Stalking the Unicorn: A Fable of Tonight (7 page)

"How did you manage that?"

"I have friends in high places,” said the detective dryly. “All right, Felina—can you pick up Larkspur's scent?"

The cat-girl walked up to Mallory, rubbed up against him, and purred.

"Don't do that,” said the detective, looking around uncomfortably.

"Scratch my back,” she said.

"Not in front of everyone."

She rubbed against him again. “Scratch my back or I'm leaving,” she said insistently.

He grimaced and began rubbing her back. A blissful smile spread across her face, and she began writhing sinuously beneath his hand.

"Enough?” asked Mallory after a moment.

"For now,” she replied smugly, starting off again with one hand securing her hat, and Mallory and Mürgenstürm fell into step behind her. She remained on the thoroughfare for two blocks, then turned onto a narrow street. She proceeded for a few yards, then paused, puzzled, looked around, walked over to a mailbox, jumped atop it, and began licking the outside of her left thigh.

"What's wrong?” asked Mallory.

She continued licking herself for another moment, then turned to him.

"I've lost the scent,” she announced.

"But Larkspur definitely entered this street?"

She shrugged. “I think so."

"You
think
so?” he demanded, as she went back to licking her thigh.

"He came this far, but there have been too many people passing by. I don't know where he went next."

"Wonderful,” muttered Mallory. He walked a few feet down the street. “How about here?"

She jumped off the mailbox, walked over to where Mallory was standing, sniffed the air, and shrugged again.

Mallory looked down the dimly lit street, which was practically devoid of pedestrians. A number of the buildings fronting it had been rehabilitated, and one of them boasted a brightly illuminated open-air restaurant. Due to the icy rain most of the tables were deserted, but one of them was occupied by two men. The man with his back to Mallory was wearing a trenchcoat and a felt hat, while the man seated opposite him, far smaller in size, wore a shopworn double-breasted suit and was continually wiping the rain from his face with a large silk handkerchief. As Mallory drew closer he saw that they were playing chess.

"Well, we've got to start somewhere,” said Mallory, approaching the two chessplayers. He stood there for a moment while they continued staring intently at the board, then cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon."

"No offense taken,” answered the man in the trenchcoat, without looking up from the chessboard. “Now, go away."

"I wonder if I might ask you a question,” persisted Mallory.

"You might,” said the man. “I probably wouldn't answer you, though."

"It'll only take a second."

The man looked up irritably. “It's already taken twenty seconds.” He turned to his opponent. “This had better not be coming off my time."

"Of course it is,” said the smaller man in a slightly nasal accent that Mallory couldn't identify. “Remember V-J Day? I stood up and cheered, and you took a whole minute off my time."

"That was different,” said the man in the trenchcoat. “Nobody said you had to get up."

"It was patriotic."

"It was
your
decision to be patriotic. I, on the other hand, was minding my own business when this inconsiderate dolt approached me."

"Thirty-nine days, eight hours, six minutes, sixteen seconds, and counting,” said the smaller man firmly.

The man in the trenchcoat glared furiously at Mallory. “Now see what you've done!” he snapped.

"I heard you say something about V-J Day,” said Mallory. “Have you guys really been playing since World War II?"

"Since February 4, 1937, to be precise,” said the smaller man.

"Who's ahead?"

"I'm down one pawn,” said the man in the trenchcoat.

"I mean, how many games have each of you won?"

"What a damnfool question! I hope you don't think I'd be sitting here in the rain on New Year's Eve if I'd already beaten him."

"You've never beaten him?” said Mallory. “Then why keep trying?"

"He's never beaten me either."

"You two must have set a record for consecutive draws,” remarked Mallory.

"We've never played to a draw."

Mallory blinked the rain from his eyes. “Let me get this straight,” he said at last. “You've been playing the same game of chess for half a century?"

"Give or take,” acknowledged the man in the trenchcoat.

"Chess doesn't take that long,” said Mallory.

"When
we
play it, it does,” said the smaller man with a touch of pride.

"Right,” agreed his opponent. “The game's the thing—at least the way me and the Weasel play it."

"The Weasel?” asked Mallory.

