and then foundhimself 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_!"
"Damn it," Malone said, "I'm the FBI." He showed his badge.
The desk sergeant took a good long look at it. "Maybe you are, andmaybe 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 clearedagain to show Lynch's face.
"Hello, Mr. Malone," Lynch said formally. "Have you found some newlittle trick to show up poor stupid policemen? Like, say, makingyourself vanish?"
"I'll make the whole damn police force vanish," Malone said, "in acouple of minutes. I called to ask a favor."
"Anything," Lynch said. "Anything within my poor power. Whatever Ihave is yours. Whither thou goest--"
"Knock it off," Malone said, and then grinned. After all, there was nosense in making an enemy out of Lynch.
Lynch blinked, took a deep breath, and said in an entirely differentvoice, "Okay, 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 onthat 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 hasskipped out. Left home. Without giving a forwarding address."
Lynch nodded slowly. "Ten to one?" he said. "Want to make that a moneybet? Or does the FBI frown on gambling?"
"Ten dollars to your one," Malone said. "Okay?"
"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?"
Malone shook his head. "You can't," he said. "I'll call you."
"I will wait with anxiety," Lynch said. "But it had better be beforeeight. I get off then."
"If I can make it," Malone said.
"If you can't," Lynch said, "call me at home." He gave Malone thenumber, and then added, "Whatever information I get, I can keep for myown use this time, can't I?"
"Hell," Malone said, "you've already got all the information you'regoing to get. I just gave it to you."
"That," Lynch said, "we'll see."
"I'll call to collect my money," Malone said.
"Well talk about it later," Lynch said. "Farewell, old pal."
"Flights of angels," Malone said, "sing thee to thy rest."
Malone replaced the microphone and headed for the door. Halfway there,however, he stopped. He hadn't had any tequila in a long time, and hethought he owed it to himself. He felt he had come out ahead in hisexchange with Lynch, and another medal was in order.
Only a small one, though. He told himself that he would order onetequila and quit. Besides, he had to meet Dorothy.
He sat down on one of the tall bar stools. The bartender bustled overand eyed him speculatively.
_"Tequila con limon,"_ he said negligently.
"Ah," the bartender said. _"Si, senor."_
Malone waited with ill-concealed impatience. At last it arrived,Malone took the small glass of tequila in his right hand, with theslice of lemon held firmly between the index and middle fingers of thesame hand, the rind facing in toward the glass. On the web between thethumb and forefinger of his left hand he had sprinkled a little salt.Moving adroitly and with dispatch, he downed the tequila, licked offthe salt, and bit his teeth into the lemon slice.
It felt better than good; it felt wonderful. He hadn't had such a goodtime in years.
He had three more before he left the Xochitl.
Then, noticing the time, he moved in a hurry and got out of the barbefore temptation overcame him and he started ordering still more. Itwas nearly six o'clock, and he had to meet Dorothy at Topp's.
He hoped he could find it.
He headed downtown toward 42nd Street, turned right and, sure enough,there was a big red sign. It said Topp's. Malone beamed his approvalat it. It was just where it ought to be, and he was grateful.
He pushed open the glass door of the place and went in.
The maitre d'hotel was a chunky man with a pleasant face, a recedinghairline and, some distance back on his head, dark curly hair. Hebeamed at Malone as if the FBI agent were a long-lost brother. "Tablefor one, sir?" he said.
"No," Malone said, peering into the place. It was much bigger than hehad expected. "No," he said again. "I guess I'll just have a drink atthe bar."
The maitre d' smiled and bowed him to a bar stool. Malone sat down andlooked the place over again. His first glance had shown him thatDorothy wasn't there yet, but he saw no harm in making sure. _Alwaysbe careful of your facts_, he admonished himself a little fuzzily.
There were a lot of women in the place, but they were all withescorts. Some of them had two escorts, and Malone wondered about them.Were they drunk, or was he? It was obvious that someone was seeingdouble, but Malone wasn't quite sure who.
He stared at his face in the bar mirror for a few seconds, and ordereda bourbon and soda when a bartender came over and occluded the image.The bartender went away and Malone went on studying himself.
He wasn't bad looking for an FBI agent. He was taller than his father,anyway, and less heavily built. That was one good thing. As a matterof fact, Malone told himself, he was really a pretty good-looking guy.
So why did women keep him waiting?
He heard her voice before he saw her. But she wasn't talking to him.
"Hello, Milty," she said. "How's everything?"
Malone turned around to get a look at Milty. He turned out to be themaitre d'. What did he have that Malone didn't have? the agent askedhimself sourly. Obviously Dorothy was captivated by his charm. Well,that showed him what city girls were like. Butterflies. Socialbutterflies. Flitting hither and yon with the wind, now attracted tothis man, now to that. Once, Malone told himself sadly, he had knownthis beautiful woman. Now she belonged to someone else.
He felt a little bit sad about it, but he told himself to buck up andlearn to live with his tragedy. He drank some more of his bourbon andsoda, and then she noticed him.
He heard her say, "Oh. Excuse me, Milty. There's my man." She cameover and sat down next to him.
He wanted to ignore her, just to teach her a lesson. But he hadalready turned around and smiled at her, and she smiled back.
"Hi," she said. "Did you get the tickets?"
_Tickets._
Malone knew there was something he'd forgotten, and now he knew whatit was. "Oh," he said. "Sure. Just a second. I've got to check up."
"Check up?"
"Friend of mine," Malone improvised hurriedly. "Bringing them." Hegave Dorothy a big smile and climbed down off the bar stool. Hemanaged to find a phone booth, and dialed FBI headquarters on 69thStreet and blessed several saints when he found that the A-in-C wasstill there.
"Tickets," Malone said.
The Agent-in-Charge blinked at him. "What tickets?" he said.
"The _Hot Seat_ tickets," Malone said. "Did you get 'em?"
"I got 'em," the Agent-in-Charge said sourly. "Had to chase all overtown and pull more wires than there are on a grand piano. But theyturned up, brother. Two seats. Do you know what a job like thatentails?"
"I'm grateful," Malone said. "I'm hysterical with gratitude."
"I'd rather track down a gang of fingerless second-story men than go
through that again," the Agent-in-Charge said. He looked as if hisstomach trouble had suddenly gotten a great deal worse. Malone thoughtthat the A-in-C was considering calling a doctor, and would probablydecide to make it the undertaker instead, and save the price of acall.
"I can't express my gratitude," Malone told him.
The Impossibles Page 15
