Stalking The Zombie: Fables of Tonight

by Mike Resnick

  The Prince of Whales stared at him for a long moment.

  “You’re pretty good,” he said. “I’ll give you that. You got everything but the tax angle.”

  “Tax angle?”

  “It’s the locals who are trying to bust me for fencing. The Feds don’t care what I do as long as I pay my taxes. I figured to deduct a couple of billion dollars for charitable contributions after I made the rounds on Christmas Eve. I could carry that forward for the next twenty years on my taxes.”

  “Maybe you still can,” said Mallory.

  “Okay,” said the Prince of Whales. “You talk, I’ll listen. What’s the deal?”

  “What if I can get my client to agree to drop all charges against you?”

  “What’s it gonna cost?”

  “First, you have to return Jasper today,” said Mallory. “I assume he’s somewhere in the warehouse?”

  “Yeah, he’s back there with the others in a bunch of stalls I made up. What else?”

  “My client is a tough old bird, and I don’t know if simply returning the reindeer is enough,” said Mallory. “But if you sweeten the pot by turning over all your goods to him and letting him dump them on the market on Christmas Eve, I think he might go for it.”

  “He’ll sign a document certifying that I gave them to him free of charge?”

  “I think he will. Anything he doesn’t use this year, he can use next time around.” He paused. “Do we have a deal?”

  ‘You bet your ass we have a deal, Mallory!” said the Prince of Whales. “The only part of this scam I didn’t like was flying around behind those goddamned reindeer. I’m scared to death of heights.”

  “All right,” said Mallory, walking over to the phone. “Let me talk to my client and make sure he’s willing.” The deal was official ninety seconds later.

  “Bah,” said Mallory. “And while I’m at it, humbug.” “What now, John Justin?” asked Winnifred.

  “Here it is Christmas Eve, and that old geezer hasn’t come up with our expense money or our bonus yet. That’s a hell of a note, considering who he is.”

  “You’d just spend your share betting at the track anyway,” said Winnifred.

  “Well, there’s an elephant called Flyaway running at Jamaica tomorrow,” admitted Mallory. “I’ve got a hunch.”

  “Didn’t you once tell me that you bet a horse called Flyaway in your Manhattan some ten or fifteen times and never won?”

  “Eighteen,” admitted Mallory. “But it’s such a great name. The name alone is due to win.”

  “I’m glad you attack our cases with more intelligence than your wagers,” said Winnifred.

  “He’s here,” announced Felina, who had been sleeping atop the refrigerator.

  “Who’s here?” asked Mallory.

  “The blue-nosed reindeer.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Felina smiled. “Cat people know things that humans can never know,” she purred.

  Suddenly there was a small clanking noise in the fireplace, and Winnifred walked over to it.

  “Well, it looks like he kept both promises,” she said, picking up a small parcel.

  “What do you mean?” asked Mallory.

  “This,” she said, holding up a roll of bills, “is for us. I’ll take it over to the bank and put it in the night deposit window.” She paused. “And this,” she added, tossing him a small object, “is for you.”

  Mallory caught it and examined it with a wry grin on his face.

  It was a lump of coal.

  CARD SHARK

  A/nnifred Carruthers, a frown on her pink, pudgy face, placed some cards on a table.

  “The March Hare, the Mad Hatter, the White Rabbit, the Cheshire Cat, and the Star,” she announced.

  Mallory, seated at his desk, his feet balanced atop a ouija board, never looked up from the Racing Form that he and the magic mirror behind him were studying intently.

  “Does that mean anything to you, John Justin?” she persisted.

  “It sounds like the answer to: ‘Name a lousy poker hand’,” replied Mallory in a bored voice. He held up the Form. “There are more important things to consider: Flyaway’s running again tomorrow.”

  “Hasn’t he lost 38 races in a row?” asked Winnifred.

  “41,” corrected the magic mirror.

  “I’d say he’s due to win one, wouldn’t you?” replied Mallory.

