Fuzz

Chapter 9

The squadroom phone began jangling early Monday morning.

The first call was from a reporter on the city’s austere morning daily. He asked to speak to whoever was in charge of the squad and, when told that Lieutenant Byrnes was not in at the moment, asked to speak to whoever was in command.

“This is Detective 2nd/Grade Meyer Meyer,” he was told. “I suppose I’m in command at the moment.”

“Detective Meyer,” the reporter said, “this is Carlyle Butterford, I wanted to check out a possible story.”

At first, Meyer thought the call was a put-on, nobody had a name like Carlyle Butterford. Then he remembered that everybody on this particular morning newspaper had names like Preston Fingerlaver, or Clyde Masterfield, or Aylmer Coopermere. “Yes, Mr. Butterford,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

“We received a telephone call early this morning …”

“From whom, sir?”

“An anonymous caller,” Butterford said.

“Yes?”

“Yes, and he suggested that we contact the 87th Precinct regarding certain extortion calls and notes that were received before the deaths of Parks Commissioner Cowper and Deputy Mayor Scanlon.”

There was a long silence on the line.

“Detective Meyer, is there any truth to this allegation?”

“I suggest that you call the Public Relations Officer of the Police Department,” Meyer said, “his name is Detective Glenn, and he’s downtown at Headquarters. The number there is Center 6-0800.”

“Would he have any knowledge of these alleged extortion calls and notes?” Butterford asked.

“I guess you’d have to ask him,” Meyer said.

“Do you have any knowledge of these alleged … ?”

“As I told you,” Meyer said, “the lieutenant is out at the moment, and he’s the one who generally supplies information to the press.”

“But would you, personally, have any information … ?”

“I have information on a great many things,” Meyer said. “Homicides, muggings, burglaries, robberies, rapes, extortion attempts, all sorts of things. But, as I’m sure you know, detectives are public servants and it has been the department’s policy to discourage us from seeking personal aggrandizement. If you wish to talk to the lieutenant, I suggest you call back at around ten o’clock. He should be in by then.”

“Come on,” Butterford said, “give me a break.”

“I’m sorry, pal, I can’t help you.”

“I’m a working stiff, just like you.”

“So’s the lieutenant,” Meyer said, and hung up.

The second call came at nine-thirty. Sergeant Murchison, at the switchboard, took the call and immediately put it through to Meyer.

“This is Cliff Savage,” the voice said. “Remember me?”

“Only too well,” Meyer said. “What do you want, Savage?”

“Carella around?”

“Nope.”

“Where is he?”

“Out,” Meyer said.

“I wanted to talk to him.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to you,” Meyer said. “You almost got his wife killed once with your goddamn yellow journalism. You want my advice, keep out of his sight.”

“I guess I’ll have to talk to you, then,” Savage said.

“I’m not too fond of you myself, if you want the truth.”

“Well, thank you,” Savage said, “but that’s not the truth I’m after.”

“What are you after?”

“I got a phone call this morning from a man who refused to identify himself. He gave me a very interesting piece of information.” Savage paused. “Know anything about it?”

Meyer’s heart was pounding, but he very calmly said, “I’m not a mind reader, Savage.”

“I thought you might know something about it.”

“Savage, I’ve given you the courtesy of five minutes of valuable time already. Now if you’ve got something to say …”

“Okay, okay. The man I spoke to said the 87th Precinct had received several threatening telephone calls preceding the death of Parks Commissioner Cowper, and three extortion notes preceding the death of Deputy Mayor Scanlon. Know anything about it?”

“Telephone company’d probably be able to help you on any phone calls you want to check, and I guess the Documents Section of the Public Library …”

“Come on, Meyer, don’t stall me.”

“We’re not permitted to give information to reporters,” Meyer said. “You know that.”

“How much?” Savage asked.

“Huh?”

“How much do you want, Meyer?”

“How much can you afford?” Meyer asked.

“How does a hundred bucks sound?”

“Not so good.”

“How about two hundred?”

“I get more than that just for protecting our friendly neighborhood pusher.”

“Three hundred is my top offer,” Savage said.

“Would you mind repeating the offer for the benefit of the tape recorder?” Meyer said. “I want to have evidence when I charge you with attempting to bribe a police officer.”

“I was merely offering you a loan,” Savage said.

“Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” Meyer said, and hung up.

