Malone said: "Hm-m-m," to himself, cleared his throat and tried it again. By now he was at the corner of the block, where he nearly collided with a workman who was busily stowing away a gigantic ladder, a pot of paint and a brush. Malone looked up at the street sign, where the words: "Avenue of the Americas" had been painted out, and "Sixth Avenue" hand-lettered in. "They finally gave in," the painter told him. "But do you think they'll buy new signs? Nah. Cheap. That's all they are. Cheap as pretzels." He gave Malone a friendly push with one end of the ladder and disappeared into the crowd. Malone didn't have the faintest idea of what he was talking about. And how cheap could a pretzel be, anyway? Malone didn't remember ever having seen an especially tight-fisted one. New York, he decided for the fifteenth time, was a strange place. He walked downtown for a block, still thinking about Mike Fueyo, and absently turned west again. Between Sixth and Seventh, he had another attack of brilliance and began looking for another phone booth. He found one in a Mexican bar named the Xochitl, across the street from the Church 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.