by Mike Resnick
“You both misjudge me,” said the Grundy. “I told you once: I am a fulcrum, a natural balance point between this world’s best and worst tendencies. Where I find order, I create chaos, and where I find chaos …”
“I believe I’ve heard this song before,” said Mallory. “It didn’t impress me then, either. Why don’t you just tell me why you’re here and let it go at that?”
“You have no fear of me whatsoever, do you?” asked the Grundy.
“Let us say that I have a healthy respect for you,” replied Mallory. “I’ve seen you in action, remember?”
“And yet you meet my gaze, and your voice does not quake.”
“Why should my voice quake? I know that you didn’t come here to kill me. If you had wanted to do that, you could have done it from your castle … so let’s get down to business.”
The Grundy glanced at Mallory’s desk. “I see that you are a student of the Racing Form. That’s very good.”
“It is?”
The demon nodded. “I have come to you with a serious problem.”
“It involves the Racing Form?”
“It involves Ahmed of Marsabit.”
“Doesn’t he run a belly-dance joint over on Ninth Avenue?”
“He is an elephant, John Justin Mallory,” said the Grundy sternly. “More to the point, he was my elephant until I sold him last week.”
“Okay, he was your elephant until you sold him,” said Mallory. “So what?”
“I sold him for two thousand dollars.”
“That isn’t much of a price,” noted Mallory.
“He wasn’t much of an elephant. He had lost all sixteen of his races while carrying my colors.” The Grundy paused. “Three days ago he broke a track record and won by the entire length of the homestretch.”
“Even horses improve from time to time.”
“Not that much,” answered the Grundy harshly, the vapor from his nostrils turning a bright blue. “I own the favorite for the upcoming Quatermaine Cup. I have just found out that Ahmed’s new owner has entered him in the race.” He paused, and his eyes glowed like hot coals. “Mallory, I tell you that Ahmed is incapable of the kind of performance I saw three days ago. His owner must be running a ringer—a look-alike.”
“Don’t they have some kind of identification system, like the lip tattoos on race horses?” asked Mallory.
“Each racing elephant is tattooed behind the left ear.”
“What’s Ahmed’s ID number?”
“831,” said the Grundy. He paused. “I want you to expose this fraud before the race is run.”
“You’re the guy with all the magical powers,” said Mallory. “Why don’t you do it yourself?”
“My magic only works against other magic,” explained the Grundy. “For a crime that was committed according to natural law, I need a detective who is forced to conform to natural law.”
“Come on,” said Mallory. “I’ve seen you wipe out hundreds of natural-law-abiding citizens who never did you any harm. Were they all practicing magic?”
“No,” admitted the Grundy. “But they were under the protection of my Opponent, and he operates outside the boundaries of natural law.”
“But the guy who bought Ahmed isn’t protected by anyone?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you just kill him and the elephant and be done with it?”
“I may yet do so,” said the Grundy. “But first I must know exactly what has happened, or sometime in the future it may happen again.”
“All right,” said Mallory. “What’s the name of the guy who bought Ahmed from you?”
“Khan,” said the Grundy.
“Gengis?” guessed Mallory.
“Gengis F. X. Khan, to be exact.”
“He must be quite a bastard, if your Opponent doesn’t feel compelled to protect him from you.”
“Enough talk,” said the Grundy impatiently. “John Justin Mallory, will you accept my commission?”
“Probably,” said Mallory. He paused. “For anyone else, the firm of Mallory and Carruthers charges two hundred dollars a day. For you, it’s a thousand.”
“You are pressing your luck, Mallory,” said the Grundy ominously.
“And you’re pressing yours,” shot back Mallory. “I was the only person in this Manhattan that could find your damned unicorn after he was stolen from you, and I’m the only one who can find out what happened to your elephant.”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“The fact that you’re sure of it,” replied Mallory with a confident grin. “We hate each other’s guts, remember? You wouldn’t have swallowed your pride and come to me unless you’d tried every other means of discovering what really happened first.”