This was not good. This was, in fact, bad. He was about to dial the lieutenant’s home number, hoping to catch him before he left for the office, when the telephone on his desk rang again.

“87th Squad,” he said, “Detective Meyer.”

The caller was from one of the two afternoon papers. He repeated essentially what Meyer had already heard from his two previous callers, and then asked if Meyer knew anything about it. Meyer, loath to lie lest the story eventually broke and tangentially mentioned that there had been a police credibility gap, suggested that the man try the lieutenant later on in the day. When he hung up, he looked at the clock and decided to wait for the next call before trying to contact the lieutenant. Fortunately, there were now only four daily newspapers in the city, the leaders of the various newspaper guilds and unions having decided that the best way to ensure higher wages and lifetime employment was to make demands that would kill off the newspapers one by one, leaving behind only scattered goose feathers and broken golden egg shells. Meyer did not have to wait long. The representative of the fourth newspaper called within five minutes. He had a bright chirpy voice and an ingratiating style. He got nothing from Meyer, and he finally hung up in cheerful rage.

It was now five minutes to ten, too late to catch Byrnes at home.

While he waited for the lieutenant to arrive, Meyer doodled a picture of a man in a fedora shooting a Colt .45 automatic. The man looked very much like Meyer, except that he possessed a full head of hair. Meyer had once possessed a full head of hair. He tried to remember when. It was probably when he was ten years old. He was smiling painfully over his own joke when Byrnes came into the squadroom. The lieutenant looked dyspeptic this morning. Meyer surmised that he missed the painters. Everyone on the squad missed the painters. They had added humanity to the joint, and richness, a spirit of gregarious joy, a certain je ne sais quoi.

“We got trouble,” Meyer said, but before he could relate the trouble to the lieutenant, the phone rang again. Meyer lifted the receiver, identified himself, and then looked at Byrnes.

“It’s the Chief of Detectives” he said, and Byrnes sighed and went into his office to take the call privately.

Thrity-three telephone calls were exchanged that morning as police and city government officials kept the wires hot between their own offices and Lieutenant Byrnes,’ trying to decide what to do about this latest revolting development. The one thing they did not need on this case was publicity that would make them all appear foolish. And yet, if there really had been a leak about the extortion attempts, it seemed likely that the full story might come to light at any moment, in which case it might be best to level with the papers before they broke the news. At the same time, the anonymous caller might only have been speculating, without any real evidence to back up his claim of extortion, in which case a premature release to the newspapers would only serve to breach a danger that was not truly threatening. What to do, oh, what to do?

The telephones rang, and the possibilities multiplied. Heads swam and tempers flared. The mayor, James Martin Vale himself, postponed a walking trip from City Hall to Grover Park and personally called Lieutenant Byrnes to ask his opinion on “the peril of the situation.” Lieutenant Byrnes passed the buck to the Chief of Detectives who in turn passed it back to Captain Frick of the 87th, who referred JMV’s secretary to the police commissioner, who for reasons unknown said he must first consult with the traffic commissioner, who in turn referred the police commissioner to the Bridge Authority who somehow got on to the city comptroller, who in turn called JMV himself to ask what this was all about.

At the end of two hours of dodging and wrangling, it was decided to take the bull by the horns and release transcripts of the telephone conversations, as well as photocopies of the three notes, to all four city newspapers. The city’s liberal blue-headline newspaper (which was that week running an expose on the growth of the numbers racket as evidenced by the prevalence of nickel and dime betters in kindergarten classes) was the first paper to break the story, running photos of the three notes side by side on its front page. The city’s other afternoon newspaper, recently renamed the Pierce-Arrow-Universal-International-Bugle-Chronicle-Clarion or something, was next to feature the notes on its front page, together with transcripts of the calls in 24-point Cheltenham Bold.

That night, the early editions of the two morning newspapers carried the story as well. This meant that a combined total of four million readers now knew all about the extortion threats.

The next move was anybody’s.

Anthony La Bresca and his pool hall buddy, Peter Vincent Calucci (alias Calooch, Cooch, or Kook) met in a burlesque house on a side street off The Stem at seven o’clock that Monday night.

La Bresca had been tailed from his place of employment, a demolition site in the city’s downtown financial district, by three detectives using the ABC method of surveillance. Mindful of the earlier unsuccessful attempts to keep track of him, nobody was taking chances anymore — the ABC method was surefire and foolproof.

