Stalking the Unicorn: A Fable of Tonight (20 page)

"You're coming with us."

"But I'll miss Bubbles Malone and Her Educated Snake!” he wailed.

"We all have to live with disappointments,” said Mallory dryly.

"Have some compassion!” begged McNasty. “It would break her insecure little heart if I wasn't up there in the balcony, leading the cheers and screaming, ‘Down in front!’”

"She'll adjust."

"It's okay, Filthy,” said a leprechaun. “I'll keep her company, and except for the improvement she'll never notice the difference.” He picked up an empty beer can and hurled it at McNasty's head, giggling hysterically.

"But I already told you where to find Flypaper Gillespie!” screamed McNasty in desperation. “He'll be at the top of the World Trade Center in half an hour."

"You said the Empire State Building before."

"Did I? It must have been a slip of the tongue. No, I'm meeting him on the roof of the World Trade Center. You can never tell when an oversized monkey might come climbing up the side of the Empire State Building."

"Good,” said Mallory. “Let's go."

"But you already know where to find him!"

"Right,” said Mallory. “But if by any chance he's not there, I'm going to throw you over the side."

"Just a minute!” said McNasty. “Just a minute,” he repeated. “Now that I come to think about it, I was meeting him there
tomorrow
night."

"Oh, good show!” giggled a leprechaun.

Mallory twisted McNasty's arm again. “I'm not a patient man,” he said. “I'm only going to ask you once more: where can I find him?"

"You're killing me!” screamed Filthy McNasty.

"No,” said Mallory. “That comes next."

"All right!” shrieked the leprechaun.

"Where is he?” demanded the detective, easing up on the pressure.

"What's in it for me?” asked McNasty with a sly smile.

"You may live long enough to see Bubbles Malone,” replied Mallory. “I should think that would be a pretty good deal from your point of view."

"And twenty bucks,” said McNasty.

"Not a cent."

"I say twenty and you say zero,” said McNasty reasonably. “Let's split the difference: fifteen bucks."

"I'll
tell you for ten,” offered a leprechaun.

"Five!” yelled another.

Mallory turned to the cat-girl. “Felina, he's all yours."

"Kill him! Kill him!” chanted two of the leprechauns.

"No!” screamed McNasty, grabbing Mallory and trying to use him as a shield. “You can't do this to me! I'm just an innocent bystander!
Help!"

"We'll save you, Filthy!” cried one of the leprechauns, and suddenly the lobby was filled with half a dozen of the Little People, all racing about madly with no seeming purpose. One of them brushed by Mallory and stuck a hat pin into his calf. As the detective bellowed a curse and tried to kick his attacker, two others grabbed Filthy McNasty by his free arm and began pulling, while a third, standing back, hurled an ashtray at Mallory's head, missing him by less than an inch. Then, as quickly as they had begun, they stopped and returned to the stairway.

"Well, we tried our best, Filthy,” panted one of them.

"Even friendship has its limitations,” agreed another. He turned to Mallory. “Okay, you can kill him now. The slower the better."

Felina had been edging over toward the stairway, and suddenly she pounced on one of the leprechauns.

"What the hell are you doing?” demanded Mallory, as she turned the cursing, snarling leprechaun upside down and shook him. An instant later Mallory's wallet fell onto the floor. She casually tossed the leprechaun halfway up the stairs, retrieved the wallet, and returned it to the detective.

"Thanks,” he said. “Now, shag all these others out of here."

She grinned, crouched down, and began slinking toward them, and suddenly they all broke for the door and raced out into the street.

"Three dollars and I'll tell all!” said McNasty, still struggling to free himself from Mallory's grasp. “That's my final offer. You'll never get information this cheap again!"

"We're all through dealing,” said Mallory. “Felina?"

"Two-fifty!” said McNasty desperately.

The cat-girl approached the leprechaun with a hungry leer on her face.

"I give up!” wailed Filthy McNasty. “I'll tell you everything I know, but call her off!"

"Felina—stop,” commanded Mallory.

She hissed at him, but held still, staring intently at the little leprechaun.

"All right,” said Mallory. “Start talking."

"Flypaper Gillespie stole Larkspur, and nobody's seen him since,” said McNasty.

