by Mike Resnick
“So what is it you’re looking for?” asked the Prince of Whales.
“An egg,” said Mallory.
“With red and blue dots in a complex pattern?” “That’s the one.”
“I’ve seen it.”
‘You got it lying around here?” asked Mallory. “I need it.”
“I said I’ve seen it, not that I’ve got it,” responded the Prince of Whales. “Have you ever heard of a gremlin named Gumfinger McGee?”
Mallory shook his head. “I’m drawing a blank.” “That’s what anyone he visits draws when they go looking for their valuables.”
“And he’s got the egg?”
The Prince of Whales nodded. “He brought it by yesterday and tried to sell it to me. I turned him down.” “What was he asking?”
“A quarter of a million.”
“It’s going to grow up to be the last lamia in the world,” noted Mallory. “You could probably have unloaded it for twice that much.”
“Someday, maybe,” said the Prince of Whales. “But I’d have to hatch it and grow it out first. Do I look like someone who wants to housebreak a vicious little bloodsucker like that?”
“Not really,” admitted Mallory.
“So I sent him on his way.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“There’s a run-down hotel at the corner of Sloth and Gluttony,” answered the Prince of Whales. “Last I heard, he’s got a room there.”
“Thanks.”
“Does that erase my debt of honor?”
“Yeah, but I’m still going to come by for information from time to time.”
“I certainly hope so. But in the future I’ll charge you for it.”
“Fair enough,” said Mallory. He pulled at Felina’s wrist.
“Come on.”
“He promised me a treat!” she said, pulling back.
“So I did,” said the Prince of Whales, digging a hand into his pocket. “And here it is—my very favorite.” He tossed her the treat.
Felina studied the tannish-brown mess, frowning. “It looks funny,” she said. She took a deep breath and wrinkled her nostrils. “And it smells bad.”
“I’ll have you know that no one in the world can lay their hands on better quality ambergris than this!” said the Prince of Whales with injured dignity. He looked at Mallory. “It’s clear that her education has been sadly lacking. Next you’ll tell me she has no interest at all in algae.”
“She’s never expressed any,” answered Mallory. He tugged at Felina. “Come on. It’s time to go.”
“I behaved for two whole minutes,” she whined, “and this is all I got for it.” She tossed the ambergris in the golden fish’s tank.
“Cat people are a remarkably unsophisticated race,” remarked the Prince of Whales.
“Everybody hates me,” complained Felina.
It was called Frank’s Flophouse, and it advertised Once-Elegant Rooms For The Newly Destitute. There was also a little needlepoint sign stating that long-time paupers were welcome too.
The lobby was threadbare in the truest sense of the word. There wasn’t a thread to be seen—no carpet, no rugs, no upholstered furniture. There were three paintings on the wall; each was so poor that thieves had stolen the frames and left the canvases.
Mallory walked up to the registration desk, which was being manned by a thin, ascetic man in a cheap suit, a bow-tie affixed at an awkward angle, and a thick, steel-rimmed pair of glasses. It was only when Mallory was just a few feet away that he saw the man had a third eye, just above the bridge of his nose.
The clerk studied him carefully for a few seconds. “You got a dollar bill, Mac?” he said at last.
‘Yeah.”
“Then what are you doing here?” demanded the clerk. ‘You ought to be staying at Modest Maisie’s down the block.”
“Modest Maisie’s?” repeated Mallory.
“You guys are all alike. You take one look at the name, and figure she’s talking about herself and not the prices.” He learned forward and lowered his voice confidentially. “She used to be the biggest stripper in town.”
“I remember Tempest Storm and Blaze Starr,” said Mallory, “but I don’t remember any Maisie.”
“You never heard of Maisie the Lizard Girl?” said the clerk, clearly surprised. “She used to shed her skin four times a night at the old Rialto.”
“Could you eat it?” asked Felina.
“Shut up,” said Mallory.
“Just passing the time,” said the clerk in hurt tones.
“I meant her, not you.”
