"How fast can you get the dope?" Malone said.
"I don't exactly know," Fernack said. "The last time anything even
remotely like this was run through--departmental survey, but you
wouldn't be interested--it took something like eight hours."
"Fine," Malone said. "Eight hours then. I'll look everything over and if
we need a second run-through it won't take too long. I'll let you know
as soon as I can about that." He grinned into the phone.
Fernack cleared his throat and asked delicately: "Mind telling me what
all this is for?"
Malone offered up a little prayer before answering, and when he did
answer it was in his softest and most friendly tones: "I'd rather not
say just now, John Henry."
"But Malone--" Fernack's voice sounded a little strained, and his jaw
set just a trifle. "If you--"
Malone knew perfectly well how Fernack reacted when he didn't get a bit
of information he wanted. And this was no time to set off any fireworks
in the commissioner's office. "Look, John Henry," he said gently, "I'll
tell you as soon as I can. Honest. But this is classified
information--it's not my fault."
Fernack said: "But--" and apparently realized that argument was not
going to do him any good. "All right, Malone," he said at last. "I'll
have it for you as soon as possible."
"Great," Malone said. "Then I'll see you later."
"Sure," Fernack said. He paused, as if he were about to open the
controversy just once more. But all he said was: "So long, Malone."
* * * * *
Malone breathed a great sigh of relief and flipped the phone off. He
stepped out of the booth feeling so proud of himself that he could
barely walk. Not only had he managed to calm down Commissioner Fernack,
he had also walked right past a bar on the way to the phone. He had
performed several acts, he felt, above and beyond the call of duty, and
he told himself that he deserved a reward.
Happily, the reward was convenient to hand. He went to the bar and
beckoned the bartender over to him. "Bourbon and soda," he said. "And a
medal, if possible."
"What?" the bartender said.
"A medal," Malone said. "For conduct beyond reproach."
The bartender nodded sadly. "Maybe you just ought to go home, Mac," he
said. "Sleep it off."
New Yorkers, Malone decided as the bartender went off to get his drink,
had no sense of humor. Back in Chicago--where he'd been more or less
weaned on gin, and discovered that, unlike his father, he didn't much
care for the stuff--and even in Washington, people didn't go around
accusing you of drunkenness just because you made some harmless little
pleasantry.
Oh, well. Malone drank his drink and went out into the afternoon
sunlight.
He considered the itinerary of the Magical Miguel Fueyo. He had gone
straight home from the police station, apparently, and had then told his
mother that he was going to leave home. But he had promised to send her
money.
Of course, money was easy for Mike to get. With a shudder, Malone
thought he was beginning to realize just _how_ easy. Houdini had once
boasted that no bank vault could hold him. In Mike Fueyo's case, that
was just doubly true. The vault could neither hold him out or keep him
in.
But he was going to leave home.
Malone said: "Hm-m-m," to himself, cleared his throat and tried it
again. By now he was at the corner of the block, where he nearly
collided with a workman who was busily stowing away a gigantic ladder, a
pot of paint and a brush. Malone looked up at the street sign, where the
words: "Avenue of the Americas" had been painted out, and "Sixth Avenue"
hand-lettered in.
"They finally gave in," the painter told him. "But do you think they'll
buy new signs? Nah. Cheap. That's all they are. Cheap as pretzels." He
gave Malone a friendly push with one end of the ladder and disappeared
into the crowd.
Malone didn't have the faintest idea of what he was talking about. And
how cheap could a pretzel be, anyway? Malone didn't remember ever having
seen an especially tight-fisted one.
New York, he decided for the fifteenth time, was a strange place.
He walked downtown for a block, still thinking about Mike Fueyo, and
absently turned west again. Between Sixth and Seventh, he had another
attack of brilliance and began looking for another phone booth.
He found one in a Mexican bar named the Xochitl, across the street from
the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin. It was just a coincidence that he
had landed in another bar, he told himself hopefully, but he didn't
quite believe it. To prove it to himself, he headed straight for the
phone booths again and put in his call, ignoring the blandishments of
several rows of sparkling bottles which he passed on the way.
He dialed the number for Lieutenant Lynch's precinct, and then found
himself connected with a new desk sergeant.
"I'm Malone," he said. "I want to talk to Lynch."
"Glad to know you, Malone," the desk sergeant said pleasantly. "Only
_Lieutenant_ Lynch doesn't want to subscribe to the Irish _Echo_."
"I'm the FBI." He showed his badge.
The desk sergeant took a good long look at it. "Maybe you are, and maybe
you aren't," he said at last. "Does the lieutenant know you?"
"We were kids together," Malone said. "We're brothers. Siamese twins.
Put him on the phone."
"Wait a minute," said the desk sergeant. "I'll check."
The screen went blank for two agonizing minutes before it cleared again
to show Lynch's face.
"Hello, Mr. Malone," Lynch said formally. "Have you found some new
little trick to show us poor, stupid policemen? Like, say, making
yourself vanish?"
"I'll make the whole police force vanish," Malone said, "in a couple of
minutes. I called to ask a favor."
"Anything," Lynch said. "Anything within my poor power. Whatever I have
is yours. Whither thou goest--"
"Knock it off," Malone said, and then grinned. After all, there was no
sense in making an enemy out of Lynch.
Lynch blinked, took a deep breath, and said in an entirely different
voice: "O.K., Malone. What's the favor?"
"Do you still have that list of Silent Spooks?" Malone said.
"Sure I do," Lynch said. "Why? I gave you a copy of it."
"I can't do this job," Malone said "You'll have to."
"Yes, sir," Lynch said, and saluted.
"Just listen," Malone said. "I want you to check up on every kid on that
list."
"And what are we supposed to do when we find them?" Lynch said.
"That's the trouble," Malone said. "You won't."
"And why not?"
"I'll lay you ten to one," Malone said, "that every one of them has
skipped out. Left home. Without giving a forwarding address."
Lynch nodded slowly. "Ten to one?" he said. "Want to make that a money
bet? Or does the FBI frown on gambling?"
"Ten dollars to your one," Malone said. "O.K.?"
"Made," Lynch said. "You've got the bet ... just for the hell of it,
understand."
"Oh, sure," Malone said.
"And where can I call you to collect?"