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 door swung open very suddenly, and Malone stepped back.

A short, wrinkled, dark-eyed woman in a print housedress was eying him
with 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 to
Mike."

"Mike?" Her expression grew even more suspicious. "You want to talk to
Mike?"

"That's right," Malone said.

"Ah," the woman said. "You one of those hoodlum friends he has. I'm
right? You can talk to Mike when I am dead and have no control over
him. For now, you can just--"

"Wait a minute," Malone said. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it
open to show his badge, being very careful that he made the right flip
this time. He didn't know exactly how this woman would react to the
Queen'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 w