“All right, so you’re not going to Maisie’s. Do you want a room with or without?”
“With or without what?”
“Cockroaches. Mice. Rats. Chimeras. Banshees. You name it.”
“What I want is some information.”
The clerk smiled. “That’s gonna cost you a lot more than a room, pal.”
“If it comes without all the extras you just named, I’ll settle,” said Mallory.
“So what do you want to know?”
“You’ve got a Gumfinger McGee staying here.”
“The gremlin, right,” said the clerk. “Watch yourself around him, fella. He could steal the words right out of your mouth.”
“Is he in or out right now?”
“Yes.”
‘Yes what?” demanded Mallory.
“Yes, he’s in or out right now,” said the clerk, extending his hand, palm up. Mallory laid a five-dollar bill on it. “That’s two months’ rent,” he noted. “You sure you wouldn’t rather have a room here? You’d only have to share it with six drunks, two hoboes, a sex maniac, and three goblins. Fifty cents more and you get bathroom privileges, too.”
“Just the information.”
“He went out about ten minutes ago.”
“What’s his room number?”
“No,” said the clerk, extending his hand again. “What’s on second. Who’s on first.”
Mallory gave him another five.
“362.”
“Thanks. Come on, Felina.”
Mallory headed off to the elevator.
“I could give you something that would save you a world of bother,” said the clerk.
“What’s that?” said Mallory, stopping and turning back to him.
“It’s a piece of advice,” said the clerk, his hand out again.
Mallory handed him a third five-dollar bill. “Okay, out with it.”
“Don’t take the elevator.”
“Why not?”
“McGee stole its floor this morning.” He shook his head sadly. “I forgot to tell poor Mrs. MacAnanny.”
“How’s the staircase?”
“It’s pretty good, except for the fourth and eleventh stairs,” answered the clerk. “That one’s on the house.”
“You’re all heart.”
“I know I seem cold and crass and uncaring,” said the clerk. “But that’s only because I am.”
“A lot of people are,” said Mallory, “but hardly any of them brag about it.”
“Hardly any are that way for a purpose. I’m saving up for a new pair of glasses, one that has lenses for all three eyes.”
“I’ll bet they teased the hell out of you when you were a kid,” said Mallory, not without a touch of sympathy.
“Oh, they did,” said the clerk. “It was terrible. It kept on right up to my fourteenth birthday.”
“What happened on your fourteenth birthday?”
“My parents bought me braces and cured my overbite.”
“Could have been worse,” said Mallory. “Could have been pigeon-toed.”
“How true,” agreed the three-eyed clerk. He rapped his knuckles on the counter. “Knock wood.”
The counter started falling apart, and Mallory, followed by Felina, began climbing the stairs as the clerk tried desperately to hold the counter together. When they reached the third floor Felina started purring loudly.
“What
is it?” asked Mallory.
“Mice,” she said. “Fat little juicy little tasty little mice.”
“If you see one in the corridor, you can have it,” said Mallory, starting to check the door numbers in the dim lighting.
“That’s not fair!” complained Felina.
“Why not?”
“They’re invisible mice.”
Mallory cursed under his breath. He’d left his own Manhattan for this one two and a half years ago, and every time he began feeling comfortable and at home, something like this came up and he realized that he wasn’t in Kansas—or the New York he had known—any longer.
Felina pounced at an empty spot on the floor, and a moment later was crunching happily on something Mallory was grateful that he couldn’t see or hear.
“What’s a mortgage?” asked Felina.
“Why?”
“Just before I bit its head off, it asked me to let it go because it had a wife and sixteen kids and a mortgage.” “Compassion isn’t your long and strong suit, is it?” said Mallory sardonically.
“Oh, it’s all right,” answered Felina. “His wife—she’s hiding behind that door—told me he hadn’t worked in years and was cheating on her with his kids’ schoolteacher.” She paused thoughtfully. “What’s a schoolteacher?”
“Never mind.”
