Stalking the Unicorn: A Fable of Tonight

by Mike Resnick

"Vegas is always looking for good magic acts. I might even get on the same bill as Wayne Newton!"

  "Let's find out what happened to Winnifred first."

  "Of course, of course,” said Mephisto, unable to contain his enthusiasm. “But then, look out, Vegas—here I come! Move over, Barbra Streisand! Make way, Rat Pack!"

  "The Rat Pack doesn't exist anymore,” said Mallory. “They're all old men."

  "Then a new Rat Pack will come along. One always does, you know."

  "Yeah. Well, until that happy moment occurs, we've got work to do."

  "And a time limit to do it in,” Mephisto reminded him. “If you're right about Larkspur, the membrane is already starting to harden."

  "Then we haven't any time to waste, have we?” said Mallory, walking off across the slush-covered street.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 12

  2:38 AM-3:10 AM

  The Bureau of Missing Persons was a huge building, taking up an entire block. Like most of the other buildings in the vicinity, it was covered with soot and grime, and its windows were badly in need of a washing. Mallory, who had been expecting to find a single room stuck in the midst of a typical bureaucratic jungle, was surprised not only at its size but at the steady flow of people entering and leaving it.

  The detective entered the building through the front door and found himself in a reasonably large lobby. Portraits of Jimmy Hoffa, Amelia Earhart, Judge Joseph Crater, and other famous missing persons were prominently displayed on the walls.

  Mallory looked around, saw a desk marked INFORMATION, and approached it.

  "May I help you, sir?” asked a uniformed man who was standing behind the counter.

  "I hope so,” replied Mallory. “A friend of mine was late for an appointment; I have reason to believe that she may be in some trouble."

  "I see,” said the man sympathetically.

  "I want to find out if you have any information about her, and if not, I want to report her as being missing."

  "Well, that's what we're here for, sir,” said the man. “In fact, it's our busiest night of the year.” He pulled out a pencil and a small notebook. “Let me just ask you a couple of questions, and I'll send you to the proper department."

  "Fine,” said Mallory.

  "This friend of yours—what's her name?"

  "Winnifred Carruthers."

  "Any distinguishing features?"

  "Not really,” said Mallory, “She had a small horse with her, if that helps."

  "A small horse, you say?” repeated the man. “Have you tried the S.P.C.A.?"

  "No."

  "I wouldn't rule it out,” said the man, scribbling furiously. “Would you happen to know her eye color?"

  "Blue, I think."

  "Height?"

  "I don't know. Maybe five foot three or four."

  "Shoe size?"

  "I have no idea,” said Mallory impatiently.

  "What sign was she born under?” asked the man.

  "You mean Zodiac sign?"

  "That's right, sir."

  "I don't know."

  "One last question: was she wanted by anyone?"

  "You mean, by the authorities?” asked Mallory.

  "By anyone at all."

  "Not to my knowledge."

  "Right,” said the man briskly, putting his pencil and notebook away. “You want the second floor, fourth door on your left when you get out of the elevator. Good luck."

  "That's all?” asked Mallory.

  "That's all,” replied the man cheerfully.

  "Thanks, I guess."

  Mallory walked to the bank of elevators the man had indicated, waited until a set of doors opened up, stepped inside, and rode up to the second floor. When he got off, he turned to his left and passed a trio of incredibly busy offices, filled with worried parents and desperate husbands and wives and furious collection agents, all pouring out their stories to harassed employees.

  Mallory continued walking until he came to a fourth office. There was no frenzied activity here, no piles upon piles of paperwork obscuring the workers from his view, no incessant ringing of telephones, no endless lines of supplicants looking for missing persons. There was only one woman in the office, and she sat at a completely bare desk, reading a paperback romance.

  "Hello?” he said tentatively.

  She looked up from her book. “Can I help you?"

  "I'm looking for a woman named Winnifred Carruthers."

  "She's not wanted by anyone?"

  "Just by me,” replied Mallory.

