Stalking The Zombie: Fables of Tonight Read online

“Business as usual,” said Mallory. “Why?”

  “There’s nothing usual about this!” said the broom. “Oh, you mean these!” said Mallory, gesturing to twenty brand-new brooms lined up on the wall, each totally covered with gold and silver glitter.

  “Yes, I mean these!” snapped the broom. “They weren’t here before! What’s going on, Mallory?”

  “You were so helpful the last few nights that I decided we could use even more brooms,” said Mallory. “And as long as I’m going to be spending all my time with them, why not surround myself with beauty?”

  “But . . . but—” sputtered Hecate.

  Mallory picked up a broom at random. “Isn’t this one gorgeous?” he said, stroking it lovingly. “I’ll never be bored on a stakeout again.”

  “You ingrate!” screamed Hecate. “You heathen! You ungrateful swine! How dare you forsake me for another broom!”

  “Another twenty brooms,” Mallory corrected it pleasantly.

  “And I would have married you!” said the broom. It began weeping copiously. “I’m going back to where I was appreciated. Maybe the Grundy didn’t spend much time with me, but I was well-cared for and people stopped by to admire me every day and . . .” Its voice trailed off.

  ‘You can stay here,” said Mallory. “I promise to take you out of the broom closet at least twice a year, for exceptionally easy cases. And think of all the fun you can have hanging around with all these truly beautiful brooms. Who knows? Some of their elegance might rub off.”

  “My mother was right!” cried the broom. “Never trust a man!”

  And then, with one final heart-wrenching sob, it vanished as quickly and completely as the Grundy ever had.

  “Well, you got rid of it, John Justin,” said Winnifred.

  “I feel like shit,” said Mallory grimly. “Still, it had to be done.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” said Felina. “7 certainly won’t feel bad when I desert you under duress.”

  “Thanks,” said Mallory ironically. “I take enormous comfort in that.”

  Felina smiled happily. “I knew you would.”

  “Remind me to check on the broom in a few months and make sure it’s doing okay,” said Mallory.

  “I will, John Justin,” said Winnifred.

  “Good.” He pulled out a tissue, blew his nose, and tossed it into the waste basket next to his desk. “When did you buy that?”

  “Buy what, John Justin?”

  “The waste basket with the fancy trim,” he said. “I don’t remember seeing it before.”

  “I didn’t buy any waste basket,” said Winnifred.

  The waste basket approached Mallory and rubbed gently against his leg.

  “I think I’m in love with you,” it said.

  THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT

  John Justin Mallory was having a bad day.

  He’d gone out to Jamaica and picked the wrong horse six races in a row, a feat made even more remarkable by the fact that his favorite, Flyaway, who had lost 54 consecutive races, wasn’t even entered.

  When he’d stopped by Joey Chicago’s for a drink on the way home, he found out they were all out of Old Peculiar and that some irate mage had hexed the tap on the Old Washensox.

  He decided to eat at Morgan the Gorgon’s 2-Star Diner and Hardware Store, made what he thought was a funny crack about wanting to eat Can’t Miss, who had just missed by 63 lengths with Mallory’s twenty dollars riding on him, and got a steak so rare that he could still see the jockey’s whip marks.

  Finally he went back to the office, where with his partner Winnifred Carruthers he plied his trade as a private detective. Winnifred had gone home for the night, and he plopped down wearily in his chair, briefly looked at the Playmate he’d pinned up on the wall (and on which Winnifred had meticulously drawn undergarments), and considered taking a hit from the office bottle, which shared a drawer with his collection of old Racing Forms and garish pulp magazines.

  “Welcome back,” said Perriwinkle, his magic mirror. “How much did you lose today? You did lose, didn’t you? I mean, I haven’t noticed the stars stopping in their courses or anything like that.”

  “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a lippy mirror.”

  “I have no lips.”

  “Details, details,” muttered Mallory.

  “Let me show you something to relax you,” suggested the mirror.

  “An old Bettie Page striptease might be nice,” said Mallory.

