I'll find it." He looked gallant and determined. "We can get something
to eat there before the show--whatever the show turns out to be."

"Fine," Dorothy said.

"How about making it at six?" Malone said.

She nodded. "Six it is," she said. "Now bye-bye." She touched her
forefinger to her lips, and brushed Malone's cheek with the kissed
finger.

By the time the new set of tingles had begun to evaporate, she had gone
into the police station. Malone heaved a great sigh of passion, and held
down a strong impulse to follow her and protect her. He wasn't quite
sure what he was going to protect her from, but he felt certain that
that would come to him when the time arrived.

Nevertheless, he had work to do, unpleasant as the idea had suddenly
begun to seem. He pulled the list of addresses out of his pocket and
looked at the first one.

_Mike Fueyo._

Mike was the leader of the Silent Spooks, according to Lieutenant Lynch.
Logically, therefore, he would be the first one to talk to. Malone tried
to think of some good questions, but the best one he could come 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.

VI.

The building was just off Amsterdam, in the Eighties. It had been a
shining new development once, but it was beginning to slide downhill
now. The metal on the windowframes 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 b