"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." [Illustration] * * * * * 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.