  “Mundane,” said Perriwinkle contemptuously. “But if you must see a stripper, how about Tassle-Twirling Tessie Twinkle, the Lizard Girl? She removes her skin four times a night, and five on Saturdays.”

  “Please,” said Mallory. “I just almost ate.”

  “Okay, hurt my feelings, spit on my offerings,” said the mirror. “See if I care.”

  It fell silent, and began displaying a 1934 Southwest Association game between the Phoenix Pompadours and the Great Falls Geldings.

  “Wonderful,” said Mallory. He spent the next half hour opening his mail, which consisted entirely of unpaid bills, except for an ad to eat at Cannibal Joe’s new all-night diner, which moved to a new location each day (or oftener if necessary). He finally finished, made a paper plane out of the heating bill, and gently tossed it toward the fireplace on the far wall. It got halfway there when a graceful figure that at first seemed human but was definitely feline launched itself from its perch atop the refrigerator in the next room and snared the bill in her mouth.

  “If you like it, I have a dozen more,” said Mallory dryly. “I’ll even pour a little mustard on them for you.”

  “I thought it was a little white bird,” said the cat person, spitting the bill onto the floor. “A fat little white bird. A fat helpless little white bird. A delicious fat helpless . . .”

  “Spare me the catalog of its virtues.”

  “All right,” she said, hopping lightly onto his desk and laying on her stomach. “Skritch between my shoulder blades.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you for some time now, Felina,” said Mallory. “What exactly is the difference between scratching and skritching?”

  Felina reached out a hand, extended her fingers, and suddenly a two-inch claw shot out of each. “7 scratch,” she said. “You skritch.”

  He reached out and skritched her back. Then suddenly she sat up.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “I did it wrong.”

  “Shhh!” she hissed. “They’re arguing.”

  Mallory looked around the empty office. “Who’s arguing?”

  “Them.”

  “I don’t see anyone.”

  “Me neither,” said Perriwinkle, the game vanishing long enough for it to look around the room.

  “They’re outside the door,” said Felina.

  “What are they arguing about?” asked Mallory.

  “You.”

  Mallory slid open his desk drawer and made sure his pistol was in it.

  “They’re arguing about how much they’re willing to pay you,” continued Felina.

  “Are they now?” said Mallory, closing the drawer.

  Felina nodded. “One of them is saying that if you cost too much they should just forget about it, and the other says it doesn’t matter what you charge because you almost certainly won’t survive to collect it.”

  “So there are two of them,” said Perriwinkle.

  ‘You must have been the brightest one in your class,” said Mallory sardonically.

  “That’s it!” snapped Perriwinkle. “No more Rita Hayworth movies for you!”

  “Is that a promise?” said Mallory.

  “Bah!” said the mirror, reverting to the second inning of the baseball game in a grainy black and white.

  “Are they still arguing?” asked Mallory.

  Felina shook her head. “No, now they both agree that you’ll die a horrible death before they have to pay you.” She shot him an innocent, ingratiating smile. “Can I watch?”

  Mallory didn’t know whet
her to ignore her or throw something at her. While he was making up his mind, the door opened and a pair of men walked in. Each wore a dark, ill-fitting suit; one was too tight and the sleeves and cuffs were too short, while the other was too loose, with sleeves and cuffs held back by thick rubber bands. The men were each about six feet tall, with wild black hair, clear blue eyes, and shaggy mustaches. Mallory’s first thought was that they were twins, or at least brothers. His second was that they needed a good barber and a better haberdasher.

  “Mr. Mallory?” said the one on the left.

  “That’s right.”

  “We are in desperate need of your services,” said the one on the right. “Mallory & Carruthers is said to be the best detective agency in all New York.”

  Mallory decided not to mention that it was the only one in New York, gestured for them to sit down, and simply waited for them to explain the nature of their problem.

  “Have you ever gone to the circus, Mr. Mallory?” asked the one on the left.

  “Not since I was a kid.”

  “Then you probably don’t remember us,” said the one on the right.

