"Well," Lynch said, "they do seem to have a hell of a lot of money to
spend."
Malone sat down in a chair across the desk, and leaned eagerly toward
Lynch. "Money?" he said.
"Money," Lynch said. "New clothes. Cigarettes. Malone, three of them
are even supporting their parents. Old Jose Otravez--Ramon's old
man--quit his job a couple of months ago, and hasn't worked since.
Spends all his time in bars, and never runs out of dough--and don't
tell me you can do that on unemployment insurance. Or social security
payments."
"Okay," Malone said. "I won't tell you."
"And there's others. All the others, in fact. Mike Fueyo's sister
dresses fit to kill, like a high-fashion model. And the Grito kid--"
"Wait a minute," Malone said. "From what you tell me, this isn't just
a little extra money. These kids must be rolling in the stuff. Up to
their ears in dough."
"Listen," Lynch said sadly, "Those kids spend more than I do. Hell,
they do better than that--they spend more than I _earn_." He looked
remotely sorry for himself, but not for long. "Every one of those kids
spends like a drunken sailor, tossing his money away on all sorts of
things."
"Like an expense account," Malone said idly. Lynch looked up. "Sorry,"
Malone said. "I was thinking about something else."
"I'll bet you were," Lynch said with unconcealed envy.
"No," Malone said. "Really. Listen, I'll check with Internal Revenue
on that money. But have you got a list of the kids' addresses?"
"I can get one," Lynch said, and went to the door.
It closed behind him. Malone sat waiting alone for a few minutes, and
then Lynch came back. "List'll be here in a minute," he said. He sat
down behind his desk and reached for the notebook again. When he
turned to the third page his expression changed to one of surprise.
"Be damned," he said. "There does seem to be a connection, doesn't
there?" He held up the picture of the red Cadillac for Malone to see.
"Sure does," Malone said. "That's why I want those addresses. If there
is a connection, I sure as hell want to find out about it."
Ten minutes later, Malone was walking out of the precinct station with
the list of addresses in his pocket. He was heading for his Great
Adventure, but he didn't know it. All he was thinking about was the
red Cadillacs, and the eight teenagers.
"I'm going to get to the bottom of this if it takes me all summer," he
said, muttering to himself.
"That's the spirit," he told himself. "Never say die."
Then, realizing he had just said it, he frowned. Perhaps it hadn't
really counted. But then again...
He was on his way down the steps when he hit the girl.
The mutual collision was not catastrophic. On the other hand, it was
not exactly minor. It fell somewhere between the two, as an
unclassifiable phenomenon of undoubted potency. Malone said, "Oog,"
with, some fervor as the girl collided with his chest and rebounded
like a handball striking a wall. Something was happening to her, but
Malone had no time to spare to notice just what. He was falling
through space, touching a concrete step once in a while, but not long
enough to make any real acquaintance with it. It seemed to take him a
long time to touch bottom, and when he had, he wondered if _touch_ was
quite the word.
_Bottom_ certainly was. He had fallen backward and landed directly on
his _glutei maximi_, obeying the law regarding equal and opposite
reaction and several other laws involving falling bodies.
His first thought was that he was now neatly balanced. His tail had
received the same treatment as his head. He wondered if a person could
get concussion of the tail bones, and had reached no definite
conclusion when, unexpectedly, his eyes focused again.
He was looking at a girl. That was all he saw at first. She had
apparently fallen just as he had, bounced once and sat down rather
hard. She was now lying flat on her back, making a sound like "rrr"
between her teeth.
Malone discovered that he was sitting undignifiedly on the steps. He
opened his mouth to say something objectionable, took another look at
the girl, and shut it with a snap. This was no ordinary girl.
He smiled at her. She shook her head and sat up, still going "rrr."
Then she stopped and said instead, "What do you think--"
"I'm sorry," Malone said in what he hoped was a charming, debonair,
and apologetic voice. It was quite a lot to get into one voice, but he
tried his very hardest. "I just didn't see--"
"You didn't?" the girl said. She took a long, slow look at him, shook
her head again, and then pulled her skirt down carefully. "If you
didn't, you must be blind," she said.
Malone noticed with hope that there was no anger in her voice. The
last thing in the world he wanted was to get this girl angry at him.
