For almost 50 years, fans of crime fiction have followed the boys of the 87th Precinct, a fictional urban police department precinct created by the novelist Evan Hunter, writing under the pseudonym Ed McBain. Since the first of almost 50 87th Precinct novels appeared in 1956, a rolling cast of characters in the same setting has grappled with every imaginable kind of crime. Fuzz was published in 1968, when respect for the police was, historically, at a low ebb, and the title comes from the insulting nickname street people used to describe cops. The plot of Fuzz was also highly topical in 1968, a time when the U.S. was rocked by explosive dissent and haunted by political assassination. The detectives of the 87th Precinct are confronted with a call -- obviously a crank call -- that threatens the murder of the city's parks commissioner unless a ransom of $5,000 is paid. The deadline passes, and the parks commissioner is shot in the head as he leaves a concert. Another anonymous warning follows, then the deputy mayor gets blown up in his Cadillac. The young, charismatic, Kennedyesque mayor is next on the list of what can only be called a serial assassin. It is up to the weary, hardworking detectives of the 87th Precinct to find the shrewd murderer before he can strike again. Police fiction -- a kind of novel called the police procedural -- changed forever with the appearance of Ed McBain's 87th Precinct novels. McBain is a superlative writer, dazzling in his seemingly inexhaustible ability to heighten the intensity of his plots with raucous humor, atmosphere and telling detail. Fuzz is as much about the cops themselves as it is about the crimes they solve. Fans of Hill Street Blues and NYPD Blue will find themselves very much at home in Fuzz, a tightly wound thriller that is also smooth, satisfying entertainment.

Oh boy, what a week. Fourteen muggings, three rapes, a knifing on Culver Avenue, thirty-six assorted burglaries, and the squadroom was being painted. Not that the squadroom didn't need painting. Detective Meyer Meyer would have been the first man to admit that the squadroom definitely needed painting. It merely seemed idiotic for the city to decide to paint it now, at the beginning of March, when everything outside was rotten and cold and miserable and dreary, and when you had to keep the windows shut tight because you never could get enough damn heat up in the radiators, and as a result had the stink of turpentine in your nostrils all day long, not to mention two painters underfoot and overhead, both of whom never would have made it in the Sistine Chapel. "Excuse me," one of the painters said, "could you move that thing?" "What thing?" Meyer said. "That thing." "That thing." Meyer said, almost blowing his cool, "happens to be our Lousy File. That thing happens to contain information on known criminals and troublemakers in the precinct, and that thing happens to be invaluable to the hard-working detectives of this squad." "Big deal," the painter said. "Won't he move it?" the other painter asked. "You move it," Meyer said. "You're the painters, you move it." "We're not supposed to move nothing," the first painter said. "We're only supposed to paint," the second painter said. "I'm not supposed to move things, either," Meyer said. "I'm supposed to detect." "Okay, so don't move it," the first painter said, "it'll get all full of green paint." "Put a dropcloth on it," Meyer said. "We got our dropcloths over there on those desks there," the second painter said, "that's all the dropcloths we got." "Why is it I always get involved with vaudeville acts?" Meyer asked. "Huh?" the first painter said. "He's being wise," the second painter said. "All I know is I don't plan to move that filing cabinet," Meyer said. "In fact, I don't plan to move anything. You're screwing up the whole damn squadroom, we won't be able to find anything around here for a week after you're gone." "We do a thorough job," the first painter said. "Besides, we didn't ask to come," the second painter said. "You think we got nothing better to do than shmear around up here? You think this is an interesting job or something? This is a boring job, if you want to know." "It is, huh?" Meyer said. "Yeah, it's boring," the second painter said. "It's boring, that's right," the first painter agreed. "Everything apple green, you think that's interesting? The ceiling apple green, the walls apple green, the stairs apple green, that's some interesting job, all right." "We had a job last week at the outdoor markets down on Council Street, that was an interesting job." "That was the most interesting job we ever had," the second painter said. "Every stall was a different pastel color, you know those stalls they got? Well, every one of them was a different pastel color, that was a good job." "This is a crappy job," the first painter said. "It's boring and it's crappy," the second painter agreed. "I'm still not moving that cabinet," Meyer said, and the telephone rang. "87th Squad, Detective Meyer," he said into the receiver. "Is this Meyer Meyer in person?" the voice on the other end asked. "Who's this?" Meyer asked. "First please tell me if I'm speaking to Meyer Meyer himself?" "This is Meyer Meyer himself." "Oh God, I think I may faint dead away." "Listen, who . . ." "This is Sam Grossman."

 

The greatest novel of McBain's famous 87th Precinct series set in and around NYC police stationhouse. Steve Carella finds how two brutal murder cases converge through coincidence in a startling and savage conclusion. Serialized in THE SATURDAY EVENING POST and filmed with Raquel Welch.

The author of the enduring 87th Precinct series of police thrillers, "Ed McBain" is the pseudonym of Evan Hunter, who created an entire body of work under that name, as well. Born in New York in 1926 -- his name at birth was Salvatore Lombino -- Hunter served in the U.S. Navy in World War II and graduated from New York's Hunter College in 1950 a member of Phi Beta Kappa. Among his first jobs was teaching in a vocational high school. Though Hunter had published three novels in 1952-53, the teaching experience inspired his breakthrough success with The Blackboard Jungle (1954) and the beginning of a career as an important contemporary author.

The first of the more than thirty 87th Precinct novels, Cop Hater, was published in 1956, and it established a new standard in police fiction, observed to this day in television programs such as NYPD Blue. McBain's novels do not have a single hero but a squad room full of them who would come and go from novel to novel. The same villains often would reappear, as well. The city in which these books are set is anonymous, though it is clearly inspired by New York. Several of the novels have been made into films by a wide range of filmmakers. In addition to American adaptations, Akira Kurosawa's High and Low is based on an 87th Precinct novel (King's Ransom), as is French director Philippe Labro's 1972 film Without Apparent Motive, based on Ten Plus One. The fictional precinct also inspired its own TV series.

As McBain, Hunter writes in a tough, often funny manner, capturing the frustration and drudgery as well as the excitement and danger of big-city police work. Hunter has also written under a variety of pseudonyms. He has been regularly honored for his work, both as Evan Hunter and Ed McBain, and in 1986 the Mystery Writers of America awarded him its highest honor, the title of Grand Master.

 

 

Fuzz by Ed McBain
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