Detective Bob O’Brien was “A,” following La Bresca while Detective Andy Parker, who was “B,” walked behind O’Brien and kept him constantly in view. Detective Carl Kapek was “C,” and he moved parallel with La Bresca, on the opposite side of the street. This meant that if La Bresca suddenly went into a coffee shop or ducked around the corner, Kapek could instantly swap places with O’Brien, taking the lead “A” position while O’Brien caught up, crossed the street, and maneuvered into the “C” position. It also meant that the men could use camouflaging tactics at their own discretion, changing positions so that the combination became BCA or CBA or CAB or whatever they chose, a scheme that guaranteed La Bresca would not recognize any one man following him over an extended period of time.

Wherever he went, La Bresca was effectively contained. Even in parts of the city where the crowds were unusually thick, there was no danger of losing him. Kapek would merely cross over onto La Bresca’s side of the street and begin walking some fifteen feet ahead of him, so that the pattern read C, La Bresca, A, and B. In police jargon, they were “sticking like a dirty shirt,” and they did their job well and unobtrusively, despite the cold weather and despite the fact that La Bresca seemed to be a serendipitous type who led them on a jolly excursion halfway across the city, apparently trying to kill time before his seven-o’clock meeting with Calucci.

The two men took seats in the tenth row of the theater. The show was in progress, two baggy-pants comics relating a traffic accident one of them had had with a car driven by a voluptuous blonde.

“You mean she crashed right into your tail pipe?” one of the comics asked.

“Hit me with her headlights,” the second one said.

“Hit your tail pipe with her headlights?” the first one asked.

“Almost broke it off for me,” the second one said.

Kapek, taking a seat across the aisle from Calucci and La Bresca, was suddenly reminded of the squadroom painters and realized how sorely he missed their presence. O’Brien had moved into the row behind the pair, and was sitting directly back of them now. Andy Parker was in the same row, two seats to the left of Calucci.

“Any trouble getting here?” Calucci whispered.

“No,” La Bresca whispered back.

“What’s with Dom?”

“He wants in.”

“I thought he just wanted a couple of bills.”

“That was last week.”

“What’s he want now?”

“A three-way split.”

“Tell him to go screw,” Calucci said.

“No. He’s hip to the whole thing.”

“How’d he find out?”

“I don’t know. But he’s hip, that’s for sure.”

There was a blast from the trumpet section of the four-piece band in the pit. The overhead leikos came up purple, and a brilliant follow spot hit the curtain stage left. The reed section followed the heraldic trumpet with a saxophone obbligato designed to evoke memory or desire or both. A gloved hand snaked its way around the curtain. “And now,” a voice said over the loudspeaker system while one-half of the rhythm section started a snare drum roll, “and now, for the first time in America, direct from Brest, which is where the little lady comes from … exhibiting her titillating terpsichoreal skills for your pleasure, we are happy to present Miss … Freida Panzer!”

A leg appeared from behind the curtain.

It floated disembodied on the air. A black high-heeled pump pointed, wiggled, a calf muscle tightened, the knee bent, and then the toe pointed again. There was more of the leg visible now, the black nylon stocking shimmered in the glow of the lights, ribbed at the top where a vulnerable white thigh lay exposed, black garter biting into the flesh, fetishists all over the theater thrilled to the sight, not to mention a few detectives who weren’t fetishists at all. Freida Panzer undulated onto the stage bathed in the glow of the overhead purple leikos, wearing a long puple gown slit up each leg to the waist, the black stockings and taut black garters revealed each time she took another long-legged step across the stage.

“Look at them legs,” Calucci whispered.

“Yeah,” La Bresca said.

O’Brien sitting behind them, looked at the legs. They were extraordinary legs.

“I hate to cut anybody else in on this,” Calucci whispered.

“Me, neither,” La Bresca said, “but what else can we do? He’ll run screaming to the cops if we don’t play ball.”

“Is that what he said?”

“Not in so many words. He just hinted.”

“Yeah, the son of a bitch.”

“So what do you think?” La Bresca asked.

“Man, there’s big money involved here,” Calucci said.

“You think I don’t know?”

“Why cut him in after we done all the planning?”

“What else can we do?”

“We can wash him,” Calucci whispered.

The girl was taking off her clothes.

