2
And it had all started so simply, too. Malone remembered very clearly the first time he had had any indication that red Cadillacs were anything unusual, or special. Before that, he'd viewed them all with slightly wistful eyes: red, blue, green, gray, white, or even black Cadillacs were all the same to him. They spelled luxury and wealth and display, and a lot of other nice things.
Now, he wasn't at all sure what they spelled. Except that it was definitely uncomfortable, and highly baffling.
He'd walked into the offices of Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI, just one week ago. It was a beautiful office, pine-paneled and spacious, and it boasted an enormous polished desk. And behind the desk sat Burris himself, looking both tired and somehow a little kindly.
"You sent for me, Chief?" Malone said.
"That's right." Burris nodded. "Malone, you've been working too hard lately."
Now, Malone thought, it was coming. The dismissal he'd always feared. At last Burris had found out that he wasn't the bright, intelligent, fearless, and alert FBI agent he was supposed to be. Burris had discovered that he was nothing more or less than lucky, and that all the "fine jobs" he was supposed to have done were only the result of luck.
Oh, well, Malone thought. Not being an FBI agent wouldn't be so bad.
He could always find another job.
Only at the moment he couldn't think of one he liked.
He decided to make one last plea. "I haven't been working so hard,
Chief," he said. "Not too hard, anyhow. I'm in great shape. I—"