  "Right through there,” said the woman, pointing to a door on the far side of the office.

  Mallory thanked her, crossed the office, opened the door, and entered a large lounge which was filled with a number of chairs and couches, none of which matched. The wallpaper was an absolutely hideous cacophony of bilious reds and greens, the lamps would have seemed garish even in a New Orleans bordello, and the various throw rugs, three of them light blue and the rest ranging from pink to purple, still had their REMNANT and REMAINDER labels attached.

  A number of men and women sat in the lounge, some watching a televised New Year's celebration being broadcast from Denver, others reading, a few simply dozing. One man sat at a desk, pen in hand, writing furiously; as quickly as he filled up one sheet of paper he placed it atop a small neat pile and began writing on a fresh one.

  Suddenly Mallory became aware of another presence beside him. He turned and found himself facing the strangest human being he had ever seen.

  The man stood about six feet tall and had three arms, two on the left side. His face was totally out of balance: he had three eyes, all to the right of his nose, which had only one nostril; his mouth was set into his face at a 45-degree angle; and both his ears were on the left side of his head, one on top of the other. His hair was bright orange, shading to pink at the sides.

  "May I help you?” asked the man.

  Mallory made no response.

  "Sir, may I be of some service to you?” persisted the man.

  Suddenly Mallory blinked his eyes. “Excuse me for staring,” he said. “You startled me."

  "It's all right,” said the man wearily, “It happens all the time. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Thelonius Strange."

  "John J. Mallory,” replied the detective. “I'm looking for a woman named Winnifred Carruthers."

  "I regret to inform you that you've come to the wrong place."

  "But I was told to come up here,” said Mallory.

  Strange shook his head sadly. “The mere fact that you're looking for her means that she isn't here. Didn't anyone ask you if she was wanted?"

  "I assume they meant by the police?"

  "They meant by anyone,” replied Strange. “We're the Unwanted People."

  "What are the Unwanted People?"

  "Men and women who have outlived their usefulness, or who never had a purpose to begin with.” Strange paused. “I, myself, am the Odd Man Out whom you've heard so much about.” He sighed. “In school, my teachers could never concentrate on their lectures. They'd start speaking, and then they'd begin to stare at me and forget what they were saying. Whenever I applied for a job, it was the same thing: somewhere in the middle of the interview, the personnel manager would just stop talking in mid-sentence and stare at me. If nineteen people showed up to play baseball, or twenty-three for football, or eleven for basketball, I was always the odd man out. It got to the point where nobody wanted me around at all, so I wound up here."

  "I'm sorry,” said Mallory.

  "One adjusts after a while."

  "Some of these people look quite normal,” said Mallory, looking around the room. “Why are they here?"

  "Each has his own reason."

  "Take him, for example,” said Mallory, pointing to a powerfully built young man who was sitting on a couch, a baseball mitt on his left hand, mechanically tossing a baseball a few inches into the air and catching it. “He looks pretty fit. What's he doing here?"
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  Strange pulled a pack of small multicolored cards out of his pocket, thumbed through them until he found the one he was looking for, and handed it to Mallory.

  "That's him,” he said. “Jason McGee."

  "It looks like a baseball card,” said the detective. “The kind that used to come with a pack of bubble gum."

  "It is."

  "So he got sent down to the minors,” said Mallory. “It happens all the time. How does that qualify him as an Unwanted Person?"

  "Read the back of it,” said Strange.

  Mallory flipped the card over. “Jason McGee,” he read. “Seasons played, three. At bats, none. Hits, none. Runs, none. Errors, none.” He looked up. “Three years and he never got into a game?"

  "That's right."

  "How come?"

  "Read what his position was,” suggested Strange.

  Mallory looked at the card again. “Position, fifth baseman.” He handed the card back to Strange. “What the hell is a fifth baseman?"

  "Me,” said McGee, looking over at the detective. “I was the only fifth baseman in the whole damned world, and they never once let me show what I could do."