“Is it good to eat?”
“Most of the ones I knew were dry and tasteless.” Mallory stopped when he came to Room 362. “Here we are. Let me know if anyone’s coming while I pick the lock.”
He knelt down and pulled out his pocket knife, only to discover that the door didn’t have a lock, or even a knob. He pushed it gently, and it swung inward with a creaking noise.
Mallory entered the room, followed by Felina.
“Turn on the light,” he said.
She looked around. “There isn’t any.”
“I keep forgetting,” he said. “You don’t get a lot of amenities for a dime a night.”
“What are amenities?”
‘You can’t eat them,” said Mallory.
“You can’t?”
“No. Do you still want to know?”
“No.”
“Figures.” The detective walked over to a dilapidated desk and opened the drawer. He couldn’t see the contents, so he pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket.
“Old Gumfinger’s been a busy boy,” he remarked as the light hit the drawer. He held up some photographs of the Deputy Mayor and studied them. “I’ve heard of animal husbandry,” he continued, “but this is carrying it to extremes. These pictures ought to bring a pretty penny on the blackmail market.” He pulled out his lighter, set fire to them, and dumped them in the wastebasket, then continued rummaging through the drawer, but found nothing of interest.
“Okay, the dresser next.”
He walked over to the rotting dresser and pulled out the top drawer. “Empty,” he said. “No, wait. There’s no bottom.” He pulled out the next three drawers. All were missing the bottoms. Finally he squatted down and pulled out the bottom drawer. It was filled with socks (not matching), underwear (men’s, women’s, and something else’s), and shirts (all gravy-stained). He began pulling them out one item at a time. When the drawer was almost empty he moved one last bra (A cup on the left, C on the right, DD in the middle) and found a small box. He picked it up, carried it over to the desk, and opened it to reveal a white egg covered by red and blue dots in an intricate pattern.
“Eureka,” he whispered.
“She’s not here. I’m Felina.”
“Let’s go,” said Mallory, walking out into the corridor. Felina followed him, and they were soon at the corner of Sloth and Gluttony, hailing a cab. None stopped, but a few minutes later the detective flagged down a centaur-drawn carriage and headed home with his treasure.
“Let’s see it!” said Winnifred excitedly as Mallory put the box on his desk.
He opened the top, and there, on a plush velvet lining, sat the egg, the pattern of red and blue dots looking remarkably like a celestial diagram.
“I guess it didn’t matter that my contacts came up empty,” she said. “How difficult was it for you to get?” “Not difficult at all,” said Mallory. “Hell, seven hours ago we didn’t have a lead, and now we’ve got the egg.” He smiled. “We must be as good as our ads say we are.”
“We don’t have any ads, John Justin.”
“Well, if we could afford ads, we’re as good as they’d say we were.”
Winnifred studied the egg. “Poor little lamia,” she said. “The last of its species, destined to be an exhibit in a sideshow. It’s so demeaning.”
“Well, we could crack it open and fry the damned thing,” said Mallory.
“I’m serious, John Justin. I think it’s tragic.” “Winnifred, it eats the blood of children.”
“And you eat the flesh of them every time you have veal cutlets.”
“Not human children.”
“That means a lot more in the Manhattan you left behind than in this one,” she pointed out.
“Are you seriously suggesting we return JFK’s money and not give him the egg?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Winnifred. “I’m just feeling sorry for it.”
The egg began shuddering.
“I think it’s trying to thank you,” said Mallory.
“Don’t be silly, John Justin,” she said excitedly. “It’s hatching!”
“Get a net or something,” said Mallory. “We can’t have a baby lamia running around the place.”
“It won’t,” said Felina, licking her lips. “I’ll see to that.”
“You touch it and you’re out of here, for keeps!” snapped Mallory.
“Everybody hates me!” said Felina sullenly.
“Not everyone,” replied Mallory. “Just the people who know you.”
She turned her back to him and began licking a forearm.
“Here it comes!” exclaimed Winnifred. “Get ready, John Justin!”