The Grundy nodded his approval. “I chose the right man. Sooner or later I shall kill you, slowly and painfully, but for the moment we shall be allies.”
“Not a chance,” Mallory contradicted him. “For the moment we’re employer and employee … and one of my conditions for remaining your employee is a nonrefundable down payment of five thousand dollars.” He paused. “Another is your promise not to harass my partner while I’m working.” He smiled. “She doesn’t know you like I do. You scare the hell out of her.”
“Winnifred Carruthers is a fat old woman with a bleak past and a bleaker future. What is she to you?”
“She’s my friend.”
The demon snorted his contempt.
“I haven’t got so many friends that I can let you go around terrifying them,” continued Mallory. “Have we got a deal?”
The Grundy stood stock still for a moment, then nodded. “We have a deal.”
“Good. Put the money on my desk before you leave.”
But the Grundy had anticipated him, and Mallory found that he was speaking to empty air. He reached across the desk, counted out the bills (which, he noted without surprise, came to exactly five thousand dollars), and placed them in his pocket, while Felina stared at some spot that only she could see and watched the Grundy complete his leave-taking.
• • •
Mallory stood before the grandstand at Jamaica, watching a dozen elephants lumber through their morning workouts and trying to stifle yet another yawn, while all manner of men and vaguely humanoid creatures that had been confined to his nightmares only fifteen days ago went about their morning’s chores. The track itself was on the outskirts of the city of Jamaica, which, like this particular Manhattan, was a hodgepodge of skyscrapers, Gothic castles, and odd little stores on winding streets that seemed to have no beginning and no end.
“What the hell am I doing here at five in the morning?” he muttered.
“Watching elephants run in a circle,” said Felina helpfully.
“Why is it always animals?” continued Mallory, feeling his mortality as the cold morning air bit through his rumpled suit. “First a unicorn, then an elephant. Why can’t it be something that keeps normal hours, like a bank robber?”
“Because the Grundy owns all the banks, and nobody would dare to rob him,” answered Felina, avidly watching a small bird that circled overhead as it prepared to land on the rail just in front of the grandstand. Finally it perched about fifteen feet away, and Felina uttered an inhuman shriek and leaped nimbly toward it. The bird took flight, barely escaping her outstretched claws, but one of the elephants, startled by the sound, turned to pinpoint the source of the commotion, failed to keep a straight course, and broke through the outer rail on the clubhouse turn. His rider went flying through the air, finally landing in the branches of a small tree, while the huge pachyderm continued lumbering through the parking lot, banging into an occasional Tucker or DeLorean.
“Bringing you along may not have been the brightest idea I ever had,” said Mallory, futilely attempting to pull her off her perch atop the rail.
“But I like it here,” purred Felina, rubbing her shoulder against his own. “There are so many pretty birds here. Fat pretty birds. Fat juicy pretty birds. Fat tasty juicy prett
y—”
“Enough,” said Mallory.
“You never let me have any fun,” pouted Felina.
“Our definitions of ‘fun’ vary considerably,” said Mallory. He shrugged. “Oh, well, I suppose I’d better get to work.” He stared at her. “I don’t suppose I can leave you here and expect you to stay out of trouble?”
She grinned happily. “Of course you can, John Justin,” she replied, her pupils becoming mere vertical slits.
Mallory sighed. “I didn’t think so. All right, come on.”
She jumped lightly to the ground and fell into step behind him, leaping over any concrete squares that bore the contractor’s insignia. They walked around the track and soon reached the backstretch, more than half a mile from where they had started.
Mallory’s nose told him where the barns were. The smell of elephants reached him long before he heard the contented gurgling of their stomachs. Finally he reached the stable area, a stretch of huge concrete barns with tall ceilings and a steady flow of goblins and gnomes scurrying to and fro with hay-filled wheelbarrows.