  “Probably not,” agreed Mallory. “Are you jugglers?”

  “Certainly not!” they said in unison.

  “Trapeze artists?”

  “No!”

  “I could sit here guessing all night, or you could tell me and we could get on with the case,” suggested Mallory.

  “Have you ever heard of Macro, the ten-foot-tall giant?” asked the one on the left.

  “You?” asked Mallory.

  The man shook his head. “No,” he said, gesturing toward his companion. “Him.”

  “And have you ever read about Micro, the smallest human in the world, the Nineteen-Inch Dynamo?” Macro jerked a thumb toward the one on the left. “Him.”

  “This is a joke and you guys are here for the heating bill, right?” asked Mallory.

  “I assure you this is no joke, Mr. Mallory,” said Micro.

  “We are in desperate need of your help,” added Macro.

  “I don’t think I provide the kind of help you need,” said Mallory.

  “Only you can provide it!” said Micro desperately. “We have lost what makes us unique!”

  “You’ve lost your grip on reality,” observed Mallory. “That makes you pretty unique.”

  “We didn’t come here to be insulted!” snapped Macro.

  “Fine,” said Mallory. ‘You pick up the tab, and I’ll be happy to insult you down the street at the Emerald Isle Pub.”

  “Why won’t you listen to us?”

  “Because you’re the same size as me, give or take an inch here and a pound there, and even when I’ve had a snootful I’ve never thought I was a ten-foot giant or a nineteen-inch midget.”

  “But that is precisely why we have sought you out!” insisted Macro. “Will you at least hear us out?”

  “It’s been a long, hard day,” said Mallory.

  “Would two thousand dollars suffice as a retainer?” asked Micro, pulling out the money and laying it on the detective’s desk.

  “On the other hand, the night’s a pup,” said Mallory. Suddenly Felina hissed. “Or a kitten, anyway.”

  “It began about two weeks ago,” said Macro. “At first I thought I was losing a little weight, because my clothes were just a bit loose. I didn’t mention it to anyone, because, to be honest, I could do with a little less weight.” “And at the same time,” chimed in Micro, “I noticed that my shoes were getting tight, and that my pants seemed a little shorter.”

  “It took us almost a week to understand the full magnitude of what was happening,” said Macro. “Some fiend has been making me shrink down to normal size . . .”

  “. . . and me grow up to it,” said Micro.

  “You have to help us Mallory!” Macro implored the detective. “All we’ve ever been is a giant and a midget. We have no other skills. What do I know about tightrope walking or lion taming?”

  “There are other occupations,” noted Mallory.

  “We don’t want any other occupations!” shouted Micro. “We want you to find the bastard who did this to us and make him restore us to our former glory.”

  “We’ll pay you a thousand dollars a day and a bonus if you succeed,” said Macro.

  “Of course,” added Micro, “you’ll have to succeed in four days or less. We’re just about tapped out, what with buying new clothes every day.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” said Mallory. “Now, who do you think might have a grudge against you?”

  “We’re the salt of the earth,” replied Macro. ‘You could look far and wide and not find two more lovable souls. Everybody knows that.”

  “So no one you know has any reason to do this to the pair of you?”

  “Well, there’s Atlas, the Strong Man,” said Micro. “He found out that we were having a little fun with his wife.” “Both of you?” asked Mallory.

  “We’re a team.”

  “So I should start by questioning the strong man?” “And the lion tamer,” added Macro. “And the tightrope walker. Oh, and two of the bareback riders.”

  “Don’t forget the clowns,” said Micro.

  “How could they know?” asked Macro. “After all, we were wearing clown make-up the whole time.”

  “There aren’t a lot of ten-foot clowns in the circus,” said Micro. He turned back to Mallory. “And probably you should ask two of the jugglers. Don’t bother with the one in the middle; he’s a bachelor.”

  “I think what you’re telling me is that if it works for the circus and has a wife or a girlfriend, it has a grudge against you,” said Mallory.

  “In essence,” admitted Macro.

