Stalking The Zombie: Fables of Tonight Page 17

  “Watch it, cat,” said Winnifred ominously.

  “Shall we get to work?” said Mallory. Winnifred nodded, and Mallory turned to Felina. “You stay out here until you learn how to behave.” She turned her back on him and concentrated on licking her forearm. Then, as he opened the door, he felt ninety pounds leap onto his back.

  “I forgive you, John Justin,” purred Felina.

  “Welcome back,” said Marvin the Mystic, standing up to greet them. “I had a feeling you’d be returning.”

  “Well, you did lie to me before,” said Mallory.

  “It was privileged information,” said Marvin. “A matter of mage/client confidentiality.”

  “Call it what you will,” said Mallory. “You lied.”

  “I prefer to think that I refused to betray a sacred trust.”

  “Do you know how many years in the slammer you could get for not betraying that particular sacred trust?”

  “I was mostly truthful,” replied Marvin. “You asked me if I had any grudge against Micro and Macro, and I told you truthfully that I didn’t, that they were my good friends.”

  “Then why did you put a spell on them?” asked Mallory.

  “They’re my friends, and the salt of the earth and all,” answered Marvin, “but friends come and go. Money stays.”

  “Not when John Justin goes to the track, it doesn’t,” said Felina helpfully.

  “Who paid you to do it?” asked Mallory.

  “You’re the detective,” said Marvin. “Can’t you guess?”

  “How many women in the show?”

  “Seventy-three.”

  “That narrows it down to seventy-two suspects,” said Mallory. “It doesn’t really matter. We’re not cops, and we’re not here to arrest anyone, but my money’s on Madame Nadine.”

  “Why her?” asked Marvin.

  “She’s the one who warned you I was coming.”

  “Well, you’re partly right,” said Marvin. “That’s not bad for one morning’s work. If I ever need a detective, you’re the man I’ll come to.”

  “Reverse the spell or you’re going to need an intensive care unit long before you need a detective,” said Winnifred, who hadn’t put her Magnum away.

  ‘You don’t have to return the money,” said Mallory. “Like I said, we’re not cops. All our clients want is for you to reverse the spell.”

  “That’s all my clients want too,” said Marvin with a sigh.

  “Explain,” said Winnifred.

  “It wasn’t just Madame Nadine,” said the magician. “She delivered the money, but all the women were jealous of Circe. They offered to pay me to turn her into a sea slug, or a fat old wrinkled broad,”—he missed Winnifred’s outraged glare—“or something like that. But no red-blooded man would ever do that to anything as perfect as”—a deep sigh—“Circe, so I told them no. Then the women decided that if they couldn’t have Micro and Macro, they’d take up a collection—Madame Nadine paid me, but they all chipped in—and fix it so they would have to leave the show and Circe couldn’t have them either.”

  “Okay, that’s about what I figured once I saw Circe,” said Mallory.

  “Isn’t she something?” said Marvin enthusiastically. ‘You get the feeling that if you live an absolutely perfect life, she’ll be waiting for you at the end of it.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear any more of this,” said Winnifred irritably.

  “Let’s have the rest of it, Marvin,” said Mallory.

  “It turned out that the women missed Micro and Macro so much they decided half a loaf—well, actually, about an eighth of a loaf once Circe arrived—was better than none. So they offered me double what they’d paid me to reverse the spell.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “I can’t” Marvin said miserably. “This spell can only be stopped. It can’t be reversed.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “They’re my friends. Why would I do this to them? And more to the point, the money was twice as good.”

  “So if you stop it today, they’ll each be six-footers for the rest of their lives?” said Mallory.

  “That’s right.”

  “Could you make me big enough to kill and eat a gorgon?” asked Felina hopefully.

  “Certainly,” said Marvin. “After all, I am Marvin the Mystic.” He frowned. “But I couldn’t make you small again.”

  “I’d be too big to sleep on top of the refrigerator,” said Felina. “Maybe you could shrink one of the gorgons instead. They look so tasty!”

