uzzing 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 wallet and examined Malone
from head to foot. It was perfectly plain that they didn't like what
they saw. "Cop," she said again, as if to herself. It sounded like a
curse.

Malone said: "Well, I--"

"You want to ask me stupid questions," she said. "That is what you want
to do. I'm right?"

"I only--"

"I know nothing," she said. "Nothing of any kind." She closed her mouth
and stood regarding him as if he were a particularly repulsive statue.
Malone looked past her into the living room beyond the door.

It was faded, now, but it had once been bright and colorful. There was
an old rug on the floor, and tables were everywhere. The one bright
thing about the room was the assortment of flowers; there were flowers
everywhere, in vases, in pots and even in windowboxes. There was also a
lot of crockery statuary, mostly faded, chipped or worn in some way. The
room looked to Malone as if its last inhabitant had died ten years
before; only the flowers had been renewed. Everything else had not only
the appearance of age, but the look of having been cast up as a
high-water mark by the sea, which had receded and left only the tangled
wreckage.

The woman cleared her throat and Malone's gaze came back to her. "I can
tell you nothing," she said.

"I don't want to talk to you," Malone said again. "I want to talk to
Mike."

Her eyes were very cold. "You from the police, and you want to talk to
Mike. You make a jo