Away Games: Science Fiction Sports Stories (7 page)

He asked a stable girl with scaly green skin and a sullen expression to point out which barn housed the Grundy’s stable of elephants, then walked over to it.

Four tweed-clad leprechauns suddenly barred his way.

“No trespassers,” said the nearest of them with a malicious smirk.

“I’m working for your boss,” replied Mallory.

“And I’m the Sultan of Swat,” came the answer.

“I’m telling you the truth,” said Mallory. “Check it out.”

“Sure,” said another one sarcastically. “The worst enemy the Grundy has, and we’re supposed to believe you’re working for him.”

“Believe anything you want, but I’m going into that barn.”

“Not a chance, Mallory,” said the first leprechaun. “I’ll fight to the death to keep you out.”

“Fine by me,” said Mallory. He turned to Felina, who was eyeing the leprechauns eagerly. “I knew you’d prove useful sooner or later. Felina, fight him to the death.”

“Just a minute!” said the leprechaun. “I meant I’d fight you to
his
death.” He pointed to one of his companions.

“Okay,” said Mallory. “Felina, fight this other one.”

“No!” screeched the leprechaun. “I mean, I’d love to fight your cat to the death, really and truly I would, but I strained my back last week and my doctor told me that I couldn’t have any more duels to the death ’til a month after Christmas.” He pointed to a companion. “How about him? He’s a real fighter, old Jules is.”

“Right!” chimed in the first leprechaun. “Go get her, Julie! We’re behind you one hundred percent.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded the second. “I told you: I have a bad back.”

“Oh, right,” replied the first. “Go get her, Julie! We’re behind you almost sixty-seven percent!”

“Uh … count me out, guys,” said the fourth leprechaun. “I got a tennis appointment at nine.”

“You need a doubles partner?” asked Jules, backing away from the slowly advancing catgirl.

“I thought you were fighting her to the death,” said the fourth leprechaun.

“Maybe it’ll just be a mild case of death,” suggested the first one. “Maybe it won’t prove fatal. Go get her, Julie.”

The unhappy Jules reached into his pocket and withdrew a wicked-looking knife. Felina merely grinned at him, held out her hand, and displayed four wicked-looking claws, each longer than the knife’s blade.

Jules stared at the catgirl’s claws for just an instant, then dropped his knife on the ground, yelled “I gotta go to the bathroom!” and lit out for parts unknown at high speed.

“Can we enter the barn now,” asked Mallory, “or is someone else interested in a fight to the death?”

“How about if we play checkers instead?” asked the first leprechaun.

“Or we could cut cards,” suggested the fourth. “I happen to have a deck right here in my pocket.”

Mallory shook his head. “Felina?”

The catgirl began approaching the remaining leprechauns.

“How about a fight to first blood instead?” suggested the nearest leprechaun.

“You and Felina?” asked Mallory.

“Actually, I was thinking more of
you
and Felina,” answered the leprechaun.

“Right,” chimed in the second one. “If you draw first blood, you get to go into the barn, and if she draws it, she gets to eat you.”

“But you’re bigger than her, so you gotta tie one hand behind your back,” continued the first leprechaun. “After all, fair is fair.”

“In fact,” added the fourth, “if you could put it off for twenty or thirty minutes, we could sell tickets, and give the winner twenty percent of the take.”

“Ten percent!” snapped the first leprechaun. “We’ve got overhead to consider.”

“Split the difference,” said the second. “Eleven percent, and let’s get this show on the road.”

“I’m afraid you guys are missing the point,” said Mallory. “If you try to stop us from entering the barn, the only blood that’s going to be spilled is leprechaun blood.”

“Leprechaun blood?” cried the first one. “That’s the most disgusting thought I’ve ever heard! You have a warped, twisted mind, Mallory!”

“Besides, whoever heard of the combatants attacking the spectators?” demanded the second.

“I’m not a combatant,” said Mallory.

“Of course you are,” insisted the second leprechaun. “I thought it was all settled: you’re fighting
her
.”

“Felina,” said Mallory, “I’m walking into the barn now. Do whatever you like to anyone that tries to stop me.”

Felina grinned and purred.

The first leprechaun turned to his companions. “Are you gonna let him talk to you like that?”

