Stalking the Unicorn: A Fable of Tonight (17 page)

"I'm an optimist,” she replied. “And it's harder than you might think to hide a unicorn in Manhattan. Besides,” she added, “we'll want to exchange information by then."

She looked up as the waiter finally arrived with their drinks.

"Thanks,” said Mallory. “What do I owe you?"

"Sixty cents,” said the waiter.

Mallory handed him three quarters, and he departed.

"This is some place, this tavern,” he said. “I guess no one ever told them about inflation, either."

"I believe this is yours,” said Winnifred, placing the cream in front of Felina. The cat-girl glared sullenly at her, then reached out for the glass, downed its contents in a single swallow, and turned to face the wall.

"Not bad,” said Mallory, taking a sip of his hot toddy. “By the way, I've been wondering: how did you ever become a big-game hunter?"

"My Manhattan may seem new and interesting to you,” replied Winnifred, “but I grew up here. I always wanted to see what lay beyond the next hill, to visit the wild places before they had all been tamed, to see clear to the horizon with no buildings blocking the view."

"So you took up hunting?"

She nodded. “I went out to pit myself against animals no one had ever seen before, to climb mountains that had never been scaled and cross rivers that had never been crossed, to explore lands that no civilized man had ever seen.” She paused. “I did it, too. I spent twenty-seven years in the bush, and the zoos and museums are filled with my trophies."

"Is that when you joined the army?"

"I never joined the army,” she replied. “I don't think I'd have liked the regimentation."

"But you're a colonel,” noted Mallory.

"Oh,
that,"
she said with a shrug. “They made me a colonel when I helped put down an uprising among some trolls out in the bush."

Mallory finished his hot toddy. “You must have had some fascinating experiences,” he said idly. “Which was your favorite?"

"My favorite experience?” she repeated, closing her eyes and allowing a nostalgic expression to cross her face. “I remember the silver moonlight over a tropical lagoon, the feel of a strong hand on mine, and the whisper of words over the rippling of water. Mostly, I remember the jasmine, sweet and fragrant on the cool night breeze."

"It sounds very romantic,” said Eohippus.

"It does, doesn't it?” agreed Winnifred. She smiled a bittersweet smile. “The funny thing is that it never once happened, not to me."

"I beg your pardon?” said Eohippus, confused.

Winnifred sighed. “I went into the bush a fat, awkward young girl, and I came out a fat, wrinkled old lady.” She paused. “Still, I remember it as if it were yesterday. They say that the heart plays tricks on you, but don't you believe it: it's the mind. That memory is more real to me than any of the things that really happened. I can still smell the overpowering fragrance of the jasmine. The faces are hazy—mine looks prettier than it was, and I can't quite recall my lover's—but the scent and the feelings are real, as real as if it had actually happened.” She paused. “Isn't it funny that that should be my strongest memory of a life in the wilderness?"

"I don't think it's funny at all,” said Mallory sincerely.

"You don't?"

He shook his head.

"Well,” said Winnifred, suddenly uncomfortable, “so much for nostalgic nonsense.” She straightened up in her chair. “We've still got a job to do. Is everyone ready to proceed?"

"I suppose so,” said Mallory. “How do you want to divide up the troops?"

"I'm going with Mallory,” put in Felina suddenly, grabbing his hand and rubbing her cheek against it.

"Then I think I'll take Eohippus,” said Winnifred.

"I'm happy to accompany such a famous hunter,” said the little horse. “But I should warn you that I don't know anything about leprechauns."

"That's not why I'm taking you,” said Winnifred.

"Oh?” said the little horse.

"Do you really want to be alone in Felina's company while Mallory is busy making his underworld contacts?"

Eohippus trotted across the table to Winnifred. “I see your point,” he said earnestly.

"Then let's go,” said Winnifred, picking him up and walking vigorously toward the door.

Mallory got to his feet and turned to Felina, who remained seated.

"Are you coming?"

"I don't like her,” hissed the cat-girl.

"She probably doesn't like you either,” said the detective dryly.

"I like
you,
though,” she replied with a feline smile.

"Then let's go."

She considered it for a moment, then leaped to her feet so quickly that a passing waiter jumped and spilled a tray filled with drinks.

