XI

Somebody somewhere was wishing all the world "a plague on

both your houses," and making it stick. Confusion is fun in a

comedy--but in the pilot of a plane or an executive of a

nation....

Back in his room, Malone put on a fresh shirt, checked the .44 Magnum

in his shoulder holster, changed jackets, adjusted his hat to the

proper angle, and vanished.

He had, he'd realized, exactly one definite lead. And now he was going

to follow up on it. The Government was apparently falling to pieces;

so was business and so was the Mafia. Nobody Malone had heard of had

gained anything. Except Mike Sand and his truckers. They'd beaten the

Mafia, at least.

Sand was worth a chat. Malone had a way to get in to see him, but he

had to work fast. Otherwise Sand would very possibly know what Malone

was trying to do. And that might easily be dangerous.

He had made his appearance in the darkness beneath one of the bridges

at the southwest side of Central Park, in New York. It was hardly

Malone's idea of perfect comfort, but it did mean safety; there was

very seldom anyone around after dark, and the shadows were thick

enough so that his "appearance" would only mean, to the improbable

passerby, that he had stepped out into the light.

Now he strolled quietly over to Central Park West, and flagged a taxi

heading downtown. He'd expected to run into one of the roving muggers

who still made the Park a trap for the unwary--he'd almost looked

forward to it, in a way--but nobody appeared. It was unusual, but he

didn't have time to wonder about it.

The headquarters for the National Brotherhood of Truckers was east of

Greenwich Village, on First Avenue, so Malone had plenty of time to

think things out while the cab wended its laborious southeast way.

After a few minutes he realized that he would have even more time to

think than he'd planned on.

"Lots of traffic for this time of night," he volunteered.

The cabbie, a fiftyish man with a bald, wrinkled head and surprisingly

bright blue eyes, nodded without turning his head. "Maybe you think

this is bad," he said. "You would not recognize the place an hour

earlier, friend. During the real rush hour, I mean. Things are what

they call _meshuggah_, friend. It means crazy."

"How come?" Malone said.

"The subway is on strike since last week," the cabbie said. "The buses

are also on strike. This means that everybody is using a car. They

can make it faster if they wish to walk, but they use a car. It does

not help matters, believe me."

"I can see that," Malone murmured.

"And the cops are not doing much good either," the cabbie went on,

"since they went on strike sometime last Tuesday."

Malone nodded, and then did a double-take. "Cops?" he said. "On

strike? But that's illegal. They could be arrested."

"You can be funny," the cabbie said. "I am too sad to be funny."

"But--"

"Unless you are from Rhode Island," the cabbie said, "or even farther

away, you are deaf, dumb and blind. Everybody in New York knows what

is going on by this time. I admit that it is not in the newspapers,

but the newspapers do not tell the truth since, as I remember it, the

City Council election of 1924, and then it is an accident, due to the

major's best friend working in the printing plants."

"But cops can't go on strike," Malone said plaintively.

"This," the cabbie said in a judicious tone, "is true. But they do not

give out any parking tickets any more, or any traffic citations

either. They are working on bigger things, they say, and besides all

this there are not so many cops on the force now. They are spread very

thin."

Malone could see what was coming. "Arrests of policemen," he said,

"and resignations."

"And investigations," the cabbie said. "Mayor Amalfi is a good Joe

and does not want anything in the papers until a real strike comes

along, but the word gets out anyhow, as it always does."

"Makes driving tough," Malone said.

"People can make better time on their hands and knees," the cabbie

said, "with the cops pulling a strike. They concentrate on big items

now, and you can even smoke in the subways if you can find a subway

that is running."

Malone stopped to think how much of the city's income depended on

parking tickets and small fines, and realized that a "strike" like the

one the police were pulling might be very effective indeed. And,

unlike the participants in the Boston Police Strike of sixty-odd years

before, these cops would have public sentiment on their side--since

they were keeping actual crime down.

"How long do they think it's going to last?" Malone said.

"It can be over tomorrow," the cabbie said, "but this is not generally

believed in the most influential quarters. Mayor Amalfi and the new

Commissioner try to straighten things out all day long, but the way

things go straightening them out does no good. Something big is in the

wind, friend. I--"

* * * * *

The cab, on Second Avenue and Seventeenth Street, stopped for a

traffic light. Malone felt an itch in the back of his mind, as if his

prescience were trying to warn him of something; he'd felt it for a

little while, he realized, but only now could he pay attention to it.