The shell cracked open—
—and out stepped a bright yellow chick.
“Do baby lamias look like baby chickens?” asked Mallory, grabbing the chick before Felina could reach it.
“Not even a little bit,” said Winnifred.
“No wonder it wasn’t difficult!” growled Mallory. “The son of a bitch left a ringer for me to find!”
“Let me see,” said Winnifred. She picked up a piece of the shell, took it to the kitchen in the next room, ran some warm water over it, and rubbed it gently with a paper towel.
“Well?” asked Mallory as Winnifred returned with the shell.
“Take a look,” she said, holding it out.
It was perfectly white.
“So he’s still got it,” said Mallory. “And there’s no way it’ll be in that room. Not with a door that doesn’t lock.”
“Nice birdie,” cooed Felina. “Pretty birdie. Fat birdie. Tasty birdie. Slow—”
“I told you not to touch it!” said Mallory, slapping her extended paw.
“You told me not to touch the egg!” sniffed Felina.
“That goes double for the chick.”
“Double?” she said, looking around eagerly. “Are there two of them?”
“I think it’s time to put the cat out,” announced Mallory, getting to his feet.
“I’ll behave!” cried Felina.
“Promise?”
“I promise,” she said. Then: ‘You can have half.”
“Out!”
Mallory opened the door and waited until Felina left the office. Before he returned to his desk there was a knock at the door.
“Kennedy?” he said, frowning. “How the hell could he have found out so fast.”
He opened the door.
“Can I come in now?” said Felina, standing in the doorway.
“Into the kitchen, and stay there.”
Felina lowered her face to the chick in Mallory’s hand. “Later,” she whispered, and stalked off
to the kitchen.
“As I see it, we’re still on the job,” Mallory told Winnifred. “He didn’t pay us to steal a chicken’s egg. Check with your contacts and see if any of them know where Gumfinger McGee holes up when he’s not at Frank’s Flophouse. I’ll wait here for your call.”
“Right, John Justin.”
“And take this with you,” he said, shielding the chick from Felina’s view with his body and handing it over to her.
“I suppose I’d better,” she agreed, shooting a quick glance in Felina’s direction.
Mallory spent the next twenty minutes studying the Racing Form, and the ten minutes after that watching an endless replay of the third inning of a 1933 Continental Association minor league game between the Gainesville Geldings and the Ephrata Eunuchs in his magic mirror. The phone rang just as No Nose Mutchnik was punching the second base umpire. Since Mallory knew how it would end—a standing ovation and a three-game suspension for Mutchnik, expensive bridgework for the umpire—he turned away from the mirror and picked up the receiver.
“Yeah?”
“Park Avenue, between Lust and Depravity,” said Winnifred’s voice. “And I bought a bird cage for the chick.”
“Got an address?”
“My contact didn’t know, but he says the doorman’s got rotting teeth and a tail.”
“That’ll have to do. I’m on my way.”
He hung up the phone and walked to the door.
“I’m coming too!” cried Felina, bounding out of the kitchen.
“Why am I so blessed?” muttered Mallory.
It wasn’t hard to find the hotel. It was the Pinochle Tower, built as an answer to the considerably less garish Trump Tower. Mallory couldn’t tell if the doorman had rotting teeth, but he was the only one on the block with a tail.
He entered the lobby, walked past all the gilt-painted furniture, the wandering string octet, the endless high tea, and the swimming pool, and approached the desk.
“A room for you and your daughter, sir?” asked the neatly-groomed clerk.
“She’s not my daughter.”
“A room for you and your illicit lover, sir?”
“You got a pair of glasses?” said Mallory.
‘Yes, sir, but they don’t like us to wear them. It ruins the image.”
“Put ’em on.”
“If you insist, sir.” The clerk reached into a pocket, withdrew his glasses, and donned them. “A room for you and your cat person, sir? I would suggest the 63rd floor. They’re very broadminded up on the 63rd.”
