oice said. "I--"

"I don't care how," Boyd snapped. "Get it. Then hand it over to the
pickup-squad and say: 'Mr. Malone wants this car--immediately.' They'll
know what to do. Got that?"

"Sure, Mr. Boyd," the voice said. "But I don't--"

"Never mind," Boyd said. "Go ahead and get the job done. The United
States of America is depending on you." With one last scowl, he hung up
and swung around to face Malone. "You gave me a great job," he said. "I
really love it, you know that?"

"It's got to be done," Malone said in a noncommittal voice. "How's it
going so far?"

Boyd closed his eyes for a second. "Twenty-three red 1972 Cadillacs to
date--which isn't bad, I suppose," he said. "And six calls like the one
you just heard. All from agents with problems. What am I supposed to do
when a guy catches a couple necking in a 1972 red Cadillac?"

"At this time of day?" Malone said.

"New York," Boyd said, and shrugged. "Things are funny here."

Malone nodded. "What did you do about them?" he said.

"Told the agent to take the car and give 'em a pass to a movie," Boyd
said.

"Good," Malone said. "Keep that sort of thing in the dark where it
belongs." For some reason, this reminded him of Dorothy. He still had to
get tickets for a show. But that could wait. "How about the assembly
line?" he said.

"Disassembly," Boyd said. "Leibowitz has started it going. He borrowed
the use of a big auto repair shop over in Jersey City, and they'll be
doing a faster job than we thought." He paused. "But it's been a
wonderful day," he said. "One to remember as long as I live. Possibly
even until tomorrow. And how have you been doing?"

"Well," Malone said, "I'm not absolutely sure yet."

"That's a nice, helpful answer," Boyd said. "In the best traditions of
the FBI."

"I can't help it," Malone said. "It's true."

"Well, what have you been doing?" Boyd said. "Drinking? Living it up
while I sit here and talk to people about Cadillacs?"

"Not exactly," Malone said. "I've been ... well, doing more or less what
Burris told me to do. Nosing around. Keeping my eyes open."

* * * * *

The phone chimed. Boyd flipped up the mike and eyed the screen
balefully. "Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said crisply. "Who are
you?"

A voice on the other end said: "What?" before the image on the screen
cleared.

"Oh," a voice said. It was a very calm, quiet voice. "Hello, Boyd."

The image cleared. Boyd was fac