He walked downtown for a block, still thinking about Mike Fueyo, and absently turned west again. Between Sixth and Seventh, he had another attack of brilliance and began looking for another phone booth.
He found one in a Mexican bar named the Xochitl, across the street from the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin. It was a coincidence that he had landed in another bar, he told himself hopefully, but he didn't quite believe it. To prove it to himself, he headed straight for the phone booths again and put in his call, ignoring the blandishments of several rows of sparkling bottles which he passed on the way.
He dialed the number of Lieutenant Lynch's precinct, and then found himself connected with a new desk sergeant.
"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!"
"Damn it," Malone said, "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."