“What do you mean,
us
?” replied the second one, backing away from Felina. “He was looking at
you
when he said it.”

“That’s only because I’m so handsome that I just naturally attract the eye. He was definitely addressing you.”

“Where’s Julie when we need him?” said the fourth. “I’d better go find him.” He headed off at a run.

“Wait!” said the second, racing after him. “I’ll go with you. Julie wouldn’t want to miss the chance to put these interlopers in their place.”

“Well?” said Mallory, taking a step toward the one remaining leprechaun.

“The Grundy will kill me if I let anyone in,” he said nervously.

“And Felina will kill you if you try to stop me,” said Mallory, taking another step. “It’s a difficult choice. You’d better consider your options very carefully.”

The catgirl licked her lips.

“Well, I don’t actually
work
for the Grundy,” said the leprechaun hastily. “I mean, he underpays us and we don’t even have a union or anything, to say nothing of sick leave and other fringes.” He retreated a step. “Who does that Grundy think he is, anyway?” he continued in outraged tones. “How dare he demand that we stop an honest citizen from admiring his elephants. After all, the public supports racing doesn’t it? And you’re part of the public, aren’t you? These elephants are as much yours as his. The nerve of that Grundy! You go right on in,” he concluded, putting even more distance between himself and Felina. “If the Grundy tries to stop you, I’ll fight him to the death.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” said Mallory, walking past the trembling leprechaun and entering the barn. “Felina!”

The catgirl reluctantly fell into step behind him.

Mallory walked down the shed row, peering into each stall. When he came to a stall housing a pink elephant, he entered it, checked the tattoo behind its left ear—the ID number was 384—and then left the stall and carefully closed the door behind him. When he finished checking the remainder of the stalls, he walked back outside and then turned to Felina.

“How many pink ones did you see?”

“One,” she replied.

“Good. Then I didn’t miss any.”

Felina searched the sky for birds, but saw nothing but airplanes and an occasional harpy.

“It’s cloudy,” she noted.

“Yes,” said Mallory, “but it’s getting clearer every minute.”

The catgirl shook her head. “It’s going to rain.”

“I’m not talking about the weather,” answered Mallory.

• • •

Mallory dropped Felina off with Winnifred, then paid a visit to Joe the Goniff, his personal bookie.

The Goniff’s office was housed in a decrepit apartment building, just far enough from the local police station so that they didn’t feel obligated to close him up, and just close enough so that the cops could lay their bets on their lunch breaks.

The Goniff himself looked like something by Lovecraft out of Runyon, a purple-skinned, ill-shapen creature who nonetheless felt compelled to dress the part of his profession, and had somehow, somewhere found a tailor who had managed to create a plaid suit, black shirt, and metallic silver tie that actually fit his grotesque body. He wore a matching plaid visor, and had a pencil tucked behind each of his four ears.

“Hi, John Justin,” he hissed in a sibilant voice as Mallory entered the office, which was empty now but would be bustling with activity in another two hours. “Too bad about Twinkle Toes.”

“Can’t win ’em all,” said Mallory with a shrug.

“But you don’t seem to win any of ’em,” replied Joe the Goniff. “I keep thinking I should give you a discount, like maybe selling you a two-dollar ticket for a buck and a half.”

“A big-hearted bookie,” said Mallory in bemused tones. “Now I know I’m not in my Manhattan.”

The Goniff chuckled, expelling little puffs of green vapor. “So, John Justin, who do you like today?”

“What’s the line on the Quatermaine Cup?”

“Leviathan—that’s the Grundy’s unbeaten elephant—is the favorite at three-to-five. There’s been a lot of play on Ahmed of Marsabit since that last race of his, but you can still get four-to-one on him. Hot Lips is eight-to-one, and I’ll give you twenty-to-one on any of the others.”

“What was Ahmed before his last race?” asked Mallory.

“Eighty-to-one.”

“How much money would it take to bring him down to four-to-one?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the Goniff. “Maybe ten grand.”

“Can you do me a couple of favors?”

“I love you like a brother, John Justin,” said the Goniff. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Just the thought of helping our city’s most famous detective is—”

“How much?” interrupted Mallory wearily.

“I would never charge you for a favor, John Justin,” replied the Goniff. “However,” he added with a grin, “a thousand-dollar bet could buy my kid a new set of braces—if he ever needs them.”

