waythings go straightening them out does no good. Something big is in thewind, friend. I--"
* * * * *
The cab, on Second Avenue and Seventeenth Street, stopped for atraffic light. Malone felt an itch in the back of his mind, as if hisprescience were trying to warn him of something; he'd felt it for alittle while, he realized, but only now could he pay attention to it.
The door on the driver's side opened suddenly, and so did the doornext to Malone. Two young men, obviously in their early twenties, werestanding in the openings, holding guns that were plainly intended forimmediate use.
The one next to the driver said, in a flat voice: "Don't nobody getwise. That way nobody gets hurt. Give us--"
That was as far as he got.
When the rear door had opened, Malone had had a full second to preparehimself, which was plenty of time. The message from his precognitivepowers had come along just in time.
The second gunman thrust his gun into the cab. He seemed almost to behanding it to Malone politely, and this effect was spoiled only byMalone's twist of the gunman's wrist, which must have felt as if he'dput his hand into a loop tied to the axle of a high-speed centrifuge.The gunman let go of the gun and Malone, spurning it, let it drop.
He didn't need it. His other hand had gone into his coat and come outagain with the .44 Magnum.
The thug at the front of the car had barely realized what washappening by the time it was all over. Automatic reflexes turned himaway from the driver and toward the source of danger, his gun pointingtoward Malone. But the reflexes gave out as he found himself staringdown a rifled steel tube which, though hardly more thanseven-sixteenths of an inch in diameter, must have looked as though ahigh-speed locomotive might come roaring out of it at any second.
Malone hardly needed to bark: "_Drop it!_" The revolver hit the seatnext to the cabbie.
"Driver," Malone said in a conversational voice, "can you handle agun?"
"Why, it is better than even that I still can," the cabbie said. "I amin the business myself many years ago, before I see the error of myways and buy a taxi with the profits I make. It is a high-paybusiness," he went on, "but very insecure."
The cabbie scooped up the weapon by his side, flipped out the cylinderexpertly to check the cartridges, flipped it back in and centered themuzzle on the gunman who'd dropped the revolver.
"It is more than thirty years since I use one of these," he saidgently, "but I do not forget how to pull the trigger, and at thisrange I can hardly miss."
Malone noticed vaguely that he was still holding hands with the secondgunman, and that this one was trying to struggle free. Malone shruggedand eased off a bit, at the same time shifting his own aim. The .44Magnum now pointed at gunman number two, and the cabbie was aiming atgunman number one. The tableau was silent for some seconds.
"Now," Malone said at last, "we wait. Driver, if you would sort oflean against your horn button, we might be able to speed things up alittle. The light has turned green."
"The local constables," the cabbie said, "do not bother with stalledcars in traffic these days."
"But," Malone pointed out, "I have a hunch no cop could resist a taxiwhich is not only stalled and blocking traffic but is also blattingits horn continuously. Strike or no strike," he finishedsententiously, "there are things beyond the power of man to ignore."
"Friend," the cabbie said, "you convince me. It is a good move." Hesagged slightly against the horn button, keeping the gun centered atall times on the man before him.
The horn began to wail horribly.
The first gunman swallowed nervously. "Hey, now, listen," he said,shouting slightly above the horn. "This wasn't anything. Just a gag,see? A little gag. We was playing a joke. On a friend."
The driver addressed Malone. "Do you ever see either of these boysbefore?"
"Never," Malone said.
"Nor do I," the cabbie said. He eyed the gunman. "We are not yourfriend," he said. "Either of us."
"No, no," the gunman said. "Not you. This friend, he ... uh ... owns ataxi, and we thought this was it. It was kind of a joke, see? Afriendly joke, that's all. Believe me, the gun's not even loaded. Bothof them aren't. Phony bullets, honest. Believe me?"
"Why, naturally I believe you," the cabbie said politely. "I neverdoubt the word of a stranger, especially such an honest-appearingstranger as you seem to be. And since the gun is loaded with falsebullets, as you say, all you have to do is reach over and take it awayfrom me."
There was a short silence.
"A joke," the gunman said feebly. "Honest, just a joke."
"We believe you," Malone assured him grandly. "As a matter of fact, weappreciate the joke so much that we want you to tell it to a panel oftwelve citizens, a judge and a couple of lawyers, so they canappreciate it, too. They get little fun out of life and your joke maygive them a few moments of happiness. Why hide your light under analibi?"
The horn continued its dismal wail for a few seconds more before twopatrolmen and a sergeant came up on horses. It took somewhat more timethan that for Malone to convince the sergeant that he didn't have timeto go down to the station to prefer charges. He showed hisidentification and the police were suitably impressed.
"Lock 'em up for violating the Sullivan Law," he said. "I'm sure theydon't have licenses for these lovely little guns of theirs."
"Probably not," the sergeant agreed. "There's been an awful lot ofthis kind of thing going on lately. But here's an idea: the cabbiehere can come on with us."
The top of the cabbie's head turned pale. "That," he said, "is thetrouble with being a law-abiding citizen such as I have been forupwards of thirty years. Because I do not want to lose twenty dollarsto these young strangers, I lose twenty dollars' worth of time in aprecinct station, the air of which is very bad for my asthma."
Malone, taking the hint, dug a twenty out of his pockets, and thenadded another to it, remembering how much he had spent in Las Vegas,where his money funneled slowly into the pockets of Primo Palveri. Thecabbie took the money with haste and politeness and stowed it away.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I am now prepared to spend the entire nightsigning affidavits, if enough affidavits can be dug up." He lookedpleased.
"Mr. Malone," the sergeant said wearily, "people just don't realizewhat's going on in this town. We never did have half enough cops, andnow, with so many men resigning and getting arrested and suspended, wehaven't got a quarter enough. People think this strike business isfunny, but if we spent any time fiddling around with traffic andparking tickets, we'd never have time to stop even crimes like this,let alone the big jobs. As it is, though, there haven't been a lot ofbig ones. Every hood in the city's out to make a couple of bucks--butthat's it so far, thank God."
Malone nodded. "How about the FBI?" he said. "Want them to come in andhelp?"
"Mr. Malone," the sergeant said, "the City of New York can take verygood care of itself, without outside interference."
Some day, Malone told himself, good old New York City was going tosecede from the Union and form a new country entirely. Then it wouldhave a war with New Jersey and probably be wiped right off the map.
Viewing the traffic around him as he hunted for another cab, he wasn'tat all sure that that was a bad idea. He began to wish vaguely that hehad borrowed one of the policemen's horses.
* * * * *
Malone wasn't in the least worried about arriving at Mike Sand'soffice late. In the first place, Sand was notorious for sleeping lateand working late to make up for it. His work schedule was somewherearound forty-five degrees out of phase with the rest of the world,which made it just about average for the National Brotherhood ofTruckers. It had never agitated for a nine-to-five work day. A mandriving a truck, after all, worked all sorts of odd hours--and theunion officials did the same, maybe just to prove that they were allgood truckers at heart.
The sign over the door read:
National Headquarters
NATIONAL BROTHERHOOD OF TRUCKERS Welcome, Brother
Malone pushed at the door and it swung open, revealing a ratherdingy-looking foyer. More Good Old Truckers At Heart, he told himself.Mike Sand owned a quasi-palatial mansion in Puerto Rico for winteruse, and a two-floor, completely air-conditioned apartment on FifthAvenue for summer use. But the Headquarters Building looked dingyenough to make truckers conscience-stricken about paying back dues.
Behind the reception desk there was a man whose face was theapproximate shape and color of a slightly used waffle.