  “But then, anything’s possible.”

  “That’s a very mature observation,” Meyer said.

  “Look,” Kling said. “La Bresca’s getting out of the car.”

  “Short meeting,” Meyer said. “Let’s hit the girl.”

  As La Bresca went up the street in the opposite direction, Meyer and Kling stepped out of the parked Chrysler. The wind almost knocked them off their feet. They ducked their heads against it and began running, not wanting the girl to start the car and take off before they reached her, hoping to prevent a prolonged automobile chase through the city. Up ahead, Meyer heard the Buick’s engine spring to life.

  “Let’s go!” he ahouted to Kling, and they sprinted the last five yards to the car, Meyer fanning out into the gutter, Kling pulling open the door on the curb side.

  The blonde sitting behind the wheel was wearing slacks and a short gray coat. She turned to look at Kling as he pulled open the door, and Kling was surprised to discover that she wasn’t wearing makeup and that her features were rather heavy and gross. As he blinked at her in amazement, he further learned that she was sporting what looked like a three-day old beard stubble on her chin and on her cheeks.

  The door on the driver’s side snapped open.

  Meyer took one surprised look at the “girl” behind the wheel and then immediately said, “Mr. Dominick Di Fillippi, I presume?”

  Dominick Di Fillippi was very proud of his long blond hair.

  In the comparative privacy of the squadroom, he combed it often, and explained to the detectives that guys belonging to a group had to have an image, you dig? Like all the guys in his group, they all looked different, you dig? Like the drummer wore these Ben Franklin eyeglasses, and the lead guitar player combed his chair down in bangs over his eyes, and the organist wore red shirts and red socks, you dig, all the guys had a different image. The long blond hair wasn’t exactly his own idea, there were lots of guys in other groups who had long hair, which is why he was growing the beard to go with it. His beard was a sort of reddish-blond, he explained, he figured it would look real tough once it grew in, give him his own distinct image, you dig?

  “Like what’s the beef,” he asked, “what am I doing inside a police station?”

  “You’re a musician, huh?” Meyer asked.

  “You got it, man.”

  “That’s what you do for a living, huh?”

  “Well, like we only recently formed the
group.”

  “How recently?”

  “Three months.”

  “Play any jobs yet?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “When?”

  “Well, we had like auditions.”

  “Have you ever actually been paid for playing anywhere?”

  “Well, no, man, not yet. Not actually. I mean, man, even The Beatles had to start someplace, you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like, man, they were playing these crumby little cellar joints in Liverpool, man, they were getting maybe a farthing a night.”

  “What the hell do you know about farthings?”

  “Like it’s a saying.”

  “Okay, Dom, let’s get away from the music business for a little while, okay? Let’s talk about other kinds of business, okay?”

  “Yeah, let’s talk about why I’m in here, okay?”

  “You’d better read him the law,” Kling said.

  “Yeah,” Meyer said, and went through the Miranda-Escobedo bit. Di Fillippi listened intently. When Meyer was finished, he nodded his blond locks and said, “I can get a lawyer if I want one, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want one,” Di Fillippi said.

  “Have you got anyone special in mind, or do you want us to get one for you?”

  “I got somebody in mind,” Di Fillippi said.

  While the detectives back at the squadroom fuzzily and fussily waited for Di Fillippi’s lawyer to arrive, Steve Carella, now ambulatory, decided to go down to the fourth floor to visit Patrolman Genero.

  Genero was sitting up in bed, his wounded leg bandaged and rapidly healing. He seemed surprised to see Carella.

  “Hey,” he said, “this is a real honor, I mean it. I’m really grateful to you for coming down here like this.”

  “How’s it going, Genero?” Carella asked.

  “Oh, so-so. It still hurts. I never thought getting shot could hurt. In the movies, you see these guys get shot all the time, and they just fall down, but you never get the impression it hurts.”

  “It hurts, all right,” Carella said, and smiled. He sat on the edge of Genero’s bed. “I see you’ve got a television in here,” he said.

  “Yeah, it’s the guy’s over in the next bed.” Genero’s voice fell to a whisper. “He never watches it. He’s pretty sick, I think. He’s either sleeping all the time or else moaning. I don’t think he’s going to make it, I’ll tell you the truth.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know. He just sleeps and moans. The nurses are in here day and night, giving him things, sticking him with needles, it’s a regular railroad station, I’m telling you.”

  “Well, that’s not so bad,” Carella said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nurses coming in and out.”

  “Oh no, that’s great?” Genero said. “Some of them are pretty good-looking.”

  “How’d this happen?” Carella asked, and nodded toward Genero’s leg.

  “Oh, you don’t know, huh?” Genero said.

  “I only heard you were shot.”

  “Yeah,” Genero said, and hesitated. “We were chasing this suspect, you see. So as he went past me, I pulled my revolver to fire a warning shot.” Genero hesitated again. “That was when I got it.”

  “Tough break,” Carella said.

  “Well, you got to expect things like that, I suppose. If you expect to make police work your life’s work, you got to expect things like that in your work,” Genero said.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Well, sure, look what happened to you,” Genero said. “Mmm,” Carella said.

  “Of course, you’re a detective,” Genero said.

  “Mmm,” Carella said.

