Stalking the Unicorn: A Fable of Tonight (18 page)

"Maybe you'd better go back to the old country,” shot back the old man. “America's turning you into a capitalist bloodsucker."

"There's nothing
in
the old country except a lot of rocks, and a batch of old men sitting around in pubs plotting revolution,” said a ruddy-faced middle-aged man at another table.

"I heard that, Fitzpatrick,” said the first old man, “and all I can say is that if the Knights of the Shamrock would do a little less talking and a little more fighting, we might all be able to go back to the old country."

"Hah!” shot back Fitzpatrick. “When did the Sons of Erin ever kill anything except a bottle of whiskey?"

"Fighting words!” cried the old man, scrambling to his feet.

"If they are, maybe I'd better tell the English to use them on you!” snapped Fitzpatrick, also rising.

"Would you care to step outside and repeat that?” said the old man.

"Indeed I would,” said Fitzpatrick, taking his coat off, rolling up his sleeves, and spitting on his hands. He walked to the door. “Marquis of Queensberry rules?"

"Absolutely,” agreed the old man, picking up a shillelagh and following him out onto the sidewalk.

Three or four customers followed them out, but the rest paid no attention to them—except for Felina, who walked to the window and pressed her face up against it curiously.

"Does this happen very often?” asked Mallory, turning to the bartender.

"No more than three or four times a night,” replied the bartender, obviously unconcerned.

"Maybe we'd better break it up,” suggested the detective.

"There's no hurry."

"Shillelagh or no shillelagh, the old man hasn't got much of a chance."

The bartender smiled. “They're just going to trade insults to get their blood properly boiling—and before that happens, they'll get so cold that they'll come back inside."

"You mean they're just going to
talk?"
demanded Mallory.

"There's a big difference between talking revolution and fighting one. If they liked to fight, they'd be in Belfast, setting off bombs."

"And this happens every night?"

The bartender nodded. “Except on Sundays."

"Why not Sundays?” asked Mallory, curious.

"We're closed on Sundays."

Felina returned to the bar and perched on the stool next to Mallory.

"I thought you were going to watch the fight,” said the detective.

"All they're doing is yelling at each other,” she replied with a shrug. Suddenly a bowl of peanuts captured her attention, and she began playing with them, arranging them in simplistic patterns on the surface of the bar.

The bartender noticed Mallory's empty glass. “Can I be giving you a refill, O'Mallory?"

"Why not?” said Mallory, shoving his glass toward the bottle. He looked at the bartender. “I'd also like a little information."

"If it's within my power to give, it's yours."

"Thanks. I'd like to know where to find a leprechaun named Flypaper Gillespie."

"No, you wouldn't,” said the bartender. “He's a mean one, Gillespie is."

"I know he is,” said Mallory, pulling out his wallet and flashing his detective's license. “He took something that doesn't belong to him. I've been hired to get it back."

"Well, I'll be!” cried the bartender with delight. “A genuine shamus, right here in my pub!"

"Can you help me?"

"I
can't, but maybe I can introduce you to someone who can. Finnegan!” he bellowed.

A slender, bearded, auburn-haired man in a wrinkled corduroy suit got up and walked over to the bar, carrying a small notebook in his hand.

"O'Mallory,” said the bartender, “this is Finnegan, our resident poet. Finnegan, say hello to Detective John J. O'Mallory."

"Pleased to meet you,” said Finnegan.

"Likewise,” said Mallory. “I don't think I've ever met a poet before. Do you have any books out?"

"I'm our resident
unpublished
poet,” said Finnegan dourly. “The list of markets I haven't yet cracked is truly phenomenal. I've been turned down by everyone from
Playboy
and
Atlantic Monthly
to college publications that pay with free copies instead of money.” Finnegan paused and shook his head. “Sometimes I marvel at my consistency."

"What do you write about?” asked Mallory.

"What does
any
Irish poet write about?” replied Finnegan wryly. “I attribute my failure entirely to a secret consortium of highly placed and influential British editors."

"He's written a lot of poems about the Little People,” added the bartender. He turned to Finnegan. “O'Mallory is looking for Flypaper Gillespie, and I figured an expert on the Little People might know where the slippery little bastard is."

