deserting him for the second. But itreturned full force before he expected it. "I'm Malone," he said."Kenneth Joseph Malone." He had always liked the middle name he hadinherited from his father, but he never had much opportunity to useit. He made the most of it now, rolling it out with all sorts ofsubsidiary flourishes. As a matter of fact, he barely restrainedhimself from putting a "Sir" before his name.
The girl's brown eyes widened just a trifle. Malone felt as if hecould have fallen into them and drowned. "Oh, my," she said. "You mustbe a detective." And then, like the merest afterthought, "My name'sDorothy."
_Dorothy._ It was a beautiful name. It made Malone feel all choked upinside. 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 FBIagent was a kind of detective, but he thought it was only fair thatshe 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 positivelyglorious when puzzled, Malone decided at once.
"That is," he said carefully, "I do detect, but not for the city ofNew 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 whereconversation was impossible.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said. After a second he thoughtof 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 canhelp in any way--"
"Not exactly," Dorothy said. "Just a little routine business. I'll goon in and--"
Malone suddenly found himself talking without having any idea why he'dstarted, or what he was going to say. At first he said, "Urr," as ifthe machine were warming up, and this stopped Dorothy and caused herto give him a rather sharp, baffled stare. Then he found some wordsand used them hurriedly, before they got away.
"Dorothy," he said, "would you like to take in a show this evening? Ithink I can get tickets to--well, I guess I could get tickets toalmost anything, if I really tried." His expression attempted to leaveno 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 hadbluffed 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 bluffhad been called.
It had, he realized, been called again. _The Hot Seat_ had set somesort of record, not only for Broadway longevity, but for audiencefrenzy. Getting tickets for it was about the same kind of propositionas buying grass on the moon, and getting them with absolutely no priornotice would require all the wire-pulling Malone could manage. Hethought about _The Hot Seat_ and wished Dorothy had picked somethingeasy, like arranging for her to meet the Senate.
But he swallowed bravely. "I'll do my best," he said. "Got any secondchoice?"
"Sure," she said, and laughed. "Pick any one you want. I haven't seenthem 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_," shesaid.
"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'mliving with an aunt, and I--well, never mind." She thought for aminute. "I know," she said. "Topp's."
"What?" Malone said.
"Topp's," Dorothy said. "On Forty-second Street, just east ofBroadway? 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 somethingto eat there before the show--whatever the show turns out to be."
"Fine," Dorothy said.
"How about making it at six?" Malone said.
She nodded. "Six it is," she said. "Now bye-bye." She touched herforefinger to her lips, and brushed Malone's cheek with the kissedfinger.
By the time the new set of tingles had begun to evaporate, she hadgone into the police station. Malone heaved a great sigh of passion,and held down a strong impulse to follow her and protect her. Hewasn't quite sure what he was going to protect her from, but he feltcertain that that would come to him when the time arrived.
Nevertheless, he had work to do, unpleasant as the idea had suddenlybegun to seem. He pulled the list of addresses out of his pocket andlooked at the first one.
_Mike Fueyo._
Mike was the leader of the Silent Spooks, according to LieutenantLynch. Logically, therefore, he would be the first one to talk to.Malone tried to think of some good questions, but the best one hecould 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 hadbeen a shining new development once, but it was beginning to slidedownhill now. The metal on the window frames was beginning to lookworn, and the brickwork hadn't been cleaned in a long time. Wherechain 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 ofsick-looking brown dirt.
Malone went into the first building and checked the name against themailboxes 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 beMike's widowed mother; Lynch had told him that much about the boy andhis family. He found the elevator, which was covered with scribblesranging from JANEY LOVES MIGUEL to startling obscenities, and rode itupstairs.
Apartment 1004 looked like every other apartment in the building, atleast from the outside. Malone pressed the button and waited a secondto hear the faint buzzing at the other side of the door. After aminute, he pressed it again.
The door swung open very suddenly, and Malone stepped back.
A short, wrinkled, dark-eyed woman in a print housedress was eying himwith deep suspicion. "My daughter is not home," she announced at once.
"I'm not looking for your daughter," Malone said. "I'd like to talk toMike."
"Mike?" Her expression grew even more suspicious. "You want to talk toMike?"
"That's right," Malone said.
"Ah," the woman said. "You one of those hoodlum friends he has. I'mright? You can talk to Mike when I am dead and have no control overhim. For now, you can just--"
"Wait a minute," Malone said. He pulled out his wallet and flipped itopen to show his badge, being very careful that he made the right flipthis time. He didn't know exactly how this woman would react to theQueen's Own FBI, but he didn't especially want to find out.
She looked down at the badge without taking the wallet from him."Hah," she said. "You're cop, eh?" Her eyes left the wallet andexamined Malone from head to foot. It was perfectly plain that theydidn't like what they saw. "Cop," she said again, as if to herself. Itsounded like a curse.
Malone said, "Well, I--"
"You want to ask me stupid questions," she said. "That is what youwant to do. I'm right?"
"I only--"
"I know nothing," she said. "Nothing of any kind." She closed hermouth and stood regarding him as if he were a
particularly repulsivestatue. Malone looked past her into the living room beyond the door.
It was faded now, but it had once been bright and colorful. There wasan old rug on the floor, and tables were everywhere. The one brightthing about the room was the assortment of flowers; there were flowerseverywhere, in vases, in pots, and even in window boxes. There wasalso a lot of crockery statuary, mostly faded, chipped, or worn
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