  “I’d go with the string,” said the mirror.

  “So would I,” said Winnifred. “He’s remarkably consistent.”

  Mallory shrugged. “It’s a battle of wills. Someday that nag is going to win, and after betting him 33 straight races, I’m not going to be left behind when he does.”

  “Leaving things behind—like other racehorses— doesn’t seem to be his forte,” noted Winnifred.

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” muttered Mallory. “Here I am, trying to figure out if tomorrow is the day he turns it around, and you’re nagging me about poker hands.”

  “Not poker hands,” Winnifred corrected him. “Cards.” “Same thing.”

  “Not quite.” She held one of the cards up. “They arrived in the mail, addressed to the Mallory & Carruthers Detective Agency. I think you’ll find this one interesting.” “You’re not going to leave me alone until I look at it, right?”

  “Right, John Justin.”

  “Okay, toss it over.”

  Winnifred gave him a withering look and flipped the card toward him with a flick of her wrist. It was halfway across the room when a decidedly feminine figure leaped through the air and grabbed it in her mouth.

  “It’s only paper,” complained the figure, spitting out the card disgustedly.

  “Let me guess—you’re hungry,” said Mallory.

  “She’s always hungry,” said Winnifred.

  “Is it my fault that cat people have high metabolisms?” asked the cat person. “Besides, I like to catch things.” She purred. “Especially if they wriggle.”

  ‘You’re all heart, Felina,” said Mallory. “Now bring me the damned thing before I lose my patience.”

  “Doctors lose their patients,” said Felina. “What you lose are clients.”

  “I’m delighted to see that no one will ever accuse you of the twin vices of loyalty and humor,” said Mallory. “Now, the card, if you please?”

  Felina picked it up and leaped onto the top of Mallory’s chair. “Here you are,” she said, leaning forward over his head and handing the card to him.

  He studied it for a long moment, then looked at Winnifred. “Is this some kind of joke?” he asked.

  “You tell me.”

  “I have no idea. What the hell is my photograph doing on a card? And how come there’s no suit? And is a star higher or lower than an ace?”

  “It’s a tarot card, John Justin.”

  He frowned. “Do you believe in that mumbo-jumbo?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Me, too,” said Felina and the mirror in unison.

  “Rubbish,” said Mallory.

  “You must remember you’re not in your Manhattan any more, John Justin,” said Winnifred. “In a city with gorgons, leprechauns, unicorns, chimeras, magi, and the Grundy himself, why should you disbelieve in tarot?”

  Mallory shrugged. “A man’s got to disbelieve in something,” he said. “It gives his life meaning.” He paused and smiled. “I read that in a book I no longer believe in.”

  “Sometimes I don’t understand you at all,” said Winnifred.

  “My ex-wife had that same problem,” replied Mallory wryly.

  I understand you,” said Felina from somewhere behind his head.

  ‘You do?”

  ‘You’re a man. The God Of All Cats put you here to feed me and scratch between my shoulder blades.”

  “How comforting to know I’ve been endowed with such a noble purpose.”

  “Oh, it’s not noble,” explained Felina. ‘You can’t help yourself.”

  “So much for free will,�
�� said Mallory. He looked at the card again. “Along with wondering who made the card, what made them assume I’m a star? I’m an underpaid detective with a partner and a 92-pound office cat that looks kind of like Melanie Griffith before her morning shave.”

  “There’s a better question than that, John Justin,” said Winnifred.

  “I’ll bet there are dozens of better questions. Which one is yours?”

  “Why was it sent to us?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” answered Mallory. “Maybe it’s a sample, and someone will call to see if I want to pay for a whole deck.”

  “Maybe,” said Winnifred dubiously. “But if it was an advertising solicitation, there should have been some information with it, like who to contact and how much it will cost.”

  “Maybe it’s Hollywood calling, and they finally figured out that I could be a star.”

