Let’s Hear It For The Deaf Man

14

When you are dealing with a man who sends you a picture of a football team, you have to believe he is crazy — unless you think you understand the way his mind works. The boys of the 87th would never in a million years have presumed to understand the workings of the Deaf Man’s mind. But since they now possessed a considerable body of knowledge upon which to base some speculations, they turned to the latest photostat with something resembling scientific perspective.

If Washington meant First...

And Hoover meant Federal...

And Vilma Banky meant Bank...

What did a football team mean?

Van Buren, of course, meant only Van Buren, which was not much help.

But Zero meant Circle.

So what did a football team mean?

“Why not a baseball team?” Meyer asked.

“Or a hockey team,” Carella said.

“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.

“No,” he said. “Lots of things, but never a hammer.”

“Have you ever been shot?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what this is?” she asked, and pointed with the hammer at the scar on his shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Think I’ll kiss it,” she said, and bent over from the waist and kissed his shoulder lightly, and then sat up again. “You’re dealing with the Mad Hammer Hitter here,” she said. “One more word about how good-looking I am and, pow, your friends’ll be investigating a homicide. You got that?”

“Got it,” Kling said.

“This is the obligatory sex scene,” she said. “I’m going to drive you to distraction in the next ten minutes. If you fail to respond, I’ll cleave your skull with a swift single blow. In fact,” she said, “a swift single blow might not be a bad way to start,” and she bent over swiftly, her tongue darting. “I think you’re beginning to get the message,” she murmured. “Must be the goddamn hammer.”

“Must be,” Kling whispered.

Abruptly, she brought her head up to the pillow, stretched her legs, and rolled in tight against him, the hammer still in her right hand. “Listen, you,” she whispered.

“I’m listening.”

“We’re going to be very important to each other.”

“I know that.”

“I’m scared to death,” she said, and caught her breath. “I’ve never felt this way about any man. Do you believe me, Bert?”

“Yes.”

“We’re going to make love now.”

“Yes, Augusta.”

“We’re going to make beautiful love.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, touch me,” she said, and the hammer slipped from her grasp.

The telephone rang four times while they were in bed together. Each time, Augusta’s answering service picked it up on the first ring.

“Might be someone important,” Kling whispered after the last call.

“No one’s more important than you,” she whispered back, and immediately got out of bed and went into the kitchen. When she returned, she was carrying a split of champagne.

“Ah, good,” he said. “How’d you know I was thirsty?”

“You open it while I think up a toast.”

“You forgot glasses.”

“Lovers don’t need glasses.”

“My grandmother does. Blind as a bat without them.”

“Is she a lover?”

“Just ask Grandpa.”

Kling popped the cork with his thumbs.

“Got that toast?” he asked.

“You’re getting the bed wet.”

“Come on, think of some people we can drink to.”

“How about John and Martha Mitchell?”

“Why not? Here’s to...”

“How about us?” Augusta said. She gently took the bottle from him, lifted it high, and said, “To Bert and Augusta. And to...” She hesitated.

“Yes?”

Solemnly, she studied his face, the bottle still extended. “And to at least the possibility of always,” she said, and quickly, almost shyly, brought the bottle to her lips, drank from the open top, and handed it back to Kling. He did not take his eyes from her face. Watching her steadily, he said, “To us. And to always,” and drank.

“Excuse me,” Augusta said, and started out of the room.

“Leaving already, huh?” Kling said. “After all that sweet talk about...”

“I’m only going to the bathroom,” Augusta said, and giggled.

“In that case, check the phone on the way back.”

“Why?”

“I’m a cop.”

“Hell with the phone,” Augusta said.

But she nonetheless dialed her service, and then reported to Kling that the third call had been for him.

“Who was it?” he asked.

“A man named Meyer. He said Mrs. Ungerman is ready to make a positive identification.”

Kling knocked on the door of Mike Ingersoll’s Calm’s Point apartment at ten minutes past eleven. He had heard voices inside, and now he heard footsteps approaching the door.

“Who’s there?” Ingersoll asked.

“Me. Bert Kling.”

“Who?”

“Kling.”

“Oh. Oh, just a second, Bert.”

Kling heard the night chain being slipped off, the lock turning. Ingersoll, wearing pajamas and slippers, opened the door wide, and said, “Hey, how are you? Come on in.”

“I know it’s late,” Kling said. “You weren’t asleep, were you?”

“No, no, I was just watching the news on television.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yeah,” Ingersoll said. “Come in, come in. Can I get you a beer?”

“No, Mike, thanks.”

“Mind if I have one?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” Ingersoll said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Kling went into the living room and sat in an easy chair facing the television set. Ingersoll’s gun and holster were resting on top of the cabinet, and a newscaster was talking about the latest sanitation strike. A cigarette was in an ashtray on an end table alongside the easy chair. There were lipstick stains on its white filter tip. In the kitchen, Kling heard Ingersoll closing the refrigerator. He came into the room a moment later, glanced at a closed door at the far end, tilted the beer bottle to his lips, and drank. Briefly, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and then said, “Something new on the case?”

“I think so, Mike.”

“Not another burglary?”

“No, no.”

“What then?”

“A positive identification,” Kling said.

“Yeah? Great, great.”

“That depends on where you’re sitting, Mike.”

“How do you mean?”

“Mrs. Ungerman called the squadroom earlier tonight. I was out, but I spoke to her just a little while ago.” Kling paused. “She told me she knew who the burglar was. She hadn’t made the connection before because she’d only seen him in...”

“Don’t say it, Bert.”

“She’d only seen him in uniform. But the other day, in the squadroom...”

“Don’t, Bert.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

Ingersoll did not answer.

