Stalking the Unicorn: A Fable of Tonight (19 page)

Mallory returned to the bar, pulled a dollar bill out of his pocket, and handed it to the bartender. “Buy him a drink on me,” he said.

"That I will,” replied the huge redhead. He reached beneath the bar and pulled out a shamrock, attaching it to Mallory's robe with a pin. “For luck,” he said when he had finished adjusting it.

"Thanks,” said Mallory. “I've got a feeling I may need it."

"O'Mallory!” said Finnegan suddenly, as Mallory reached the door.

"Yes?"

"If you do find Gillespie, get the name of the editor who bought his poem."

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1:08 AM-1:31 AM

Mallory walked out the door and found Felina sitting with her back against the side of the building, just out of reach of the rain.

"Come on,” he said. “We've got work to do."

She stared off into space and made no response.

"Don't blame
me,"
he said irritably.
"You're
the one who misbehaved."

She shrugged. “I got bored."

"That's no excuse. We're on an important job."

Felina got to her feet. “Maybe I'll forgive you,” she said.

"You'll
forgive
me?"
repeated Mallory.

Suddenly she caught sight of the shamrock and, before he could stop her, she grabbed it and stuffed it in her mouth.

"It's terrible!” she said after chewing for a moment, spitting out the remains.

"Nobody told you to eat it,” said Mallory. “That's the kind of behavior I'm talking about."

She stared at him, her pupils like two black slits, then very slowly turned her back to him.

"Well, if that's your attitude,” said Mallory, “I'll send you off with Colonel Carruthers when we meet in an hour."

He started walking away, and suddenly she flung herself onto his back, wrapping her legs about his waist and clutching his neck with her arms.

"I'll stay with you,” she purred, her whole body vibrating. “You're forgiven."

"How comforting,” said Mallory, wincing as her claws dug into his neck. “Now, get off."

She leapt directly from his back to a lamppost, spun once around it, hurled herself into the air, and, to Mallory's amazement, landed lightly on her feet.

They walked past a number of cheap nightclubs, many of which were populated entirely by elves and goblins, and then came to a row of dilapidated hotels, two of which had signs posted to the effect that they were for humans only, while another catered exclusively to females of any species. After that came an entire block full of taverns, most with live bands; one, which seemed to fascinate Felina, had a jazz trio composed of three shaggy, apelike creatures wearing top hats and playing primal rhythms on a huge drum made from the skin of some incredibly large animal.

When they reached 48th Street they turned left, and were soon standing in front of the Rialto Burlesque Theater, an ancient building that had once presented Shakespeare and Shaw, but was now reduced to an endless string of stripteasers.

Photographs of the headliners were displayed in glass cases that had once held pictures of the Barrymores and the Lunts, and Mallory, who hadn't seen a strip show in years, was surprised at the plethora of gimmicks that had evolved since the days of his youth. There were wild untamed jungle strippers and high-class society strippers. There were strippers who claimed to be Nazis and strippers who swore they had teleported here from Andromeda. There were strippers who boasted about their multitude of college degrees and came out dressed in caps and gowns, strippers who spoke only in monosyllabic squeals and whines and came out swathed in diapers and baby bunting, baton-twirling strippers, contortionist strippers, and tapdancing strippers. There was even a vampire stripper who finished her act in a coffin.

"Doesn't anyone just take their clothes off anymore?” muttered Mallory as he stared at the photographs.

He was about to approach the box office when the theater doors swung open and he was almost trampled by a mad rush of sailors, followed by three fat, bald men in raincoats.

"Is the show over?” Mallory asked one of the bald men.

"Call that a show?” said the man bitterly. “When I yell, ‘Take it all off!’ I don't mean her goddamned
skin!"
He shuddered involuntarily at the memory.

"But it's over?” persisted Mallory.

The bald man grunted affirmatively and raced across the street, where the Follies was featuring Tassel-Twirling Tessie Twinkle, who purportedly had curves in places where most girls didn't even have places.

Mallory walked up to the box office.

A bored-looking woman sat in the dirty glass-enclosed booth, chewing a mouthful of gum and reading a well-worn copy of a gossip magazine.