  The mirror giggled. Then Felina started chuckling, more and more rapidly, louder and louder, until she finally fell off the chair and rolled across the floor, laughing hysterically.

  “All right, all right, so maybe I’m not the next Clint Eastwood. It’s not that damned funny.”

  “Sure it is!” gasped Felina.

  “I could really get into the part of Tarzan stabbing his knife into Sabor the Lioness’s ribcage a couple of dozen times,” muttered Mallory bitterly.

  “We’re getting away from the subject, John Justin,” said Winnifred.

  “I wasn’t aware that there was one.”

  “The tarot card.”

  “I don’t know anything about tarot cards. Do you?” “No, not really.”

  “Then let’s not worry about it.”

  “All right,” said Winnifred. “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “When I was a white hunter, I didn’t know anything about cholera or yellow fever—but I made sure my inoculations were up to date.”

  “You tell me how to inoculate myself against a tarot card and we’ll talk,” said Mallory, picking up the Form again. “In the meantime, let me concentrate on inoculating Flyaway against a muddy track.”

  “And anything faster than a turtle,” added Felina.

  * * *

  Flyaway’s race was its usual model of consistency. He broke last in a field of nine, was ninth into the clubhouse turn, ninth down the backstretch, ninth going around the far turn, ninth in the homestretch, and ninth at the wire.

  “I go broke betting against Seattle Slew and Swaps and Tim Tam,” muttered Mallory, tearing up his tickets. “But I hear a name like Flyaway, and I just know this is a runner, this is a horse who was meant to pierce a hole in the wind.” He stared balefully at the lathered animal as it was led off the track and back to the barn. “When I catch the bastard who named you, there won’t be enough of him left to bury.”

  He decided not to watch the remaining races, since he had no betting interests, and instead took the subway back home. The car he entered was crowded, and he found himself standing next to a pair of sailors. One of them had his eyes shut and a pained expression on his face. The other patted him on the back occasionally, as if to encourage him.

  “I don’t mean to intrude,” said Mallory at last, “but your friend seems to be in some pain.”

  “No, he’s just trying to remember the Maine” came the answer. “It’s his patriotic nature.”

  “What happens when he remembers it?” asked Mallory curiously.

  “Oh, then he goes to work remembering the Indianapolis and the Bismark. Of course,” added the sailor, “when he remembers the Bismark, he hates the British for up to five minutes before returning to his senses. Then he goes back to hating the dirty Viet Cong—or whoever’s dirty this time.”

  Suddenly the first sailor opened his eyes. “Do you suppose Noah had any torpedoes on the ark?”

  “Seems unlikely,” offered Mallory.

  “Okay, thanks,” he said, and promptly closed his eyes again, lost in concentration.

  “What does he do when he’s not remembering sunken warships?” asked Mallory.

  “Oh, he kills the enemy, and goes to the movies a lot.” “A nice parley.”

  “Especially propaganda movies.” The sailor pointed to a poster hanging just above them. “That’s where we’re going tonight.”

  Mallory looked up. “‘A revival of that all-time favorite, Brazzaville, starring Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, and Claude Rains,”’ he read.

  “It’s our favorite.”

  Mallory blinked his eyes. “How can it be? They never made it.”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded the sailor. “It’s probably the most popular film in history.”

  “They wanted to make a sequel to Casablanca, but they never got an acceptable script.”

  “Casablanca?” repeated the sailor. “That piece of shit?” “It’s a great film,” insisted Mallory.

  “It might have been, if it didn’t have Ronald Reagan and Ann Sheridan in the leads,” answered the sailor. “Maybe if they’d used Bogart and Bergman and the rest of the Brazzaville cast . . .”

  Mallory grimaced and cursed under his breath. “Damn! Every time I think I’m getting a handle on this Manhattan, something always brings home the fact that I’m not in Kansas any more.”