"Where's the unicorn?"

"Nobody knows."

"Where does Gillespie live?"

"I can give you the address."

"You can do better than that,” said Mallory, removing the leprechaun's belt and starting to bind his hands behind him. “You can take us there."

"But I don't want to see Gillespie! I don't even like him!"

Mallory removed his own belt from his pants and tightened it around Filthy McNasty's legs.

"Felina, pick him up."

Felina leaped forward, swooped the leprechaun off his feet, and slung him over her shoulder.

"Okay,” said Mallory, walking to the door. “I think we're ready."

"You
carry me!” pleaded McNasty. “I don't trust her!"

"I don't doubt it,” said Mallory.

"All the blood is rushing to my head! I'm seeing religious images!"

"Obviously you're undergoing a spiritual experience,” said Mallory sardonically. He held the door open while Felina passed through with her cargo.

Suddenly she shrieked and clapped a hand to her left buttock, and a moment later the leprechaun howled in anguish as she raked her claws down his leg.

"That's what you get for biting her,” said Mallory.

"But it was a
friendly
bite!"

"Well, she probably gave you a friendly scratch."

"I'll remember this!” promised the leprechaun. “When I'm plucking out your eyeballs and cutting off your nose and you're begging for mercy, I'll remember this!"

"Just make sure you remember where Flypaper Gillespie lives,” replied Mallory. “Because if you give us the wrong address, I'm going to let her keep you."

"I'd like that,” purred Felina, as they walked through the windswept, rain-slick streets of Manhattan.

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1:31 AM-2:12 AM

It began raining harder.

They walked for more than a mile, with Filthy McNasty directing them down side streets and alleyways that Mallory was sure didn't exist in his own Manhattan. At one point he was certain that the little leprechaun was making them walk in a circle. They took four left turns in a row—but when they reached the point where Mallory thought they had started, none of the buildings looked familiar and he was standing on a street he had never heard of before.

The area began changing almost imperceptibly, and finally Mallory found himself in a seedy neighborhood filled with brownstones and hotels that had all seen better days. At last they came to a halt before a tall, narrow, brick building. The exterior was in need of a thorough sandblasting, and that portion of the interior that Mallory could see through a pair of dirty windows didn't look much better. The stone steps leading up to the front door were cracked, and three of the neon letters in the VACANCY sign were dark.

"This is it,” said McNasty. “Let me go now."

"When I
know
this is where Gillespie lives,” said Mallory, climbing the stairs. He turned to Felina. “You wait out here with him."

"Hey!” complained the leprechaun. “A deal is a deal!"

"Right,” agreed Mallory. “And you'd sure as hell better have kept your end of it."

"I hope he didn't,” purred Felina hungrily.

Mallory entered the building and found himself in a small, musty foyer. The furniture—two chairs and a sofa, all with cushions that were worn at the edges—had been purchased very inexpensively and was long past retirement age. The walls, which displayed a series of waist-high scuff marks from the chairs, were gray, the exact shade varying with the amount of grime on any given area. The rug was threadbare, and almost showed the pattern it had come with some generations earlier. A plastic Christmas tree, its branches discolored with age, many of its light bulbs missing, stood sedately in a corner, topped by a tarnished silver star that had once possessed five points but now had only two.

A balding, middle-aged man sat behind a battered reception desk, marking a copy of the
Racing Form
with a felt-tipped pen. He, like the foyer, had seen better days. His jacket was worn at the elbows, his shirt was missing a button, and his bow tie was slightly askew. He had a dapper little moustache, and a toothpick peeked out from the corner of his mouth. When he finally became aware of Mallory's presence he sighed, put the
Form
aside, and got wearily to his feet.

"Ho ho ho,” he said in a bored tone of voice.

Mallory looked around. “Are you talking to me?” he asked at last.

"You got it, Mac,” said the desk clerk. “Ho ho ho, and welcome to the Kringleman Arms, New York's finest boardinghouse. Is it still raining out?"

Mallory nodded.

"Shit!” He picked up his
Form
and drew a long line through a horse's name. “That takes care of the third race, ho ho ho."

"What's all this ho ho ho crap?” asked Mallory.