The four-piece ensemble in the orchestra pit rose to heights of musical expression, a heavy bass drum beat accentuating each solid bump as purple clothing fell like aster petals, a triple-tongued trumpet winding up with each pelvic grind, a saxophone wail climbing the girl’s flanks in accompaniment with her sliding hands, a steady piano beat banging out the rhythm of each long-legged stride, each tassel-twirling, fixed-grin, sexy-eyed, contrived, and calculated erotic move. “She’s got some tits,” Calucci whispered, and La Bresca whispered back, “Yeah.”

The men fell silent.

The music rose in earsplitting crescendo. The bass drum beat was more insistent now, the trumpet shrieked higher and higher, a C above high C reached for and missed, the saxophone trilled impatiently, the piano pounded in the upper register, a tinny insistent honkytonk rhythm, cymbals clashed, the trumpet reached for the screech note again, and again missed. The lights were swirling now, the stage was inundated in color and sound. There was the stink of perspiration and lust in the theater as the girl ground out her coded message in a cipher broken long ago on too many similar stages, pounded out her promises of ecstasy and sin. come and get it, baby, Come and get it, Come and come and come and come.

The stage went black.

In the darkness, Calucci whispered, “What do you think?”

One of the baggy pants comics came on again to do a bit in a doctor’s office accompanied by a pert little blonde with enormous breasts who explained that she thought she was stagnant because she hadn’t fenestrated in two months.

“I hate the idea of knocking somebody off,” La Bresca whispered.

“If it’s necessary, it’s necessary.”

“Still.”

“There’s lots of money involved here, don’t forget it.”

“Yeah, but at the same time, there’s enough to split three ways, ain’t there?” La Bresca said.

“Why should we split it three ways when we can split it down the middle?”

“Because Dom’ll spill the whole works if we don’t cut him in. Look, what’s the sense going over this a hundred times? We got to cut him in.”

“I want to think about it.”

“You ain’t got that much time to think about it. We’re set for the fifteenth. Dom wants to know right away.”

“Okay, so tell him he’s in. Then we’ll decide whether he’s in or out. And I mean really out, the little son of a bitch.”

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” the loudspeaker voice said, “it gives us great pleasure to present the rage of San Francisco, a young lady who thrilled the residents of that city by the Golden Gate, a young lady whose exotic dancing caused the pious officials of Hong Kong to see Red … it is with bursting pride that we turn our stage over to Miss … Anna … May … Zong!”

The house lights dimmed. The band struck up a sinuous version of “Limehouse Blues.” A swish cymbal echoed on the air, and a sloe-eyed girl wearing mandarin garb came into the follow spot with mincing steps, hands together in an attitude of prayer, head bent.

“I dig these Chinks,” Calucci said.

“You guys want to stop talking?” a bald-headed man in the row ahead said. “I can’t see the girls with all that gabbing behind me.”

“Fuck off, Baldy,” La Bresca said.

But both men fell silent. O’Brien leaned forward in his seat. Parker bent sideways over the armrest. There was nothing further to hear. Kapek, across the aisle, could not have heard anything anyway, so he merely watched the Chinese girl as she took off her clothes.

At the end of the act, La Bresca and Calucci rose quietly from their seats and went out of the theater. They split up outside. Parker followed Calucci to his house, and Kapek followed La Bresca to his. O’Brien went back to the squadroom to type up a report.

The detectives did not get together again until eleven o’clock that night, by which time La Bresca and Calucci were both hopefully asleep. They met in a diner some five blocks from the squadroom. Over coffee and crullers, they all agreed that the only thing they’d learned from their eavesdropping was the date of the job La Bresca and Calucci were planning: March the fifteenth. They also agreed that Freida Panzer had much larger breasts than Anna May Zong.

In the living room of a luxurious apartment on Harborside Oval, overlooking the river, a good three miles from where Detectives O’Brien, Parker, and Kapek were speculating on the comparative dimensions of the two strippers, the deaf man sat on a sofa facing sliding glass doors, and happily sipped at a glass of scotch and soda.

The drapes were open, and the view of warm and glowing lights strung on the bridge’s cables, the distant muted reds and ambers blinking on the distant shore gave the night a deceptively springtime appearance; the thermometer on the terrace outside read ten degrees above zero.

Two bottles of expensive scotch, one already dead, were on the coffee table before the sofa upholstered in rich black leather. On the wall opposite the sofa, there hung an original Rouault, only a gouache to be sure, but nonetheless quite valuable. A grand piano turned its wide curve into the room, and a petite brunette, wearing a miniskirt and a white crocheted blouse, sat at the piano playing “Heart and Soul” over and over again.

