by Mike Resnick
"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."
"Who would know?"
"I have no idea,” replied the elf as they reached the corner of the main thoroughfare. While throngs of pedestrians passed by and scores of draft animals traversed the street, paying no attention to the traffic lights, Felina began climbing a lamppost in pursuit of a small bat that was fluttering around the light. “I mean, a person who could speak endlessly about the habits and habitats of unicorns is hardly my idea of good company."
"What about a zoologist?” suggested Mallory.
"Sounds good to me,” replied Mürgenstürm. “Do you know any?” Mallory merely glared at him. Suddenly the elf snapped his fingers in triumph. “I've got it!"
"What?"
"The Museum of Natural History! They've got a stuffed unicorn on display there. They're bound to have all kinds of information about them."
"Will it be open?” asked Mallory dubiously.
"I know the night watchman. He'll let us in for a small financial consideration."
"How did a little green wimp like you ever come to spend any time in a museum?"
"There's a gallery there that's been closed for renovation, and the weather being what it is ... ah ... well, you know how these things are ..."
"That's where you take your conquests?” asked Mallory incredulously.
"Sometimes,” acknowledged the elf. “Just those who live in the vicinity. No more than three or four an evening.” He drew himself up to his full, if minimal, height. “And they're not conquests,” he added with dignity.
"They're not?"
"Well, not when I take them there,” said Mürgenstürm. “Only when I leave."
Just then Felina dropped lightly to the ground beside them and delicately wiped a piece of gray fur from her lips.
"I'm surrounded by appetites,” commented Mallory disgustedly. He looked up the broad thoroughfare. “Well, let's be going."
Just then a newsboy, a huge stack of freshly printed papers folded under his arm, walked by.
"Grundy Issues Warning!” he cried, holding a paper above his head with his free hand. “Read all about it! Grundy Issues Warning!"
"See?” said Mallory confidently. “He's so busy with other things he probably hasn't even seen Larkspur since he stole him."
A second newsboy approached them from a different direction.
"Grundy Threatens Mallory!” he hollered. “Extra! Extra! Grundy Threatens Mallory! Props and Midgets Lose Again!"
Mallory walked over to the boy.
"Let me see one of those,” he said, pulling some change out of a pocket.
The newsboy handed him a copy, and Mallory opened it up.
"'Mallory, Go Home While You Still Can!’ Warns Grundy,” he read aloud.
"Does he mean you?” asked Felina.
"I suppose so."
She smiled and rubbed against him. “You're famous!"
Mallory stared at the paper again, then looked at Mürgenstürm. “How the hell did he get a photo of me?” he asked at last.
The little elf shrugged. “He's the Grundy."
Suddenly a small boy wearing an Eastern Union uniform raced up and handed an envelope to Mallory.
"What's this?” asked the detective.
"Telegram, sir."
"You're sure it's for me?"
"You're John Justin Mallory, aren't you?"
Mallory nodded. “How much do I owe you?"
"It's been prepaid."
Mallory flipped him a coin, which the boy caught on the run, then ripped open the envelope.
MALLORY, DO NOT, REPEAT, DO NOT GO TO THE MUSEUM OR MAKE ANY OTHER ATTEMPT TO FIND THE UNICORN OR FLYPAPER GILLESPIE STOP YOUR LIFE IS AT RISK STOP THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING STOP
Mallory handed the telegram to Mürgenstürm, who turned almost white as he read it. A few seconds later it dropped from his trembling fingers and fell to the wet sidewalk.
"We decided to go to the museum less than two minutes ago,” said Mallory.
Mürgenstürm gulped. “I know."
"Even if we were wired for sound, it takes longer than that to write and deliver a telegram."
"Obviously not for the Grundy,” said Mürgenstürm in a quavering voice.
"I thought you told me he didn't have any magical powers."
"That's absolutely right, John Justin. Magic doesn't work, and I've always held that it's ridiculous for anyone in this enlightened day and age to believe otherwise."
"That how do you explain the telegram?” demanded Mallory.