"Oh, no," Malone said. "I'm not blind. Not blind at all." He smiled at
her and stood up. His tail throbbed a little, but it didn't seem to be
anything really serious. "I'm just polite," he said, and smiled again.
His face was beginning to get a little tired, but he retained his last
smile as he went over to her, extended a hand and pulled her to her
feet.
She was something special. Her hair was long and dark, and fell in
soft waves to her shoulders. The shoulders were something all by
themselves, but Malone postponed consideration of them for a minute to
take a look at her face.
It was heart-shaped and rather thin. She had large brown liquid eyes
that could look, Malone imagined, appealing, loving, worshiping--or,
like a minute ago, downright furious. Below these features she had a
straight lovely nose and a pair of lips which Malone immediately
classified as kissable.
Her figure, including the shoulders, was on the slim side, but she was
very definitely all there. Malone couldn't think of any parts the
Creator had left out, and if there were any he didn't want to hear
about them. In an instant, Malone knew that he had met the only great
love of his life.
Again.
His mind was whirling, and for a second he didn't know what to do. And
then he remembered the Queen's Own FBI. Phrases flowered forth in his
mind as if it were a garden packed corner to corner with the most
exquisite varieties of blooming idiots.
"My deepest apologies, my dear," Sir Kenneth Malone said gallantly,
even managing a small display bow for the occasion. "May I be of any
assistance?"
The girl smiled up at him as she came to her feet. The smile was
radiant and beautiful and almost loving. Malone felt as if he couldn't
stand it. Tingles of the most wonderful kind ran through him, reached
his toes and then back the other way, meeting a whole new set going
forward.
"You're very nice," the girl said, and the tingles became positive
waves of sensation. "Actually, it was all my fault. Please don't
apologize, Mr.--" She paused expectantly.
"Me?" Malone said, his gallantry deserting him for the second. But it
returned full force before he expected it. "I'm Malone," he said.
"Kenneth Joseph Malone." He had always liked the middle name he had
inherited from his father, but he never had much opportunity to use
it. He made the most of it now, rolling it out with all sorts of
subsidiary flourishes. As a matter of fact, he barely restrained
himself from putting a "Sir" before his name.
The girl's brown eyes widened just a trifle. Malone felt as if he
could have fallen into them and drowned. "Oh, my," she said. "You must
be a detective." And then, like the merest afterthought, "My name's
Dorothy."
_Dorothy._ It was a beautiful name. It made Malone feel all choked up
inside. He blinked at the girl and tried to look manly and wonderful.
It was an effort, but he nearly carried it off.
After a second or two he realized that she had asked him a question.
He didn't want to disillusion her in any way, and, after all, an FBI
agent was a kind of detective, but he thought it was only fair that
she should know the whole truth about him right from the start.
"Not exactly a detective," he said.
"Not exactly?" she said, looking puzzled. She looked positively
glorious when puzzled, Malone decided at once.
"That is," he said carefully, "I do detect, but not for the city of
New York."
"Oh," she said. "A private eye. Is that right?"
"Well," Malone said, "no." She looked even more puzzled.
Malone hastened to explain before he got to the point where
conversation was impossible.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said. After a second he thought
of a clarification and added, "FBI."
"Oh," the girl said. _"Oh."_
"But you can call me Ken," Malone said.
"All right--Ken," she said. "And you call me Dorothy."
"Sure," he said. He tried it out. "Dorothy." It felt swell.
"Well," she said after a second.
"Oh," Malone said. "Were you looking for a detective? Because if I can
help in any way--"
"Not exactly," Dorothy said. "Just a little routine business. I'll go
on in and--"
Malone suddenly found himself talking without having any idea why he'd
started, or what he was going to say. At first he said, "Urr," as if
the machine were warming up, and this stopped Dorothy and caused her
to give him a rather sharp, baffled stare. Then he found some words
and used them hurriedly, before they got away.
"Dorothy," he said, "would you like to take in a show this evening? I
think I can get tickets to--well, I guess I could get tickets to
almost anything, if I really tried." His expression attempted to leave
no doubt that he would really try.
Dorothy appeared to consider for a moment. "Well," she said at last,
"how about _The Hot Seat_?"
Malone felt just the way he had several years before when he had
bluffed his way into a gigantic pot during a Washington poker game,
with only a pair of fours to work with. At the last moment, his bluff
had been called.
