"What?"
"I said sure," Fernack said. "Isn't that what you wanted?"
"Well, yes," Malone said, "but—"
Fernack leaned all the way back in his chair, his face a mask of disappointment and frustration. "Malone," he said, "I wish I'd never heard of this case. I wish I'd been retired or died before it ever came up. I've been a police officer in New York for a long time, and I wish this case had waited a few more years to happen."
He stopped. Malone leaned against the back wall of the phone booth and lit a cigarette.
"Andy Burris called me less than half an hour ago," Fernack said.
"Oh," Malone said.
"That's right," Fernack said. "Good old Burris of the FBI. And he told me this was a National Security case. National Security. It's your baby, Malone, because Burris wants it that way." He snorted. "So don't worry about me," he said. "I'm just here to co-operate. The patriotic, loyal, dumb slave of a grateful government."
Malone blew out a plume of smoke. "You know, John Henry," he said, "you might have made a good FBI man yourself. You've got the right attitude."
"Never mind the jokes," Fernack said bitterly.