He was sitting at his desk, talking on the telephone. Malone couldn't see the face on the screen, but Boyd was scowling at it fiercely. "Sure," he said. "So some guy makes a fuss. That's what you're there for."
"But he wants to sue the city," a voice said tinnily. "Or somebody, anyhow."
"Let him sue," Boyd said. "We've got authority. Just get that car."
"Look," the voice said. "I—"
"I don't care now," Boyd snapped. "Get it. Then hand it over to the pickup squad and say, 'Mr. Malone wants this car immediately.' They'll know what to do. Got that?"
"Sure, Mr. Boyd," the voice said. "But I don't—"
"Never mind," Boyd said. "Go ahead and get the job done. The United States of America is depending on you." With one last scowl, he hung up and swung around to face Malone. "You gave me a great job," he said. "I really love it, you know that?"
"It's got to be done," Malone said in a noncommittal voice. "How's it going so far?"
Boyd closed his eyes for a second. "Twenty-three red 1972 Cadillacs to date—which isn't bad, I suppose," he said. "And six calls like the one you just heard. All from agents with problems. What am I supposed to do when a guy catches a couple necking in a 1972 red Cadillac?"
"At this time of day?" Malone said.