A Spaceship Named: 45 Sci-Fi Novels & Stories in One Volume. Randall Garrett

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СКАЧАТЬ of Saint Mary the Virgin. It was just a coincidence that he had landed in another bar, he told himself hopefully, but he didn't quite believe it. To prove it to himself, he headed straight for the phone booths again and put in his call, ignoring the blandishments of several rows of sparkling bottles which he passed on the way.

      He dialed the number for Lieutenant Lynch's precinct, and then found himself connected with a new desk sergeant.

      "I'm Malone," he said. "I want to talk to Lynch."

      "Glad to know you, Malone," the desk sergeant said pleasantly. "Only Lieutenant Lynch doesn't want to subscribe to the Irish Echo."

      "I'm the FBI." He showed his badge.

      The desk sergeant took a good long look at it. "Maybe you are, and maybe you aren't," he said at last. "Does the lieutenant know you?"

      "We were kids together," Malone said. "We're brothers. Siamese twins. Put him on the phone."

      "Wait a minute," said the desk sergeant. "I'll check."

      The screen went blank for two agonizing minutes before it cleared again to show Lynch's face.

      "Hello, Mr. Malone," Lynch said formally. "Have you found some new little trick to show us poor, stupid policemen? Like, say, making yourself vanish?"

      "I'll make the whole police force vanish," Malone said, "in a couple of minutes. I called to ask a favor."

      "Anything," Lynch said. "Anything within my poor power. Whatever I have is yours. Whither thou goest—"

      "Knock it off," Malone said, and then grinned. After all, there was no sense in making an enemy out of Lynch.

      Lynch blinked, took a deep breath, and said in an entirely different voice: "O.K., Malone. What's the favor?"

      "Do you still have that list of Silent Spooks?" Malone said.

      "Sure I do," Lynch said. "Why? I gave you a copy of it."

      "I can't do this job," Malone said "You'll have to."

      "Yes, sir," Lynch said, and saluted.

      "Just listen," Malone said. "I want you to check up on every kid on that list."

      "And what are we supposed to do when we find them?" Lynch said.

      "That's the trouble," Malone said. "You won't."

      "And why not?"

      "I'll lay you ten to one," Malone said, "that every one of them has skipped out. Left home. Without giving a forwarding address."

      Lynch nodded slowly. "Ten to one?" he said. "Want to make that a money bet? Or does the FBI frown on gambling?"

      "Ten dollars to your one," Malone said. "O.K.?"

      "Made," Lynch said. "You've got the bet ... just for the hell of it, understand."

      "Oh, sure," Malone said.

      "And where can I call you to collect?"

      Malone shook his head. "You can't," he said. "I'll call you."

      "I will wait with anxiety," Lynch said. "But it had better be before eight. I get off then."

      "If I can make it," Malone said.

      "If you can't," Lynch said, "call me at home." He gave Malone the number, and then added: "Whatever information I get, I can keep for my own use this time, can't I?"

      "You've already got all the information you're going to get. I just gave it to you."

      "That," Lynch said, "we'll see."

      "I'll call to collect my money," Malone said.

      "We'll talk about it later," Lynch said. "Farewell, old pal."

      "Flights of angels," Malone said, "sing thee to thy rest."

      Malone replaced the microphone and headed for the door. Halfway there, however, he stopped. He hadn't had a tequila in a long time, and he thought he owed it to himself. He felt he had come out ahead in his exchange with Lynch, and another medal was in order.

      Only a small one, though. He told himself that he would order one tequila and quit. Besides, he had to meet Dorothy.

      He sat down on one of the tall bar stools. The bartender bustled over and eyed him speculatively.

      "Tequila con limon" he said negligently.

      "Ah," the bartender said. "Si, senor."

      Malone waited with ill-concealed impatience. At last it arrived.

      Malone took the small glass of tequila in his right hand, with the slice of lemon held firmly between the index and middle fingers of the same hand, the rind facing in toward the glass. On the web between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand he had sprinkled a little salt. Moving adroitly and with dispatch, he downed the tequila, licked off the salt and bit his teeth into the lemon slice.

      It felt better than good; it felt wonderful. He hadn't had such a good time in years.

      He had three more before he left the Xochitl.

      Then, noticing the time, he moved in a hurry and got out of the bar before temptation overcame him and he started ordering still more. It was nearly six o'clock, and he had to meet Dorothy at Topp's.

      He hoped he could find it.

      He headed downtown toward Forty-second Street, turned left and—sure enough—there was a big red sign. It said Topp's. Malone beamed his approval at it. It was just where it ought to be, and he was grateful.

      He pushed open the glass door of the place and went in.

      The maître d'hôtel was a chunky man with a pleasant face, a receding hairline and some distance back on his head, dark, curly hair. He beamed at Malone as if the FBI agent were a long-lost brother. "Table for one, sir?" he said.

      "No," Malone said, peering into the place. It was much bigger than he had expected. "No," he said again. "I guess I'll just have a drink at the bar."

      The maître d' smiled and bowed him to a bar stool. Malone sat down and looked the place over again. His first glance had shown him that Dorothy wasn't there yet, but he saw no harm in making sure. Always be careful of your facts, he admonished himself a little fuzzily.

      There were a lot of women in the place, but they were all with escorts. Some of them had two escorts, and Malone wondered about them. Were they drunk, or was he? It was obvious that someone was seeing double, but Malone wasn't quite sure who.

      He stared at his face in the bar mirror for a few seconds, and ordered a bourbon and soda when a bartender came over and occluded the image. The bartender went away and Malone went on studying himself.

      He wasn't bad-looking for an FBI agent. He was taller than his father, anyway, and less heavily built. That was one good thing. As a matter of fact, Malone told СКАЧАТЬ