Stalking the Dragon Page 14

  “Very likely,” said Mallory. “No, scratch that. Certainly.”

  “Then I just don't see it,” said Winnifred. “If Fluffy was an odds-on favorite, and Brody faked her kidnapping so he could bet on someone else, then Carmelita becomes as heavy a favorite as Fluffy was, so how can he show more of a profit by betting on her?”

  “I don't know the answers yet,” said Mallory. “But I sure as hell intend to find out.”

  “How?”

  “I'm going to talk to the one man who can answer my questions—my bookie.”

  CHAPTER 17

  2:06 AM–2:33 AM

  Joey Chicago's Three-Star Tavern looked like it belonged in the 1950s. Some of the customers were dressed as if they didn't know that it wasn't still the 1950s.

  Mallory and his party entered the place. The wall was lined with a row of leather booths. There were a few tables, a pair of pinball machines, and a long bar with leather barstools that had seen better days. The wall behind the bar was covered with the photographs of great Americans: Babe Ruth, Al Capone, Man o’ War, and Voluptuous Vanessa.

  The detective turned to Joe. “Find a booth or a table and sit there with the gremlin until I call you or tell you it's time to leave.”

  “And if he tries to escape?” asked Joe.

  “That would make me very unhappy,” said Mallory.

  Joe smiled and patted the hilt of his sword. “Not as unhappy as it'll make him,” he assured the detective.

  “Joey,” said Mallory to the man behind the bar, “give my ladyfriend here”—he indicated Felina—“some milk.”

  Joey Chicago made a face. “You want milk, go to a dairy.”

  “You got cream for a brandy alexander?”

  “Ah, Brandy Alexander,” said a short man at the bar. “She belongs in the Ecdysiasts’ Hall of Fame. I knew her well. And often. What a dish!”

  “I'll have to charge you for the whole drink,” said Joey Chicago.

  “That's fine. Felina, drink what the man gives you and try to behave yourself.”

  “How come you never give me anything easy to do?” she complained.

  “Okay, here's an easy one. Go out in the street without the cream and wait for me.”

  “I'll behave,” she said, walking to the bar. “Give me a tall one.”

  “You talking drinks or tomcats?” asked Joey Chicago.

  “Yes,” said Felina with a catlike smile.

  Mallory looked around and spotted the man he was after: normal height and weight, dressed in a white suit, a black silk shirt, a silver necktie, a black handkerchief in a breast pocket, a straw hat in February, and two-toned shoes that looked like they should have spikes on the bottoms. The detective and Winnifred walked over to the third booth and sat down opposite him.

  “Hi, Harry,” said Mallory. “Let me introduce you to my partner, Winnifred Carruthers.”

  Harry the Book tipped his hat. “Pleased to meet you, ma'am. Any friend of Mallory's is”—he considered it for a moment—“a friend of Mallory's.”

  “I've heard a lot about you,” said Winnifred, extending her hand.

  Harry studied the hand, then chose to ignore it when he determined there was no money in it. “I would not believe a word the cops say, ma'am,” said Harry. “They have riotous imaginations.” He turned back to Mallory. “Six, two, and even that you are not here to lay a bet at two in the morning, but I would love for you to prove me wrong.”

  “Are you ever going to rent an office again?” asked Mallory.

  “You're sitting in it,” replied Harry. “Most of my clientele winds up in here, and besides my personal mage has staked out the men's room as his office. Beware of all the black candles should you pay it a visit,” he added confidentially. He folded his hands on the table between them. “Now what can I do for you? After all, it is my understanding that Flyaway is not running this week. Well,” he added, “not in a real race, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Mallory, momentarily distracted.

  “You know how they hold publicity stunts for charity from time to time, like having a football player or a track star run against a horse?”

  “Yeah, but those are exhibitions,” said Mallory. “The racetracks don't allow betting on them.”

  Harry the Book smiled. “Do I look like a racetrack?”

  “So Flyaway's in a race against a man?” said Mallory. “Who's he up against—that wide receiver for the Mauve Devils? Or maybe that kid from Miskatonic University who set the record for the hundred-yard dash?”