It had, he realized, been called again. _The Hot Seat_ had set some
sort of record, not only for Broadway longevity, but for audience
frenzy. Getting tickets for it was about the same kind of proposition
as buying grass on the moon, and getting them with absolutely no prior
notice would require all the wire-pulling Malone could manage. He
thought about _The Hot Seat_ and wished Dorothy had picked something
easy, like arranging for her to meet the Senate.
But he swallowed bravely. "I'll do my best," he said. "Got any second
choice?"
"Sure," she said, and laughed. "Pick any one you want. I haven't seen
them all, and the ones I have seen are worth seeing again."
"Oh," Malone said.
"I really didn't expect you to get tickets for _The Hot Seat_," she
said.
"Nothing," Malone said, "is impossible." He grinned at her.
"Meanwhile, where can I pick you up? Your home?"
Dorothy frowned and shook her head. "No," she said. "You see, I'm
living with an aunt, and I--well, never mind." She thought for a
minute. "I know," she said. "Topp's."
"What?" Malone said.
"Topp's," Dorothy said. "On Forty-second Street, just east of
Broadway? It's a restaurant."
"I don't exactly know where it is," Malone said, "but if it's there,
I'll find it." He looked gallant and determined. "We can get something
to eat there before the show--whatever the show turns out to be."
"Fine," Dorothy said.
"How about making it at six?" Malone said.
She nodded. "Six it is," she said. "Now bye-bye." She touched her
forefinger to her lips, and brushed Malone's cheek with the kissed
finger.
By the time the new set of tingles had begun to evaporate, she had
gone into the police station. Malone heaved a great sigh of passion,
and held down a strong impulse to follow her and protect her. He
wasn't quite sure what he was going to protect her from, but he felt
certain that that would come to him when the time arrived.
Nevertheless, he had work to do, unpleasant as the idea had suddenly
begun to seem. He pulled the list of addresses out of his pocket and
looked at the first one.
_Mike Fueyo._
Mike was the leader of the Silent Spooks, according to Lieutenant
Lynch. Logically, therefore, he would be the first one to talk to.
Malone tried to think of some good questions, but the best one he
could come up with was: "Well, what about all those red Cadillacs?"
Somehow he doubted that this would provide a satisfactory reply.
He checked the address again and started firmly down the street,
trying to think of some better questions along the way.
* * * * *
The building was just off Amsterdam Avenue, in the eighties. It had
been a shining new development once, but it was beginning to slide
downhill now. The metal on the window frames was beginning to look
worn, and the brickwork hadn't been cleaned in a long time. Where
chain fences had once protected lonely blades of grass, children,
mothers, and baby carriages held sway now, and the grass was gone.
Instead, the building was pretty well surrounded by a moat of
sick-looking brown dirt.
Malone went into the first building and checked the name against the
mailboxes there, trying to ignore the combined smells of sour milk,
red pepper, and here and there a whiff of unwashed humanity.
It was on the tenth floor: _Fueyo, J._ That, he supposed, would be
Mike's widowed mother; Lynch had told him that much about the boy and
his family. He found the elevator, which was covered with scribbles
ranging from JANEY LOVES MIGUEL to startling obscenities, and rode it
upstairs.
Apartment 1004 looked like every other apartment in the building, at
least from the outside. Malone pressed the button and waited a second
to hear the faint buzzing at the other side of the door. After a
minute, he pressed it again.
The door swung open very suddenly, and Malone stepped back.
A short, wrinkled, dark-eyed woman in a print housedress was eying him
with deep suspicion. "My daughter is not home," she announced at once.
"I'm not looking for your daughter," Malone said. "I'd like to talk to
Mike."
"Mike?" Her expression grew even more suspicious. "You want to talk to
Mike?"
"That's right," Malone said.
"Ah," the woman said. "You one of those hoodlum friends he has. I'm
right? You can talk to Mike when I am dead and have no control over
him. For now, you can just--"
"Wait a minute," Malone said. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it
open to show his badge, being very careful that he made the right flip
this time. He didn't know exactly how this woman would react to the
Queen's Own FBI, but he didn't especially want to find out.
She looked down at the badge without taking the wallet from him.
"Hah," she said. "You're cop, eh?" Her eyes left the wallet and
examined Malone from head to foot. It was perfectly plain that they
didn't like what they saw. "Cop," she said again, as if to herself. It
sounded like a curse.