VI.
The building was just off Amsterdam, in the Eighties. It had been ashining new development once, but it was beginning to slide downhillnow. The metal on the windowframes was beginning to look worn, and thebrickwork hadn't been cleaned in a long time. Where chain fences hadonce protected lonely blades of grass, children, mothers and babycarriages held sway now, and the grass was gone. Instead, the buildingwas pretty well surrounded by a moat of sick-looking brown dirt.
Malone went into the first building and checked the name against themailboxes there, trying to ignore the combined smells of sour milk, redpepper and here and there a whiff of unwashed humanity.
It was on the tenth floor: _Fueyo, J._ That, he supposed, would beMike's widowed mother; Lynch had told him that much about the boy andhis family. He found the elevator, which was covered with scribblesranging from JANEY LOVES MIGUEL to startling obscenities, and rode itupstairs.
Apartment 1004 looked like every other apartment in the building, atleast from the outside. Malone pressed the button and waited a second tohear the faint buzzing at the other side of the door. After a minute, hepressed it again.
The door swung open very suddenly and Malone stepped back.
A short, wrinkled, dark-eyed woman in a print housedress was eying himwith 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 toMike."
"Mike?" Her expression grew even more suspicious. "You want to talk toMike?"
"That's right," Malone said.
"Ah," the woman said. "You one of those hoodlum friends he has. I'mright? 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 itopen to show his badge, being very careful that he made the right flipthis time. He didn't know exactly how this woman would react to TheQueen'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 Malonefrom head to foot. It was perfectly plain that they didn't like whatthey saw. "Cop," she said again, as if to herself. It sounded like acurse.
Malone said: "Well, I--"
"You want to ask me stupid questions," she said. "That is what you wantto do. I'm right?"
"I only--"
"I know nothing," she said. "Nothing of any kind." She closed her mouthand 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 wasan old rug on the floor, and tables were everywhere. The one brightthing about the room was the assortment of flowers; there were flowerseverywhere, in vases, in pots and even in windowboxes. There was also alot of crockery statuary, mostly faded, chipped or worn in some way. Theroom looked to Malone as if its last inhabitant had died ten yearsbefore; only the flowers had been renewed. Everything else had not onlythe appearance of age, but the look of having been cast up as ahigh-water mark by the sea, which had receded and left only the tangledwreckage.
The woman cleared her throat and Malone's gaze came back to her. "I cantell you nothing," she said.
"I don't want to talk to you," Malone said again. "I want to talk toMike."
Her eyes were very cold. "You from the police, and you want to talk toMike. You make a joke. Only I don't think the joke is very funny."
"Joke?" Malone said. "You mean Mike's not here?"
Her gaze never wavered. "You know he is not," she said. "Ten minutes agothe policemen were taking him away to the police station. How then couldhe be here?"
"Ten minutes ago?" Malone blinked. Ten minutes ago he had been lookingfor this apartment. Probably it hadn't taken Lynch's men ten minutes tofind it; they weren't strangers in New York. "He was arrested?" Malonesaid.
"I said so, didn't I?" the woman said. "You must be crazy or elsesomething." Her eyes were still cold points, but Malone saw a glow oftears behind them. Mike was her son. She did not seem surprised that thepolice had taken him away, but she was determined to protect him.
Malone's voice was very gentle. "Why did they arrest him?" he said.
The woman shrugged, a single sharp gesture. "You ask me this?"
"I'm not a cop," Malone said. "I'm from the FBI."
"FBI?" the woman said.
"It's all right," Malone said, with all the assurance he could muster."I only want to talk to him."
"Ah," the woman said. Tears were plain in her eyes now, glittering onthe surface. "Why they take him away, I do not know. My Mike do nothing.Nothing."
"But didn't they say anything about--"
"They say?" the woman cried. "They say only they have orders from thisLieutenant Lynch. He is lieutenant at police station."
"I know," Malone said gently.
"Lieutenant Lynch wants to ask Mike questions, so police come, take himaway." Her English was beginning to lose ground as tears came.
"Lynch asked for him?" Malone said. He frowned. Whatever that meant, hewanted to be there himself. And perhaps he could help the old woman insome way. Anyhow, he would try. She stared up at him Stonily. "Look,Mrs. Fueyo," he said. "I'm going down there to talk to Mike right now.And if he hasn't done anything, I'll see that he goes home to you. Rightaway."
Her expression changed a trifle. She did not actually soften, but Malonecould feel the gratitude lurking behind her eyes as if it were afraid tocome out. She nodded gravely and said nothing at all. He stepped away,and she closed the door without a sound.
He stood staring at the door for a few seconds. Then he turned andpunched the elevator button savagely.
There wasn't any time to lose.
He walked back to the precinct station. Knowing the way, it took himabout five minutes instead of the fifteen it had taken him to find theFueyo residence. But he still felt as if time were passing much toofast. He ran up the steps and passed right by the desk sergeant, whoapparently recognized him, and said nothing as Malone charged up thestairs to Lynch's office.
It was empty.
Malone stared at it and started down the hall again without knowingwhere he was heading. Halfway to the stairs he met a patrolman. "Where'sLynch?" he asked.
"The lieutenant?"