  "Maybe that's because they only have four bases,” suggested Mallory.

  "But if there'd been five, I could have been the greatest!” said McGee passionately. “I made the team for three seasons in a row, and then they cut me. I bounced around the minors for a couple of seasons, and even went down to the Mexican league.” He looked at Mallory with tortured eyes. “Six years as a professional, and I never once got into a ball game! All that training down the drain!” He shook his head sadly. “All those hopes and dreams turned to dust!"

  "So you finally wound up here?” asked Mallory.

  McGee nodded. “That's right."

  "How long have you been here?"

  "I don't really know. You tend to lose track of the time in this place."

  "Why do you stay?"

  "Who needs a fifth baseman?” replied McGee.

  "There must be something else you can do."

  "Why bother?” said McGee with a sigh. “If they won't let me do what I'm good at, why waste the effort?” He pointed to the man who was writing at the desk. “Now, there's a guy who ought to go back into the world."

  "Who is he?"

  "Sybly Purple,” said Strange, as McGee went back to tossing the baseball into the air. “He's a writer."

  "What does he write?"

  "Mysteries, Westerns, anything at all. He's got a whole shelf full of books he's written."

  "He sounds pretty wanted to me,” said Mallory. “What's he doing here?"

  "Producing his masterwork,” said Strange. “Only nobody wants it."

  "The Great American Novel?” guessed Mallory.

  "With a difference,” said Strange. “He's writing the whole thing, all two thousand pages, without putting a single E in it."

  Mallory considered Strange's statement for a moment, then nodded his head. “Yeah, I can see where something like that isn't likely to be too high on anyone's want list."

  "Neither is the writer,” commented Strange sympathetically. “Since he became obsessed with this idea, none of his editors will talk to him anymore. That's why he's here."

  "How long has he been working on it?” asked Mallory.

  "Six years now."

  Suddenly Sybly Purple groaned and ripped up the page on which he'd been writing.

  "He must have inadvertently used an E,” said Strange. “He tears up fifty pages a day like that."

  "He's never going to make it,” said Mallory.

  "Probably not,” agreed Strange.

  "Is he writing it under his own name?” asked the detective.

  "Of course. It's his masterpiece."

  "There's an E in Purple. He's blown it before the reader reaches page one."

  Strange's eyes went wide with surprise. “Don't tell him!” he whispered urgently. “The shock just might push him over the edge!"

  "It sounds to me like he's over the edge already,” replied Mallory dryly.

  "Please!” said Strange. “You've no idea what it's like to be an Unwanted Person. Don't make it any harder on him!"

  "I've no intention of mentioning it to him,” Mallory assured him. “I'm just looking for my friend."

  "Well, she's not in here. You might go up to the third floor and try the Tank."

  "The Tank?"

  "It's the holding area for missing persons."

  Mallory frowned. “Let me try to assimilate this for a minute,” he said. “You're telling me that there are a bunch of missing persons up on the third floor?"

  "It's the Missing Persons Bureau, isn't it?” said Strange.

  "Where I come from, the Missing Persons Bureau hunts for missing persons."

  "What a strange idea!” commented Strange. “Here the Bureau collects them and keeps them until they're claimed. If your friend is here, she's almost certainly in the Tank."

  "Then I'd better go check,” said Mallory. “Thanks for your help."

  Strange nodded in acknowledgment, and Mallory went back out through the office. He then returned to the elevators, waited until one arrived, and took it up to the third floor. When he got off he found himself in a very crowded hallway, and simply followed the crowd until he reached the Tank, a huge holding area filled with hundreds of people, some drunk, some crying, a few sleeping, most of them looking totally disoriented.

  There was a large reception area with a long counter that reminded Mallory of an airport, except that instead of signs denoting the names of the various air carriers, these signs denoted the lines for those seeking missing persons, those delivering missing persons, and the missing persons themselves.

  Mallory stood in the appropriate line, and a moment later a crisply efficient woman dressed in a blue uniform began walking up and down his line.

