‘Wrong.’
‘Seven-six-one...’
‘Yes?’
‘Three-two...’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Three-two...’
‘No, it’s two-three.’
‘Oh. Yeah. Two-three, yeah. Two-three-eight.’
‘And the inner door?’
‘Nine-two-four, three-eight-five.’
‘Correct. And the safe?’
‘Two-four-seven, four-six-three.’
‘Good, Charlie. Try it from the top again.’
‘Seven-six-one. Two-three-eight.’
‘Again.’
‘Seven-six-one, two-three-eight.’
‘Again.’
‘Seven-six-one, two-three-eight.’
‘And the inner door?’
‘Nine-two-four...’
* * * *
CHAPTER FIVE
Eight, four, three, Brown thought.
He was looking at the squadroom bulletin board where the Deaf Man’s little billets-doux were tacked in a row under the wanted flyers and a notice advising that the Detective Division’s annual Mistletoe Ball would be held on Wednesday night, December 14.
Eight black horses, four police hats, and three pairs of handcuffs. Six, five, he thought. In police radio code, 10-5 meant repeat message.
But this was a six-five.
Six police shields and five walkie-talkies.
Goddamn Deaf Man, Brown thought, and went lo the coatrack in the corner of the room. He had dressed this morning in a bulky red plaid mackinaw, which made him look even bigger and meaner than he normally did. Blue woolen watch cap on his head. Bright red muffler around his throat. Only the fourteenth day of November, and already it was like Siberia out there. Idly he wondered if the Deaf Man had anything to do with it. Maybe the Deaf Man was a Russian spy. Manipulating the weather the way he manipulated everything else.
The clock on the squadroom wall read ten minutes to eight, but only one man from the graveyard shift was still there. Must’ve been a quiet night, Brown thought. ‘Cold as a witch’s tit outside,’ he said to O’Brien, who looked up from his typewriter, grunted, glanced at the wall clock and then said, ‘You had a coupla calls last night. The messages are on your desk.’
Outside the grilled squadroom windows the wind was blowing leaves and hats and newspapers and skirts and all kinds of crap all over the streets. Made a man happy to be inside. Just walking from the subway station to the precinct, Brown thought he’d freeze off all his fingers and toes. Should’ve worn his long Johns this morning. Nice and toasty in the squadroom, though. Even Miscolo’s coffee, brewing down the hallway, smelled good. He took off his mackinaw and hung it on the rack, tossing the red muffler over it. He left the blue watch cap on his head. Made him feel like Big Bad Leroy just out of Castleview, where he done time for arson, murder, and rape. Yeah, watch it, man. Cross my path today, you go home with a scar. Smiling, he sat at his desk and looked at the pile of junk the men on the graveyard shift had dumped there.
The squadroom was quiet except for the howling of the wind outside and the clacking of O’Brien’s typewriter. Brown leafed through the papers on his desk. A note from Cotton Hawes telling him that a burglary victim had called late last night to ask if Detective Brown had been able to find his stolen television set. Fat Chance Department. That television set had disappeared into the world’s biggest bargain basement. The thieves in this city, they gave you a bigger discount than if you were buying wholesale. Some thieves even stole things to order for you. Want a brand-new video cassette player? What make? RCA? Sony? See you tomorrow night this time. Coming up with that man’s stolen TV would be like finding a pot of gold in the sewer. He wondered if it was true there were alligators down there in the sewers. He once had to chase a thief down a sewer, never wanted to do that again in his life. Dripping water, rats, and a stink he couldn’t wash out of his nostrils for the next ten days.
Hawes had been complaining lately that the midnight-to-eight a.m. was ruining his sex life. His sex life these days was a lady Rape Squad cop named Annie Rawles. Brown wondered what it was like to go to bed with a Detective/First Grade. Excuse me, ma’am, would you mind unpinning your potsie, it is sticking into my arm. Six police shields. Carella had told him shield number seventy-nine had belonged to a guy named Angus McPherson, long dead and gone. So where had the Deaf Man found it? Goddamn Deaf Man, he thought again. He was looking through the other messages on his desk when the telephone rang.
‘Eighty-seventh Squad, Brown,’ he said.
‘Hello, yes,’ the voice on the other end said. A young woman. Slightly nervous. ‘May I speak to Detective Carella, please?’
‘I’m sorry, he’s not here just now,’ Brown said. ‘Should be in any minute, though.’ He looked up at the wall clock. Five minutes to eight. ‘Can I take a message for him?’
‘Yes,’ the woman said. ‘Would you tell him Naomi called?’
‘Yes, Miss, Naomi who?’ Brown said. O’Brien was on his way out of the squadroom. He waved to Brown, and Brown waved back.
‘Just tell him Naomi. He’ll know who it is.’
‘Well, Miss, we like to...’
‘He’ll know,’ she said, and hung up.
Brown looked at the telephone receiver.
He shrugged and put it back on its cradle.
Carella walked into the squadroom not three minutes later.
‘Your girlfriend called,’ Brown said.
‘I told her never to call me at the office,’ Carella said.
He looked like an Eskimo. He was wearing a short woolen car coat with a hood pulled up over his head. The hood was lined with some kind of fur, probably rabbit, Brown thought. He was wearing leather fur-lined gloves. His nose was red, and his eyes were tearing.
‘Where’d summer go?’ he asked.
‘Naomi,’ Brown said, and winked. ‘She said you’d know who.’
The phone rang again.
Brown picked up the receiver.
‘Eighty-seventh Squad, Brown,’ he said.
‘Hello, it’s Naomi again,’ the voice said, still sounding nervous. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ll be leaving for work in a few minutes, and I’m not sure he has the number there.’
‘Hold on, he just came in,’ Brown said, and held the phone out to Carella. ‘Naomi,’ he said.
Carella looked at him.
‘Naomi,’ Brown said again, and shrugged.
‘You kidding?’ Carella asked.
‘It’s Naomi,’ Brown said. ‘Would I kid you about Naomi?’
Carella walked to his own desk.
‘What extension is she on?’ he asked.
‘Six. You want a little privacy? Shall I go down the hall?’