  “They disallowed it,” said Harry.

  “The record?” asked Mallory. “Why?”

  “I guess you did not see what was chasing him,” answered Harry.

  “So who's Flyaway up against?”

  “A former mountain climber by the name of Lester Glover.”

  “Fast?” asked Mallory.

  “Well, it is said that he went down Pike's Peak pretty damned fast,” allowed Harry. “I understand he will make the next edition of Mr. Guinness's record book.”

  “He must be very sure-footed,” offered Winnifred. “Those mountain paths can be tricky.”

  “I do not believe he ever saw one,” said Harry. “He slipped on a ledge and went top to bottom in twenty-two seconds flat.”

  “It sounds painful,” she said.

  “He didn't feel a thing the first twenty-one seconds,” said Harry. “Anyway, they amputated both his legs, and he's on oxygen, and of course he's in a wheelchair, and I seem to remember that his left arm doesn't work very well.”

  “And he's what Flyaway has to run against?” said Mallory. “It'll be a slaughter.”

  “Most of the oddsmakers agree with you.”

  “So what are the odds?” asked Mallory.

  Harry grimaced. “The best I can offer is eighty to one,” he said.

  “A nickel for a four-dollar bet?”

  “No, three hundred twenty dollars for a four-dollar bet.”

  Mallory shook his head in frustration. “You don't understand: I'm not betting on Glover. I'm betting on Flyaway.”

  “I know.”

  “And he's an eighty-to-one longshot to beat a legless man who's on oxygen?”

  “Those odds sound about right to me, John Justin,” said Winnifred.

  “I will be honest with you, Mallory,” said Harry. “You can get better than a hundred to one from most of my competitors.”

  Winnifred glared disapprovingly at Mallory as he pulled out a twenty and forked it over. “On Flyaway's nose.”

  “Done,” said Harry, taking the bill and stuffing it in a pocket. “I hope your day was going well before this terrible misfortune befell it.”

  “I almost forgot what we came here for,” said Mallory. “We need information.”

  “Certainly,” said Harry. “The first thing I can tell you is that anyone who bets on Flyaway is not the brightest bulb on the lamp.”

  “Let me ask my questions first, then tell me how dumb I am, okay?” said Mallory.

  “The floor is yours,” said Harry. There was an angry inhuman growl from beneath the table. “The table is yours,” he amended.

  “I have a client who owns the favorite for the Eastminster show tomorrow. Well, today.”

  “Good,” said Harry. He signaled to Joey Chicago. “I assume you are on retainer, so you're buying.”

  “The dragon is missing,” continued Mallory.

  “What dragon?”

  “The favorite for the show. I have a feeling that my client faked its kidnapping, but I don't know why. I thought you might throw a little light on the subject.”

  “I'd like to help,” said Harry. “but you could write a book about what I don't know about dragonnapping. In fact, I'm sure someone already has.”

  “He offered me a lot of money to find it…” began Mallory.

  “Then why do you think he stole it himself?”

  “Because he's flown the coop and saddled me with an assistant who's been less than useles
s.”

  “Hey, Gently,” said Harry to a morbidly obese balding man in a plaid suit. “Come over and say hello to John Justin Mallory and his partner.”

  The pudgy man approached them. “The famous detectives?”

  “Well, the detectives, anyway,” said Winnifred.

  “And this is Gently Gently Dawkins, one of my employees,” said Harry.

  “Everyone calls us Harry's stooges or his lackeys,” said Dawkins. “But we're not.”

  “No?” said Winnifred.

  “No,” said Dawkins, with a look of pride. “We're his flunkies.”

  “That'll do, Gently,” said Harry. “I think I see some candied peanuts over on the bar.”

  Gently Gently Dawkins backed away, then turned and raced to the bar, and grabbed a handful of the peanuts.

  “What was that about?” asked Mallory.

  “I'll match my useless assistants against yours any day of the week,” said Harry. “At least he's as honest as the day is long, especially this time of year.” He paused. “Now what is it that you two wish to know?”

