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."
"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."
"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."
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 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."
"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."
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.
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.