  "You're seeking a missing person?” she asked when she reached him.

  "That's right,” replied the detective.

  "Name of the missing party?"

  "Actually, there are two of them,” said Mallory. “Winnifred Carruthers, and Eohippus."

  "Eohippus who?"

  "Just Eohippus."

  "Do the parties in question know that they're missing?"

  "I don't understand."

  "Some people would prefer not to be found,” she explained, “and do not, in fact, consider themselves missing. Bank robbers, for example, or eloping couples, or—"

  "If they're here, I'm sure they want to be found,” Mallory interrupted her.

  "Have Carruthers and Eohippus any preference as to who finds them?"

  "How the hell do I know?” demanded Mallory irritably.

  "I'm only doing my job, sir,” she said severely. “I am required to ask these questions."

  "Well, it's a damned stupid question!"

  "Not necessarily. For example, Winnifred Carruthers may be quite willing to be found by you, but might strongly resist being found by her husband."

  "They'll both want to be found by me,” said Mallory.

  "Then I'll need your name, sir,” said the woman.

  "Mallory,” he replied, “John J. Mallory."

  "All right, Mr. Mallory,” she said. “If you'll just wait here, I'll see what we can do."

  She continued interviewing people in the line, then finally walked up to the Tank and began calling out names over an intercom. Half a dozen men and women walked to the front of the Tank to be reunited with the people who were searching for them, but Winnifred and Eohippus weren't among them.

  Mallory stopped the woman as she passed him on her way to the back of the line to interview more searchers.

  "They didn't answer,” he told her. “What do I do now?"

  "Well,” she replied, “you could wait and see if they show up."

  He shook his head. “I haven't got the time. How do I report them as missing?"

  "You tell me."

  "I already did."

  "Then that's that
,” she said, starting to walk away.

  "Just a minute!"

  She turned to face him. “Really, Mr. Mallory, there are other people waiting in line."

  "Aren't you going to tell the police to look for them?” he demanded.

  "The police are rounding up all the missing persons they can find,” she replied. “It's standard operating procedure."

  "I want to put out an all-points bulletin on them,” persisted Mallory. “I think they could be in considerable danger."

  "In that case, you want the line for Beleaguered Persons. It's down at the end of the counter."

  Mallory glared at her in frustration, then stalked over to the Beleaguered Persons line and left Winnifred's name with a bored receptionist. He checked the time and decided to go to Mephisto's apartment to see if the magician had turned up any information on Winnifred's whereabouts.

  He had taken the elevator down to the main floor and was heading for the front door when he almost bumped into Mürgenstürm.

  "John Justin!” exclaimed the elf breathlessly. “Thank goodness I've found you!"

  "What are you doing here?” demanded Mallory suspiciously.

  "Looking for you. We've got a lot to talk about."

  "We sure as hell do,” said Mallory, grabbing the little elf by an arm and dragging him out into the night.

  "What's the matter, John Justin?” asked Mürgenstürm.

  "Shut up!"

  Mallory looked around, shielding his eyes from the rain with his free hand, saw an all-night coffee shop across the street, and began walking toward it, pulling the elf after him. When he walked in the front door, he spotted an empty table at the back of the room and dragged the elf over to it.

  "Sit down,” he commanded.

  "You're mad at me, aren't you?” asked Mürgenstürm as he climbed up onto a chair.

  "How did you guess?” said Mallory.

  A female goblin in an apron approached them. “What'll it be, gents?” she asked.

  "Peace and quiet,” said Mallory, holding out one of the hundred-dollar bills that Mürgenstürm had given him in the clothing store.

  She snatched the bill from his hand.

  "You got it,” she said, ambling off.

  "You're becoming a profligate spender, John Justin,” said the elf disapprovingly. “I worked very hard for that money."

  "So did I,” Mallory shot back. “Besides, I don't plan to be in this Manhattan long enough to spend all of it.” He glared across the table. “All right, you little green bastard—talk!"