  “Why would our client fake a kidnapping, and then pay us five thousand dollars if we can find the dragon and get her to Eastminster by ring time?” asked Winnifred.

  “Five large?” said Harry, clearly impressed. “Maybe he really wants her back.”

  “He doesn't,” said Mallory. “I'm convinced of that. Winnifred and I are just for show.”

  “I thought he was showing the dragon.”

  “He's not showing the dragon. There has to be money involved. I need to know what's going on.”

  “The dragon is the heavy favorite,” said Harry, pulling out a small notebook. He flicked a wand at it, and it turned to the page he wanted. “The morning line has her at six to five.”

  “If she loses,” said Mallory, “the second choice is the Grundy's chimera.”

  “Three to one right now,” said Harry, checking his book, “but I would expect her to go down to two to one or even nine to five by post time.”

  “Post time?”

  “Ring time,” amended Harry.

  “And if Fluffy—that's the dragon—doesn't make it to the ring?” asked Mallory.

  “Then she will be odds-on, maybe three to five. There is not supposed to be anything else that can give her a run for the money.”

  “Then it still doesn't make any sense!” muttered Mallory. “If one of the two is missing, the other's got a lock on it. Why fake the kidnapping when you'll make even less betting on the Grundy's chimera if Fluffy's not there?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Harry.

  Suddenly Mallory was alert. “Why not?”

  “It depends on when he makes—or made—his bet or bets,” said Harry.

  “Go on.”

  “Well, if he bets today, he might get three to one if he is exceptionally lucky, or more likely two to one. Tomorrow, it will be even shorter odds, and his three to one will be but a distant memory. But,” continued Harry, “if he laid his money down three months ago, on a future book…”

  “What's a future book?” asked Winnifred.

  “You know how you can go to Vegas, or even on the Internet, and get the odds on any upcoming event—ballgames, races, elections, everything?” asked Harry.

  “So I've been told.”

  “Well, you can get them on dog shows too,” said Harry. “And I seem to remember a few months back there was a rumor that the Grundy's chimera was pregnant and would not make the show, and for a week or two, until the rumor proved to be false, her odds shot up to forty to one.”

  “So what?” asked Mallory. “She'll be odds-on tomorrow.”

  Harry shook his head. “With a normal bet, you would be right. But if you lay down your money on a future book, you get the odds that your pick is at the moment you make the bet.”

  “Even if she drops from forty-to-one to even money?” asked Winnifred.

  “Even so,” said Harry. “But if she breaks a leg, or retires, or even dies, you are still stuck with the bet.”

  “So if our client knew the chimera wasn't pregnant,” said Mallory, “if he maybe even started the rumor himself and laid his bets with a future book, he stands to get a forty-to-one return if she wins tomorrow.”

  “That is correct.”

  Mallory wrote Brody's name down on a napkin and shoved it across the table. “Can you find out if this guy placed some big money bets around town, or even out of town, on Carmelita—the Grundy's chimera?”

  “It will take some work, but I can do it—for, shall we say, half of your retainer?”

  “Only half? You're all heart, Harry,” said Mallory bitterly.

  “You are mistaking him for a human being,” said Gently Gently Dawkins from the bar. “He is a bookmaker.”

  “But a bookmaker with a heart, as you suggest,” said Harry. “To that end, I will take your marker.”

  “I'll pay cash,” said Mallory, pulling out his wallet and peeling off five hundred dollars of the thousand Brody had given him. “But this is the end of it. No more later.”

  “This is very strange,” said Harry. “The stars have not stopped in their courses and the rivers are not flowing upstream, and yet you are in possession of five yards, and it looks like you have even more than that. It causes me serious pain to suggest it, but maybe you should quit while you are ahead of the game.”

  There was a horrible grating noise coming from the back of the room.

  “What was that?” asked Winnifred nervously.

  “Oh, that is just Dead End Dugan,” said Dawkins. “He is another of Harry's flunkies.”

  “He sounds horrible,” she said.

  “He differs from Benny Fifth Street and myself in that he is dead, and somewhat bigger than a mountain, but other than that we are alike as peas in a pod.”

  “Mighty few pods have zombies in them,” noted Mallory.

