by Mike Resnick
“That is the favor you want?”
“Yeah—and while I know you'd love to take the blame for it, tell her I'm after the killer, that it wasn't you.”
“As you wish,” said the Grundy. “I shall be there in seconds.”
Mallory held up a hand. “Give her five minutes to teach those assholes a lesson. Then go.”
“As you wish,” said the Grundy, becoming first translucent, then transparent, and finally nothing at all.
Mallory checked his watch and found that not a second had passed since he'd entered the men's room. He walked to the door to leave. Just as his hand reached out for it, he heard the Grundy's disembodied voice.
“A word of warning, John Justin Mallory, from one almost-friend to another,” it said. “This case is much more complex than you can imagine.”
“Thanks a heap,” muttered Mallory, walking out into the lobby.
They reached Madison Round Garden—the marquee proclaimed “We're not for squares!”—and entered the lobby.
“There must be thousands of people here,” noted McGuire. “I had no idea poetry was that popular.”
“It's not,” said Mallory.
“Then what are they all doing here?”
“It's a big building,” said the detective. “There's lots going on—a basketball game, a lot of other stuff.”
As he said so, a goblin passed by, selling hatpins for fifty cents apiece.
“Do ladies still wear hats?” asked McGuire.
“You don't come here very often, do you?” said Mallory.
“Never.”
Mallory smiled and pointed to three elderly women in print dresses. Two had canes, one was using a walker. All three were buying hatpins.
“But they don't have any hats,” said McGuire.
“That's not what they're for,” said Mallory. He gestured to the poster on a nearby wall: Horrible Hector vs. Gordie the Ghoul.
“Wrestlers?” asked McGuire.
Mallory nodded. “And they've also got a Tasmanian Tag Team match on the bill. That's what the hatpins are for.”
“They stick them into the wrestlers?”
“Right.”
“But that's…that's barbaric!”
“So is wrestling, when you get right down to it,” said Mallory.
“But it's fixed, isn't it?”
“Of course. They're wrestling matches, aren't they?”
“Then no one gets hurt.”
“That's why we buy the hatpins,” said another little old lady, who happened to be passing by. “If we're going to pay good money to watch a little healthy carnage, it's only fitting that someone gets hurt.” She smiled. “That's how I met my first husband.”
“He stuck pins into wrestlers too?” asked McGuire.
“Certainly not. He was the Boston Behemoth. Evil Eye Eric had tossed him in my lap. Our eyes met as he was pulling my hatpin out of his left buttock, and it was love at first sight.”
“Your first husband, you say?”
She nodded. “I left him for the Butcher of Belgrade, and then along came Vicious Vincent, and then…”
“How many husbands have you had?” asked McGuire.
“Eleven.”
“All wrestlers?”
“All but one. Milton was a banker. I decided I liked my dishonesty up front and in the open, so I went back to wrestlers.” She checked her watch. “I have to run. The match starts in another minute, and I promised Horrible Hector that I'd be waiting for Gordie the Ghoul with this” She held up a gleaming hatpin.
“Hector's a friend?”
“Hector's number eleven,” she replied with a smile as she scurried off to the arena.
McGuire stared at her retreating figure in awe. “When you get right down to it, I suppose she's just a kind of collector.”
“Hey, Mac!” yelled a voice. “Is that cat-girl yours?”
Mallory looked around and saw a very distressed candy salesman gesticulating wildly at Felina, who was perched atop a cotton candy machine.
“Yeah, she's mine.”
“Better get her down from there before she falls in.”
Mallory walked over and stood next to the salesman. “Felina, what the hell are you doing up there?”
“I can see all the way across the lobby,” she said happily.
“Come down.”
“I like it up here.”
“Buddy,” said the salesman, “you got twenty seconds to get her off my machine. Then I whack her with a mop, and she falls in and becomes just so much more spun sugar.”
“Felina,” said Mallory, “come on down and I'll buy you a candy bar.”
