By three o'clock, he was again among the living. Maybe his occupations
had had something to do with it; he'd spent about four hours supervising
Operation Dismemberment, and then listening to the reports on the
dismantled Cadillacs. It was nice, peaceful, unimportant work, but there
just wasn't anything else to do. FBI work was ninety-five per cent
marking time, anyway; Malone felt grateful that there was any action at
all in what he was doing.
Dr. Leibowitz had found all sorts of things in the commandeered
Caddies--everything from guns and narcotics to pornographic pictures in
lots of three hundred, for shipment into New York City from the suburbs
where the processing plants probably were. Of course, there had been
personal effects, too--maps and lucky dolls and, just once, a single
crutch.
Malone wondered about that for quite a while. Who'd just walk off and
leave one crutch in a car? But people did things like that all the time,
he finally told himself heavily. There wasn't any explanation for it,
and there probably never would be.
But in spite of the majestic assortment of valuables found in the cars,
there was no sign of anything remotely resembling an electro-psionic
brain. Dr. Leibowitz had found just about everything--except what he was
looking for.
At a quarter of three, Malone gave up. The search wasn't quite finished,
but he'd heard enough to last him for a long time. He grabbed a cab
downstairs and went over to Lynch's office to meet Kettleman.
The "social worker or something" was a large, balding man about six feet
tall. Malone estimated his weight as close to two hundred and fifty
pounds, and he looked every pound of it; his face was round without
being chubby, and his body was stocky and hard. He wore black-rimmed
glasses, and he was going bald in front. His face was like a mask: it
was held in a gentle, almost eager expression that Malone would have
sworn had nothing to do with the way Kettleman felt underneath.
Lynch performed the introductions, escorted the two of them to one of
the interrogation rooms at the rear of the station, and left them there,
with: "If either of you guys comes up with anything, let me know," for a
parting shot.
Kettleman blinked slowly behind his glasses. "Mr. Malone," he said, "I
understand that the FBI is interested in one of the ... ah ...
adolescent social groups with which I work."
"Well, the Silent Spooks," Malone said. "That's right."
"The Spooks," Kettleman said. His voice was rather higher than Malone
would have expected, oddly breathy without much depth to it. "My, yes. I
did want to talk to somebody about it, and I thought you might be the
man."
"I'll be interested in anything you have to say," Malone said
diplomatically. He was beginning to doubt whether he'd get any real
information out of Kettleman. But it was impossible to tell. He sat back
in a hard wooden chair and tried to look fascinated.
"Well," Kettleman said tentatively, "the boys themselves have sort of a
word for it. They'd say that there was something ... ah ... 'oddball'
about the Spooks. Do you understand? Not just the fact that they never
drink liquor, you understand, but--"
"Something strange," Malone said. "Is that what you mean."
"Ah," Kettleman said. "_Strange._ Of course." He acted, Malone thought,
as if he had never heard the word before, and was both pleased and
startled by its sound. "Perhaps I had better explain my position a
little more clearly," he said. "That will give you an idea of just where
I ... ah ... 'fit in' to this picture."
"Whatever you think best," Malone said, resigning himself to a very dull
hour. He tried to picture Kettleman in the midst of a gang of juvenile
delinquents. It was very hard to do.
"I'm a social worker," Kettleman said, "working on an individual basis
with these--social groups that the adolescents have formed. It's my job
to make friends with them, become accepted by them, and try to turn
their hostile impulses toward society into more useful, more acceptable
channels."
"I see," Malone said, feeling that something was expected of him.
"That's fine."
"Oh, we don't expect praise, we social workers," Kettleman said
instantly. "The worth of a good job well done, that's enough for us." He
smiled. The effect was a little unsettling, as if a hippopotamus had
begun to laugh like a hyena. "But to continue, Mr. Malone," he said.
"Of course," Malone said. "Certainly."
"I've worked with many of the organizations in this neighborhood,"
Kettleman said. "And I've been quite successful in getting to know
them, and in being accepted by them. Of course, the major part of my job
is more difficult, but ... well, I'm sure that's enough about my own
background. That isn't what you're interested in, now, is it?"
He looked penitent. Malone said: "It's all right. I don't mind." He
shifted positions on the hard chair.
"Well, then," Kettleman said, with the air of a man suddenly getting
down to business. He leaned forward eagerly, his eyes big and bright
behind the lenses. "There's something very peculiar about those boys,"
he said in a whisper.
"Really?" Malone said.
"Very peculiar indeed," Kettleman said. "My, yes. All of the other ...
ah ... social groups are afraid of them."
"Big, huh?" Malone said. "Big, strong boys who--"
"Oh, my no," Kettleman said. "My goodness, no. All of the Spooks are
rather slight, as a matter of fact. They've got _something,_ but it
isn't strength."
"My goodness," Malone said tiredly.
"I doubt if--in the language of my own groups--any one of the Spooks
could punch his way out of a paper bag," Kettleman said. "It's more than
that."
"Frankly," Malone said, "I'm inclined to agree with you. But what is
this something that frightens everyone else?"
Kettleman leaned even closer. "I'm not sure," he said softly. "I can't
say for certain, Mr. Malone. I've only heard rumors."
"Well," Malone said, "rumors might--"
"Rumors are a very powerful force among my groups, Mr. Malone,"
Kettleman said. "I've learned, over the years, to keep my ear to the
ground, as it were, and pay very close attention to rumors."
"I'm sure," Malone said patiently. "But what did this particular rumor
say?"
"Well," Kettleman said, and stopped. "Well," he said again. And at last
he gulped and got it out: "Magicians, Mr. Malone. They say the Spooks
are magicians--that they can come and go at will. Make themselves
invisible. All sorts of things. Of course, I don't believe that, but--"
"Oh, it's quite true," Malone said, solemn-faced.
"It's ... what?"
"Perfectly true," Malone said. "We've known all that."
"Oh, my," Kettleman said. His face took on a whitish cast. "Oh, my
goodness," he said. "Isn't that ... isn't that amazing?" He swallowed
hard. "True all the time," he said. "Magicians. I--"
"You see, this information isn't new to us," Malone said.
"Oh," Kettleman said. "No. Of course not. My. It's ... rather
disconcerting to think about, isn't it?"
"There," Malone said, "I agree with you."
* * * * *
Kettleman fell silent. Malone offered him a cigarette, but the social
worker refused with a pale smile, and Malone lit one for himself. He
took a couple of puffs in the silence, and then Kettleman said: "Well,
Mr. Malone, Lieutenant Lynch did say that I was to tell you everything I
could about these boys."
"I'm sure we all appreciate that," Malone said at random, wondering
exactly what he meant.
"There is ... well, there is one more thing," Kettleman said.
"Ordinarily, of course, I wouldn't say anything about this to anyone. In
my line of work, Mr. Malone, you learn the need for confidence. For
being able to keep one's word."
"Certainly," Malone said, wondering what startling new fact was on its
way now.
"And we certainly try to keep the confidence of the boys," Kettleman
said maddeningly. "We wouldn't betray them to the police in any way
unless it were absolutely necessary."
"Betray them--? Mr. Kettleman," Malone said, "just what are you trying
to tell me?"
"It's about their meeting place," Kettleman said. "Oh, my. I'm not at
all sure I ought to tell you this." He wrung his pale fat hands together
and looked at Malone appealingly.
"Now, now," Malone said, feeling foolish. "It's perfectly all right. We
don't want to hurt the Spooks. Not any more than we have to. You can
tell me, Mr. Kettleman."
"Oh," Kettleman said. "Well. I--The Spooks do have a sort of secret
meeting place, you know. And they meet there."