"It goes with the job,” said the man. “If I don't say it, I get fired."

"Why?"

"Beats the hell out of me,” admitted the man. “I suppose being the Kringleman Arms has something to do with it."

"I never heard of the Kringleman Arms before,"

"That's not surprising. We're the most specialized boardinghouse you'll ever find.” He pointed to a white-bearded old man who emerged from an ancient elevator and walked out into the night. “See that old geezer there?"

Mallory nodded.

"Well, we've got two hundred sixty-four of them."

"You're a retirement home?"

The man chuckled humorlessly. “We're a home for unemployed Santa Clauses. We fill up right after Christmas, and don't start emptying out until November.” He grimaced. “The thing that sticks in my craw is that most of these old farts don't even pay rent,"

"How do you stay in business?"

"We're owned by some old duffer who lives up north of here. He runs it like a charity.” He shrugged. “I guess he feels sorry for all these old Santas. Still, he must be a real high roller to be able to afford to give all these rooms away."

"What's his name?"

"Nick."

"Not Nick the Greek?” said Mallory.

The man shook his head. “Nick the Saint. Ever hear of him?"

"I'm not sure,” replied Mallory noncommittally.

"Well, he's the guy who made the rule about laughing.” He snorted contemptuously. “Just wait until the Kristem starts paying off. I'll give him laughing, all right—I'll laugh my head off when I tell him I'm quitting this lousy job."

"What's the Kristem?"

The man smiled. “I invented it myself,” he said confidentially. “It's a totally new, revolutionary way to analyze a race. None of that old crap that just concentrates on front-runners or breeding or post position, no sir. This takes
everything
into account: the position of Mars and Venus, the Gross National Product, the annual precipitation in Butte, Montana, the fiscal expenditure situation in Zambia—everything!"

"Why do you call it the Kristem?” asked Mallory curiously.

"Because my name's Kris and I invented it.” He winked at the detective. “It's a little play on words. Classy, huh?"

Mallory shrugged. “I suppose so."

"And the best part of it is that it absolutely guarantees a six hundred percent daily return if you just follow the formula."

"I hate to ask the obvious question,” said Mallory, “but why are you still working here?"

"There are still a few bugs in the system,” admitted Kris reluctantly. “Oh, it works perfect on paper. I can sit here with the
Form
and give you seven winners out of nine races on tomorrow's card."

"You can?” asked Mallory, interested.

"Like clockwork,” Kris assured him. “It works every single time.” A puzzled frown crossed his face. “Until I bet on them, that is. I don't know why, but the second I put my money down, the whole thing goes to hell in a handbasket. Curious, isn't it?"

"How long have you been working at getting the bugs out?"

"Oh, fifteen or twenty years,” said Kris. “But once they're out, I'm going to clean up. I may even market it myself.” He looked sharply at Mallory. “You're not from Bennie the Book, are you?” he said suddenly. “I told him I'd have the money by next Tuesday."

Mallory shook his head. “I'm just looking for someone."

Kris relaxed visibly.
"That's
a relief! Who are you looking for?"

"A leprechaun named Flypaper Gillespie,” answered Mallory. “Does he live here?"

"How the hell should
I
know?"

"You're the desk clerk,” said Mallory. “Look him up."

"We don't rent to leprechauns,” said Kris. “What kind of joint do you think we are, anyway?"

"Then he's not here."

"I didn't say that. I said I didn't know if he lives here or not."

"But if you don't rent to leprechauns—” began Mallory.

"Look, Mac,” said Kris, “there's a big difference between renting to leprechauns and being infested by them. We don't rent to mice, either."

"You're infested with leprechauns?"

"With one, anyway,” responded Kris. “I've been laying traps for him for the better part of a year now, but so far it hasn't done any good."

"What kinds of traps?"

"Oh, the usual—cans of beer, girlie magazines, those little bottles of booze that the airlines give out, stuff like that.” He paused. “They're always gone in the morning, but he's a clever little son of a bitch. One day I even found his torn tweed jacket in the trap, but no leprechaun.” Kris frowned. “I'd like to wring the little bastard's neck. Those were my own magazines!"

"How do you know you don't have more than one?"

"Because I never put out more than one can of beer."