“I didn’t know you had a kid.”

“I don’t but who knows what the future holds?”

“A thousand dollars?”

“Right.”

“Okay,” said Mallory, pulling out his wallet and counting out ten of the hundred-dollar bills the Grundy had given him. “Put it all on Ahmed of Marsabit in the Cup.”

The Goniff shook his massive head sadly. “Ahmed ran a big race the other day, I know but you’re making a mistake, John Justin. Leviathan’s unbeaten and unextended. He’s got a lock on the race.”

“Put it on Ahmed anyway.”

“You got inside information?” asked the Goniff, his eyes suddenly narrowing.

“I thought I was buying inside information from
you
,” answered Mallory. “Remember?”

“Oh, yeah right. So what can I do for you?”

“I want to know if anyone made a killing on Ahmed’s last race.”

“Everyone who bet on him made a killing,” replied Joe the Goniff. “He paid better than a hundred-to-one.”

“Find out if anyone had more than a hundred dollars on him.”

“It may take a day or two,” said the Goniff. “I’ll have to check with the track and all the O.T.B. offices as well as all the other bookies in town.”

“Forget the track and the Off Track Betting offices,” said Mallory. “Whoever made the killing wouldn’t want to leave a record of it.”

“Then what makes you think the bookies will tell you who it was?”

“They won’t but they’ll tell
you
.”

“Okay, will do.”

“I need to know before they run the Cup.”

“Right.” The Goniff paused. “You said you needed a couple of favors. What’s the other one?”

“If someone plunked down a couple of grand on Ahmed when he was still eighty-to-one for the Cup, would that be the payoff if he won, or would they get the four-to-one you’re offering now?”

“If they came to a regular handbook like myself, they’d get the post time odds.”

“How could they get eighty-to-one?”

“They’d have to go to a futures book like Crazy Conrad, over on the corner of Hope and Despair.”

“What’s a futures book?” asked Mallory.

“You get the odds that are on the board that day … but you’re stuck with the bet, even if the odds go up, even if he’s scratched, even if the damned elephant breaks a leg and they have to shoot him a month before the race. Usually a futures book will close on a race a couple of months before its run.”

“How many futures books are there in town?”

“Three.”

“For my second favor, I want you to get in touch with all three, see if any serious money was placed on Ahmed when he was still more than fifty-to-one, and find out who made the bets.”

“Can’t do it, John Justin.”

“Why not?”

“One of those books is run by my brother-in-law, and we haven’t spoken to each other since I caught him cheating at Friday night poker. I have my pride, you know.”

“How much will it take to soothe your pride?” asked Mallory with a sigh.

“Another five hundred ought to do it.”

Mallory withdrew five more bills. “Put four hundred ninety-eight on Ahmed, and give me a two-dollar ticket on Leviathan.” He paused. “And when you get my information, call Winnifred Carruthers at my office and give it to her.”

“You on drugs or something, John Justin?” demanded the Goniff. “I keep telling you Ahmed can’t win. You must be snorting nose candy.”

“Just do what I said.”

“Okay,” said the Goniff. “But I got a funny notion that you’re a head.”

“Not yet,” replied Mallory with a sudden burst of confidence. “But I’m catching up.”

• • •

“Well?” demanded the Grundy.

It was Cup day at Jamaica, and the grandstand and clubhouse were filled to overflowing. The sun had finally managed to break through the cover of clouds and smog, and although it had rained the previous night, the maintenance crew had managed to dry out the track, upgrading it from “muddy” in the first race to “good” in the third, and finally to “fast” as post time approached for the Quatermaine Cup.

Mallory was sitting in the Grundy’s private box in the clubhouse, sipping an Old Peculiar, and enjoying the awe which the spectators seemed to hold for anyone who was willing to remain in such close proximity to the notorious Grundy.

“I told you,” said Mallory. “The case is solved.”

“But you haven’t told me anything else, and I am fast losing my patience with you.”

“I’m just waiting for one piece of information.”

“Then the case
isn’t
solved, and Khan’s elephant might win the cup.”

“Relax,” said Mallory. “All I’m waiting for is the name of the guilty party. I guarantee you that the real Ahmed will be running in the Cup.”

“You’re absolutely sure?” demanded the Grundy.