"

"How fast can you get the dope?" Malone said.

"I don't exactly know," Fernack said. "The last time anything even
remotely like this was run through--departmental survey, but you
wouldn't be interested--it took something like eight hours."

"Fine," Malone said. "Eight hours then. I'll look everything over and if
we need a second run-through it won't take too long. I'll let you know
as soon as I can about that." He grinned into the phone.

Fernack cleared his throat and asked delicately: "Mind telling me what
all this is for?"

Malone offered up a little prayer before answering, and when he did
answer it was in his softest and most friendly tones: "I'd rather not
say just now, John Henry."

"But Malone--" Fernack's voice sounded a little strained, and his jaw
set just a trifle. "If you--"

Malone knew perfectly well how Fernack reacted when he didn't get a bit
of information he wanted. And this was no time to set off any fireworks
in the commissioner's office. "Look, John Henry," he said gently, "I'll
tell you as soon as I can. Honest. But this is classified
information--it's not my fault."

Fernack said: "But--" and apparently realized that argument was not
going to do him any good. "All right, Malone," he said at last. "I'll
have it for you as soon as possible."

"Great," Malone said. "Then I'll see you later."

"Sure," Fernack said. He paused, as if he were about to open the
controversy just once more. But all he said was: "So long, Malone."

* * * * *

Malone breathed a great sigh of relief and flipped the phone off. He
stepped out of the booth feeling so proud of himself that he could
barely walk. Not only had he managed to calm down Commissioner Fernack,
he had also walked right past a bar on the way to the phone. He had
performed several acts, he felt, above and beyond the call of duty, and
he told himself that he deserved a reward.

Happily, the reward was convenient to hand. He went to the bar and
beckoned the bartender over to him. "Bourbon and soda," he said. "And a
medal, if possible."

"What?" the bartender said.

"A medal," Malone said. "For conduct beyond reproach."

The bartender nodded sadly. "Maybe you just ought to go home, Mac," he
said. "Sleep it off."

New Yorkers, Malone decided as the bartender went off to get his drink,
had no sense of humor. Back in Chicago--where he'd been more or less
weaned on gin, and discovered that, unlike his father,