  The sailor chuckled. “I like your sense of humor. And I see you know your movies.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That line,” continued the sailor. “A delightful inversion of the famed ‘We’re not in Oz any more,’ from The Wizard of Kansas”

  “That’s me,” said Mallory. “A bundle of laughs.”

  “The Andrea Doreal” cried the first sailor suddenly. “Doesn’t count,” said his companion. “Not a war tragedy.”

  “Damn!” said the first sailor, slamming his fist against the wall of the train—and inadvertently hitting the emergency stop cord.

  The train screeched to a halt. The two sailors stumbled into Mallory, who bounced off the wall. Suddenly he looked up and saw that he had jarred the Brazzaville poster and frame loose, and that they were falling toward his head. He put up his hands at the last moment, deflecting the frame, and an instant later his head poked up through the poster, right beneath Bogart’s hat.

  When he related his adventure to Winnifred back at the office, he was prepared for sympathy or even disbelief-hut not for the reaction he received.

  “Now do you believe?” she demanded.

  “In Brazzaville?” he asked, confused.

  “In tarot cards.”

  “Of course not. Why?”

  “Because you received a tarot with you as the star, and suddenly you were almost killed by the poster of a star.’

  “I’d call that line of reasoning just a bit far-fetched,” replied Mallory. “It was a fluke. An accident. No one could have predicted that this guy would hit the emergency cord like that.”

  “Tarot predicted it.”

  “Bah, humbug, and rubbish,” said Mallory.

  “You think so?” said Winnifred. “Then look at this.” She held up a card.

  “What is it?”

  “A tarot card. Someone slid it under the door while you were at the races.”

  Mallory walked over, took the card from his grayhaired partner, and examined it.

  “There’s a picture of me on a gallows with a noose around my neck,” he noted.

  “The Hanged Man.”

  “The what?”

  “The Hanged Man,” repeated Winnifred. “It’s a tarot card.” She stared at him. “Now are you going to start taking all this seriously?”

  “It’s some kind of prank.”

  “It’s a warning.”

  “From who? About what?” Mallory tossed the card down onto a table. “Flyaway will win by ten lengths before anyone ever puts a noose around my neck.”

  “I hope you’re right, John Justin,” said Winnifred dubiously.

  “Of course I am,” said Mallory, walking to the closet and getting his battered fedora.

>   “Where are you going now?”

  “The Garden.”

  “I didn’t know you’d taken up horticulture, John Justin,” said Winnifred with a smile of approval.

  “Madison Round Garden,” said Mallory.

  “A prizefight?” she asked distastefully.

  “Basketball game. Gremlins versus the Goblins.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Okay, I promise not to foul anyone over seven feet tall,” said Mallory, walking out the door.

  The crowd at the Garden was in a baleful mood. The Gremlins were down 66-37 at the half, which was hardly surprising, since some old-timers swore the Gremlins hadn’t won a game since Teddy Roosevelt charged up San Juan Hill. Historians disagreed, claiming that San Juan Hill had marked the halfway point of their current losing streak.

  Mean Marvin McCoy was the Gremlins’ 108th coach since the streak began, and it looked like he wasn’t going to fare any better than his predecessors. Based on the record, it was hardly his fault, but the crowd had to hate some one, and since he was human and the team and most of the spectators were gremlins, it wasn’t a difficult call.

  Let it be said that Mean Marvin wasn’t a gracious loser. He spat on his center during a time-out. He put a cigarette out on the back of his point guard’s neck. He refused to let his power forward have a drink. When he saw two of his reserves looking too comfortable on the bench, he threw a chair at them. He screamed at the referee, cursed at the public address announcer, and bit a 72-year-old woman on the knee when she cheered after a Goblin basket. He set fire to a child who ran up and asked for an autograph. When one of his players was called for a careless foul, Marvin ripped off his coat, shirt and pants and began stomping on them in mute fury.

  Early in the fourth quarter, the crowd began chanting, “Kill the coach! Kill the coach! Slice him and dice him, tromp him and stomp him! Kill the coach!”