Mürgenstürm smiled a sickly smile. “Maybe I was wrong."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 4
10:22 PM-11:20 PM
Mallory looked around, studying the various stores.
"What are you looking for, John Justin?” asked Mürgenstürm. “I thought we were going to the museum."
"First things first,” said Mallory. “Where can I find a gun shop?"
"There's one on the next block,” said Mürgenstürm. “But I thought you never carried a weapon."
"I was never threatened by a demon before,” said Mallory, heading off in the direction the elf had indicated. “Will it be open on New Year's Eve?"
"Why not?” responded Mürgenstürm. “More people are shot on New Year's Eve than any other night of the year."
They reached the store in another minute, and Mallory turned to the elf. “I think one shopping binge a night is enough for Felina. Why don't you stay out here and make sure that she doesn't wander off?"
"Why bother?” asked Mürgenstürm. “She's obviously no longer any use to us as a tracker."
"Because I have a feeling that we're going to need all the help we can get."
"Even incompetent help?"
"You can't always choose,” replied Mallory. “Find me someone competent and we'll talk about leaving her behind."
"You're the boss,” said Mürgenstürm with a shrug.
"We'll get along fine as long as we all remember that,” said Mallory, and entered the store alone.
There were a number of customers inspecting the various weapons. A trio of uniformed military men seemed to be comparing notes on rapid-action repeating rifles; a huge, bearded warrior dressed in furs and a metal skullcap was hefting a number of battle-axes; a chalk-white woman with long black hair and high, arching eyebrows was holding an ornate dagger, striking assorted dramatic poses in front of a mirror; another woman, complaining about her husband in a loud voice, kept sending a clerk back for larger and larger handguns; a Gnome of the Subway, looking apprehensively at the doorway every few seconds, was examining various types of ammunition; and perhaps a dozen other customers of varying sizes and species were simply browsing aimlessly.
Mallory stopped at a display case of pistols, then wandered over to a wall that held a number of tribal spears in small metal clamps. He continued browsing, discovering a number of weapons that made absolutely no sense to him. Finally he walked u
p to the main counter.
"May I help you, sir?” asked a slight, balding man with a drooping moustache.
"I hope so,” replied Mallory. “What kind of gun will stop a leprechaun?"
"Leprechauns?” said the man with a pleased smile. “Ah, there's nothing quite like hunting leprechauns in the rain! How many of the little beggars do you plan to blow away, sir?"
"Just one."
The man nodded sympathetically. “They're getting harder to find every year. Not like the good old days, eh?"
"I guess not."
"How much of a sporting chance do you want to give him?"
"None,” said Mallory.
"Quite right, sir,” said the salesman, trying unsuccessfully to hide his disapproval. “I assume your license is in order?"
"License?"
"For slaughtering leprechauns,” explained the salesman patiently.
"I didn't know I needed one."
"I'll bet you left it at home, sir."
"I don't have one."
"Certainly you do, sir,” said the salesman persuasively. “If you didn't have one, you couldn't buy a gun to kill the little bastard with, could you?"
"I left it at home,” said Mallory.
"You look like an honest man,” said the salesman. “I see no reason why I shouldn't take your word for it.” He reached beneath the counter and withdrew a small pistol. “Here's just the ticket, sir. Ten shots, one in the chamber and nine in the stock, accurate up to two hundred feet.” He laid the pistol down on the counter and placed a box of ammunition next to it. “Will there be anything else?"
"Yes,” said Mallory. “How do you kill a demon?"
"It all depends. We have a complete line of talismans and amulets.” The salesman reached into another cabinet and withdrew a long crystal wand. “Or you could use this little baby here! Sweetest little weapon you've ever seen. Guaranteed to demolish every demon below the level of the Fifth Circle."
"I don't feel comfortable with magic,” said Mallory. “What kind of gun will do the trick?"
"None. And I'll thank you not to refer to this as a magic wand, sir,” said the salesman haughtily. “This wand works by strict scientific principles, just the same as our amulets and talismans: it refracts light to create invisibility, it ionizes the air around your antagonist and thereby eliminates his oxygen supply, it seeds clouds to create thunder and lightning, it—"
