Lynch shrugged again. “Okay,” he said. “Tell it your way."
"First,” Malone said, “what's your job?"
"Me? Precinct Lieutenant."
"Of this precinct?"
Lynch stared. “What else?” he said.
"Who knows?” Malone said. He found the black notebook and passed it across to Lynch. “I'm on this red Cadillac business, you know,” he said by way of introduction.
"I've been hearing about it,” Lynch said. He picked up the notebook without opening it and held it like a ticking bomb. “And I mean hearing about it,” he said. “We haven't had any trouble at all in this precinct."
"I know,” Malone said. “I've read the reports."
"Listen, not a single red Cadillac has been stolen from here, or been reported found here. We run a tight precinct here, and let me tell you—"
"I'm sure you do a fine job,” Malone said hastily. “But I want you to look at the notebook. The first page."
Lynch opened his mouth, closed it, and then flipped the notebook cover. He stared at the first page for a few seconds. “What's this?” he said at last. “Another gag?"
"No gag, Lieutenant,” Malone said.
"It's your name and mine,” Lynch said. “What is that supposed to mean?"
Malone shrugged. “Search me,” he said. “The notebook was found only a couple of feet away from another car theft, last night.” That was the simplest way he could think of to put it. “So I asked the Commissioner who Peter Lynch was, and he told me it was you."
"And, by God, it is,” Lynch said, staring at the notebook. He seemed to be expecting it to rise and strike him.
Malone said, “Have you got any idea who'd be writing about you and me?"
Lynch shook his head. “If I had any ideas I'd feel a lot better,” he said.
He wet his finger and turned the notebook page carefully over. When he saw the list of names on the second page he stopped again, and stared. This time he whistled under his breath.
Very cautiously, Malone said, “Something?"
"I'll be damned,” Lynch said feelingly.
"What's wrong?” Malone said.
The police lieutenant looked up. “I don't know if it's wrong or what,” he said. “It gives me sort of the willies. I know every one of these kids."
Malone took out a pill and swallowed it in a hurry. He felt exactly as if he had been given another concussion, absolutely free and without any obligations. His mouth opened but nothing came out for a long time. At last he managed to say, “Kids?"
"That's right,” Lynch said. “What did you think?"
Malone shrugged helplessly.
"Every single one of them,” Lynch said. “Right from around here."
There was a little silence.
"Who are they?” Malone said carefully.
"They're some kind of kid gang-a social club, or something like that. This first kid-Miguel Fueyo's his full name-is the leader. They call themselves the Silent Spooks."
"The what?” It seemed to Malone that the name was just a little fancy, even for a kid gang.
"The Silent Spooks,” Lynch said. “I can't help it. But here they are, every one of them: Fueyo, Ramon Otravez, Mario Grito, Silvo Envoz, Alvarez Altapor, Felipe la Barba, Juan de los Santos, and Ray del Este. Right down the line.” He looked up from the notebook with a blank expression on his face. “All of them kids from this neighborhood. The Silent Spooks."
"They know you?” Malone said.
"Sure they do,” Lynch said. “They all know me. But do they know you?"
Malone thought. “They could have heard of me,” he said at last, trying to be as modest as possible.
"I guess,” Lynch said grudgingly. “How old are they?” Malone said.
"Fourteen to seventeen,” Lynch said. “Somewhere in there. You know how these kid things run."
"The Silent Spooks,” Malone said meditatively. It was a nice name, in a way; you just had to get used to it for a while. When he had been a kid, he'd belonged to a group that called itself the East Division Street Kids. There just wasn't much romance in a name like that. Now the Silent Spooks...
With a wrench, he brought his mind back to the subject at hand. “Do they get into much trouble?” he said.
"Well, no,” Lynch said reluctantly. “As a matter of fact, they don't. For a bunch like that, around here, they're pretty well behaved, as far as that goes."
"What do you mean?” Malone said.
Lynch's face took on a delicately unconcerned appearance. “I don't know,” he said. “They just don't get into neighborhood trouble. Maybe a scrap now and then-nothing big, though. Or maybe one of them cuts a class at school or argues with his teacher. But there's nothing unusual, and damn little of anything.” He frowned.
Malone said, “Something's got to be wrong. What is it?"
"Well,” Lynch said, “they do seem to have a hell of 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."
"Okay,” 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. Hell, 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,” he 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 as hell 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 teenagers.
"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 acquaintanc
e 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—"
"You didn't?” the girl said. She took a long, slow look at him, shook her head again, and then pulled her skirt down carefully. “If you didn't, you must be blind,” she said.
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 tail throbbed a little, but it didn't seem to be anything really serious. “I'm just polite,” he said, and smiled again. His face was beginning to get a little tired, but he retained his last 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 couldn't 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 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."
"Fin
e,” 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.
* * * *
The building was just off Amsterdam Avenue, in the eighties. It had been a shining new development once, but it was beginning to slide downhill now. The metal on the window frames was beginning to look worn, and the brickwork hadn't been cleaned in a long time. Where chain fences had once protected lonely blades of grass, children, mothers, and baby carriages held sway now, and the grass was gone. Instead, the building was pretty well surrounded by a moat of sick-looking brown dirt.
Malone went into the first building and checked the name against the mailboxes there, trying to ignore the combined smells of sour milk, red pepper, and here and there a whiff of unwashed humanity.
It was on the tenth floor: Fueyo, J. That, he supposed, would be Mike's widowed mother; Lynch had told him that much about the boy and his family. He found the elevator, which was covered with scribbles ranging from JANEY LOVES MIGUEL to startling obscenities, and rode it upstairs.
Apartment 1004 looked like every other apartment in the building, at least from the outside. Malone pressed the button and waited a second to hear the faint buzzing at the other side of the door. After a minute, he pressed it again.
The Queen's Own FBI Trilogy: Brain Twister; The Impossibles; Supermind Page 18