"Yeah?” she said when she became aware of Mallory's presence.

"When's your next show?"

"Three AM."

Mallory thanked her and returned to the photo display, which Felina was studying with rapt attention. He knew that he couldn't wait for the next show and still make his scheduled rendezvous with Winnifred Carruthers and the Great Mephisto, and was considering returning to the Emerald Isle Pub to ask Finnegan for another location where he might find some leprechauns, when he noticed a well-dressed, distinguished-looking man walk up to the box office, purchase a ticket, and enter the theater. A moment later two middle-aged women, heavily laden with furs and jewelry, did the same.

He walked back to the ticket booth.

"Back again?” said the woman in the same bored voice.

"I thought you said your next show was at three."

"That's right."

"Then why did those three people buy tickets and enter the theater?” he asked. “It's not even one-twenty."

"Beats me,” she replied. “I just sell tickets. It's you perverts who watch the shows."

Mallory looked at the door to the theater, puzzled.

"You're taking up space,” said the woman. “Do you want tickets or don't you?"

He reached into his pocket. “Two, please,” he said, shoving a bill through the small hole in the glass.

She shoved two tickets and some change out to him, then went back to reading her magazine.

"Come on,” he said to Felina. “We're going inside."

"I want one of those,” she said.

"One of what?"

She led him to a photo of a stripper. “One of
those,"
she said, pointing to a silver-sequined G-string.

"Don't be silly,” he said, taking her arm and starting to lead her to the door.

"It's pretty!” she protested, twisting free of his grip and running back to stare at the G-string.

"I'll make you a deal,” said Mallory. “If you help me find Flypaper Gillespie, I'll buy you one."

She nodded enthusiastically, and joined him as he walked to the entrance.

They entered the large lobby, which in the halcyon days of its youth had been lush and immaculate. Now it was old and seedy, with empty beer cans and candy wrappers carelessly strewn over its once-elegant carpet.

An ancient, formally tailored usher came up to greet them.

"Your tickets, sir?"

Mallory handed the tickets to the usher, who examined them, tore them in half, and returned the stubs to the detective.

"If you'll just follow me, sir,” said the usher, leading them into the darkened theater and down the center aisle. When they reached the fifth row he stopped.

"Third and fourth seats, sir,” he whispered.

"Thank you,” said Mallory.

He and Felina sat down, and as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he saw the three other patrons sitting in the row ahead of him. Off to his left, the usher was leading four couples down to the third row.

The well-dressed man checked his wristwatch and shook his head. “They're late,” he muttered to himself.

"Excuse me,” said Mallory, leaning forward.

"Yes?"

"I thought the show didn't start until three."

"That's ridiculous!” said the man. “It would run into the burlesque show if it did. No, the curtain was due to go up five minutes ago."

"What are we watching?” asked Mallory.

"You're new to the Rialto, aren't you?” asked the man, turning to him and casting a disapproving look at Felina.

Mallory nodded. “It's our first time."

"We never know what play they're going to perform until the curtain goes up, though of course it's certain to have ghosts in it."

"It is?"

The man nodded emphatically. “Last week it was
Macbeth,
the week before it was
Outward Bound,
and so on."

"I like ghosts!” exclaimed Felina.

The two women turned to her and held their fingers to their lips. She hissed at them and turned her attention back to the stage.

"Why ghosts?” asked Mallory, curious.

"The Rialto is almost two centuries old,” said the man, “and every night, right after the midnight striptease show, the ghosts of old actors return to perform in forgotten plays. Why shouldn't they pick plays with ghosts in them?"

"There's nothing forgotten about
Macbeth,"
noted Mallory.

"You're doubtless referring to the Shakespeare version,” said the man with just a touch of condescension. “What we saw was the Roger Bacon original."

"Who performs here?” asked Mallory. “Sarah Bernhardt and Edmund Kean?"

"I wish they did,” said the man sincerely. “But of course, they've so many other theaters fighting for them that they rarely make an appearance at the Rialto. No, most of the actors are as thoroughly forgotten as the plays."

"Are there ever any leprechauns in the plays?"

"Never!” said the man firmly. “They would disrupt the entire presentation!"