  “What about the sideshow acts?”

  “Well,” said Micro, “there’s the sword swallower. And of course the fire eater. And the contortionist’s husband.”

  “Oh my goodness yes!” said Macro with a blissful smile. “The contortionist!”

  “I’m surprised you guys had time to go on display,” said Mallory dryly.

  “We never missed a show,” said Macro.

  “Or a woman,” added Micro.

  “Anyone not connected with the circus got a grudge against you?” asked Mallory. “After all, there are probably three or four million husbands wandering around Manhattan.”

  “No, we always keep it in the family.”

  “I can’t tell you how many filthy puns spring to mind,” replied Mallory.

  “If you’ll tell them to me as soon as these two leave, I’ll tell you the one about the explorer and the three belly dancers,” said Perriwinkle.

  “What was that?” asked Macro.

  “My magic mirror,” said Mallory. “Say hello to the gentlemen, Perriwinkle.”

  “Hi, guys,” said Perriwinkle.

  “It talks!” exclaimed Micro.

  “Of course I talk.”

  “I don’t think I ever saw a talking mirror before,” said Micro.

  “That’s your loss,” said Perriwinkle. “I come from a long line of magic mirrors, so don’t you go acting as if I’m a mere object. I have hopes and fears and sexual needs, just like anyone else.”

  “Not like these two, I hope,” interjected Mallory.

  “How did you get such a wondrous thing?” asked Macro.

  “I kind inherited it,” said Mallory.

  “He gave me to the army, but I was bored there,” added Perriwinkle. “All they wanted were battle scenes, so I came back here. At least John Justin enjoys black-and-white movies and baseball games.”

  “Isn’t that amazing!” said Micro, still staring at the mirror. “A talking mirror! Why, the next thing you know, that catlike statue will speak.”

  “Skritch my back,” said the catlike statue.

  “Not now, Felina,” said Mallory.

  “This place is getting a little weird for us,” said Macro. “Maybe we should think about going and letting Mr. Mallory get to work.”

  “It’s wei
rder for me,” said Mallory. “At least you two were born here.”

  “Weren’t you?” asked Macro.

  Mallory shook his head. “No, I’ve only been here a couple of years.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Manhattan.”

  “But this is Manhattan.”

  “This is the Manhattan that people in my Manhattan can sometimes see out of the corner of their eye, but when they turn to face it it’s not there.”

  “So how did you get here?”

  “It’s a long story.” (Author’s note: but it’s a good story. It’s currently out of print, but scour your second-hand stores. Or better still, nag this publisher to bring it back.) “I assume I can contact you at the circus?”

  Macro shook his head unhappily. “We’ve been fired.

  You can find us at Joyful Jessie’s Bulgarian Pizzaria and Flophouse.”

  “Third room on the right,” added Micro. “Knock first.” “Why bother?” said Macro unhappily. “There’s no door.”

  “It kind of makes up for all the boards over the window,” said Micro.

  “It’s on the corner of Sloth and Despair,” said Macro. “I’m sure I can find it,” said Mallory. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I learn anything.”

  “Almost anything,” said Perriwinkle. Mallory turned to the mirror. “After all,” it continued, “you’re going to learn the story of the explorer and the three belly dancers. I’m sure that these gentlemen couldn’t care less about it.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Macro, stopping at the door. “Is it dirty?”

  “Filthy.”

  Macro slipped another five dollars to Mallory. “Remember to tell it to me next time we meet,” he said, and then he and Micro walked out into the night.

  “So what do you think?” said Mallory as he finished explaining the case to his partner.

  Winnifred Carruthers brushed a wisp of gray hair back from her pudgy face. “The circus is clearly the place to start,” she replied. “Our clients seem to have been so busy making enemies there I wouldn’t think they’ve had time to make them anywhere else.” She looked at him suspiciously. “Why do you have that strange expression on your face, John Justin?”

  “There’s a circus filled to overflowing with suspects, and we’ve only got four days,” he replied. “I was thinking that we might enlist a little outside help.”