"I'll protect you, John Justin Mallory,” purred Felina.

"That's very comforting,” replied Mallory.

"If she touches you..."

"Colonel Carruthers isn't the enemy,” said Mallory wearily.

"You choose your enemies and I'll choose mine,” said Felina.

When they joined Winnifred at the door, she turned to the bar.

"Well, Mephisto?” she said in a loud voice.

The lean, angular magician got grudgingly to his feet.

"All right,” he said unhappily. “But I'm going to hate myself in the morning, assuming I live that long."

He joined them as they walked out into the frigid night.

"I've been assigned to the Grundy, I suppose,” he said.

Winnifred nodded. “Don't try to fight him. Just find out if he's got Larkspur with him.” She paused. “We rendezvous at the New York Stock Exchange at two-fifteen."

"I keep wondering if ninety minutes is enough time to gather any useful information,” said Mallory.

"It will have to be,” said Winnifred. “You may be on an even tighter schedule than Mürgenstürm."

"What do you mean?” he asked apprehensively.

"It occurs to me that if you're here when the Grundy gets his hands on the stone, you could be stuck in this Manhattan forever."

[Back to Table of Contents]

12:45 AM-1:08 AM

The rain had started again as Mallory reached Times Square. It looked remarkably like the Times Square of his own world, right down to the cut-rate theater-ticket booth, the steam rising from the subway through the grates in the street, the street vendors, the souvenir shops, the pimps and pushers and prostitutes of both sexes. A huge Camel billboard out of his Manhattan's recent past featured a contented face blowing great gobs of smoke into the air.

Mallory stood under the bright lights of Broadway and peered down the length of 42nd Street. Most of the celebrants had already gone off to parties, and what remained were the regular denizens of the area. He spent a few moments scrutinizing the pedestrians who scurried past the novelty shops and massage parlors, observing the humans and nonhumans who struck beckoning postures in front of the run-down movie theaters, and watching the drunks and the addicts weave their ways down the filthy sidewalk.

"Christ!” he muttered. “They
all
look like criminals."

He sighed, then turned to Felina, who was hungrily eyeing a trash container.

"Come on,” he said.

She took one last loving look at the trashcan, then fell into step beside him as he turned onto 42nd Street.

"Howdy, neighbor,” said a sibilant voice as he passed a darkened building.

Mallory stopped and turned, and found himself facing a large man with green skin and cold, lifeless eyes.

"Looking for sssomething unusual?” hissed the man, and Mallory noticed that his tongue was quite long, and forked at the end.

"As a matter of fact, I am,” he replied. “Where can I find a leprechaun?"

The man wrinkled his face in distaste. “You don't want a leprechaun, pal; they're nothing but trouble.” He grinned. “But I can fix you up with a nice ssscaly lady. You've never made it until you've made it with a lizard!"

"No, thanks,” said Mallory.

"We can take care of your ladyfriend, too,” said the man persuasively. “Cat-girlsss go crazy over lizardsss."

Mallory shook his head. “I'm after leprechauns"—he flashed the wad of bills Mürgenstürm had given him—"and I'm especially after one named Flypaper Gillespie."

"If your ladyfriend isss into leashesss and collarsss, my brother Izzy can show her a real good time,” continued the man, ignoring Mallory's query.

"If you can't tell me where to find Gillespie, who can?” persisted Mallory.

"You're
sssick!"
hissed the man. “I'm offering you an unforgettable night of ssslime and sssin, and all you want are leprechaunsss!"

He disappeared into the shadows, and Mallory, after waiting a moment to see if he would return, shrugged and resumed walking. He passed a number of sex stores which displayed an endless variety of odd-looking devices, most of which couldn't possibly have been worn or used by human men and women.

"Goblin girls!” whispered another voice. “Pretty young goblin girls!"

Mallory didn't even turn to see who was speaking to him, but grabbed Felina by the hand and increased his pace. He crossed Eighth Avenue, walked past another row of sleazy theaters and pornography shops—including one that promised a full refund if any customer could suggest anything that made one of their college-educated masseuses blush—and turned north when they got to Ninth Avenue.