"What's he done this time?” asked Finnegan, lighting up a foul-smelling pipe.

"Robbery."

"Was it bigger than a breadbox?” asked Finnegan.

"I beg your pardon?"

"That wasn't a facetious question, O'Mallory,” said the Irishman. “Please answer it."

"A lot bigger,” said Mallory. “Why?"

"Leprechauns keep pots of gold,” replied Finnegan. “I thought everyone knew that. Oh, they're not at the end of the rainbow—in fact, most of them are buried in Central or Gramercy Parks—but as long as what he stole won't fit in the pot, at least you don't have to go out looking for it with a shovel."

At that moment Fitzpatrick and the old man and their partisans reentered the pub, their arms around each other's shoulders in good fellowship.

"A round for the house,” said Fitzpatrick.

"Right,” said the old man. “And in honor of the new bond we've just forged between the Sons of Erin and the Knights of the Shamrock, I'm paying."

"The hell you are,” said Fitzpatrick.
"I
was at fault.
I'm
paying."

He slapped some money on the bar, and the old man brushed it onto the floor. “The Sons of Erin are paying, and that's final."

"If you were half the man you think you are, you'd let a real Irishman pay and keep your mouth shut!” bellowed Fitzpatrick, throwing the old man's money back at him and placing another bill on the bar.

The old man spat on the bill, turned on his heel, and walked back out the door. Fitzpatrick, growling threats and curses, followed him. Felina glanced at them, but remained where she was.

"I guess they're going to have to have another fight to see who won the last one,” said the bartender. He turned to Mallory. “Can I fill you up again?"

Mallory shook his head. “No, I've got to keep my wits about me. In fact, I think I'd like to slosh a little cold water on my face and freshen up."

The bartender pointed to a door at the back of the room, and Mallory, after making sure that Felina was still engrossed with her peanuts, went through it. He found himself in a tiny vestibule, confronted by three more doors: one for men, one for women, and one for staff. He chose the first and entered the room.

There were three urinals, one no more than a foot above the ground, one of normal size, and one that stood well above his eye level. Mallory stood before the middle one and tried not to think about what kind of being would use the one on his right. Then he walked over to a trio of sinks that were built in the same proportions, turned on the cold water in the middle sink, and splashed a few handfuls on his face. He groped blindly for a paper towel, found it, and wiped off his face.

Then, refreshed, he returned to the bar, where Felina was still arranging the peanuts in geometric patterns.

"Ah, O'Mallory!” said Finnegan, looking up from his notepad. “I wrote a couplet while you were gone. Would you care to hear it?"

Mallory shrugged. “Why not?"

The poet cleared his throat, looked down at his notepad, and read in a deep voice:
"Revolution, devolution, achievable, believable, cleavable; Eire, fire, pyre, shire, perceivable, grievable, relievable."
He looked at Mallory. “What do you think?"

"What does it mean?” asked Mallory.

"Mean?” repeated Finnegan. “My dear O'Mallory, a poem doesn't
mean;
it simply
is!"

"I don't know,” said Mallory, deciding that Felina's peanut designs made more sense than Finnegan's poem. “It seems to me that if you're exhorting your audience to expel the British, you really ought to let them know."

"Spoken like a true detective,” said Finnegan in exasperation. “Just the facts, ma'am. What happened on Friday night at eight-thirteen?” He downed his drink, then looked over at Mallory. “This couplet is a clarion call to arms, a promise of the Good Life, a rejection of all things British, an appeal to reject Protestant values, and a cunningly concealed erotic double entendre, all brilliantly reduced to the most subtle symbolism."

"It sounds like a bunch of words strung together without any verbs,” said Mallory.

"Must everything sound like ‘Roses Are Red’ to you, O'Mallory?” demanded Finnegan. “Where is your Irish soul?
Perceivable, grievable, relievable,"
he intoned again. “My God, it's brilliant!"

"Well, it rhymes, anyway,” said Mallory.

"It does, doesn't it?” said Finnegan, frowning. “I'll have to do something about that.” He began scribbling furiously.

"Just a minute,” said Mallory. “Before you get too engrossed in that, I've got a few more questions."

"What were we talking about?” asked Finnegan.

"Flypaper Gillespie."

