by Mike Resnick
Mallory kept walking.
“Okay for you!” yelled the goblin after him. “But don't be surprised if the price has tripled by midnight!”
“I'll only be surprised if someone pays it,” said Mallory as they walked out of earshot. “How're you holding up, kid? It's only another block.”
“I'll be all right,” answered Rupert.
“There's the sign,” said Mallory after they'd gone another thirty yards.
“Noodnik's Market,” read Rupert.
“Don't let him throw you,” said Mallory. “He's a nice enough guy. He just likes a challenge.”
“I don't understand.”
“You will.”
They continued walking, past Ye Olde Antiquarian Book Shoppe, which sold only volumes dealing with antiquarian books; Ming Toy Yingleman's authentic Greek grocery shop; the elegant Industrial Espionage Cartel, with reinforced titanium bars over its darkened windows; and the Herbal T Store, featuring a huge selection of T-shirts created by the famed Hollywood designer Morris K. Herbal.
Finally they came to the grocery store and entered it. Seymour Noodnik immediately approached them.
“Hi, Mallory,” he said. “It's All Hallows' Eve. Hell of a night to be out on a case.”
“I'm not.”
“You're not searching for a serial killer, or better still, a trio of lewd lady exhibitionists?” said Noodnik, trying to hide his disappointment.
“Nope. I'm just here to buy something.”
“Crocodile wings,” suggested Noodnik. “I got a special on ‘em.”
“Crocodiles don't have wings,” said Mallory.
“Not anymore,” agreed Noodnik, wiping off a butcher knife. “I can make a price on a dozen.”
“Not interested.”
“Okay, then—canary teeth.”
“Forget it.”
“You're a hard man to please, Mallory. How about a pair of fighting fish?”
“Let me guess,” said Mallory. “They come equipped with guns and knives.”
“No, their names are Ethel and Wilbur, and they hate each other. She nags, and he cheats on her with an angelfish whenever she goes to her club meetings.”
“Will you shut up for a minute and let me tell you what I want?” said Mallory.
“You're usurping my function,” said Noodnik. “My job is to sell you.”
“So let me explain what I want you to sell me.”
Noodnik frowned. “That's not part of the job description. How about a leather helmet with goggles for a flying snake?”
“Damn it, Seymour, are you going to shut up and listen to me or am I going to go down the street to Gregory the Greengrocer's?”
“All right, all right,” said Noodnik. Then, confidentially: “He used to be Gregory the Tangrocer before he ate that bad rigatoni.”
“I need half a gallon of blood,” said Mallory.
“What kind?”
Mallory looked puzzled. “The usual—red.”
“Elf's blood? Dragonfly's blood? Gorgon's blood?”
“What kind does a vampire drink?”
“It depends,” answered Noodnik.
“On what?”
“On what kind of vampire you're talking about. Is it a Republican? A Democrat? A Royalist? How many arms has it got? At a rough count?”
“Why don't you just look at him yourself?” said Mallory.
“You mean he's here?” demanded Noodnik. “Near my customers?”
“He's harmless.”
“I'll bet that's what all the hadrosaurs used to say about T. rex.”
“He's a kid. He was just bitten last week.”
“How many times?”
“How the hell do I know?” said Mallory irritably. “Rupert, come over here.”
There was no response.
“Rupert!” yelled Mallory. He looked around. “Where the hell did he go?”
A small, balding man with canines that were almost an inch long, giving him the look of a chubby bulldog, approached them.
“I hate to intrude, but I believe the young man you're looking for ran out the door a minute ago.”
“Was someone chasing him?” asked Mallory.
“Or was he chasing someone?” interjected Noodnik.
“I believe he was running in terror,” said the small man.
“Oh, come on,” said Noodnik. “My prices aren't that high. Maybe I jacked them up a couple of hundred percent for All Hallows' Eve, but still…”
“Did you see which way he went?” asked Mallory.
“I'm afraid not.”
