epared to spend the entire night
signing affidavits, if enough affidavits can be dug up." He looked
pleased.

"Mr. Malone," the sergeant said wearily, "people just don't realize
what's going on in this town. We never did have half enough cops, and
now, with so many men resigning and getting arrested and suspended, we
haven't got a quarter enough. People think this strike business is
funny, but if we spent any time fiddling around with traffic and
parking tickets, we'd never have time to stop even crimes like this,
let alone the big jobs. As it is, though, there haven't been a lot of
big ones. Every hood in the city's out to make a couple of bucks--but
that's it so far, thank God."

Malone nodded. "How about the FBI?" he said. "Want them to come in and
help?"

"Mr. Malone," the sergeant said, "the City of New York can take very
good care of itself, without outside interference."

Some day, Malone told himself, good old New York City was going to
secede from the Union and form a new country entirely. Then it would
have a war with New Jersey and probably be wiped right off the map.

Viewing the traffic around him as he hunted for another cab, he wasn't
at all sure that that was a bad idea. He began to wish vaguely that he
had borrowed one of the policemen's horses.

* * * * *

Malone wasn't in the least worried about arriving at Mike Sand's
office late. In the first place, Sand was notorious for sleeping late
and working late to make up for it. His work schedule was somewhere
around forty-five degrees out of phase with the rest of the world,
which made it just about average for the National Brotherhood of
Truckers. It had never agitated for a nine-to-five work day. A man
driving a truck, after all, worked all sorts of odd hours--and the
union officials did the same, maybe just to prove that they were all
good truckers at heart.

The sign over the door read:

National Headquarters
NATIONAL BROTHERHOOD
OF TRUCKERS
Welcome, Brother

Malone pushed at the door and it swung open, revealing a rather
dingy-looking foyer. More Good Old Truckers At Heart, he told himself.
Mike Sand owned a quasi-palatial mansion in Puerto Rico for winter
use, and a two-floor, completely air-conditioned apartment on Fifth
Avenue for summer use. But the Headquarters Building looked dingy
enough to make truckers conscience-stricken