Malone began to feel slightly dangerous. Maybe he was a famous gangster. He wasn't sure. Maybe all this about being an FBI agent was just a figment of his imagination. Blows on the head did funny things. "I'll drill everybody full of holes," he said in a harsh, underworld sort of voice, but it didn't sound very convincing. Sam approached him gently and fished out his wallet with great care, as if Malone were a ticking bomb ready to go off any second.
There was a little silence. Then Sam said: "Give him his gun back, Bill," in a hushed and respectful tone.
"Give him back his gun?" the big cop said. "You gone nuts, Sam?"
Sam shook his head slowly. "Nope," he said. "But we made a terrible mistake. Know who this guy is?"
"He's heeled," Bill said. "That's all I want to know." He put the radio away and gave all his attention to Malone.
"He's FBI," Sam said. "The wallet says so. Badge and everything. And not only that, Bill. He's Kenneth J. Malone."
Well, Malone thought with relief, that settled that. He wasn't a gangster after all. He was just the FBI agent he had always known and
loved. Maybe now the cops would do something about his head and take him away for burial.
"Malone?" Bill said. "You mean the guy who's here about all those red Cadillacs?"