Malone fumed. "Who else?" he said. "Where is he?"
"Got some kid back in the tank, or somewhere," the patrolman said."Asking him a couple of questions, that's all." He added: "Hey, listen,buddy, why do you want to see the lieutenant? You can't just go chargingin to--"
Malone was down the stairs before he'd finished. He went up to thedesk.
The desk sergeant looked down. "What's it this time?" he said.
"I'm in a hurry," Malone said. "Where are the cells? I want to seeLieutenant Lynch."
The desk sergeant nodded. "O.K.," he said. "But the lieutenant ain't inany of the cells. He's back in Interrogation with some kid."
"Take me there," Malone said.
"I'll show you," the sergeant said. "On duty. Can't leave the desk." Hecleared his throat and gave Malone a set of directions.
* * * * *
There was a door at the end of a corridor at the back of the station. Itwas a plain wooden door with the numeral _1_ stenciled on it. Maloneopened it and looked inside.
He was staring into a rather small, rather plain little room. There wereabsolutely no bright beam lights burning, and there didn't seem to beany rubber hoses around anywhere. There were only four chairs.
Seated in three of the chairs were Lieutenant Lynch and two other policeofficers. In the fourth chair, facing them, was a young boy.
He didn't look like a tough kid. He had wavy black hair, brown eyes andwhat Malone thought looked like a generally friendly appearance. He wasslight and wiry, not over five feet five or six. And he wore anexpression that was neither too eager nor hostile. It wasn't just blank
,either; Malone finally pinned it down as Receptive.
He had the strangest impression that he had seen the boy somewherebefore. But he couldn't remember when or where.
Lieutenant Lynch was talking.
"... All we want, Mike, is a little information. We thought you'd beable to help us, if you wanted to. Now, how about it?"
"Sure," Mike Fueyo said. His voice was a little high, but it was wellcontrolled and responsive. "Sure, lieutenant. I'll help if I can--but Ijust don't dig what you're giving me. It doesn't make sense."
Lynch stirred a little impatiently, and his voice began to carry a newbite. "I'm talking about Cadillacs," he said. "1972 Red Cadillacs."
"It's a nice car," Mike said.
"What do you know about them?" Lynch said.
"Know about them?" Mike said. "I know they're nice cars. That's aboutit. What else am I going to know, lieutenant? Maybe you think I own oneof these big red 1972 Caddies. Maybe you think I got that kind of money.Well, listen, lieutenant, I'd like to help you out, but I'm just not--"
"The Cadillacs," Lynch said, "were--"
"Just a minute, lieutenant," Malone said. Dead silence fell with greatsuddenness. Lynch and all the others looked around at Malone, who smiledapologetically. "I don't want to disturb anything," he said. "But Iwould like to talk to Mike here for a little while."
"Oh," Lynch said sourly. "Sure. Sure."
"I'd like to ask him a couple of questions," Malone said. "Alone."
"Alone." Lynch said. "Oh." But there was nothing for him to do, Maloneknew, except bow to the inevitable. "Of course," he said. "Go rightahead."
"You can stand outside the door," Malone said. "He won't get away. Andyou'd better hold this." Malone, knowing perfectly well that stayingarmed and alone in a room with a suspect was something you just did notdo--for very good reasons--unstrapped his .44 Magnum and handed it tothe lieutenant.
He left reluctantly, with his men.
Malone could understand Lynch's attitude. If Malone solved the case,Lynch would not get any credit. Otherwise, it might go down in hispersonal record. And, of course, the NYPD would rather wrap the case upthemselves; the FBI was treated as a necessary interference.Unfortunately, Malone thought, Lynch had had absolutely no choice. Hesighed gently, and turned his attention to Mike Fueyo, who was stillsitting in his chair.
"Now, Mike--" he began, and was interrupted.
The door opened. Lieutenant Lynch said: "If you need us, Malone, justyell."
"You'll hear me," Malone promised. The door shut.
He turned back to the boy. "Now, Mike," he began again, "my name isMalone, and I'm with the FBI. I'd like to ask you a few--"
"Gee, Mr. Malone," Mike broke in eagerly. "I'm glad you're here."
Malone said: "Well, I--"
"These cops here have been giving me a pretty rough deal, you know?"Mike said.
"I'm sure they--" Malone began.
"But I've been looking for you," Mike went on. "See, I wanted to saysomething to you. Something real important."
Malone leaned forward expectantly. At last he was going to get someinformation--perhaps the information that would break the whole casewide open. He said: "Yes?"
"Well--" Mike began, and stopped.
"You don't have to be afraid of me, Mike," Malone said. "Just tell mewhatever's on your mind."
"Sure," Mike said. "It's this."
He took a deep breath. Malone clenched his fists. Now it was coming. Nowhe would hear the all-important fact. He waited.
Mike stuck out his tongue and blew the longest, loudest, brassiest andjuiciest Bronx cheer that Malone had ever heard.
Then, almost instantly, the room was empty except for Malone himself.
Mike was gone.
There wasn't any place to hide, and there hadn't been any time to hidein. Malone looked around wildly, but he had no doubts at all.
Mike Fueyo had vanished, utterly and instantaneously. He'd gone out likea light.