Read Online Ed McBain_87th Precinct 22 by Fuzz - Free Book Online Page A

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