"Ah, yes. Detestable little nuisance. Totally immoral, like all leprechauns, but he's got a certain animal cunning that most of them lack.” He paused, then nodded his head. “Yes, there's no question about it—Gillespie is the nastiest of them all."

"Tell him about the poem,” suggested the bartender.

Suddenly Finnegan's eyes blazed with hatred. “Do you know what that dirty little bastard did last month?"

"He wrote a poem?” guessed Mallory.

"He not only wrote it!” raged Finnegan, as Felina jumped away from the bar at the sound of his voice. “He actually
sold
it, just to humiliate me! Not only that, but the meter was off, the imagery was totally mundane, and he didn't even mention Ireland!"

"Have you got any idea where I can find him?” asked Mallory.

"He's probably on some college campus, giving dramatic readings and signing copies of his damned poem!” said Finnegan bitterly.

"At one in the morning?” asked Mallory dubiously.

"No,” admitted the poet. “He's probably at home, counting all his ill-gotten loot and framing the reviews of his poem.” He slammed a fist down on the bar. “He must have slipped somebody at the
Times
some money. No critic with any taste at all could actually
like
that poem!"

"Maybe the reviewer was a leprechaun,” said the bartender soothingly.

"That's got to be it!” exclaimed Finnegan. “I should have known!” He turned to a new page in his notebook and began writing a letter of protest to the
Times.

"Excuse me,” said Mallory. “But if you can just tell me where he lives, I'll be on my way."

"Nobody knows,” replied Finnegan. “At least, nobody who isn't a Little Person. The best thing to do is catch one of them and beat it out of him."

"Where can I find one?"

"Well, that's a bit of a problem,” admitted Finnegan. “They're very good at hiding; when one of them turns sideways to you, he vanishes—even at high noon on an empty street.” Finnegan paused. “I suppose the best thing to do would be to visit one of their regular hangouts and stick around until you can grab one—and once you've got your hands on him, don't let him go until you've found Gillespie, They're a totally treacherous, deceitful race who cheat and lie for the sheer joy of cheating and lying."

"Then why ask them anything?"

"Because they're the only ones who know where to find Gillespie—and you do have one thing in your favor: every last one of them is a coward."

"So if I threaten to kill one I may get the truth?” said Mallory.

"Possibly."

"And since I won't know whether he's told the truth until I actually arrive at Gillespie's place, I should keep my informant around, just to be on the safe side?"

"Precisely,” said Finnegan emphatically.

Fitzpatrick and his antagonist entered the pub once again, walked directly to their respective tables without a word, and sat down, glaring at each other. Felina walked over curiously to inspect each of them for non-existent bruises.

"One last question,” said Mallory, as the two dart players stood up and recommenced their game. “Where do the leprechauns hang out?"

"I guess the nearest place is the Rialto Burlesque,” replied Finnegan. “They sit in the balconies and scream and cheer and catcall and make general nuisances of themselves—especially if the stripper happens to be a redhead, or an emerald green lizard."

"How far away is it?"

"Go up Ninth Avenue to 48th Street and take a left,” said Finnegan. “You can't miss it."

"Thanks,” said Mallory.

"How about one for the road?” suggested the bartender.

"I'd better not,” said Mallory, placing some money on the bar. “This should cover my—"

Suddenly there was a commotion behind him, and Mallory turned to see what had happened.

"Damn it!” yelled one of the dart players, glaring at Mallory. “If you can't control her, you shouldn't bring her in here!"

"What happened?” asked Mallory, looking around for Felina.

She was crouched atop a table near the pictures of the Elizabeths, a feathered dart in her mouth.

"Felina, what the hell did you do?” he demanded.

"It looked like a bird,” she said, shrugging and spitting the dart onto the floor.

"Out,” he said firmly.

She licked her forearm and paid no attention to him.

"You heard me!” snapped Mallory.

She continued licking.

He took a step toward her. “If I have to pick you up and throw you out, I will."

She jumped lightly to the floor, stuck her nose in the air, and exited with all the dignity she could muster.

"I'm sorry,” said Mallory to the dart player.

"Well, you'd damned well better be!” shot back the enraged man. “It's getting to where a man can't take the Queen's eye out in peace!"