He approached the first of the barns, walked up to a man who seemed quite human, and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Yes?” said the man, turning to him, and suddenly Mallory became aware of the fact that the man had three eyes.
“Can you tell me where to find Ahmed?”
“You’re in the wrong place, pal. I think he’s a placekicker for the Chicago Fire.”
“He’s an elephant.”
“He is?” said the man, surprised.
Mallory nodded. “Yes.”
“You’re absolutely sure of that?”
Mallory nodded.
The man frowned. “Now why do you suppose the Fire would want an elephant on their team?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” conceded Mallory. He decided to try a different approach. “I’m also looking for the barn where Gengis F. X. Khan stables his racing elephants.”
“Well, friend, you just found it.”
“You work for Khan?”
“Yep.”
“Then how come you don’t know who Ahmed is?”
“Hey, pal, my job is just to keep ’em cleaned and fed. I let the trainer worry about which is which.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jake. But everybody calls me Four-Eyes.”
“Four-Eyes?” repeated Mallory.
The man nodded. “’Cause I wear glasses.”
“Well, I suppose it makes as much sense as anything else in this damned world,” Mallory turned and looked down the shed row. “Where can I find Khan?”
“See that big guy standing by the backstretch rail, with the stopwatch in his hand?” said Four-Eyes, gesturing toward an enormous man clad in brilliantly-colored silks and satins and wearing a purple turban. “That’s him. He’s timing workouts.”
“Shouldn’t he be standing at the finish line?”
“His watch only goes up to 60 seconds, so he times ’em up to the middle of the backstretch, and then his trainer times ’em the rest of the way home.”
“Seems like a lot of wasted effort to me,” said Mallory.
“Yeah? Why?”
“Because each time the second hand passes 60, he just has to add a minute to the final time.”
All three of Four-Eyes’ eyes opened wide in amazement. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed. “I never thought of that!”
“Apparently no one else did, either,” said Mallory caustically.
“Look, buddy,” said Four-Eyes defensively, “math ain’t my specialty. You wanna talk elephant shit, I can talk it with the best of ’em.”
“No offense intended,” said Mallory. He turned to Felina. “Let’s go,” he said, leading her toward the backstretch rail. Once there, he waited until Khan had finished timing one of his elephants, and then tapped the huge man on the shoulder.
“Yes?” demanded Khan, turning to him. “What do you want?”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Mallory. “But I wonder if you’d mind answering some questions.”
“I keep telling you reporters, Jackie Onassis and I are just good friends.”
Mallory smiled. “Not that kind of question.”
“Oh?” said Khan, frowning. “Well, let me state for the record that all three of them told me they were eighteen, and I don’t know where the dead chicken came from. I was just an innocent bystander.”
“Can we talk about elephants, sir?”
Khan wrinkled his nose. “Disgusting, foul-smelling animals.” He stared distastefully at Felina. “Almost as annoying as cat people.” Felina sniffed once and made a production of turning her back to him. “The smartest elephant I ever owned didn’t have the intelligence of a potted plant.”
“Then why do you own them?”
“My good man, everyone knows that Gengis F. X. Khan is a sportsman.” The hint of a smile crossed his thick lips. “Besides, if I didn’t spend all this money on elephants, I’d just have to give it to the government.”
“Makes sense to me,” agreed Mallory.
“Is that all you wanted to know?”
“As a matter of fact, it isn’t,” said Mallory. “I’m not a reporter, sir; I’m a detective—and I’d like to know a little bit about Ahmed of Marsabit.”
“Hah!” said Khan. “You’re working for the Grundy, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“He finally sells a good one by mistake, and now he’s trying to prove that I cheated him out of it!”
“He hasn’t made any accusations.”
“He doesn’t have to. I know the way his mind works.” Khan glared at Mallory. “The only thing you have to know about Ahmed is that I’m going to win the Quatermaine Cup with him!”
“I understand that he was a pretty mediocre runner before you bought him.”
“Mediocre is an understatement.”
