touched the bulky object strapped near Malone's armpit it stopped,
frozen, and then cautiously snaked the object out.

"What's that, Bill?" Sam said.

Bill looked up with the object in his hand. He seemed a little dazed.
"It's a gun," he said.

"The guy's heeled!" Sam said. "Watch him! Don't let him get away!"

Malone considered getting away, and decided that he couldn't move. "It's
O.K.," he said.

"O.K., hell," Sam said. "It's a .44 Magnum. What are you doing with a
gun, Mac?" He was no longer polite and friendly. "Why you carrying a
gun?" he said.

"I'm not carrying it," Malone said tiredly. "Bill is. Your pal."

Bill backed away from Malone, putting the Magnum in his pocket and
keeping the FBI agent covered with his own Police Positive. At the same
time, he fished out the personal radio every patrolman carried in his
uniform, and began calling for a prowl car in a low, somewhat nervous
voice.

Sam said: "A gun. He could of shot everybody."

"Get his wallet," Bill said. "He can't hurt you now. I disarmed him."

Malone began to feel slightly dangerous. Maybe he _was_ a famous
gangster. He wasn't sure. Maybe all this about being an FBI agent was
just a figment of his imagination. Blows on the head did funny things.
"I'll drill everybody full of holes," he said in a harsh, underworld
sort of voice, but it didn't sound very convincing. Sam approached him
gently and fished out his wallet with great care, as if Malone were a
ticking bomb ready to go off any second.

There was a little silence. Then Sam said: "Give him his gun back,
Bill," in a hushed and respectful tone.

"Give him back his gun?" the big cop said. "You gone nuts, Sam?"

Sam shook his head slowly. "Nope," he said. "But we made a terrible
mistake. Know who this guy is?"

"He's heeled," Bill said. "That's all I want to know." He put the radio
away and gave all his attention to Malone.

"He's FBI," Sam said. "The wallet says so. Badge and everything. And not
only that, Bill. He's Kenneth J. Malone."

* * * * *

Well, Malone thought with relief, that settled that. He wasn't a
gangster after all. He was just the FBI agent he had always known and
loved. Maybe now the cops would do something about his head and take him
away for burial.

"Malone?" Bill said. "You mean the guy who's here about all those red
Cadillacs?"

"Sure," Sam said. "So give him his gun back." He looked at Malone.
"Listen, Mr. Malone," h