“And three canaries and a mouse,” said Felina.
“Just a candy bar. You've got ten seconds.”
“And a swordfish,” said Felina.
Mallory turned to the salesman. “She's all yours,” he said in a loud voice. “I'm off to find another cat for the office.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than ninety pounds of cat-girl hurled itself through the air and landed on his back.
“I forgive you, John Justin!” she purred. “Give me two goldfinches and we'll forget this ever happened.”
“Off,” said Mallory.
“Okay,” said Felina, dropping to the floor and holding out a hand. “One macaw.”
“Forget it.”
“How about one of those?” she asked, pointing to a small chimera with a jeweled collar. It was walking on a leash next to its owner, who was wearing a tuxedo. As they passed by, Mallory noted a numbered armband on the owner's left sleeve.
“It's a show,” said Mallory, looking around. Finally he saw a sign proclaiming that the Chimera Club of Manhattan was holding its annual conformation show on the third level of the building, starting at 11:00 PM.
“Isn't eleven o'clock a little late to start a dog show or a wrestling match?” said Mallory.
“On most nights, yes—but not on All Hallows' Eve,” answered McGuire.
“I want a necklace like that one,” said Felina, pointing to the chimera's collar.
“Behave yourself, and maybe I'll pick one up for you tomorrow.”
“I promise,” she said, holding her right hand up in the air. “Do you really mean it?”
“About the collar?” asked Mallory.
“Yes.”
“Do you really mean you'll behave?”
“Well,” she hedged, “I meant it when I said it.”
“Good,” said Mallory. “Then we have a deal.”
“Kind of,” said Felina.
McGuire looked around. “So where's the poetry reading?”
“Probably one of the side rooms,” said Mallory. “After all, it's cultured, erudite, and educational, with no bloodletting or naked women, so it doesn't figure to draw a twentieth as well as wrestling.”
He began walking past a row of vendors.
“Shrunken heads!” yelled a burly woman with a half-smoked cigar in her mouth. “Shrunken heads, direct from Omaha!”
“Get your garlic here!” hollered a goblin. “Is your daughter dating one of the undead? Is your wife making eyes at that mailman who only delivers after midnight? Drive ‘em off with genuine garlic, grown exclusively in the gardens of failed divinity students and almost-virgins!”
“Forget all those phonies, pal,” said a leprechaun, sidling up to Mallory. “I have here a genuine Kiwanee talisman, guaranteed to ward off mad Turkish rabbis, insidious Oriental menaces, and rogue elephants. Six bucks takes it away.”
“I'll scare all the rogue elephants away for free,” said McGuire. “Boo!” he yelled. “See? No elephants.”
“I want your name and driver's license, fella,” said the leprechaun. “I'm reporting you to the Unfair Business Practices Committee in the morning.”
“Do they stop them or perform them?” asked Mallory.
“Keep your nose out of this, Mac,” said the leprechaun. “This is between me and the twerp here.”
Mallory reached
down and picked the leprechaun up by his neck.
“You're going to leave us alone now, aren't you?” said the detective.
The leprechaun, his eyes bulging, nodded his head rapidly.
“See the grinning young lady with the claws?” continued Mallory, turning him toward Felina. “If you bother us again, I'm going to give you to her to play with.”
“Hi, Toots,” grated the leprechaun. “What games do you like: Spin the Bottle or Pinch the Hostess?”
“You'll see,” promised Felina with an evil grin.
“You wouldn't really hurt someone as sweet as me, would you?”
“Only for two or three hours,” answered Felina. “Maybe seven.”
“Okay,” said Mallory, setting him down. “Take a hike.”
The leprechaun stared at the talisman, shook it vigorously, and tapped it against a wall. “The damned thing's battery must have run down.”
“It doesn't have a battery,” said Mallory.
“Well, somethings wrong with it. It's supposed to protect me from monsters like you.”
