Stalking the Unicorn: A Fable of Tonight (12 page)

"What
are
you going to do?"

"I'm a detective,” replied Mallory. “I'm going to try to find that damned unicorn."

"You were never this single-minded in your own Manhattan,” noted Mürgenstürm.

"Things were never this black-and-white in my own Manhattan,” said Mallory. “There were always legal ramifications and extenuating circumstances and moral ambiguities. This is a lot simpler: something was stolen by a villain and I'm being paid to get it back."

"I thought you said you preferred
your
Manhattan,” said the elf.

"I said I
understood
my Manhattan,” replied Mallory. “That's not the same thing."

"How can you prefer something you don't understand?"

"I don't understand the form. The substance makes a lot of sense."

"I don't know what you're talking about,” said Mürgenstürm.

"Then you'll have something to think about while you're hunting up one of your many true loves."

"How will I find you when I'm done?"

"The same way I'm trying to find Larkspur. Follow my tracks."

"What if the snow melts, or you go indoors?” persisted Mürgenstürm.

"Hire a detective,” said Mallory, heading off along the bridle path.

"That's not very funny, John Justin."

"If you're worried about it, you can put your romance on hold and come along with me."

"I'll follow your tracks,” said Mürgenstürm hastily. He began trotting across the park toward the bright lights of Fifth Avenue.

Mallory watched the little elf for a moment, then turned back to the bridle path and continued walking.

He had gone no more than fifty yards when he came to a small wooden lean-to, occupied by a pudgy man in a bright gold-and-green-checkered sports jacket.

"Evening, neighbor,” said the man with a friendly smile.

"Hello,” said Mallory.

"Terrible night, isn't it?"

Mallory nodded.

"Can I interest you in a little suntan lotion, friend?” asked the man.

"You're kidding, right?” said Mallory.

"Friend, if there's three things I never kid about, it's religion, blondes named Suzette, and business. This is business. I can sell you a case at fifty percent off the retail price."

"What the hell would I do with suntan lotion?"

"Go to Jamaica. Take a safari to Africa. Keep it in your garage until summer. Mix it with vodka and tonic. Scrub your floors with it. Friend, there's no end of things you can do with a case of cut-rate suntan lotion."

"Forget it,” said Mallory, starting to walk again.

"For you, sixty percent off,” persisted the man, leaving the lean-to and running after him.

"It's New Year's Eve!"

"Happy New Year!” cried the man, pulling a kazoo out of his pocket and blowing a few notes on it. “Sixty-five percent off, and that's my last offer."

"I hope you don't seriously expect to sell suntan lotion in the middle of a snowstorm,” said Mallory.

"It's the very best time to sell it,” replied the man, struggling to keep pace with the detective.

"How do you figure that?"

"How many stores are open right now? Maybe five hundred,” he answered himself. “And how many of them are selling suntan lotion? None! If you want suntan lotion, you've got to come to me."

"But I don't want suntan lotion,” said Mallory irritably.

"Friend, you drive a hard bargain. Seventy percent off, but only if you promise never to tell my accountant."

"Not a chance."

"All right!” snarled the man. “Seventy-five percent, and I'll hate myself in the morning."

"Keep nagging me and you'll have a lot of company."

"I'll throw in a beach ball."

"Just what I need on New Year's Eve in Central Park,” said Mallory.

"Good!” cried the man. “Have we got a deal?"

"No."

"What kind of person are you?” screamed the vendor. “I've got a wife and two kids and a mortgage. I just bought a new television set, I'm late on my car payment, and my daughter needs braces. Where's your compassion?"

"I must have left it in my other suit,” said Mallory. He stopped and turned to the man. “You wouldn't happen to have any gloves or earmuffs for sale, would you?"

"Unloaded ‘em all last July,” said the man. “Ninety percent, and I'll pay the sales tax."

Mallory shook his head and began walking again. “Not interested."

"What does interest have to do with it?” demanded the man. “I'm a merchant, you're a consumer. Doesn't that mean something to you? Don't you feel your moral responsibility to me?"

"Do
you
feel any moral responsibility to
me?"
asked Mallory.

