"I'm Malone," he said. "I want to talk to Lynch."
"Glad to know you, Malone," the desk sergeant said pleasantly. "Only Lieutenant Lynch doesn't want to subscribe to the Irish Echo."
"I'm the FBI." He showed his badge.
The desk sergeant took a good long look at it. "Maybe you are, and maybe you aren't," he said at last. "Does the lieutenant know you?"
"We were kids together," Malone said. "We're brothers. Siamese twins. Put him on the phone."
"Wait a minute," said the desk sergeant. "I'll check."
The screen went blank for two agonizing minutes before it cleared again to show Lynch's face.
"Hello, Mr. Malone," Lynch said formally. "Have you found some new little trick to show us poor, stupid policemen? Like, say, making yourself vanish?"
"I'll make the whole police force vanish," Malone said, "in a couple of minutes. I called to ask a favor."
"Anything," Lynch said. "Anything within my poor power. Whatever I have is yours. Whither thou goest—"