"Well," Lynch said, "they do seem to have 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."
"O.K.," 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. 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," 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 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 teen-agers. "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--"
[Illustration]
"You didn't?" the girl said. "If you didn't, you must be completely
blind."
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 face was beginning to get a little tired, but he
retained the 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 could not 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 ran 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.