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Updated: June 2, 2025
Let me see your driver's license." He reached over the desk for the man's cards with one hand, and with the other he sorted out an accident form. "Just give it to me slowly." He started filling out the form. The deAngelis operator leaned back in his chair and winked at the controller. "I'm a whiz," he said to the young reporter, "I'm a pheenom. I never miss."
"You mean the deAngelis?" "Not that exactly," said the cub. "I understand a deAngelis board; everybody broadcasts emotions, and if they're strong enough they can be received and interpreted. It's the cops I don't understand. I thought any reading over eighty was dangerous and had to be looked into, and anything over ninety was plain murder and had to be picked up.
Brutaugh keeps pointing at the foul line you can see from here the chalk's been wiped away he's insisting the runner slid out of the base path. Frascoli's walking away, but Danny's going right aft ..." The controller turned the volume down again. The lights on the deAngelis board kept flickering, but by 3:37 all but two had gone out, one by one.
He managed to get undressed before he stumbled into bed. His last coherent thought before he fell into a drugged sleep was that he'd better apologize in the morning. 8:20:18:3059:78:4a stayed off the board. At 1:18 am, the deAngelis flared to a 98.4 then started inching down again. The young reporter sat up, alert, from where he had been dozing. The loud clang of a bell had brought him awake.
But a good operator ignores the rules, and a bad operator goes by the book, and he's still no damn good. It's just like radar was sixty, seventy years ago. Some got the knack, some don't." "Then the deAngelis doesn't do the job," said the cub. "Certainly it does," the older man said. "Nothing's perfect. It gives the police the jump on a lot of crime. Premeditated murder for one.
"Gin," he said. "Arrrgh," said the businessman. "Damn it, you play good. You play real good." A light on the deAngelis flashed red and showed a reading of 65.4 on the dial. "Can't beat skill," said the reporter. "Count!" "Fifty-six," said the businessman. "That's counting gin," he added. "Game," the reporter announced. "I'll figure the damage." "You play good," said the businessman in disgust.
At 3:32 pm, the deAngelis board came alive as half-a-dozen lights flashed red, and the needles on the dials below them trembled in the seventies and eighties. Every other light on the board showed varying shades of pink, registering in the sixties.
He didn't know why, but he knew he mustn't get drunk. At nine o'clock the needle on the dial climbed past seventy-five. Matesic asked for coverage. That meant that two patrolmen would be tied up, doing nothing but searching for an echo. And it might be a wild goose chase. He was explaining to the Captain, but the Captain wasn't listening. He was looking at the photographs in the deAngelis file.
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