  “Which is sort of understandable.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you expect detectives to get in trouble more than ordinary patrolmen, don’t you? I mean, the ordinary patrolman, the run-of-the-mill patrolman who doesn’t expect to make police work his life’s work, well, you don’t expect him to risk his life trying to apprehend a suspect, do you?”

  “Well,” Carella said, and smiled.

  “Do you?” Genero persisted.

  “Everybody starts out as a patrolman,” Carella said gently.

  “Oh, sure. It’s just you think of a patrolman as a guy directing traffic or helping kids cross the street or taking information when there’s been an accident, things like that, you know? You never figure he’s going to risk his life, the run-of-the-mill patrolman, anyway.”

  “Lots of patrolmen get killed in the line of duty,” Carella said.

  “Oh, sure, I’m sure. I’m just saying you don’t expect it to happen.”

  “To yourself, you mean.”

  “Yeah.”

  The room was silent

  “It sure hurts,” Genero said. “I hope they let me out of here soon, though I’m anxious to get back to duty.”

  “Well, don’t rush it,” Carella said.

  “When are you getting out?”

  “Tomorrow, I think.”

  “You feel okay?”

  “Oh yeah, I feel fine.”

  “Broke your ribs, huh?”

  “Yeah, three of them.”

  “Your nose, too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s rough,” Genero said. “But, of course, you’re a detective.”

  “Mmm,” Carella said.

  “I was up the squadroom the other day,” Genero said, “filling in for the guys when they came here to visit you. This was before the shooting. Before I got it.”

  “How’d you like that madhouse up there?” Carella said, and smiled.

  “Oh, I handled it okay, I guess,” Genero said. “Of course, there’s a lot to learn, but I suppose that comes with actual practice.”

  “Oh, sure,” Carella said.

  “I had a long talk with Sam Grossman …”

  “Nice fellow, Sam.”

  “… yeah, at the lab. We went over those suspect notes together. Nice fellow, Sam,” Genero said.

  “Yeah.”

  “And then some kid came in with another one of those notes, and I held him there till the guys got back. I guess I handled it okay.”

  “I’m sure you did,” Carella said.

  “Well, you’ve got to be conscientious about it if you expect to make it your life’s work,” Genero said.

  “Oh, sure,” Carella said. He rose, winced slightly as he planted his weight, and then said, “Well, I just wanted to see how you were getting along.”

  “I’m fine, thanks. I appreciate your coming down.”

  “Oh, well,” Carella said, and smiled, and started for the door.

  “When you get back,” Genero said, “give my regards, huh?” Carella looked at him curiously. “To all the guys,” Genero said. “Cotton, and Hal, and Meyer and Bert. All of us who were on the plant together.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “And thanks again for coming up …”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “… Steve,” Genero ventured as Carella went out.

  Di Fillippi’s lawyer was a man named Irving Baum.

  He arrived at the squadroom somewhat out of breath and the first thing he asked was whether the detectives had advised his client of his rights. When assured that Di Fillippi had been constitutionally protected, he nodded briefly, took off his brown Homburg and heavy brown overcoat, placed both neatly across Meyer’s desk, and then asked the detectives what it was all about. He was a pleasant-looking man, Baum, with white hair and mustache, sympathetic brown eyes, and an encouraging manner of nodding when anyone spoke, short little nods that seemed to be signs of agreement. Meyer quickly told him that it was not the police intention to book Di Fillippi for anything, but merely to solicit information from him. Baum could see no reason why his client should not cooperate to the fullest extent. He nodded to Di Fillippi and then said, “Go ahead, Dominick, answer their questions.”<
br />
  “Okay, Mr. Baum,” Di Fillippi said.

  “Can we get your full name and address?” Meyer said.

  “Dominick Americo Di Fillippi, 365 North Anderson Street, Riverhead.”

  “Occupation.”

  “I already told you. I’m a musician.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Baum said. “Were you questioning him before I arrived?”

  “Steady, counselor,” Meyer said. “All we asked him was what he did for a living.”

  “Well,” Baum said, and tilted his head to one side as though considering whether there had been a miscarriage of justice. “Well,” he said, “go on, please.”

  “Age?” Meyer asked.

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Single? Married?”

  “Single.”

  “Who’s your nearest living relative?”

  “I beg your pardon,” Baum said, “but if you merely intend to solicit information, why do you need these statistics?”

  “Mr. Baum,” Willis said, “you’re a lawyer, and you’re here with him, so stop worrying. He hasn’t said anything that’ll send him to jail. Not yet.”

  “This is routine, counselor,” Meyer said. “I think you’re aware of that.”

  “All right, all right, go on,” Baum said.

  “Nearest living relative?” Meyer repeated.

  “My father. Angelo Di Fillippi.”

  “What’s he do?”

  “He’s a stonemason.”

  “Hard to find good stonemasons today,” Meyer said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Dom,” Willis said, “What’s your connection with Tony La Bresca?”

  “He’s a friend of mine.”

  “Why’d you meet with him today?”

  “Just friendly.”

  “It was a very short meeting,” Willis said.

  “Yeah, I guess it was.”

  “Do you always go all the way downtown just to talk to someone for five minutes?”

  “Well, he’s a friend of mine.”

  “What’d you talk about?”

  “Uh music,” Di Fillippi said. “What about music?”