“Damn!” muttered Mallory. “Where do you look for a runaway vampire in the middle of Manhattan?”
“Perhaps I can be of help,” said the small man.
“I thought you didn't know which way he went,” said Mallory.
“That's quite true, sir. I lost sight of him before he'd gone five yards.”
“Well, then?”
“He is a runaway vampire, is he not?”
“Yeah.”
“And I heard Mr. Noodnik ask if you were here on a case, so clearly you're a detective.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Just that you and I should team up—if you will buy me the blood you were going to buy the young man.”
“You don't know where he is,” said Mallory. “Why the hell should I buy you anything, and why should we team up?”
“We need each other. You know all about runaways but nothing about vampires.” The man smiled a very toothy smile. “I, on the other hand, know nothing about runaways, but I know almost everything there is to know about vampires.”
Mallory looked at the little man, then out into the empty street.
“Seymour, give my friend here a bottle of blood.” He extended a hand. “My name's Mallory.”
“John Justin Mallory?” said the little man excitedly. “The one who found that unicorn and solved all those other cases? This is an honor!” He took Mallory's hand and shook it vigorously. “Bats McGuire's the name, bloodsucking's the game.”
“You sure this is a good idea, Mallory?” asked Noodnik.
“I'll be all right,” said Mallory. He turned to Bats McGuire. “Let's not waste any time. Are you ready to go?”
“Right.” The little vampire turned to Noodnik. “Keep the blood on ice for me. I'll be back for it once we accomplish our mission.” He led Mallory to the door.
“Got a special on caskets” were Noodnik's parting words.
“Who bit him?” asked McGuire as they walked along the street.
“Some guy called Draconis,” said Mallory. “Ever hear of him?”
The little vampire shook his head. “No. And I know most of the vampires in town. He must be in from Chicago or maybe Kansas City.”
“Try Europe.”
“Why? I'm happy right here.”
“I mean, Draconis just arrived from Europe.”
“Well, that makes things easier,” said McGuire.
“It does?” responded Mallory. “How?”
“Those European vampires are a traditional lot. He'll probably have brought his coffin with him, filled with his native soil.” McGuire grimaced at the thought. “Me, I'd much rather sleep on satin sheets at the Plaza or the Waldorf. Anyway, the case is solved.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You're a detective. Just track down Draconis's coffin and wait for him. He probably believes all that bullshit about not going out in the sunlight.”
“I take it you don't?”
“I burn easily—but I don't turn to dust,” answered McGuire. He stopped as they came to a bar. “Well, now that the case is over, let's pop in here for a victory drink. Your treat.”
“The case isn't over,” said Mallory. “Knowing his coffin is somewhere in a city of seven million people and finding it are two different things.”
“Not as different as busty naked ladies and Swedish temples, or 78 RPM records and left-handed golf clubs,” said McGuire. “Bu
t let it pass. Let's think of our next move over a drink.”
“I'm starting to think that knowing everything there is to know about vampires is not going to help you pull your weight,” said Mallory dryly.
“You should be a little more appreciative,” said McGuire defensively. “I've already told you something you didn't know about Draconis, and I've only been on the case for ninety seconds.” He paused. “Now let's get that drink.”
“Achmed Hamib's Desert Oasis,” said Mallory, reading the flickering neon sign Achmed Hamib's Desert Oasis above the door. “I have a feeling they don't serve blood here.”
“Just as well,” said McGuire. “I hate the stuff.”
“I thought you were a vampire.”
“I am.”
“Well, then?”
“When you were a kid didn't your mother make you eat your greens?”
“What's that got to do with anything?”
“You didn't like ‘em, but they were good for you. Me, I don't like blood, but every now and then I have to drink a little. I find I can fool my body for days on end by drinking Bloody Marys.”
“All right,” said Mallory. “But just one.”
They entered the bar, passed through an arched doorway past a truly impressive display of swords, some of which weren't made in Japan, and found a small table in the corner. A turbaned waiter approached them.
