by Mike Resnick
“I just want to know where Gumfinger McGee is staying.”
“It’s against our policy to release that information, sir,” said the clerk haughtily.
“Okay, give me a room right next to his,” said Mallory, slapping a few bills on the counter.
“That will be room 4723, sir.”
“That’s my unlucky number,” said Mallory. “Give me one on the other side.”
“I can’t, sir,” said the clerk. “I’m afraid 4719 is occupied.”
“Well, I tried,” said Mallory. “Thanks for your time.” “My pleasure, sir,” said the clerk, removing his glasses and replacing them in his pocket. “And good luck with your unconventional romance, sir.”
Mallory turned the corner, then asked a bellhop where the elevators were. He was directed to them, and a moment later he and Felina emerged onto the 47th floor.
He walked down the thick carpet, ignoring the murals of nude gods and goddesses chasing each other up and down the walls, and made his way to room 4721, stopping a few doors short of it.
“Felina,” he whispered, “can you giggle like a human girl?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’ll feed me and skritch between my shoulder blades.”
“You’re a walking appetite,” he complained. “Okay, I’ll feed you as soon as we get home.”
“I like chicken.”
“You’ll take what I give you.”
“And what else?”
“I’ll scratch your back.”
“No,” she said. “You have to skritch it.”
“Whatever,” he said. “Now, you’re sure you can giggle like a girl?”
“Do you want to hear me?”
“In a minute.”
He walked up to 4721 and knocked on the door. “Who’s there?” said a man’s voice from the other side. “Room Service,” answered Mallory.
“I didn’t order anything.”
“It’s compliments of the management.”
“What is it?” the voice asked suspiciously.
“I can’t tell you, but you’ll like it.”
Mallory nodded to Felina, who began giggling.
“I’ll be right there,” said the voice.
Mallory waited until the door started opening, then threw his weight against it. Gumfinger McGee went flying into the room, Mallory waited until Felina was inside, and then closed the door behind him.
“Hello, Gumfinger,” said Mallory, pulling his gun and training it on the gremlin.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Me? I’m a farmer. I was just shipping my goods to market, and I find that I’m one egg short. I thought you might like to supply it out of the goodness of your heart.”
“You go to hell!” snapped McGee.
Mallory, his gun still aimed at McGee, walked to the huge armoire and opened the double doors. He took a quick glance inside, didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and began pulling out each drawer in turn. When he still hadn’t come up with the egg, he walked over to the bathroom and peeked in.
“You could just tell me,” he said. “We both know I’m going to find it sooner or later.”
“Later,” said McGee sullenly.
Mallory looked around the room, wondering where the egg could be. Suddenly his attention was captured by one of the nightstand’s lamps. All the other lights in the room were on, but the lamp was dark. He knew a place like Pinochle Tower would replace bulbs as quickly as they burned out, so that couldn’t be the reason. Curious, he walked over to the lamp, reached in under the shade, and smiled as his fingers came into contact with a decidedly un-bulblike object.
“Well, what have we here?” he said as he pulled the egg out and held it up.
“You’re in deep trouble, buddy,” said McGee. “Breaking and entering, threatening a citizen with a gun, and theft. If you’ll give me back the egg, I won’t press charges.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t include bringing a cat into a pet-free hotel.”
“She’s a catgirl,” answered McGee. “I don’t know if they count.”
“There’s the phone,” said Mallory. “Call the cops. You tell them your story, I’ll tell them mine, and we’ll see who they believe.”
“We don’t need any cops,” said McGee nervously. “How much is Kennedy paying you? Whatever it is, I’ll double it.”
‘You’ll pay me twice as much as he will for returning the egg to Kennedy?” said Mallory. “I call that damned sporting of you.”
“Goddammit, you know what I mean!”
“I know what you mean,” said Mallory. “The thing is, I don’t care what you mean. The catgirl, the egg and I are going to leave now, and you’re not going to try to stop us or follow us, because if you do I’ll call the cops.”
“Then you won’t wind up with the egg either.”
“I’m being paid to return it, not keep it,” said Mallory. “You weren’t the brightest one in your class, were you?”
And with that, the three of them—Mallory, Felina, and the egg—left the room and headed back to the office.
Winnifred walked out of the kitchen, rubbing the damp egg with a handkerchief, and returned to the office, where Felina was trying futilely to reach her claws through the bird cage that Winnifred had bought to house the chick.
“It’s the real thing, John Justin,” she said, handing him the egg.
“I knew it was,” he said, setting it down gently on a folded towel.
“Are you really going to give it to Kennedy so that it can live its entire life in captivity?”
“He’s paying us for it.”
“It’s not his, John Justin,” said Winnifred. “He stole it, or had it stolen, from Libya.”
“Look, if he doesn’t get it, the Grundy will.” Mallory raised his voice. “You’ve been watching me every step of the way, haven’t you?”
The Grundy suddenly materialized inside the office. ‘Yes, I have,” he said as Winnifred shrank away from him and Felina didn’t even acknowledge his presence. “And?”
“I told you before. I will never allow your client to keep the egg.”
