Malone pushed at the door and it swung open, revealing a rather dingy-looking foyer. More Good Old Truckers At Heart, he told himself. Mike Sand owned a quasi-palatial mansion in Puerto Rico for winter use, and a two-floor, completely air-conditioned apartment on Fifth Avenue for summer use. But the Headquarters Building looked dingy enough to make truckers conscience-stricken about paying back dues.
Behind the reception desk there was a man whose face was the approximate shape and color of a slightly used waffle. He looked up from his crossword puzzle as Malone came in, apparently trying to decide whether or not this new visitor should be greeted with: "Welcome, Brother!"
Taking pity on his indecision, Malone strode to the desk and said: "Tell Mike Sand he has a visitor."
The waffle-faced man blinked. "Mr. Sand is busy right now," he said. "Who wants to talk to him?"
Malone tried to look steely-eyed and tough. "You pick up the intercom," he said, "and you tell Sand there's a man out here who's in the cloak-and-suit business."
"The what?"
"Tell him this man is worried about a recent shipment of buttons," Malone went on.
"Mister," the waffle-faced man said, "you're nuts."
"So I'm nuts," Malone said. "Make the call."
It was put through. After a few minutes of earnest conversation the man turned to look at Malone again, dizzied wonder in his eyes. "Mr. Sand says go right up," he told the FBI Agent in a shocked voice. "Elevator to the third floor."