  “John Justin,” said Winnifred, “you suddenly have the strangest expression on your face.”

  “Felina just gave me an idea,” said Mallory. “Marvin, can I borrow your cell phone for a minute?”

  The magician muttered a chant and snapped his fingers, and suddenly Mallory found a Louisville Slugger in his hand.

  “Oops, wrong spell,” said Marvin apologetically. He tried again, and this time Mallory wound up with a phone.

  “I’m just going to step out into the locker room for a couple of minutes to make a private call,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He left the office, and Felina spent the next few minutes naming every monster in the circus and asking Marvin if he could shrink it to the point where she could play with it a bit before killing and eating it.

  “Okay,” said Mallory, re-entering the office. “I’ve spoken to our clients, and I’ve come up with a solution that’s acceptable to them—and, I think, to all parties involved.”

  “What is it?” asked Marvin and Winnifred in unison. Felina, who wanted to ask about still more animals, turned her back and stared intently at a wall.

  “They both agree that they’re a little long in the tooth to retrain. They like doing nothing but being short and tall—and being irresistible to women, of course.”

  “But I can’t put them back the way they were,” said Marvin. “I’ve already explained that.”

  “You can do the next best thing,” said Mallory.

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “You said you can stop the spell, you just can’t reverse it, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then let Macro keep shrinking until he’s nineteen inches tall, and stop him there. And let Micro keep growing until he’s ten feet.”

  “They don’t mind?” asked Marvin, surprised.

  “They’ll still be the world’s tallest giant and smallest midget, and they’ll still have more girlfriends than they know what do to with.”

  “Oh, they knew what to do with them,” said Marvin. “That’s why the women tried to pay me to reverse the spells.” Suddenly his eyes widened. “I could accept their fee now, couldn’t I? I mean, they wanted a big one and a little one, and that’s what they’re going to get.” He turned to Mallory. “Of course, I’d slip you ten percent for keeping your mouth shut. And ten percent for the fa—, for the lovely lady with the gun. Maybe I’ll even shrink a threeheaded dragon down for your cat.”

  “It’s not necessary,” said Mallory. “We’re getting paid enough by our clients.”

  “And we don’t think much of your business practices,” added Winnifred harshly.

  “I thought fat people were supposed to be jolly,” said Marvin.

  He hit the floor a fraction of a second before the bullet passed through the spot where he’d been and tore into the wall behind him.

  Felina refused to speak to Mallory all the way home, and announced her intention of never saying another word to him until he went back and let Marvin shrink a dragon for her. Her resolve lasted almost half an hour, when she decided to forgive him and let him skritch between her shoulder blades.

  Micro and Macro returned to the circus the next morning. Just before dinnertime a week later there was a knock at the office door. Mallory opened it and stepped aside as a uniformed delivery man brought in seventy-three longstemmed roses, each with a scented thank-you note.

  Winnifred decided to burn th
e notes before Mallory could answer them. Especially the one with the faint odor of a centaur still on it.

  SHELL GAME

  John Justin Mallory stalked into the office, muttering angrily to himself. He sat down on the chair behind his desk, pulled out a cigarette, glared at it, then broke it in half and tossed it onto the floor.

  “I take it you didn’t have a good afternoon?” said the pudgy, gray-haired woman seated at the other desk.

  “Don’t ask,” growled Mallory.

  “That poor creature lost again, didn’t he?” persisted Winnifred Carruthers.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  A human-like but definitely feline creature strolled in from the kitchen. “He must have lost. The stars are still moving in their courses.”

  “When I want the opinion of the office cat, rest assured I’ll ask for it,” said Mallory.

  “I’ll be honest with you,” said Winnifred. “I thought Flyaway would never win. I mean, my goodness, 61 straight losses! You should be overjoyed, John Justin. Why do you look so morose?”

  “He didn’t win,” replied Mallory.

  “I thought you just said he didn’t lose.”

  “He didn’t run.”

  “Is the poor beast injured?” asked Winnifred.