The girl was perhaps twenty-three years old, with a nose that had been recently bobbed, large brown eyes, long black hair that fell to a point halfway between her waist and her shoulder blades. She was wearing false eyelashes. They fluttered whenever she hit a sour note, which was often. The deaf man seemed not to mind the discord that rose from the piano. Perhaps he really was deaf, or perhaps he had consumed enough scotch to have dimmed his perception. The two other men in the room didn’t seem to mind the cacophony either. One of them even tried singing along with the girl’s treacherous rendition–until she hit another sour note and began again from the top.

“I can’t seem to get it,” she said, pouting.

“You’ll get it, honey,” the deaf man said. “Just keep at it.”

One of the men was short and slender, with the dustcolored complexion of an Indian. He wore narrow black tapered trousers and a white shirt over which was an open black vest. He was sitting at a drop-leaf desk, typing. The other man was tall and burly, with blue eyes, red hair, and a red mustache. There were freckles spattered over his cheeks and his forehead, and his voice, as he began singing along with the girl again, was deep and resonant. He was wearing tight jeans and a blue turtleneck sweater.

As the girl continued to play “Heart and Soul,” a feeling of lassitude spread through the deaf man. Sitting on the couch, watching the second phase of his scheme as it became a reality, he mused again on the beauty of the plan, and then glanced at the girl, and then smiled when she hit the same sour note (an E flat where it should have been a natural E) and then looked again to where Ahmad was typing.

“The beauty of this phase,” he said aloud, “is that none of them will believe us.”

“They will believe,” Ahmad offered, and smiled thinly.

“Yes, but not at this phase.”

“No, only later,” Ahmad said, and sipped at his scotch, and glanced at the girl’s thighs, and went back to his typing.

“How much is this mailing going to cost us?” the other man asked.

“Well, Buck,” the deaf man said, “we’re sending out a hundred pieces of first-class mail at five cents postage per envelope, so that comes to a grand total of five dollars–if my arithmetic is correct.”

“Your arithmetic is always correct,” Ahmad said, and smiled.

“This is the damn part I can’t get,” the girl said, and struck the same note over and over again, as though trying to pound it into her memory.

“Keep at it, Rochelle,” the deaf man said. “You’ll get it.”

Buck lifted his glass, discovered it was empty, and went to the coffee table to refill it, moving with the economy of an athlete, back ramrod stiff, hands dangling loosely at his sides, as though he were going back for the huddle after having executed a successful line plunge.

“Here, let me help you,” the deaf man said.

“Not too heavy,” Buck said.

The deaf man poured a liberal shot into Buck’s extended glass. “Drink,” he said. “You deserve it.”

“Well, I don’t want to get crocked.”

“Why not? You’re among friends,” the deaf man said, and smiled.

He was feeling particularly appreciative of Buck’s talent tonight, because without it this phase of the scheme would never have become a reality. Oh yes, a primitive bomb could have been assembled and hastily wired to the ignition switch, but such sloppiness, such dependency on chance, had never appealed to the deaf man. The seriousness with which Buck had approached the problem had been truly heart-warming. His development of a compact package (the inverter had weighed a mere twenty-two pounds and measured only ten by ten by five) that could be easily transported and wired in a relatively short period of time, his specific demand for an inverter with a regulated sine-wave output (costing a bit more, yes, $64.95, but a negligible output in terms of the hoped-for financial realization), his insistence on a briefing session to explain the proper handling of the dynamite and the electric blasting cap, all were admirable, admirable. He was a good man, Buck, a demolition expert who had worked on countless legitimate blasting jobs, a background essential to the deaf man’s plan; in this state, you were not allowed to buy explosives without a permit and insurance, both of which Buck possessed. The deaf man was very pleased indeed to have him in his employ.

Ahmad, too, was indispensable. He had been working as a draftsman at Metropolitan Power & Light, earning $150 a week in the Bureau of Maps and Records, when the deaf man first contacted him. He had readily appreciated the huge rewards to be reaped from the scheme, and had enthusiastically supplied all of the information so necessary to its final phase. In addition, he was a meticulous little man who had insisted that all of these letters be typed on high-quality bond paper, with each of the hundred men receiving an original rather than a carbon or a photocopy, a touch designed to allay any suspicion that the letter was a practical joke. The deaf man knew that the difference between success and failure very often depended on such small details, and he smiled at Ahmad in appreciation now, and sipped a little more of his scotch, and said, “How many have you typed so far?”

