"These cops here have been giving me a pretty rough deal, you know?"
Mike said.
"I'm sure they--" Malone began.
"But I've been looking for you," Mike went on. "See, I wanted to say
something to you. Something real important."
Malone leaned forward expectantly. At last he was going to get some
information--perhaps the information that would break the whole case
wide open. He said: "Yes?"
"Well--" Mike began, and stopped.
"You don't have to be afraid of me, Mike," Malone said. "Just tell me
whatever's on your mind."
"Sure," Mike said. "It's this."
He took a deep breath. Malone clenched his fists. Now it was coming. Now
he would hear the all-important fact. He waited.
Mike stuck out his tongue and blew the longest, loudest, brassiest and
juiciest Bronx cheer that Malone had ever heard.
Then, almost instantly, the room was empty except for Malone himself.
Mike was gone.
There wasn't any place to hide, and there hadn't been any time to hide
in. Malone looked around wildly, but he had no doubts at all.
Mike Fueyo had vanished, utterly and instantaneously. He'd gone out like
a light.