“A beer and a Bloody Mary,” said Mallory.
“Very good, Sahib,” replied the waiter. “And for your friend?”
“I'm having the beer; he's having the Bloody Mary.”
“And a pinch of the specialty,” added McGuire.
“Five dollars extra,” said the waiter.
“Inshallah,” said McGuire.
“Inshallah, my ass!” snapped the waiter. “You pay up front or you don't get a damned thing! We know you around here, Bats McGuire!”
McGuire turned to Mallory. “I hate to mention it, but you are treating.”
Mallory pulled a five out and held it up. The waiter snatched it, stuffed it in a pocket, and walked off.
“What specialty costs as much as the damned drink?” asked Mallory.
“Ouch!” shouted the waiter from the back room. “Goddamn, that smarts!”
“What the hell was that?” demanded the detective, startled.
“The specialty,” said McGuire. “He pricks his forefinger and mixes a couple of drops of blood in with the drink. That'll hold me until tomorrow.”
“Why his forefinger?” asked Mallory. “Seems to me a thumb would be easier, or at least a little less painful.”
“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,” intoned McGuire. “I'll stick to forefingers, thank you.”
The waiter, a bandage on his finger, emerged from the back room, carrying their drinks.
“I hope you choke on it!” he muttered as he handed McGuire his Bloody Mary.
“Keep it up if you want a nickel tip,” shot back the vampire.
Suddenly the waiter's entire attitude changed. “A thousand pardons, Sahib,” he said, bowing low to Mallory. “I hope I have done nothing to offend. May Allah give thee many strong sons and beautiful daughters.”
“I'll settle for a fast track at Jamaica tomorrow,” said Mallory.
“It's coming up muddy,” said the waiter. “May Allah lend wings to the feet of Lowborn Prince.”
Mallory held up a bill. “There's twenty in it if you and Allah can tell me where to find Aristotle Draconis.”
“Doesn't he play third base for the Louisiana Lechers?” said the waiter.
“He's a seven-foot-tall vampire and he's in Manhattan right now.”
The waiter frowned. “What's he doing in Manhattan? The Lechers are playing the Toledo Troglodytes in an hour.”
Mallory put the bill away. “Thanks anyway.”
The waiter lowered his voice. “Before you leave, Effendi, perhaps I could interest you in some exotic belly-dancing?”
“We're in a hurry.”
“It will only take me a few minutes to change into my costume.”
“Your costume?” said Mallory.
“Do you see anyone else here?”
“Some other time.”
The waiter shrugged. “Your loss.”
“Doubtless,” said Mallory as the waiter walked away. The detective turned to McGuire. “Finish that drink. I've got to check on my partner.”
“I thought I was your partner,” complained the little vampire.
“You're my companion for the moment. She's my partner. And the young man we're looking for nabbed her on the neck last night. I want to make sure she's not out doing the same thing to someone else.”
“She won't be,” said McGuire. “It takes more than one bite to inspire the thirst in a victim.”
“The kid was only bitten once.”
McGuire shook his head. “He only remembers being bitten once, but if he drank some of his aunt's blood, then you can draw one of two conclusions. Probably Draconis was feasting on him all during the trip from Europe, and the young man slept through it. They usually do, you know. I mean, it's quite painful to be bitten in the neck. Fortunately, we have a mild anesthetic in our saliva.”
“Fine,” said Mallory. “That's one conclusion. What's the other?”
“That the young man is kinky beyond belief and needs to see a good shrink.”
“Let's stick with the first,” said Mallory. “I saw the bite marks on his neck.”
“Okay,” said McGuire, finishing his drink. “It's probably the more reasonable assumption.”
“All right, let's go.”
They walked out into the night, avoided the crowd watching dragon races on the next block, took a pair of side streets, and soon arrived at Winnifred's apartment. The doorthing—Mallory had some difficulty thinking of him as a doorman—recognized the detective and passed the two of them in, and a moment later they emerged from the elevator onto the seventh floor.
