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 nodded. "Malone, you've been working too hard lately." Now, Malone thought, it was coming. The dismissal he'd always feared. At last Burris had found out that he wasn't the bright, intelligent, fearless, and alert FBI agent he was supposed to be. Burris had discovered that he was nothing more or less than lucky, and that all the "fine jobs" he was supposed to have done were only the result of luck. Oh, well, Malone thought. Not being an FBI agent wouldn't be so bad. He could always find another job. Only at the moment he couldn't think of one he liked. He decided to make one last plea. "I haven't been working so hard, Chief," he said. "Not too hard, anyhow. I'm in great shape. I--" "I've taken advantage of you, Malone, that's what I've done," Burris said, just as if Malone hadn't spoken at all. "Just because you're the best agent I've got, that's no reason for me to hand you all the tough ones." "Just because I'm what?" Malone said, feeling slightly faint. "I've given you the tough ones because you could handle them," Burris said. "But that's no reason to keep loading jobs on you. After that job you did on the Gorelik kidnaping, and the way you wrapped up the Transom counterfeit ring--well, Malone, I think you need a little relaxation."