“Felina?” said Mallory.
She took a step toward the leprechaun.
“I'm outta here!” he screamed, bowling over a pair of hucksters as he made a beeline for the far end of the lobby.
The detective surveyed the area, finally located a sign directing him to the poetry reading by Aristotle Draconis, and walked over to the door, which led to a small amphitheatre holding about two hundred seats, of which perhaps forty were filled.
“Doesn't draw quite as well as wrestling, does it?” noted McGuire.
“Maybe he should add some dirty limericks and a couple of belly dancers to his routine,” said Mallory, sitting down on a chair. Felina was about to wander up to the stage when he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the chair next to his. McGuire sat down, and a moment later a pudgy man with reptilian skin walked out onto the stage.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and others,” he said, “it is my privilege to present to you, the one, the only, the great Aristotle Draconis, who has come from his ancestral home across the sea to be with us tonight.”
Then Draconis came out on stage, wearing tie and tails, an incredibly tall, cadaverous figure with sunken cheeks, hollow burning eyes, canines that Mallory could actually see pushing against his lips, and a neatly coiffed head of coal black hair. One finger sported a ring with a huge, bloodred ruby. The backs of his hands were covered with matted hair, and his nails extended more than half an inch beyond his fingers.
“He sure as hell looks the part,” whispered Mallory.
“He's terrifying, even to me,” said McGuire.
“I like his ring,” purred Felina.
Draconis stood at center stage, staring at his audience, member by member. Everyone but Mallory dropped their gaze; the detective looked back into the vampire's strange eyes, which seemed to consist of wall-to-wall pupils.
“I appreciate your coming out on such a special night to greet a stranger to your shores,” said Draconis in a deep, slightly accented voice. “I shall endeavor to make you feel that the effort was not wasted.”
And with that, he began reciting his poetry, all eldritch and foreboding, filled with vivid images of unclean things and unholy practices. After twenty minutes he stopped, the audience applauded politely, and he took a single bow and left the stage.
“What do you think?” said Mallory.
“He's terrifying,” said McGuire. “In fact, he's everything I'm supposed to be. What do you think?”
“I think he doesn't have to immobilize his victims,” replied Mallory. “He can bore ‘em to sleep first.”
“You're not afraid?” asked McGuire, amazed.
“Only of an encore,” said Mallory, getting to his feet.
“Where are we going?” asked the little vampire apprehensively.
“Backstage. I've got to talk to him.”
“Just talk?”
“At first.”
“And then?” asked McGuire.
“And then, if he's guilty, I'll have to figure out what to do next.”
“You're just saying that, right?” said McGuire, his words coming faster and faster. “I mean, you wouldn't really try to use force on something like that, would you? You're just trying to work up your courage, or to impress me, or—”
“Calm down, Bats,” said Mallory. “You don't have to come if you don't want to.”
“Well, of course I want to,” said McGuire.
“Good.”
“But he may have confederates lurking in the shadows,” continued McGuire nervously. “I'd better stay outside the room and protect your back.”
Suddenly Felina turned and hissed at the little vampire.
“What was that about?” demanded McGuire.
“I'm protecting his back!” she said. “You can protect his elbow or his left knee.”
“You were just supposed to help me until I found the kid or the killer,” Mallory told McGuire. “Well, we found the kid, and maybe we've found the killer. Your obligation is over.”
“I don't know,” said the vampire unhappily. “I'd feel like such a coward, deserting you in your time of need.”
“Bats, you are a coward,” said Mallory. “You can't help it any more than you can help being a vampire.”
“But it sounds so…so naked when you just come out and say it.”
“I haven't got time to sugarcoat it,” said Mallory. “I have to see Draconis.”
“I'll wait right outside the door, ready to burst in and save the day,” offered McGuire.
“Whatever makes you happy,” said Mallory. He walked up to an aging troll in a guard's uniform. “Hi, Pops,” he said, flipping him a quarter. “Where's Draconis's dressing room?”