"That's me,” said the smaller man with a self-effacing smile. “And he's Trenchcoat."

"Don't you have real names?"

"We know who we are,” said Trenchcoat, lighting up a bent Camel cigarette.

"And you've been sitting right here for fifty years?"

"Not really,” replied Trenchcoat. “We began in the back of a saloon down in the Village, but they lost their lease about thirty years ago."

"Thirty-two years, to be exact,” corrected the Weasel.

"So we've actually only been here about a third of a century."

"Non-stop?” asked Mallory.

"Barring calls of nature,” said the Weasel.

"We eat right at the table,” added Trenchcoat. “It saves time."

"And of course I catch up on my sleep when it's his move,” said the Weasel.

"Don't either of you ever wonder what's been going on in the world for the past half century?” asked Mallory.

"Every now and then,” admitted the Weasel. “Are any wars still being fought?"

"Thirty or forty,” replied Mallory.

"And is there crime in the streets?"

"Of course."

"What about the Yankees?” asked Trenchcoat. “Are they still winning pennants?"

"From time to time."

"Well, there you have it,” said Trenchcoat with a shrug. “Nothing's changed."

"Think of all the money we've saved by not buying newspapers,” added the Weasel.

"But you can't just drop out of the world and play chess for the rest of your lives,” persisted Mallory.

"Of course we can,” said Trenchcoat.

"At least until the game is over,” said the Weasel.

"Will it ever be over?"

"Certainly,” said the Weasel confidently. “I'll have him in another fifteen years or so."

"Dream on,” said Trenchcoat contemptuously.

"It seems like such a waste,” remarked Mallory. “You're just sitting here vegetating."

"He's
vegetating,” replied the Weasel.
"I'm
formulating a plan to break through his Indian defense."

Trenchcoat turned to stare at Mallory. “And what are
you
doing that's so important?"

"Hunting for a unicorn."

"Well, you won't find it in the city,” said Trenchcoat. “Unicorns need water and green things. If I were you, I'd look in Africa or Australia or someplace like that."

"This one was stolen,” explained Mallory.

"Is it yours?"

"No. I'm a detective."

"You know, it's funny that you should say that,” said Trenchcoat.

"Oh? Why?"

"Because
I
used to be a detective."

"What about you?” Mallory asked the Weasel. “Were you a detective too?"

"Au contraire.
I was a criminal."

"More to the point,” added Trenchcoat, “he was
my
criminal."

"I don't think I understand you,” said Mallory.

"It's really quite simple,” said Trenchcoat. “What is the one thing that detectives absolutely cannot do without? Criminals!"

"And I needed him just as badly,” continued the Weasel. “In fact, we defined each other. You can't have a criminal without laws, and you can't work at enforcing laws without criminals. You might say that we had a symbiotic relationship. I'd clock in every morning at eight o'clock and go out to rob, pillage, and loot..."

"And I'd clock in at nine—it seemed only fair to give him enough time to break some laws—and then I'd try to apprehend him.” Trenchcoat paused, a pleasant smile of reminiscence on his face. “We'd go at it hot and heavy all day long, him putting on disguises and ducking in and out of shadows, me gathering clues and trying to track him down..."

"Taking an hour off for lunch ...” interjected the Weasel.

"And then we'd clock out at five, get together for a drink, and prepare for the next day."

"We even coordinated our sick time and vacations."

"Right,” said Trenchcoat. “And then one day it dawned on us that the game was more important than the rewards."

"I realized that matching wits with him was more gratifying to me than stealing things. After all, I had a warehouse full of toasters and I never ate at home."

"And I didn't really care about catching murderers and bank robbers; most of them didn't present any kind of a challenge—and besides, the courts kept turning them loose anyway."

"We also realized that we were both getting a little old to be chasing around the city and shooting at each other...” said the Weasel.

"Not that we ever aimed to actually hit one another..."

"So, since it was the battle of wits that excited us, we decided to rid ourselves of all the peripherals and get down to the basic contest."

"I found another job for my secretary, Velma,” said Trenchcoat as Mallory winced, “and then the Weasel and I sat down and began discussing creative alternatives..."