The door on the driver's side opened suddenly, and so did the door

next to Malone. Two young men, obviously in their early twenties, were

standing in the openings, holding guns that were plainly intended for

immediate use.

The one next to the driver said, in a flat voice: "Don't nobody get

wise. That way nobody gets hurt. Give us--"

That was as far as he got.

When the rear door had opened, Malone had had a full second to prepare

himself, which was plenty of time. The message from his precognitive

powers had come along just in time.

The second gunman thrust his gun into the cab. He seemed almost to be

handing it to Malone politely, and this effect was spoiled only by

Malone's twist of the gunman's wrist, which must have felt as if he'd

put his hand into a loop tied to the axle of a high-speed centrifuge.

The gunman let go of the gun and Malone, spurning it, let it drop.

He didn't need it. His other hand had gone into his coat and come out

again with the .44 Magnum.

The thug at the front of the car had barely realized what was

happening by the time it was all over. Automatic reflexes turned him

away from the driver and toward the source of danger, his gun pointing

toward Malone. But the reflexes gave out as he found himself staring

down a rifled steel tube which, though hardly more than

seven-sixteenths of an inch in diameter, must have looked as though a

high-speed locomotive might come roaring out of it at any second.

Malone hardly needed to bark: "_Drop it!_" The revolver hit the seat

next to the cabbie.

"Driver," Malone said in a conversational voice, "can you handle a

gun?"

"Why, it is better than even that I still can," the cabbie said. "I am

in the business myself many years ago, before I see the error of my

ways and buy a taxi with the profits I make. It is a high-pay

business," he went on, "but very insecure."

The cabbie scooped up the weapon by his side, flipped out the cylinder

expertly to check the cartridges, flipped it back in and centered the

muzzle on the gunman who'd dropped the revolver.

"It is more than thirty years since I use one of these," he said

gently, "but I do not forget how to pull the trigger, and at this

range I can hardly miss."

Malone noticed vaguely that he was still holding hands with the second

gunman, and that this one was trying to struggle free. Malone shrugged

and eased off a bit, at the same time shifting his own aim. The .44

Magnum now pointed at gunman number two, and the cabbie was aiming at

gunman number one. The tableau was silent for some seconds.

"Now," Malone said at last, "we wait. Driver, if you would sort of

lean against your horn button, we might be able to speed things up a

little. The light has turned green."

"The local constables," the cabbie said, "do not bother with stalled

cars in traffic these days."

"But," Malone pointed out, "I have a hunch no cop could resist a taxi

which is not only stalled and blocking traffic but is also blatting

its horn continuously. Strike or no strike," he finished

sententiously, "there are things beyond the power of man to ignore."

"Friend," the cabbie said, "you convince me. It is a good move." He

sagged slightly against the horn button, keeping the gun centered at

all times on the man before him.

The horn began to wail horribly.

The first gunman swallowed nervously. "Hey, now, listen," he said,

shouting slightly above the horn. "This wasn't anything. Just a gag,

see? A little gag. We was playing a joke. On a friend."

The driver addressed Malone. "Do you ever see either of these boys

before?"

"Never," Malone said.

"Nor do I," the cabbie said. He eyed the gunman. "We are not your

friend," he said. "Either of us."

"No, no," the gunman said. "Not you. This friend, he ... uh ... owns a

taxi, and we thought this was it. It was kind of a joke, see? A

friendly joke, that's all. Believe me, the gun's not even loaded. Both

of them aren't. Phony bullets, honest. Believe me?"

"Why, naturally I believe you," the cabbie said politely. "I never

doubt the word of a stranger, especially such an honest-appearing

stranger as you seem to be. And since the gun is loaded with false

bullets, as you say, all you have to do is reach over and take it away

from me."

There was a short silence.

"A joke," the gunman said feebly. "Honest, just a joke."

"We believe you," Malone assured him grandly. "As a matter of fact, we

appreciate the joke so much that we want you to tell it to a panel of

twelve citizens, a judge and a couple of lawyers, so they can

appreciate it, too. They get little fun out of life and your joke may

give them a few moments of happiness. Why hide your light under an

alibi?"

The horn continued its dismal wail for a few seconds more before two

patrolmen and a sergeant came up on horses. It took somewhat more time

than that for Malone to convince the sergeant that he didn't have time

to go down to the station to prefer charges. He showed his

identification and the police were suitably impressed.

"Lock 'em up for violating the Sullivan Law," he said. "I'm sure they

don't have licenses for these lovely little guns of theirs."