"Certainly."

"Good. I'm a detective who's looking for a unicorn. Did one pass by here recently?"

"Yes,” said the man.

"When?"

"Maybe five minutes ago."

"Was there a leprechaun with it?"

"I really didn't pay that much attention,” said the man. “Now, let me total up what you owe me for the suntan lotion."

"I'm not buying any suntan lotion."

"But I told you about the unicorn!"

"For which I thank you."

"Then do your duty and buy my suntan lotion."

"No."

"Ninety-five percent off list."

Mallory shook his head.

"All right,” said the man with a sigh of defeat. “How much do you want?"

"For what?” asked Mallory, puzzled.

"To take the damned stuff off my hands."

"I keep telling you—I don't want it."

"You can't do this to me! It's New Year's Eve! I have a right to be home in the bosom of my family! I'll pay you twenty percent of its list price to haul it away."

"It's been nice talking to you,” said Mallory, increasing his speed.

"Thirty percent,” said the man, finally coming to a stop. “And that's my final offer."

Mallory continued walking.

"Fifty, and that's my absolute final penultimate offer!"

The man was up to double the list price before Mallory walked out of earshot.

He had proceeded another 100 yards when he was joined by a tall, unkempt man in a raincoat, carrying a cardboard box in one hand.

"Good evening to you, sir,” said the man, falling into step beside him.

Mallory merely nodded and kept walking.

"I'm pleased to see that you managed to get away without buying any suntan oil.” He chuckled. “Imagine anyone being stupid enough to try to sell that stuff in a blizzard!"

"What are
you
selling?” asked Mallory.

"Selling? My dear sir, you cut me to the quick! Do I look like a salesman?"

"Don't ask."

"As a matter of fact, I'm giving something away."

"I'm in a hurry."

The man increased his pace. “Take a look inside, sir,” he said, thrusting the cardboard box into Mallory's hands.

Mallory took the box and opened it without slowing his pace, then made a face. “It looks like a bunch of worms."

"Not merely worms, sir,” said the man with a show of outraged dignity. “Nightcrawlers!"

"What's the difference?"

"What's the difference between a skateboard and a Rolls-Royce?” replied the man. “These are purebred nightcrawlers, sir, each with a five-generation pedigree, each registered with the A.E.S."

"The A.E.S.?” repeated Mallory, handing the box back to him.

"The American Earthworm Society,” explained the man. “It's been our governing body since 1893."

"What the hell do I want with nightcrawlers?"

"They're for fishing."

"It's snowing out, in case you hadn't noticed."

"It won't bother their furry little bodies in the least."

"They look more slimy than furry."

"Right you are, sir,” agreed the man, looking into the box. “It won't bother their slimy little bodies in the least."

"What I meant was, who's crazy enough to go fishing in a blizzard?"

"Almost no one, sir. Think of it: you'll have the field to yourself!"

"I'm on a bridle path in Central Park. There aren't any fish around here."

"Ah, but if you
do
find one, think of how hungry he'll be!"

"Go trade them for the suntan lotion,” said Mallory.

"I'm also having a sale on tombstones,” said the man persuasively.

"A sale on tombstones?” repeated Mallory.

"If your name happens to be Jessica Ann Milford and you died of drowning in August of 1974,” qualified the man.

"It's not, and I didn't."

"It's really quite a bargain,” continued the man eagerly. “Marble, with beer cans rampant on a field of hypodermic needles. Very tasteful."

"I'll think about it,” said Mallory, starting to walk again.

"I'll be right here, waiting for your decision,” said the man.

Mallory shook his head and increased his pace. The snow continued to fall, and the wind began whipping across the park so fiercely that visibility became almost nil. A few minutes later he was sure he had wandered off the bridle path, but when he turned around to retrace his steps he found that the snow had totally obliterated his footprints. He looked around for the lights of Fifth Avenue, but the snow completely obscured them, and he realized with a sinking sensation in his stomach that he was lost.

He cursed Mürgenstürm under his breath, then began searching for some form of shelter. The blanket of snow stretched endlessly before him, but he thought he could discern a structure off to his left and, lowering his head against the wind, he slowly made his way toward it.

