The Fourth Postman. Craig Inc. Rice

      “Standing?” Malone said.

      “Watching,” Joe the Angel said. “Big. Tall.”

      “How tall?” Malone asked, not really wanting to know.

      Joe the Angel stretched his arm up and said, “So tall.” He poured a drink for himself and said, “All black. Malone, you go home now, and I will take care of the little dog ”

      “I will not go home now,” Malone said, “and I will take care of the little dog.”

      “The police, too,” Joe the Angel said. “They want to know—” He looked around the bar, made sure that no one was listening, and said softly, “You are in trouble, Malone.” He nodded toward the phone booth where a very ordinary-looking man in a tan overcoat was making a phone call.

      “That’s no novelty,” Malone growled. He too had recognized the man in the tan overcoat, who obviously was now calling von Flanagan to say “Malone is here.”

      Joe the Angel poured beer in the mutt’s saucer and said, “Malone, I am your friend. Drink up and go home.”

      “See if the tall someone is still outside,” Malone told him.

      Joe took a quick look, and nodded. He glanced anxiously toward the phone booth.

      “I wish I knew why von Flanagan wants me,” Malone said. He downed his drink and said, “Or maybe I’m glad that I don’t know.”

      “When he was here looking for you,” Joe volunteered, “he says you stole something from the scene of a crime.”

      Malone scowled. He couldn’t remember stealing anything from the scene of a crime, or from anywhere else.

      At that moment the man in the tan overcoat emerged from the telephone booth and sat down in the back room, next to the rear door. Malone and Joe the Angel looked at each other helplessly.

      The mutt chose that instant to snap at the ankle of a stranger who was lingering over a short beer. The stranger aimed an inaccurate kick at the mutt. Malone promptly aimed an unpleasant and possibly accurate name at the stranger, who immediately hurled the remains of his beer at Malone.

      Thirty seconds later Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar was the scene of a small-sized riot, with every customer joining in impartially and joyously. The man in the tan overcoat rushed back to the telephone booth, and Malone seized that opportunity to escape through the rear door.

      He paused to pat the mutt and say, “Nice quick thinking, chum,” and then headed down the alley.

      Von Flanagan was looking for him. It was something that could be straightened out in a hurry, but he didn’t feel like wasting time with von Flanagan right now. And out in front of Joe the Angel’s a monster, probably eight feet tall, was waiting for him. Or, if not a monster, a someone. Right now, either one was bad enough. The little lawyer had no idea why anyone should be following him, but at the moment he didn’t want to know.

      He decided that the safest place to head for right now was Jake and Helene’s apartment.

      At the end of the alley he hailed a passing cab, got in fast and said, “The Ambassador West.”