“You must have a very good eye for an elephant,” suggested Mallory, “to be able to spot his potential.”
“To tell you the absolute truth, I wouldn’t know one from another,” replied Khan. “Though Ahmed does stand out like a sore thumb around the barn.”
“If you can’t tell one from another, how can he stand out?”
“His color.”
“His color?” repeated Mallory, puzzled.
“Didn’t you know? One of the restrictions on the Quatermaine Cup is that pink is the only permitted color.”
“Ahmed is a pink elephant?”
“Certainly.”
Mallory shrugged. “Well, I’ve heard of white elephants in a somewhat different context … so why not pink?”
“They make the best racers,” added Khan.
“Let me ask you a question,” said Mallory. “If you don’t know one elephant from another, and you don’t trust the Grundy to begin with, why did you buy Ahmed?”
“I needed the tax write-off.”
“You mean you purposely bought an elephant you thought couldn’t run worth a damn?”
Khan nodded. “And if it wasn’t for the fun I’m going to have beating the Grundy’s entry in the Cup, I’d be very annoyed with him. If Ahmed wins this weekend, I may actually have to dip into capital to pay my taxes.”
“Aren’t you afraid the Grundy might be a little upset with you if Ahmed beats his elephant?” asked Mallory.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” said Khan confidently. “The pure of heart have nothing to fear from demons.”
“That’s not the way I heard it.”
“It’s not the way I heard it either,” admitted Khan. “But I’ve also written off a two million dollar donation to my local church, and if that doesn’t buy me a little holy protection, I’m going to have some very harsh words to say to God’s attorneys.” He paused. “Perhaps you’d like to take a look at Ahmed now?”
“Very much,” responded Mallory. He turned to Felina. “You wait here.”
Felina purred and grinned.
“I mean it,” said Mallory. “I d
on’t want you to move from this spot. I’ll just be a couple of minutes.”
“Yes, John Justin,” she promised.
“Come along,” said Khan, as he began walking back to the barn. When they arrived Khan whistled, and a number of trunks suddenly protruded from the darkened stalls, each one begging for peanuts or some other tidbit. One of the trunks was pink, and Mallory walked over to it.
“This is Ahmed?” he asked, gesturing toward the huge pink elephant munching contentedly on a mouthful of straw.
“Impressive, isn’t he?” said Khan. “As elephants go, that is.”
“Do you mind if I pet him?” asked Mallory.
Khan shrugged. “As you wish.”
Mallory approached Ahmed gingerly. When the long pink trunk snaked out to identify him, he held it gently in one hand and stroked it with the other, then pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and rubbed the trunk vigorously. No color came off. Then he checked the tattoo on the back of the animal’s left ear: it was Number 831.
Suddenly there was a loud commotion coming from the direction of the track, and a moment later Four-Eyes came running into the barn.
“Hey, buddy,” he said, panting heavily, “you’d better do something about your friend!”
“What’s she done this time?” asked Mallory.
“Come see for yourself.”
Four-Eyes headed back to the track, Mallory and Khan hot on his heels.
The scene that greeted them resembled a riot. Elephants were trumpeting and racing all over the track, while their riders lay sprawled in the dirt. Four of the pachyderms, including a pink one, had broken through the rail and were decimating foreign cars in the parking lot. Track officials were running the length of the homestretch, waving their hands and shouting at Felina, who seemed to be flying a few feet off the ground, just ahead of them.
“What the hell’s going on?” demanded Mallory.
“You know how they use a rabbit to make the greyhounds run faster at the dog tracks?” said Four-Eyes. “Well, we use a mouse at the elephant tracks. And instead of the dogs chasing the rabbit, the mouse chases the elephants.” He paused for breath. “We don’t use it in workouts, but the officials always give it one test run around the track before the afternoon races, just to make sure it’s in good working order. Your catgirl pounced on it when it passed by here, and her weight must have fouled up the mechanism, because it’s going twice as fast as usual. Panicked every elephant on the track.”
