Ed McBain_87th Precinct 22 (27 page)

Ahmad knew the deaf man’s name.

“Orecchio,” he said, and the nurse wiped blood from his lips. “Mort Orecchio.”

“That’s not his real name,” Willis told him. “Do you know him by any other name?”

“Orecchio,” Ahmad repeated. “Mort Orecchio.”

“Is there anyone who
might
know his real name?”

“Orecchio,” Ahmad repeated.

“Was there anyone else in this with you?”

“The girl,” Ahmad said.

“What girl?”

“Rochelle,” he said.

“Rochelle what?”

Ahmad shook his head.

“Where can we find her?”

“Three … three … eight … Ha … Ha … Ha …” he said, and died.

He had not died laughing.

He was trying to say 338 Harborside.

They found in Buck’s pants pocket a letter addressed to him at 338 Harborside Oval. His full name was Andrew Buckley, and the letter was addressed to him c/o Mr. Mort Orecchio. Carella and Willis hit the apartment and found a pretty brunette girl in lounging pajamas, sitting at the piano playing “Heart and Soul.” They waited while she got dressed and then took her to the squadroom, where they questioned her for a half-hour in the presence of a lawyer. The girl told them her name was Rochelle Newell and that she had known the deaf man for only a short time, two or three months. She insisted his name was Mort Orecchio.

“That’s not his name,” Carella said.

“Yes, that’s his name.”

“What’d
you
call him?”

“Mort,” the girl said.

“What’d you call him in
bed?”
Willis asked suddenly, hoping to surprise her.

“Sweetie,” the girl answered.

Jimmy could not stop giggling.

They had just told him that his friend Baby was dead, and yet he could not stop giggling.

“You know the kind of trouble you’re in, son?” Meyer asked.

“No, what kind?” Jimmy said, and giggled.

“We’re going to book you for homicide.”

“It won’t stick,” Jimmy said, and giggled.

“It’ll stick, son,” Meyer said. “We got a dying confession from your pal, and it was taken in the presence of a lawyer, and we’ve got a cop outside who you tried to kill and who’ll make a positive identification of both of you. It’ll stick, believe me.”

“Naw, it won’t stick,” Jimmy said, and kept giggling.

Meyer figured he was crazy.

Meyer figured Rollie Chabrier was crazy too.

He called at close to midnight.

“This is kind of late, isn’t it?” Meyer said. “I was just about to head home.”

“Well, I’m still working here at the goddamn office,” Chabrier said. “You guys have it easy.”

“Well, what is it?” Meyer said.

“About this book,” Chabrier said. “Yeah?”

“You want my advice?”

“Sure, I want your advice. Why do you think I contacted you?”

“My advice is forget it.”

“That’s some advice.”

“Has Steve Carella ever had a book named after him?”

“No, but …”

“Has Bert Kling?”

“No.”

“Or Cotton Hawes? Or Hal Willis? Or Arthur Brown? Or …”

“Look, Rollie …”

“You should be flattered,” Chabrier said. “Even I have never had a book named after me.”

“Yeah, but …”

“You know how many people go their entire lives and never have books named after them?”

“How many?”

“Millions! You should be flattered.”

“I should?”

“Sure. Somebody named a book after you! You’re famous!”

“I am?”

“Absolutely. From now to the very end of time, people will be able to go into libraries all over the world and see your name on a book, Meyer, think of it. On a
book
. Meyer Meyer,” he said grandly, and Meyer could almost visualize him spreading his hands as though conjuring marquee lights. “God, Meyer, you should be thrilled to death.”

“Yeah?” Meyer said.

“I envy you, Meyer. I truly and honestly envy you.”

“Gee,” Meyer said. “Thanks. Thanks a lot, Rollie. Really. Thanks a lot.”

“Don’t mention it,” Chabrier said, and hung up.

Meyer went into the men’s room to look at himself in the mirror.

Andy Parker brought the morning papers into the squadroom at 2:00
A.M
.

“You want to read how smart we are?” he said, and dropped the papers on Kling’s desk.

Kling glanced at the headlines.

“Sure,” Parker said, “we busted the whole thing wide open. Nobody can lick
this
team, pal.” Kling nodded, preoccupied.

“Everybody can rest easy now,” Parker said. “The papers tell all about the scheme, and how the ring is busted, and how none of those hundred marks have to worry anymore. And all because of the brilliant bulls of the 87th.” He paused and then said, “I bet Genero gets a promotion out of this. His name’s all over the paper.”

Kling nodded and said nothing.

He was pondering the latest development in the Great Squadroom Mystery. The stolen electric fan, it seemed, had turned up in a hockshop downtown. There had been an apple green fingerprint on its base.

“Now who do you suppose …” he started, but Parker had already stretched out in the swivel chair behind his desk, with one of the newspapers over his face.