"Probably not," the sergeant agreed. "There's been an awful lot of

this kind of thing going on lately. But here's an idea: the cabbie

here can come on with us."

The top of the cabbie's head turned pale. "That," he said, "is the

trouble with being a law-abiding citizen such as I have been for

upwards of thirty years. Because I do not want to lose twenty dollars

to these young strangers, I lose twenty dollars' worth of time in a

precinct station, the air of which is very bad for my asthma."

Malone, taking the hint, dug a twenty out of his pockets, and then

added another to it, remembering how much he had spent in Las Vegas,

where his money funneled slowly into the pockets of Primo Palveri. The

cabbie took the money with haste and politeness and stowed it away.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I am now prepared to spend the entire night

signing affidavits, if enough affidavits can be dug up." He looked

pleased.

"Mr. Malone," the sergeant said wearily, "people just don't realize

what's going on in this town. We never did have half enough cops, and

now, with so many men resigning and getting arrested and suspended, we

haven't got a quarter enough. People think this strike business is

funny, but if we spent any time fiddling around with traffic and

parking tickets, we'd never have time to stop even crimes like this,

let alone the big jobs. As it is, though, there haven't been a lot of

big ones. Every hood in the city's out to make a couple of bucks--but

that's it so far, thank God."

Malone nodded. "How about the FBI?" he said. "Want them to come in and

help?"

"Mr. Malone," the sergeant said, "the City of New York can take very

good care of itself, without outside interference."

Some day, Malone told himself, good old New York City was going to

secede from the Union and form a new country entirely. Then it would

have a war with New Jersey and probably be wiped right off the map.

Viewing the traffic around him as he hunted for another cab, he wasn't

at all sure that that was a bad idea. He began to wish vaguely that he

had borrowed one of the policemen's horses.

* * * * *

Malone wasn't in the least worried about arriving at Mike Sand's

office late. In the first place, Sand was notorious for sleeping late

and working late to make up for it. His work schedule was somewhere

around forty-five degrees out of phase with the rest of the world,

which made it just about average for the National Brotherhood of

Truckers. It had never agitated for a nine-to-five work day. A man

driving a truck, after all, worked all sorts of odd hours--and the

union officials did the same, maybe just to prove that they were all

good truckers at heart.

The sign over the door read:

National Headquarters

NATIONAL BROTHERHOOD

OF TRUCKERS

Welcome, Brother

Malone pushed at the door and it swung open, revealing a rather

dingy-looking foyer. More Good Old Truckers At Heart, he told himself.

Mike Sand owned a quasi-palatial mansion in Puerto Rico for winter

use, and a two-floor, completely air-conditioned apartment on Fifth

Avenue for summer use. But the Headquarters Building looked dingy

enough to make truckers conscience-stricken about paying back dues.

Behind the reception desk there was a man whose face was the

approximate shape and color of a slightly used waffle. He looked up

from his crossword puzzle as Malone came in, apparently trying to

decide whether or not this new visitor should be greeted with:

"Welcome, Brother!"

Taking pity on his indecision, Malone strode to the desk and said:

"Tell Mike Sand he has a visitor."

The waffle-faced man blinked. "Mr. Sand is busy right now," he said.

"Who wants to talk to him?"

Malone tried to look steely-eyed and tough. "You pick up the

intercom," he said, "and you tell Sand there's a man out here who's in

the cloak-and-suit business."

"The what?"

"Tell him this man is worried about a recent shipment of buttons,"

Malone went on.

"Mister," the waffle-faced man said, "you're nuts."

"So I'm nuts," Malone said. "Make the call."

It was put through. After a few minutes of earnest conversation the

man turned to look at Malone again, dizzied wonder in his eyes. "Mr.

Sand says go right up," he told the FBI Agent in a shocked voice.

"Elevator to the third floor."

Malone went over to the elevator, stepped in and pressed the

third-floor button. As the doors closed, the familiar itch of

precognition began to assail him again. This time he had nothing else

to distract him. He paid very close attention to it as he was carried

slowly and creakily upward.

He looked up. There was an escape-hatch in the top of the car.

Standing on tiptoe, he managed to lift it aside, grasp the edges of

the resulting hole and pull himself up through the hole to the top of

the car. He looked back down, memorizing the elevator, and then pulled

the hatch shut again. There was a small peephole in it, and Malone put

his eye to it and waited.

About twenty seconds later, the car stopped and the doors opened. A

little more time passed, and then a gun, closely followed by a man,

edged around the door frame.

"What the hell," the man said. "The car's empty!"