"We gave serious consideration to cards—there's a poker game over on the next block for the ownership of Lincoln, Nebraska, that's been going on even longer than we have—but we wanted something where chance didn't enter into it..."

"So we hit upon chess,” concluded Trenchcoat.

"And here we are. I strike in the dead of night and steal his pawn..."

"And I trail him down dark twisting alleys between bishops and rooks,” concluded Trenchcoat with a contented sigh. “It's really much more satisfying than hunting for murderers. Or unicorns, for that matter."

"Speaking of unicorns...” began Mallory.

"I thought we were speaking of chess,” said Trenchcoat.

"Only some of us were,” said Mallory. “Some of us are looking for a stolen unicorn."

"I hardly see how we can help you."

"We tracked him to this street, and then we lost his trail. Has he passed by in the last few hours? He would have had a leprechaun with him."

"Who knows?” replied Trenchcoat with a shrug. “I've been concentrating on my next move for two days now."

"How about you?” asked Mallory.

"I was watching
him
to make sure he didn't try to cheat,” answered the Weasel.

"At any rate, I wouldn't be in such a hurry to catch him if I were you,” remarked Trenchcoat.

"Why not?"

"Take it from a fellow detective: you're viewing this from the wrong perspective. One unicorn, properly and thoroughly stolen, can provide a man with a lifetime's employment."

"Thanks for your suggestion,” said Mallory. “But the lifetime is
his"
—he jerked a thumb toward Mürgenstürm—"and it ends tomorrow morning if I don't find the unicorn."

"Who's going to kill him?” asked Trenchcoat.

"I have a feeling that it's going to be a race between his guild and the Grundy."

"The Grundy?” asked Trenchcoat, arching an eyebrow. “Is
he
involved in this?"

"Yes."

"Watch out for him,” warned Trenchcoat. “He's a mean one."

"Can you tell me anything about him?” asked Mallory.

"I just did,” said Trenchcoat.

"Do you know anything about a leprechaun named Flypaper Gillespie?"

"Just generically."

"Generically?” repeated Mallory.

"Leprechauns are a vicious and surly race."

"I don't suppose you'd care to join in the hunt?"

Trenchcoat surveyed the chessboard for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. “Not when I'm closing in for the kill."

"In that case, you could leave now,” said the Weasel.

"You do seem to have him in a bit of trouble,” agreed Mallory, taking a quick glance at the board.

"You think so?” said Trenchcoat triumphantly. “Then watch
this!"

He reached forward, picked up his queen, and placed it on the next table, just behind a vase filled with artificial carnations.

"Mon Dieux!"
muttered the Weasel, astonished. “The boldness, the effrontery, the sheer brilliance of it!"

He immediately fell silent as he began considering how best to protect his king's bishop from an attack launched from a neighboring table.

"There's no sense hanging around here any longer,” said Mallory, shaking his head in disbelief. “Where the hell is our faithful tracker?"

Mürgenstürm pointed down the street to a mesh litter basket with a KEEP OUR CITY CLEAN sign affixed to it, where Felina, bareheaded, was rummaging for edible garbage.

"Call her over and let's get this show on the road,” said Mallory. As Mürgenstürm went off to fetch her, the detective leaned over to the Weasel and whispered, “Saltshaker to queen's bishop five."

The Weasel's eyes widened. “You know,” he said excitedly, “it's so crazy it just might work!” He went back to studying the board.

"What happened to your hat?” asked Mallory when Felina returned with Mürgenstürm.

"I got tired of it,” she said with a shrug.

"What now, John Justin?” asked Mürgenstürm anxiously.

"We keep looking for Larkspur."

"But where? We've lost his trail."

"So much for shortcuts,” said Mallory. “It looks like I'm going to have to do it the hard way."

"The hard way?"

Mallory nodded. “Before I go hunting for Larkspur, I've got to know exactly what I'm hunting for. What does a unicorn look like? What does it eat? Does it help to have a virgin handy? Where are they likely to hide it? What kind of trail does it leave besides unicorn shit? Is there a particular sound or scent it will respond to?"

"How should I know?” asked Mürgenstürm. “My job was just to guard the damned thing, not study it."