  “He doesn’t run fast enough to hurt himself,” said the feline creature.

  “Hush, Felina!” said Winnifred. “Don’t berate him now that he’s injured.”

  “He’s not injured,” said Mallory. “He’s healthy as . . . well, as a horse.”

  “Then I don’t understand.”

  “He broke the damned tote board! It couldn’t compute odds of more than a google to one, so it went on tilt! They shut down the track for the day, and now he’s barred from Belmont until they get a new board.”

  “Is that all?” said Winnifred. “It just means you’ll have to bet on some other horse for awhile. Who knows? You might even pick a winner.”

  “Today was the day for him,” said Mallory bitterly. “I felt it in my bones. I’ve been on that damned horse since his first start. He’s so overdue to win it makes me sick.”

  “It makes you poor, too,” added Felina helpfully.

  “How can a horse with a name like Flyaway lose 61 in a row?” continued Mallory. “Flyaway. It just smacks of class. It’s obvious that they’ve been holding him back, waiting for the right price. And today would have been the day. He opened at 86 trillion to one. In a 7-horse field. On a fast track.”

  He opened a drawer, pulled out what he fondly considered to be the office bottle, though Winnifred didn’t drink, and poured himself a shot.

  “So,” he said, taking a swallow, “did we have any calls today?”

  “No,” said Winnifred. “It’s probably just as well you didn’t make any bets. We haven’t had a case in almost two weeks.”

  “We should feel good about that,” replied Mallory. “It means all’s right with the world and no one needs a detective.”

  “They may not need a detective, but we need a client. Our bank balance is getting very low, even without your betting on that poor benighted animal.”

  Felina leaped onto Mallory’s desk, then lay down on her stomach. “As long as you’re not working, you can skritch between my shoulder blades.”

  “I’m thinking,” said Mallory. “That counts as working.”

  “Not if no one pays you for it,” said Felina. “Remember, I want you to skritch, not scratch.”

  “I’d ask if there was a difference, but I’m afraid you might tell me.”

  Suddenly Felina sat up and hissed. “You ruined everything, John Justin!”

  “By wondering if there was a difference?”

  “By taking so much time. Now you’re going to have a client, and you won’t have time to skritch me until tonight.”

  “What makes you think we’re about to get a client?” asked Mallory.

  “Cat people know things that human people can never know,” she replied just as someone knocked at the door.

  “Do they know how to get off my desk?” said Mallory as Winnifred got up, walked to the door, and opened it to reveal a small, undernourished man with watery blue eyes, a sparse brown mustache, an ill-fitting suit, and a thick shock of hair that refused to stay combed.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well what?” asked Winnifred.

  “Will you take my case?”

  Mallory and Winnifred exchanged looks.

  “Strictly speaking, possibly,” replied Mallory. “Why don’t you come in and tell us who you are and what your problem is?”

  “Yes, I suppose I should do all that first, shouldn’t I?” said the man, entering the office. “I’m so upset I’m not thinking clearly.”

  “Did you try to bet on Flyaway too?” asked Felina.

  “Shut up,” said Mallory.

  “I thought you wanted me to tell you about my problem?” said the man, confused.

  “I meant her, not you,” said Mallory. “Have a chair.”

  The man sat down, the muscles in his sallow face twitching nervously.

  “My name is John Fitzgerald Kennedy.”

  “Of the Boston John Fitzgerald Kennedys?” asked Mallory, wondering how long it would take for the ambulance from the Bellevue Asylum to arrive if he called them in the next ten seconds.

  “It’s not my real name, of course,” continued the man. “But for reasons that will become apparent, I cannot tell you who I am.”

  “Well, it’s a nice, unobtrusive alias,” said Mallory wryly. “Guaranteed to attract almost no attention at all.”

  “Do you really think so?” asked the man hopefully. “I was torn between that and Elvis Presley.”

  “You’d have gone broke on the wardrobe,” said Mallory. “Could we get on with the problem, Mr. Kennedy?”

