The Impossibles | Page 3

"You're fine. Maybe just one too many, huh?"
"No," Malone said. The effort exhausted him, and he had to catch his
breath before he could say anything else. But the cops waited patiently.
At last he said, "Somebody slugged me."
"Slugged?" the big cop said.

"Right." Malone remembered just in time not to nod his head.
"How about a description, buddy?" the big cop said.
"Didn't see him," Malone said. He let go of the post with one hand,
keeping a precarious grip with the other. He stared at his watch. The
hands danced back and forth, but he focused on them after a while. It
was 1:05. "Happened just--a few minutes ago," he said. "Maybe you
can catch him."
The big cop said, "Nobody around here. The place is deserted--except
for you, buddy." He paused and then added: "Let's see some
identification, huh? Or did he take your wallet?"
Malone thought about getting the wallet, and decided against it. The
motions required would be a little tricky, and he wasn't sure he could
manage them without letting go of the post entirely. At last he decided
to let the cop get his wallet. "Inside coat pocket," he said.
The other policeman blinked and looked up. His face was a studied
blank. "Hey, buddy," he said. "You know you got blood on your head?"
"Be damned," the big cop said. "Sam's right. You're bleeding, mister."
"Good," Malone said.
The big cop said, "Huh?"
"I thought maybe my skull was going to explode from high blood
pressure," Malone said. It was beginning to be a little easier to talk.
"But as long as there's a slow leak, I guess I'm out of danger."
"Get his wallet," Sam said. "I'll watch him."
A hand went into Malone's jacket pocket. It tickled a little bit, but
Malone didn't think of objecting. Naturally enough, the hand and
Malone's wallet did not make an instantaneous connection. When the
hand touched the bulky object strapped near Malone's armpit, it
stopped, frozen, and then cautiously snaked the object out.

"What's that, Bill?" Sam said.
Bill looked up with the object in his hand. He seemed a little dazed.
"It's a gun," he said.
"My God," Sam said. "The guy's heeled! Watch him! Don't let him get
away!"
Malone considered getting away, and decided that he couldn't move.
"It's okay," he said.
"Okay, hell," Sam said. "It's a .44 Magnum. What are you doing with a
gun, Mac?" He was no longer polite and friendly. "Why [are] you
carrying a gun?" he said.
"I'm not carrying it," Malone said tiredly. "Bill is. Your pal."
Bill backed away from Malone, putting the Magnum in his pocket and
keeping the FBI agent covered with his own Police Positive. At the
same time, he fished out the personal radio every patrolman carried in
his uniform, and began calling for a prowl car in a low, somewhat
nervous voice.
Sam said, "My God. A gun. He could of shot everybody."
"Get his wallet," Bill said. "He can't hurt you now. I disarmed him."
Malone began to feel slightly dangerous. Maybe he was a famous
gangster. He wasn't sure. Maybe all this about being an FBI agent was
just a figment of his imagination. Blows on the head did funny things.
"I'll drill everybody full of holes," he said in a harsh, underworld sort of
voice, but it didn't sound very convincing. Sam approached him gently
and fished out his wallet with great care, as if Malone were a ticking
bomb ready to go off any second.
There was a little silence. Then Sam said, "Give him his gun back,
Bill," in a hushed and respectful tone.
"Give him back his gun?" the big cop said. "You gone nuts, Sam?"

Sam shook his head slowly. "Nope," he said. "But we made a terrible
mistake. Know who this guy is?"
"He's heeled," Bill said. "That's all I want to know." He put the radio
away and gave all his attention to Malone.
"He's FBI," Sam said. "The wallet says so. Badge and everything. And
not only that, Bill. He's Kenneth J. Malone."
Well, Malone thought with relief, that settled that. He wasn't a gangster
after all. He was just the FBI agent he had always known and loved.
Maybe now the cops would do-something about his head and take him
away for burial.
"Malone?" Bill said. "You mean the guy who's here about all those red
Cadillacs?"
"Sure," Sam said. "So give him his gun back." He looked at Malone.
"Listen, Mr. Malone," he said. "We're sorry. We're sorry as hell."
"That's all right," Malone said absently. He moved his head slowly and
looked around. His suspicions were confirmed. There wasn't a red
Cadillac anywhere in sight, and from the looks of the street there never
had