"Every single one of them," Lynch said. "Right from around here." There was a little silence. "Who are they?" Malone said carefully. "They're some kind of kid gang--a social club, or something like that. This first kid--Miguel Fueyo's his full name--is the leader. They call themselves the Silent Spooks." "The what?" It seemed to Malone that the name was just a little fancy, even for a kid gang. "The Silent Spooks," Lynch said. "I can't help it. But here they are, every one of them: Fueyo, Ramon Otravez, Mario Grito, Silvo Envoz, Alvarez Altapor, Felipe la Barba, Juan de los Santos, and Ray del Este. Right down the line." He looked up from the notebook with a blank expression on his face. "All of them kids from this neighborhood. The Silent Spooks." "They know you?" Malone said. "Sure they do," Lynch said. "They all know me. But do they know you?" Malone thought. "They could have heard of me," he said at last, trying to be as modest as possible. "I guess," Lynch said grudgingly. "How old are they?" Malone said. "Fourteen to seventeen," Lynch said. "Somewhere in there. You know how these kid things run." "The Silent Spooks," Malone said meditatively. It was a nice name, in a way; you just had to get used to it for a while. When he had been a kid, he'd belonged to a group that called itself the East Division Street Kids. There just wasn't much romance in a name like that. Now the Silent Spooks... With a wrench, he brought his mind back to the subject at hand. "Do they get into much trouble?" he said. "Well, no," Lynch said reluctantly. "As a matter of fact, they don't. For a bunch like that, around here, they're pretty well behaved, as far as that goes." "What do you mean?" Malone said. Lynch's face took on a delicately unconcerned appearance. "I don't know," he said. "They just don't get into neighborhood trouble. Maybe a scrap now and then--nothing big, though. Or maybe one of them cuts a class at school or argues with his teacher. But there's nothing unusual, and damn little of anything." He frowned. Malone said, "Something's got to be wrong. What is it?" "Well," Lynch said, "they do seem to have a hell of a lot of money to spend." Malone sat down in a chair across the desk, and leaned eagerly toward Lynch. "Money?" he said. "Money," Lynch said. "New clothes. Cigarettes. Malone, three of them are even supporting their parents. Old Jose Otravez--Ramon's old man--quit his job a couple of months ago, and hasn't worked since. Spends all his time in bars, and never runs out of dough--and don't tell me you can do that on unemployment insurance. Or social security payments." "Okay," Malone said. "I won't tell you." "And there's others. All the others, in fact. Mike Fueyo's sister dresses fit to kill, like a high-fashion model. And the Grito kid--" "Wait a minute," Malone said. "From what you tell me, this isn't just a little extra money. These kids must be rolling in the stuff. Up to their ears in dough."