“Mike? Is it true?”

“True or not, we can talk it over,” Ingersoll said, and moved toward the television set.

“Don’t go for the gun, Mike,” Kling warned, and pulled his own service revolver.

“You don’t need that, Bert,” Ingersoll said with an injured tone.

“Don’t I? Over there, Mike. Against the wall.”

“Hey, come on...”

“Move it!”

“All right, take it easy, will you?” Ingersoll said, and backed away toward the wall.

“What’d you do, Mike? Steal a set of skeleton keys from the squadroom?”

“No.”

“Then how’d you get them?”

“I was on a numbers investigation last October. Remember when they brought a lot of us in on...”

“Yes, I remember.”

“We put in wires all around town. I was working with the tech guys who planted the bugs. That’s when I got hold of the keys.”

“What else are you into, Mike? Are you just burglarizing apartments?”

“Nothing, I swear!”

“Or are you selling dope to school kids, too?”

“Come on, Bert, what do you think I am?”

“I think you’re a cheap thief!”

“I needed money!”

“We all need money!”

“Yeah, so name me a cop in the precinct who isn’t on the take. When the hell did you get so fucking pure?”

“I’ve never taken a nickel, Mike.”

“How many meals have you had on the arm?”

“Are you trying to equate a free cup of coffee with a string of felonies? Jesus Christ!”

“I’m trying to tell you...”

“Yeah, what, Mike?”

The room went silent. Ingersoll shrugged and said, “Look, I wanted to keep you out of this. Why do you think I suggested the stakeout? I didn’t want anybody to think you were connected. I was...”

“The stakeout was a smoke screen,” Kling said flatly. “That’s why you wanted the walkie-talkies, isn’t it? So I’d think you were sitting in the dark where you were supposed to be, when instead you were ripping off an apartment down the block. And the glass kitten! ‘Guess he’s running out of live ones,’ isn’t that what you said, Mike? Running out, my ass. You couldn’t carry a live one last night because even a dummy like me would’ve tipped to a goddamn cat in your coat pocket.”

“Bert, believe me...”

“Oh, I believe you, Mike. It’s the lieutenant who might not. Especially when he hears Fred Lipton’s story.”

“I have no connection with Fred Lipton.”

“No? Well, we’ll find out about that in just a little while, won’t we? Hawes is picking him up right this minute. It’s my guess he’s your fence. Yes or no, Mike?”

“I told you I don’t know him.”

“Then why were you so anxious to get us off his trail? What’d you do, give Rhonda Spear a description of every cop in the squadroom? We were beginning to think she was a goddamn mind reader!” Kling paused, and then said, “Get her out here, Mike. We might as well take her along with us.”

“What? Who?”

“The broad in the other room. It is Rhonda Spear, isn’t it?”

“No, there’s nobody...”

“Is she the one you were telling me about? The nice girl you want to marry, Mike? The reason you were so anxious to catch the burglar?”

“Bert...”

“Well, we’ve caught him. So how about introducing me to the bride? Miss!” he shouted. “Come out here with your hands over your head!”

“Don’t shoot,” a woman’s voice said from behind the closed door. The door opened. A beefy blonde wearing a blue robe over a long pink nightgown came into the living room, her hands up over her head, her lip trembling.

“What’s your name, miss?” Kling asked.

“Which one?” she asked.

“What?”

“Stage or real?”

“Are you Rhonda Spear?”

“Yes.”

“Get dressed, Miss Spear. You, too, Mike.”

“Bert, for Christ’s sake... give me a break, will you?”

“Why?” Kling asked.

The motion picture had been a bad choice for Teddy Carella. It was full of arty shots in which the actors spoke from behind vases, trees, lampshades, or elephants, seemingly determined to hide their lips from her so that she would not know what was happening. When they weren’t speaking with their faces hidden or their backs turned, the actors made important plot points offscreen, their voices floating in over the picture of a rushing locomotive or a changing traffic light.

Teddy normally enjoyed films, except when she was submitted to the excesses of a sadistic nouvelle vague camera. Tonight was such a night. She sat beside Carella and watched the film in utter helplessness, unable to “hear” long stretches of it, grateful when it ended and they could leave the theater.

It had been almost balmy when they’d left the house, and they had elected to walk the six blocks to the theater on Dover Plains Avenue. The walk home was a bit chillier, the temperature having dropped slightly, but it was still comfortable, and they moved without hurry beside old trees that spread their branches over the deserted Riverhead sidewalks. Carella, in fact, seemed to be dawdling. Teddy was anxious to ask him all sorts of questions about the movie as soon as they got home; he was breathing deeply of the night air and walking the way an old man does in the park on Sunday morning, when there are pigeons to imitate.

The attack came without warning.

The fist was thrown full into his face, as unexpected as an earthquake. He was reaching for his gun when he was struck from behind by a second assailant. A third man grabbed for Teddy’s handbag, just as the first attacker threw his clenched fist into Carella’s face again. The man behind him was wielding a sap. Carella’s gun came clear of his topcoat just as the sap grazed him above and behind the ear. There was the sound of the gun’s explosion, shockingly loud on the still suburban street, and then the sap caught him again, solidly this time, at the base of the skull, and he toppled to the sidewalk.

The embarrassment was almost worse than the pain. A half hour later, in the muster room of the 103rd Precinct, he explained to an incredulous desk sergeant that he was a police officer and that he and his wife had been mugged on the way home from the movies. The attackers had stolen his wife’s handbag and wristwatch, as well as his own watch, his wallet, and, most shameful to admit, his service revolver.

The sergeant took down all the information, and promised to get in touch.

Carella felt like a horse’s ass.