  “All right,” he agreed. “But first I must ask you a question. What do you know about lamias?”

  “I think the lamia is some religious leader in China or Tibet or somewhere, isn’t he?”

  “No, John Justin,” said Winnifred. “It is a creature with a woman’s face and breasts, the front legs of a clawed carnivore, the back legs on an antelope, and skin covered with scales like a snake’s.”

  “It sounds very confused,” commented Mallory.

  “It’s also very dangerous,” said Winnifred. “It is said that they drink the blood of children.” She turned to Kennedy. “But there hasn’t been one seen in decades. What do lamias have to do with your problem?”

  “The last lamia died two months ago,” said Kennedy. “In Libya, which is the ancestral home of the species.” “Okay, the last one died,” said Mallory. “So what?”

  “It left behind a single fertilized egg,” said Kennedy. “An egg that could be worth millions, because once it hatches out, that will be the last lamia ever. Think of the money that can be made putting it on exhibition!”

  “My partner has some difficulty thinking of more than two dollars at a time,” said Winnifred. “Why don’t you proceed with your story?”

  “That’s almost all of it,” said Kennedy. “Except that I paid a confederate fifty thousand dollars to steal it, smuggle it out of Libya, and deliver it to me.”

  “And he hasn’t shown up?” asked Mallory.

  “Oh, he showed up. I had it in my hands yesterday.” Kennedy seemed close to tears. “And today I don’t. Some dishonorable bastard stole it from my apartment last night!” His face was twitching so rapidly now that it looked like a bad computer game. “Can you imagine the gall of that son of a bitch?”

  “Yeah, there ought to be a law against stealing valuable eggs,” said Mallory.

  “Right!” said Kennedy furiously. “Well, will you take the case?”

  “I assume you want us to retrieve the egg?”

  “Of course!”

  “I suppose we can take a stab at it.”

  “Don’t say stab!” howled Kennedy. “It is as delicate as a dragonfly’s wing.” He made an effort to ca
lm himself. “Lamia eggs take four months to hatch. If anything happens to it in the next sixty days, it will kill it.”

  “Okay, so we won’t make an omelet,” said Mallory. “Just out of curiosity, how did you happen to choose the Mallory & Carruthers Agency?”

  “You’re the guy who found the unicorn1 and that missing reindeer2, and broke up the elephant scam at the track3, aren’t you? I figure you’re an animal expert, and an egg is almost an animal.”

  “About the same way you’re almost a Kennedy,” said Mallory. He shrugged. “All right. How do we spot this particular egg? Big as an ostrich egg?”

  Kennedy shook his head. “No, it’s just the size of a regular chicken’s egg now. It will grow over the next two months, though it will never be half the size of an ostrich egg.

  “I don’t want to seem unduly pessimistic, Mr. Kennedy,” said Mallory, “but do you know how many eggs there are in Manhattan at this very minute?”

  “Oh, you’ll be able to spot this one,” said Kennedy. “Please tell me it isn’t white.”

  “It’s white, but it has an intricate pattern of red and blue dots, each the size of a nail head, all over it.”

  “Kind of like a colorful case of the measles.”

  “If you say so,” said Kennedy. “I am prepared to pay you a handsome retainer plus your daily rate, whatever it may be. I’ll cover all expenses, and there will be an equally handsome bonus when the egg is returned to me.”

  “Winnifred, do you want to draw up a pair of contracts?”

  “Why bother?” she said. “He’s not going to sign his real name anyway.”

  Mallory shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe we can sue all the other Kennedys if he finks out.”

  “I am not a fink outer!” said Kennedy angrily. Suddenly he frowned. “A finker out,” he amended. He shook his head distractedly. “A—”

  “We get the picture,” interrupted Mallory. “Just give us the retainer and let us know where we can contact you.”

  “No!” said Kennedy nervously. “I can’t tell you where I live or what my phone number is. You might turn it over to the cops, or sell it to the Libyans. I’ll contact you.” “When?”

  “When you have the egg, of course.”

  “How will you know?”