The flashing neon lights vanished and the street, though darker, felt safer and less sleazy. They passed, in quick succession, a Greek restaurant that featured human and inhuman belly dancers, an English tea shop populated by gray-haired military types who all carried riding crops under their arms, a tavern that seemed to be a hangout for elves, and a cafeteria that claimed to have the rawest meat in the city and was filled to overflowing with goblins and trolls who made hideous growling and ripping sounds as they ate. Finally they came to the Emerald Isle Pub, and Mallory stopped abruptly.

Felina peered in the window. “There aren't any leprechauns in there,” she announced.

"But there
are
Irishmen,” replied Mallory. “And if they can't tell me where to find leprechauns, nobody can.” He looked at her sternly. “Are you going to behave yourself, or am I going to have to leave you out here in the rain?"

"One or the other,” answered Felina with an inscrutable smile.

"Outside it is, then,” he said firmly.

"Wait!” she said as he approached the door.

"You'll sit still and keep quiet?"

"Probably."

"All right,” he assented. “But the minute you start making a pest of yourself, out you go."

In answer, she rubbed up against him and purred, just as he opened the door.

"Not in front of everyone!” he whispered, embarrassed.

She grinned and stepped back as he ran a hand through his rain-soaked hair and surveyed the interior of the pub.

It was a small room, containing a bar and half a dozen tables, but it felt warm and cozy rather than hot and cramped. The tables were circular and well worn, the chairs were sturdy and functional, the floor was bare and unvarnished, and the walls contained a number of framed prints of the Irish countryside, plus a few autographed photos of Irish actors, athletes, and authors. The bar's stock was prominently displayed, and Mallory noticed that while there were literally hundreds of bottles of whiskey, there was no wine, nor were there any clear drinks such as gin or vodka. It was as if the management knew its clientele's tastes and saw no reason to display anything that wasn't in demand.

A huge, redheaded, freckle-faced bartender was staring curiously at him, as were a trio of old men who were sitting at a small table in one corner. Two more men, dressed in tweeds and turtlenecks, stood in the middle of the room, throwing darts into pictures of Queens Elizabeth I and II. A dozen others were scattered in twos and threes about the room; most of them wore tam-o'-shanters and about half of them had long scarves wrapped with careful nonchalance about their necks. A jukebox played an unending series of bouncy Irish melodies, most of them about girls named Kathleen or Molly.

"Good evening to you,” said the bartender in a very thick brogue as the dart players tallied up their scores and sat down to do some serious drinking. “Can I be offering you a glass of good Irish whiskey?"

"Why not?” assented Mallory, approaching the bar while Felina leaped atop a stool and stared, unblinking, at the dart throwers.

"I've not seen you here before,” said the bartender.

"That's not surprising,” replied Mallory. “I haven't been here before."

"Would you be an Irishman?” asked the bartender, studying him carefully.

"John J. O'Mallory,” replied Mallory.

"Then the first drink is on the house,” said the bartender with the delighted smile of a man who has found a new source of income.

"That's very generous of you."

"And what will your friend be drinking?"

"Nothing,” said Mallory as the bartender poured him a shot of whiskey. “You don't seem to mind her presence."

"Why should I? Cats originated in Ireland, you know."

"No, I didn't."

The bartender nodded. “Cats, whiskey, fine linen, and revolution—our four gifts to the world."

"How about leprechauns?” asked Mallory.

"The Little People?” said the bartender contemptuously. “They may be Irish, but they're hardly a matter of pride. A vicious, untrustworthy race, if you ask my opinion."

"Do they ever come here?"

"I wouldn't have one in the place!” bellowed the bartender.

"Are you talking about the English?” asked one of the old men who were sitting in the corner. “Shooting's too good for them!"

"No,” said the bartender. “We're discussing the Little People."

"Oh—
them,"
said the old man. “Shooting's plenty good enough for them.” He looked at Mallory. “What do
you
think of the English?"

"I've told the Sons of Erin not to goad my customers,” said the bartender ominously.

"Just starting a pleasant little conversation,” said the old man. “And you watch your tongue. The Sons of Erin remember who their friends are."

"Better by far than they remember who their creditors are,” retorted the bartender caustically. “Or would you like to bring your bill up to date?"