Mallory knocked on her door, and Winnifred, looking a little less pale, opened it.
“Who's your friend?” she asked, staring at Bats McGuire.
“An expert on vampires,” replied Mallory.
“Yes, he certainly looks like one,” she said. “Come on in. May I offer you some tea?”
“No, thanks,” said McGuire. “We just had something to drink.” He stared at her trophy wall. “That's quite a collection you have here, ma'am.”
“Call me Winnifred, or Colonel Carruthers.”
“I especially like the banshee.”
“You know something about banshees, Mr…. ah?”
“McGuire, ma'am, Bats McGuire. And yes, some of my best friends are banshees.”
She stared coldly at him. “Banshees are a vicious and surly race.”
“Yes, ma'am, they certainly are,” he agreed promptly. “You don't dare turn your back on them for a second. But when you're a forty-seven-year-old unemployed vampire, you take your friends where you find them.”
Winnifred turned to Mallory. “I assume Rupert is safe in some hotel room?”
“He flew the coop,” said Mallory.
“He turned into a bat?” said Winnifred, surprised. “I didn't think he was that far gone.”
“Poor choice of words,” replied Mallory. “We stopped at Noodnik's—you know the place; we nailed Skippy the Card Shark there a few months ago—and he saw something that scared him and ran off. It could have been Aristotle Draconis, the vampire from the boat; it could have been something else. We won't know until we find him. Mr. McGuire here has offered to help.”
“It's a big city, John Justin,” said Winnifred. “We'd best split up.”
“You're not going anywhere,” said Mallory. “I want you to stay home and get your strength back.”
“Are we equal partners, John Justin?”
“You know we are.”
“Then stop giving me orders,” she said. “We're splitting up.” She walked toward her bedroom. “You wait her
e for a moment. I'll be right back.”
She entered the bedroom and closed the door behind her.
“Probably gone to put rouge on her cheeks so she won't appear so pale,” suggested McGuire.
Mallory shook his head. “Not her,” he said. “She's got something else in mind, but I'll be damned if I know what.” He shrugged. “Oh well, we'll find out soon enough.”
“She's quite a hunter,” said McGuire, studying her trophies.
“The best,” said Mallory.
“And a romantic, too,” added the vampire, glancing at the shelves of love stories.
“Not quite as successful,” commented Mallory. “But she deserved to be.”
McGuire spent another few minutes looking at the accumulation of a lifetime spent proving herself against the fiercest beasts of the jungle while hiding from beasts of the cities—the ones that wore suits, carried briefcases, and drank martinis. Then the bedroom door opened again, and Winnifred stepped out.
She was dressed in khaki shirt and shorts, hunting boots, and a pith helmet. She strode over to her gun rack, where she pulled out her favorite, a .550 Nitro Express.
“I'm ready now,” she said.
“You can't go out alone,” protested Mallory. “Look at you. You can barely lift the damned gun.”
“It's a rifle, John Justin,” she corrected him. “You carry guns in hip pockets. You blow away vampires with a Nitro Express.” She turned to McGuire. “No insult intended.”
“Winnifred, this is ridiculous, maybe even suicidal. You're in no condition to come face to face with something that's probably impervious to bullets.”
“I've also got my hunting knife and my wits,” she said. “They've served me pretty well in the past.”
“You haven't been in the jungle for almost ten years,” said Mallory, “and you've lost a lost of blood. I don't want you facing Aristotle Draconis alone.”
“I won't be.”
He frowned. “I thought you said we were splitting up.”
“We are.”
“Then—?”
“There's a phone in my bedroom,” she said. “While I was changing, I called my former safari team—my gunbearer, skinner, and tracker trolls. They'll be here in five minutes, and then the old crew will be off to hunt for this Draconis.”
“I'm not going to talk you out of it, am I?” said Mallory.
“No.”