“Even though you don’t want it yourself?”
“I am a captive of my nature, even as you are of yours,” said the Grundy.
“I’m getting an idea,” said Mallory. “Grundy, if no one else has the egg, you don’t care what happens to it, right?” “Right,” said the Grundy. “But of course, someone will have it.”
“Somebody will,” agreed Mallory. “The occupant.” “What are you talking about?”
“We’re sending it back to Libya.”
“It will be very lonely once it hatches out,” said the Grundy.
“That’s better than being as un-lonely as Gumflnger McGee would have made it,” replied Mallory.
“You give me your word that McGee will not wind up with it?”
“I do.”
“Then our business is concluded,” said the Grundy, starting to fade from view.
“Almost.”
The Grundy froze in mid-fade. “Explain.”
“I’m going to call on you as an expert witness.”
“In court? Don’t be silly.”
“No, not in court. Just be on call.”
The Grundy continued vanishing until there was nothing left.
“Winnifred, take the egg to the post office or Mystic Express or some other joint like that, have them pack it carefully with all kinds of padding, and send it to Libya.”
“Where in Libya?” she asked. “It’s a big country.”
“I don’t know. They must have a zoo. That seems like the place to start. I trust you; you’ll figure out the best place for it.
Winnifred walked over and picked up the egg, then kissed Mallory on the forehead. “Thank you, John Justin. You’re not half as tough as you act.”
“That’s probably why we’re not rich,” said Mallory wryly as she left the office.
; Ten minutes later Kennedy arrived, wearing a white sequined jumpsuit and carrying a guitar.
“You’ve changed, Mr. President,” said Mallory.
“I got some very strange looks when I told people my name was John Fitzgerald Kennedy, and I decided that my cover had been blown, so I jettisoned it.”
“And became Elvis Presley,” said Mallory. “Very clever. No one will ever see through this one.”
“My feelings precisely,” replied Elvis. “Well, did you get it?”
“I got it,” said Mallory.
“Where is it?”
Mallory pointed to the chick. “You were the victim of false doctrine.”
“What kind of scam is this?” demanded Elvis.
“It’s no scam. You were suckered. This chick hatched out of the egg I got from the thief s flophouse.” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the fragments of the shell. “As you can see from these”—he held up two pieces of shell, one white, one dotted—“the pattern was painted on, and my partner had no trouble removing it.” He pushed the remaining pieces across the desk. ‘You’re welcome to take these home and rinse them off yourself if you don’t believe me.”
“Rubbish!” yelled Elvis. “This is a trick and you’re keeping the egg for yourself!”
“That’s not so.”
“Prove it!”
“Grundy!” called Mallory in a loud voice.
The demon instantly appeared. Elvis emitted a little shriek of terror and backed away.
“Grundy, this is John Fitzgerald Presley” said Mallory. “Now, Mr. Presley, I’m sure you will agree that the Grundy is many things good and bad—mostly bad—but one thing he is not is a liar.”
“No, he never lies,” said Elvis, keeping his distance. “Everyone knows that.”
“Grundy, did this chick hatch out of the egg I took from the thief’s flophouse?”
“Yes,” said the Grundy.
“And is this the shell it hatched out of?”
“Yes.”
“One last question. Am I keeping a lamia egg, here or anywhere else?”
“No, you are not.”
“Thanks,” said Mallory. “You can go back to maiming and pillaging now.”
The Grundy vanished.
“Well, Mr. Presley?”
“All right, you were telling the truth,” said Presley. “Are you going to report me to the cops?”
“For stealing a chicken’s egg?”
“I guess you’re right,” he said, suddenly relieved. “I hadn’t considered it that way.” He paused. “You might as well keep the money. You earned it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Presley. I believe that concludes our business.”
Presley nodded unhappily and walked to the door.
Winnifred arrived half an hour later.
“It’s done,” she announced.
“Just as well,” said Mallory. “This office has enough pets.”
“Speaking of pets,” said Winnifred, looking around, “where is Felina?”
“Sulking in the kitchen.”
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t let her eat the chick.”
“I’m never speaking to either of you again,” said a sullen voice coming from atop the refrigerator.
“I guess we all have to learn to live with life’s little disappointments,” said Mallory.
“And I guess I won’t have to buy that half-gallon of milk tonight,” said Winnifred, raising her voice as well.
“Or the six cans of sardines,” added Mallory. “Just as well. I’ve been saving up for a box of Havana cigars.”
Suddenly a feline figure flew through the air and landed on Mallory’s lap.
“This is your lucky day, John Justin!” it said. “I forgive you!”
“Are you sure?” said Mallory. “You don’t want to be too hasty, you know.”
“I’m sure,” she said, laying face down across his knees and purring noisily. “Now skritch my back.”
1 - Stalking the Unicorn
2 - “Post Time in Pink”
3 - “The Blue-Nosed Reindeer”
4 - “Post Time in Pink” and “The Chinese Sandman”
5 - “Card Shark”
STALKING THE ZOMBIE
John Justin Mallory crumpled his empty paper coffee cup and flipped it toward the wastebasket in the corner of his office. It hit the wall a few inches above the top of the basket and rebounded onto the floor.