  “Well,” said Dawkins, “the truth of the matter is that he has not fully adjusted to being a zombie yet. For example, zombies cannot metabolize food or drink, but he is always munching on a pizza or pouring himself an Old Peculiar from the bar.”

  “Fascinating,” said Mallory, who was considerably less than fascinated. He turned to Harry the Book. “Okay, can you get going on this right away?”

  “This may take some time,” replied Harry. “There are more than two hundred local bookies, and that is before we cross the river to New Jersey or sojourn up to Connecticut, and of course there is always Vegas.”

  “We need to know before tomorrow afternoon,” said Mallory.

  “You can start with this,” said Harry. “The biggest future book in town is run by Hot Horse Hennigan over on the corner of Greed and Gluttony.”

  “Hot Horse Hennigan,” repeated Mallory. “Got it. I'll need some more names soon.”

  “Perhaps if you will let your partner help me…” suggested Harry. “With both of us manning phones, or at least me manning one and her womaning the other, we can get through this twice as fast.”

  “I don't know,” said Mallory. “That's going to leave me shorthanded.”

  “Shorthanded for what?” asked Harry. “We will find out if this Brody made any bets, never fear.”

  “We have a second client,” explained Mallory. “It's worth another ten thousand to us if we can find the dragon and get it into the ring on time.”

  “The goblin with the sword belongs to your entourage, does he not?” asked Harry.

  “I want him to stay here and guard our prisoner until we catch his boss,” said Mallory, indicating Jeeves. “All that leaves me is Felina.”

  “Let me consider this,” said Harry.

  “Don't consider it long,” said Mallory. “The clock is ticking.”

  “No, that is just Dean End Dugan picking his teeth,” said Harry. He was silent a moment longer. “I have it. We will make a trade until ring time. I will loan you Gently Gently Dawkins and Dead End Dugan, and you can leave the goblin here with me.” He paused. “I use Dug
an for difficult collections. Your sword-carrying flunkie can fill in for him.”

  “Then who will watch the prisoner?” asked Winnifred.

  “Hey, Joey?” shouted Harry.

  “Yeah?” asked Joey Chicago.

  “Are you in possession of an empty beer keg?”

  “At the rate things are going, I'll have one in ten minutes.”

  “Fine,” said Harry. He turned back to Mallory. “If I have to send the goblin out to make a collection, we will simply nail the gremlin inside a beer keg until he comes back.”

  “Why don't we not trade and we'll nail him in right now, and I'll take Joe Enlai with me?”

  “Think about it, John Justin,” said Winnifred suddenly. “Who's more likely to get people to talk to you—a little goblin with a sword who looks like a refugee from a cartoon, or a six-and-a-half-foot zombie?”

  “Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” replied Mallory.

  “But you will also have Gently Gently Dawkins,” noted Harry. “The more bodies you have, the more ground you can cover.” He shot Mallory a quick glance from under the brim of his hat. “You of course will pay for all his meals while he is with you.”

  “Does he do anything but eat?” asked Mallory.

  “Not to worry,” said Harry. “Dugan can go months without eating, so it evens out.”

  “And if they're keeping the dragon underwater,” added Dawkins, “why, Dugan's your man. He never breathes.”

  “If they're keeping the dragon underwater,” said Mallory, “she drowned.”

  “I never thought of that,” admitted Dawkins.

  “Why am I not surprised?” muttered Mallory.

  “You seem less than thrilled with our arrangement,” noted Harry.

  “Let's be honest,” said Mallory. “Dawkins is not going to outwit any suspects, and the only way he'll intimidate them is by eating them out of house and home.” He signed. “Okay, let me take a look at the other one.”

  “Dugan, come over here!” called Harry.

  The zombie walked over and stood in front of their booth.

  “Well?” asked Harry.

  “He looks like Primo Carnera with eczema,” said Mallory approvingly. “I'll take him.”

  “Check in by phone every couple of hours, John Justin,” said Winnifred. “Brody doubtless made the bets under a phony name. If we can find it, and match it with an address, it might save you a lot of legwork.”