The old troll put the quarter in his mouth and bit down on it.
“It's real,” Mallory assured him.
“I know,” said the troll unhappily. “You got any chocolate ones?”
“I'm fresh out,” said Mallory.
“Oh, well,” said the troll with a shrug. He pocketed the quarter. “Third door on your left.”
“Is he alone?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“Okay,” said the detective, heading off toward the door. “Thanks, Pops.”
“You're welcome, and the name is Thucydides.”
“Really?”
“Nah…but it sounds better than Etherbert.”
Mallory stopped when he reached the door, then turned to Felina. “You come with me.” Then, to McGuire: “You wait out here.”
He knocked on the door. There was no answer. He turned the knob and pushed it open.
Suddenly a voice rang out: “Not one step farther if you want to live.”
Mallory took a step into the room, holding his hands in front of him, palms up.
“I'm not armed,” he said. “I just want to talk.”
“Of course you're armed,” said the sibilant voice. “You've got two that I can see, and who knows how the hell many more you've got hidden beneath that trenchcoat?”
Suddenly a reptilian creature emerged from a darkened corner of the room. Its skin was green, rough, and scaled, it had a pair of wings on its back, its hands were clawlike, its feet were actual claws, and its face was a cross between a snake and a crocodile. It wore a leather harness and carried a spear.
“You know,” said Mallory, staring at it, “if someone were to ask me whether you were animal, vegetable, or mineral, my only answer would be: Probably.”
“Keep a civil tongue in your head, Jack,” said the creature. “You and your cat are in deep trouble.”
“All I want to do is talk to Aristotle Draconis,” said Mallory.
“Yeah, that's what they all say. And the next day there's an interview in the paper, and he's misquoted six ways to Sunday, and who gets blamed for it? We do.”
“Who are you?”
“I'm part of the group that paid his way over and booked his tour,” answered the cr
eature.
“What do you guys call yourselves?” asked Mallory.
“The Dragon Writers, of course.”
“Your club is composed entirely of dragons that write?”
“It's a guild. And Draconis is our spiritual leader.”
“And you're all poets?”
“Certainly not,” said the dragon. “We've got a science fiction writer, a Western writer, two espionage writers, and thirty-seven romance writers.” He wrinkled his nose. “Dragons don't seem to sell. I wish I knew how otherwise talented writers could find so many love stories about vampires.”
“And what kind of writer are you?”
“Me? I write hard-boiled private eye stories. Did you ever hear of Wings O'Bannon? He's my character.”
“No, I'm afraid not.”
“Damn!” muttered the dragon. “What's the good of being the greatest prose writer alive if you only sold six hundred and fifty-one copies of your last book—and half of them went to relatives?”
“So how come you're not busy writing?” asked Mallory.
“Got to make a living,” answered the dragon. “Writing's all very well, but my publisher is three years late with my check, and he's one of the faster ones.” He paused. “We're getting off the subject here. You want to tell me who you are and what you're doing here before I rip you limb from limb and paper the walls with what's left of your pet?”
Mallory pulled out his license. “My name's John Justin Mallory, and I just want to talk to Draconis for a few minutes.”
The dragon stared at the license. “That's for real, right?” he said excitedly. “I mean, you didn't pick it up in a novelty shop?”
“It's real.”
“Oh my goodness—a real shamus!” exclaimed the dragon. “I've never met one before. We have to talk! I've got my new book in the next room. It's only about eight hundred pages so far—I'm not quite halfway done with it. Could you look it over and give me a couple of hints?”
“I'm not a writer.”
“Writers are a dime a dozen,” said the dragon contemptuously. “Every idiot and his brother is a writer. I need to talk to a real private eye.” He extended a claw. “Scaly Jim Chandler at your service.”
“Scaly Jim Chandler?” repeated Mallory, taking his claw and trying not to wince as the nails dug into his skin.
