l everybody full of holes," he said in a harsh, underworld
sort of voice, but it didn't sound very convincing. Sam approached him
gently and fished out his wallet with great care, as if Malone were a
ticking bomb ready to go off any second.

There was a little silence. Then Sam said, "Give him his gun back,
Bill," in a hushed and respectful tone.

"Give him back his gun?" the big cop said. "You gone nuts, Sam?"

Sam shook his head slowly. "Nope," he said. "But we made a terrible
mistake. Know who this guy is?"

"He's heeled," Bill said. "That's all I want to know." He put the
radio away and gave all his attention to Malone.

"He's FBI," Sam said. "The wallet says so. Badge and everything. And
not only that, Bill. He's Kenneth J. Malone."

Well, Malone thought with relief, that settled that. He wasn't a
gangster after all. He was just the FBI agent he had always known and
loved. Maybe now the cops would do-something about his head and take
him away for burial.

"Malone?" Bill said. "You mean the guy who's here about all those red
Cadillacs?"

"Sure," Sam said. "So give him his gun back." He looked at Malone.
"Listen, Mr. Malone," he said. "We're sorry. We're sorry as hell."

"That's all right," Malone said absently. He moved his head slowly and
looked around. His suspicions were confirmed. There wasn't a red
Cadillac anywhere in sight, and from the looks of the street there
never had been. "It's gone," he said, but the cops weren't listening.

"We better get you to a hospital," Bill said. "As soon as the prowl
car gets here, we'll take you right on down to St. Vincent's. Can you
tell us what happened? Or is it classified?"

Malone wondered what could be classified about a blow on the head, and
decided not to think about it. "I can tell you," he said, "if you'll
answer one question for me."

"Sure, Mr. Malone," Bill said. "We'll be glad to help."

"Anything at all," Sam said.

Malone gave them what he hoped was a gracious and condescending smile.
"All right, then," he said. "Where the hell am I?"

"In New York," Sam said.

"I know that," Malone said tiredly. "Anywhere in particular, or just
sort of all over New York?"

"Ninth Street," Bill said hurriedly. "Near the Village. Is that where
you were when they slugged you?"

"I guess so," Malone said. "Sure." He nodded, and immediately
remembered that he shouldn't have. He closed his eyes until the pain
had softened to agony, and then opened them again.