"How about in the audience?” persisted Mallory.

"Don't be ridiculous!” snapped the man, turning his attention back to the stage as the curtain went up and a quartet of shadowy, translucent shapes, clad in classic Greek dress, began emoting in hollow, tremulous voices.

"There are the ghosts!” said Felina, standing atop her seat and pointing.

"If you can't keep her quiet, I'm going to complain to the management!” hissed one of the ladies.

Mallory tugged on Felina's hand until he got her attention.

"Sit down,” he whispered. “We're not looking for ghosts. We want leprechauns."

"They're here."

"They are?"

She nodded.

Mallory stood up and looked around the theater. “Where?"

"In the balcony."

"I don't see anything up there except empty seats."

"That's because you're a man,” she said smugly. “Cats see things that men can never see."

"How many of them are there?” asked Mallory.

She counted on her fingers. “Seven,” she announced in a loud voice.

"Sir, you and your companion are creating a disturbance!” said the well-dressed man irritably.

"Sorry,” said Mallory. He motioned to Felina. “Let's go,” he said, heading up the aisle just as a Greek chorus of ethereal shapes began chanting in unison.

"Damned tourist!” muttered the well-dressed man.

When they reached the lobby Mallory walked over to the broad, winding staircase that led to the balcony.

"We'd better grab one quick, before they leave,” he told Felina.

She grinned. “One just walked past you."

"Grab him!” snapped Mallory.

She pounced toward the doorway, and an instant later he could see her lifting a writhing, wriggling, cursing little leprechaun into the air. He was approximately two feet tall, wiry and redheaded, human in appearance except for his pointed ears and sharp, ski-slope nose, and dressed in the grubbiest clothes Mallory had ever seen.

"Put me down!” demanded the leprechaun.

"In a minute,” said Mallory, approaching him. He grabbed the leprechaun's arm. “You can let go now,” he told Felina. “I've got him.” She released her grip and he pulled the leprechaun around to face him. “What's your name?"

"None of your business!” snarled the leprechaun.

Mallory twisted his arm. “Let's try again,” he said. “What's your name?"

"Filthy McNasty!” squealed the leprechaun. “You're breaking my arm!"

"Kill him!” shouted a number of gleeful voices, and Mallory looked up to see three more leprechauns standing on the stairs.

"Blood!” cried another. “We want blood!"

Mallory turned to them without releasing McNasty.

"Where can I find Flypaper Gillespie?"

"You're holding him,” giggled a leprechaun.

Mallory looked questioningly at Felina, who shook her head. He twisted McNasty's arm again. “Where's Gillespie?"

"I'm Gillespie!” cried one of the leprechauns.

"No, I am!” said another.

Felina shook her head again, and Mallory increased his pressure on McNasty's arm.

"I never heard of him!” screamed the leprechaun, aiming a kick at the detective's shins which Mallory narrowly dodged.

"You're lying,” said Mallory. “I'm not even from this world, and
I've
heard of him."

McNasty shook his head. “Never, ever,” he said sincerely. “Never never ever."

"Twist his arm off!” yelled a leprechaun. “He's lying!"

"He's cute,” said Felina, a predatory smile on her lips. She flexed her fingers in front of McNasty's face, and the nails seemed to grow. “Can I play with him?"

"If he doesn't answer me, I don't see why not,” said Mallory. He turned to Filthy McNasty. “I'm going to ask you one last time: where can I find a leprechaun named Flypaper Gillespie?"

"Oh, you mean the
leprechaun
Gillespie!” said Filthy McNasty, shrinking back from Felina in terror. “That's a whole different matter. Of course I know him! One of my closest, oldest friends, old Flypaper.” He looked at Mallory out of the corner of his eye and lowered his voice. “Who did he kill?"

"Where is he?” repeated Mallory.

"Top floor of the Empire State Building,” said McNasty quickly. “I'm meeting him there in half an hour."

"No, he's not!” smirked yet another leprechaun.

"All right,” said Mallory, carrying McNasty to the door and slapping him when the little leprechaun tried to bite his hand. “Let's go."

"I'm not going anywhere!” protested McNasty.