“I don’t think LeBron James is trembling in his boots yet,” remarked Perriwinkle, the magic mirror that hung on the wall just behind Mallory’s chair.
“LeBron James doesn’t wear boots,” said Mallory.
“He also doesn’t miss shots from eight feet away,” shot back Perriwinkle.
“I’m not joining the Knicks anytime soon, so he can rest easy,” said Mallory, picking up the copy of the Racing Form he had been reading.
“That’s it?” demanded Perriwinkle. “You’re just going to leave it lying on the floor?”
“I’ll pick it up when I get up.”
“That could be an hour!”
“So what?” said Mallory.
“It means I have to look at it,” said Perriwinkle.
“I don’t know how to point this out to you, but you’re just a decorative object.”
“An object!” bellowed Perriwinkle. “Is that all I mean to you?”
“Be quiet!” growled a feminine voice from atop the refrigerator in the next room. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”
“That’s an object!” said Perriwinkle. “I’m a work of art.”
“All right, I’m awake now,” said the voice from atop the refrigerator. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Beats me,” said Mallory. “What small defenseless animal did you kill and bring back here?”
“I don’t remember.” This was followed by a ladylike burp. “But it’s gone.”
“There’s a paper cup on the floor,” said Mallory. “Why don’t you eat that?”
“I like to play with my food first,” said the voice.
“Or torture it.”
“I just said that.” Suddenly a 90-pound creature that seemed human at first glance but was definitely feline hurled itself through the air, landing lightly on Mallory’s desk. “Skritch my back.”
“Later,” said Mallory. “I’m doping out the fifth race at Belmont.”
“You lost the first four already?”
“Go kill a mouse or something, Felina,” said Mallory.
“They’re not very filling,” said Felina.
“There’s the door,” said Mallory without looking up from his Form. “Go kill an elephant.”
“Now you’re joking,” said Felina. “I can’t eat a whole elephant.” She paused thoughtfully. “Maybe a rhinopota-mus.”
“Go away or be quiet,” said Mallory, studying the Form. “I’ve got serious work to do here.”
“At least Flyaway’s not running today,” said Perriwinkle.
“Why should today be any different?” asked Felina. “Flyaway never runs, especially when John Justin bets on him.”
Mallory folded the Form and laid it on his desk. “I can see I’m not going to get anything done,” he muttered.
“Okay, give me a minute,” said Periwinkle.
“What are you talking about?” asked Mallory.
“Whenever you don’t get anything done, you relax with a Bettie Page movie,” answered the mirror. “I just have to remember where I filed it. Here, watch this while I look.”
A baseball diamond appeared, with a goodly number of underweight and overweight players looking rather ridiculous as they ran out onto the field and took their positions.
“What the hell is this?” said Mallory.
“A 1937 Continental Association game between the Grantville Geldings and the Merrivale Monorchids,” answered the mirror. “Ah! Here it is!”
An instant later Bettie Page covered the mirror, doing her Dance of Sublime Surrender, and an instant a
fter that Col. Winnifred Carruthers entered the office. “What is that?” she demanded.
“Just Perriwinkle having a little joke,” said Mallory.
The burly gray-haired woman approached the mirror. “You think this is funny, do you?”
“He made me do it!” said Perriwinkle nervously. “It’s all his fault. I wanted to show him Alexander Nevsky but he insisted!”
“John Justin, have you no shame?” said Winnifred wearily.
“I left it in my other suit,” said Mallory.
“That would be a wittier remark if you actually owned another suit,” she replied.
“We all have our own ways of relaxing,” said Mallory. “You go on safaris in Central Park, Felina tortures small defenseless animals, Perriwinkle shills for unwatchable foreign movies, and I watch Bettie Page.”
“Disgusting!” said Winnifred, “Black-and-white foreign movies?” said Mallory. “They certainly are.”
Winnifred sat down at her desk, straightened out a couple of doilies, and moved her flower vase three-eighths of an inch to the left. “Ah, well, you are what you are.” Her gaze fell on the Racing Form. “I hope you’re not betting on Flyaway again today.”
“He’s not entered.”
“Good,” said Winnifred. “The poor benighted animal deserves a rest.”
“He rests the second the starting gate opens,” offered Felina.
“I wish I could disagree with that,” said Winnifred with a sigh.
Mallory was about to reply when there was a knock at the door.
“Felina, open it and let whoever it is in.”
“I’m the office cat,” she said. “That’s not part of my job description.”
“Feeding the office cat’s not part of mine,” said Mallory.
“I’ll get it!” she yelled, leaping across the room and flinging the door open to reveal a balding, underweight, very nervous man dressed all in black.
“Col. Carruthers?” he asked, looking uncomfortably at Felina.
“I’m Col. Carruthers,” said Winnifred.
“That’s a relief,” said the man. “The Mallory and Carruthers Detective Agency comes highly recommended, but of course I had no idea what constituted a Mallory or a Carruthers.”
“Come on in,” said Mallory.