“Fifty-two.”

“We’ll be toiling long into the night, I’m afraid.”

“When are we going to mail these?”

“I had hoped by Wednesday.”

“I will finish them long before then,” Ahmad promised.

“Will you really be working here all night?” Rochelle asked, pouting again.

“You can go to bed if you like, dear,” the deaf man said.

“What good’s bed without you?” Rochelle said, and Buck and Ahmad exchanged glances.

“Go on, I’ll join you later.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Then have a drink, and play us another song.”

“I don’t know any other songs.”

“Read a book then,” the deaf man suggested.

Rochelle looked at him blankly.

“Or go into the den and watch some television.”

“There’s nothing on but old movies.”

“Some of those old films are very instructive,” the deaf man said.

“Some of them are very crappy, too,” Rochelle replied.

The deaf man smiled. “Do you feel like licking a hundred envelopes?” he asked.

“No, I don’t feel like licking envelopes,” she answered.

“I didn’t think so,” the deaf man said.

“So what should I do?” Rochelle asked.

“Go get into your nightgown, darling,” the deaf man said.

“Mmm?” she said, and looked at him archly.

“Mmm,” he replied.

“Okay,” she said, and rose from the piano bench. “Well, good night, fellas,” she said.

“Good night,” Buck said.

“Good night, miss,” Ahmad said.

Rochelle looked at the deaf man again, and then went into the other room.

“Empty-headed little bitch,” he said.

“I think she’s dangerous to have around,” Buck said.

“On the contrary,” the deaf man said, “she soothes the nerves and eases the daily pressures. Besides, she thinks we’re respectable businessmen promoting some sort of hare-brained scheme. She hasn’t the vaguest notion of what we’re up to.”

“Sometimes I don’t have the vaguest notion either,” Buck said, and pulled a face.

“It’s really very simple,” the deaf man said. “We’re making a direct-mail appeal, a tried-and-true method of solicitation pioneered by businessmen all over this bountiful nation. Our mailing, of course, is a limited one. We’re only sending out a hundred letters. But it’s my hope that we’ll get a highly favorable response.”

“And what if we don’t?”

“Well, Buck, let’s assume the worst. Let’s assume we get a one-percent return, which is the generally expected return on a direct-mail piece. Our entire outlay thus far has been $86.95 for a lever-action carbine; $3.75 for a box of cartridges; $64.95 for your inverter; $7.00 for the electric clock; $9.60 for a dozen sticks of dynamite at eighty cents a stick; sixty cents for the blasting cap; $10.00 for the stationery; and $5.00 for the postage. If my addition is correct …” (He paused here to smile at Ahmad.) “… that comes to $187.85. Our future expenses–for the volt-ohm meter, the pressure-sensitive letters, the uniform, and so on–sould also be negligible. Now, if we get only a one-percent return on our mailing, if only one person out of the hundred comes through, we’ll still be reaping a large profit on our initial investment.”

“Five thousand dollars seems like pretty small change for two murders,” Buck said.

“Three murders,” the deaf man corrected.

“Even better,” Buck said, and pulled a face.

“I assure you I’m expecting much more than a one-percent return. On Friday night, we execute–if you’ll pardon the pun–the final phase of our plan. By Saturday morning, there’ll be no disbelievers.”

“How many of them do you think’ll come through?”

“Most of them. If not all of them.”

“And what about the fuzz?”

“What about them? They still don’t know who we are, and they’ll never find out.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I know I’m right.”

“I worry about fuzz,” Buck said. “I can’t help it. I’ve been conditioned to worry about them.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. Don’t you realize why they’re called fuzz?”

“No. Why?”

“Because they’re fuzzy and fussy and antiquated and incompetent. Their investigatory technique is established and routine, designed for effectiveness in an age that no longer exists. The police in this city are like wind-up toys with keys sticking out of their backs, capable of performing only in terms of their own limited design, tiny mechanical men clattering along the sidewalk stiff-leggged, scurrying about in aimless circles. But put an obstacle in their path, a brick wall or an orange crate, and they unwind helplessly in the same spot, arms and legs thrashing but taking them nowhere.” The deaf man grinned. “I, my friend, am the brick wall.”

“Or the orange crate,” Buck said.

“No,” Ahmad said intensely. “He is the brick wall.”