Just when he was sure that he had been mistaken, the wind died down and he found himself only a few steps away from a large stone building. It was dark, but its two chimneys were belching smoke into the frigid night air. He covered the remaining distance at a run and pounded on the door. When there was no response he pushed it open and stepped inside, panting heavily.

He brushed the snow off his cloak, felt around for a light switch, couldn't find one, and pulled out his cigarette lighter. It didn't provide much illumination, but it was enough for him to realize that he was inside a barn with two rows of box stalls. The place smelled strongly of horses, and he could hear the occasional thumping of hooves on straw.

Finally he found a bare light bulb descending from the rafters. He walked over and pulled on the frayed string that hung down from it, and suddenly he stood in a pool of harsh white light, surrounded by flickering shadows as the bulb swung to and fro.

"Is anyone here?” he asked, then jumped in surprise when he received an answer.

"Yes."

"Where are you?” he said, looking around apprehensively.

"Right here."

"Where is
here?"

"Look down."

Mallory looked down and found a miniature horse; no more than nine inches at the shoulder, standing right next to him.

"Was that
you
talking?” he asked, squatting down to inspect the elegant little animal.

"Yes,” said the horse. “There's a small towel hanging up there,” it added, nodding its head at the edge of a nearby stall. “I wonder if you would be so kind as to retrieve it and place it over my back?"

Mallory walked over, picked up the towel, and laid it gently across the little horse's back and withers.

"Thank you,” said the horse, not quite able to repress a body-wrenching shiver. “It was getting quite cold in here."

Mallory stared at the tiny animal. “I didn't know horses could talk,” he said at last.

"Of course they can."

"I've never heard them."

"Perhaps they had nothing to say to you."

"Perhaps,” agreed Mallory. “By the way, you
are
a horse, aren't you?"

"Certainly."

"And this is a stable?"

"That's right."

"You wouldn't happen to have any unicorns stabled here, would you?” asked Mallory.

"I'm afraid not. Why?"

"I've been following one up the bridle path. I thought it might have stopped here to get out of the weather."

"I wish I could help you,” said the horse, “but we haven't boarded any unicorns here in more than a month.” The little animal paused. “They're quite rare, you know. I don't imagine there can be more than two dozen of them in all of Manhattan. In what direction was this unicorn heading?"

"North, I think. I never got close enough to it to be sure."

Mallory opened the door, stuck his head out, determined that visibility was still about nil, and decided to wait a couple of minutes before braving the snow again.

"I've never seen a horse as small as you before."

"I wasn't always this small,” answered the horse.

"You weren't?"

The horse shook its head ruefully.

"What happened?” asked Mallory.

"You can't tell it to look at me, but I used to be a racehorse."

"Maybe I saw you run,” said Mallory. “I get out to Belmont and Aqueduct three or four times a week."

"I wasn't good enough. They had high hopes for me when I was born, but I spent most of my career running at places like Thistledown and Latonia and Finger Lakes."

"What's your name?” asked Mallory.

"The name my owner gave me, or my real name?"

"Your real one, I guess."

"Eohippus."

"Never heard of you."

"That's not the name I ran under,” replied Eohippus. “It's the one I chose for myself once I understood my destiny.” The little horse snorted, then continued. “As I said, I wasn't a very good racehorse."

"You're just the kind I always seem to bet on,” remarked Mallory dryly.

"My owner and trainer did everything they could to make me better,” said Eohippus.

"Like what?"

"The first thing they did was geld me."

"That makes you faster?” asked Mallory dubiously.

"It makes me faster whenever I see a veterinarian approaching, I can tell you that,” said Eohippus bitterly. He whinnied; it sounded like a sigh in the cavernous interior of the barn. “As soon as I recovered I was back on the track."

"Maybe they should have tried blinkers,” suggested Mallory.

"They did."

"Did it help?"

"Blinkers are for horses who look around, who don't pay attention to business. That wasn't me. I tried my very best with every stride I ever took. All the blinkers did was close off two-thirds of the world to me.” He paused. “Then there were the drugs."