een
much more comfortable in a ten-gallon Stetson instead of the
regulation blue cap, leaned out at Bill, Sam, and Malone.

"What's the trouble here?" he said in a harsh, high voice.

"No trouble," Bill said, and went over to the car. He began talking to
the two cops inside in a low, urgent voice. Meanwhile, Sam got his arm
around Malone and began pulling him away from the lamp post.

Malone was a little unwilling to let go, at first. But Sam was
stronger than he looked. He convoyed the FBI agent carefully to the
rear door of the prowl car, opened it and levered Malone gently to a
seat inside, just as Bill said, "So with the cut and all, we figured
he ought to go over to St. Vincent's. You people were already on the
way, so we didn't bother with ambulances."

The driver snorted. "Next time you want taxi service," he said, "you
just call us up. What do you think, a prowl car's an easy life?"

"Easier than doing a beat," Bill said mournfully. "And anyway," he
added in a low, penetrating whisper, "the guy's FBI."

"So the FBI's got all kinds of equipment," the driver said. "The
latest. Why don't he whistle up a helicopter or a jet?" Then,
apparently deciding that further invective would get him nowhere, he
settled back in his seat, said, "Aah, forget it," and started the car
with a small but perceptible jerk.

Malone decided not to get into the argument. He was tired, and it was
late. He rested his head on the back seat and tried to relax, but all
he could do was think about red Cadillacs.

He wished he had never even heard of red Cadillacs.

2

And it had all started so simply, too. Malone remembered very clearly
the first time he had had any indication that red Cadillacs were
anything unusual, or special. Before that, he'd viewed them all with
slightly wistful eyes: red, blue, green, gray, white, or even black
Cadillacs were all the same to him. They spelled luxury and wealth and
display, and a lot of other nice things.

Now, he wasn't at all sure what they spelled. Except that it was
definitely uncomfortable, and highly baffling.

He'd walked into the offices of Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI,
just one week ago. It was a beautiful office, pine-paneled and
spacious, and it boasted an enormous polished desk. And behind the
desk sat Burris himself, looking both tired and somehow a little
kindly.

"You sent for me, Chief?" Malone said.

"That's right." Burris nodd