by Mike Resnick
“Hey, Mister!” called a voice from the bar. “If you can't control your cat, the both of you are gonna have to leave.”
“Excuse me,” said Mallory to Mary. He turned, walked out of the casino, and entered the bar. The bartender, a balding, burly man, merely pointed at the ceiling. Mallory looked up and saw Felina perched on a crystal chandelier.
“Felina,” he said, “come down from there.”
“I like it up here,” she said, shifting her weight and making the chandelier sway. “Listen to it jingle.”
“Now!” said the detective firmly.
“You never let me have any fun,” she pouted.
Mallory turned to the bartender. “Can you make a brandy alexander?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“She'll have one without the alcohol.”
“That's just cream,” said the bartender.
“Right.”
The bartender shrugged, reached behind the bar, pulled out a glass, and filled it with cream. Mallory set it on the bar.
“Come down in the next five seconds and you can have it,” he said, gesturing to the cream.
Felina leaped into the air, did a triple somersault, and landed lightly on the bar right next to the glass, which she picked up and began lapping.
“No animals on the bar,” said the bartender.
She hissed at him, but jumped to the floor before Mallory could take the cream away.
“Sorry for the inconvenience,” said Mallory, slipping the bartender a bill. “Keep the cream coming and she'll behave.” The bartender pocketed the money. “As long as I'm here, maybe you can tell me a little about one of your customers.”
“Who?”
“Vlad Drachma.”
“He's a strange one, that old guy,” said the bartender. “Looks like a strong wind could blow him over. But one night a bunch of trolls came here after a bowling tournament—I think they were using gremlins as the pins—and somehow or other one of them challenged him to an arm-wrestling match. I thought the troll would bust his arm in half in less than a second, but damned if he didn't win, and then beat every other creature in the house.” The bartender shook his head in wonderment. “Strange old guy.”
“How long has he been coming here?” asked Mallory.
“Just a few days, but we're his regular place now.” He pointed toward an empty booth. “That's his.”
“You mean that's where he usually sits?”
“That's his for the next year. He put five thousand dollars down to rent it. It's reserved for him, and no one else can use it. That's what I mean when I said we're his regular joint.”
“What does he order to eat or drink when he's here?”
“Nothing. He just sits there with a glass of water. Far as I know, he's never taken a sip.”
“What does he talk about?”
“It varies. He knows a little something about everything, but nothing seems to interest him. Strange old guy. Looks harmless enough, but there's something about him, something that says no matter who you are, no matter how tough, you'd better not mess with him. Probably he's made up in wisdom what he's lost in vigor. You don't live to be as old as him without being pretty damned sharp.”
“Any chance he'll be back tonight?” asked Mallory.
The bartender shook his head. “He was already here earlier tonight. He doesn't show up twice in the same night.”
“Thanks,” said Mallory. He walked over to Drachma's booth. “Felina, stop playing with your cream and come over here.”
The cat-girl turned her back to him.
“If I have to come get you, I'll pour the rest of it out.”
She walked over to him with a sullen expression on her face and a death grip on her glass.
“No one's sat here since Vlad, right?” said Mallory to the bartender.
“Right.”
“Felina, crawl around on the booth and see if you can get the scent of the man who was here last.”
“I don't have to,” replied the cat-girl. “I can smell him from here. He's very old.”
“You'd recognize that scent if we find it again?”
“Yes.”
“And if we pick up his trail, could you follow it?”
“If you bought me two sparrows, a dove, and a buffalo.”
“We'll negotiate later. But you can identify his scent, and if you find it again you can definitely follow it?”
“Yes.”
“Let's put you to work right now. Can you follow it to the elevator?”
She took a few steps toward the elevator, then stopped. “He didn't go this way.”
“Is there a set of fire stairs around here?” Mallory asked the bartender, who pointed to an Exit sign just past the foyer. “How about there?” asked Mallory, pointing the way to Felina.
As before, she took a couple of steps and stopped. “He didn't go this way either.”
“I think I'm going about this ass-backward,” said Mallory. “Why don't you follow his scent and tell me how he got out of here?”
She sniffed the air a few times, then walked toward an open window. “This way,” she said.
“The son of a bitch flew here!” said Mallory. “Damn. So much for following his trail.”
He walked back to the casino and approached Mary, Queen of Slots.
“Does he have any other hangouts that you know about?” he asked.
She shook her head. “He's been in the country less than a week,” she said. “How many could he have found?”
“Has he ever mentioned a particular mortuary?”
“No.”
“Damn,” muttered the detective. “There must be dozens in town. I guess I'll have to do it the hard way.”
“Not necessarily,” said Mary.
“Oh?”
“It's possible that there's another way to go about this,” she said.
“I'm willing to learn,” replied Mallory. “Enlighten me.”
“You're wondering where a dead thing goes,” said Mary.
“Right.”
“But that's only part of his character,” she continued. “It's true that he's one of the undead. But he's more than that.” Mallory frowned, trying to follow her line of reasoning. “I saw you just dope it out over in the bar. He's also a bat—and where would a bat go to relax and hang out?”
“To a zoo?” asked Mallory, sure he was wrong and feeling rather foolish.
“Some detective!” she snorted. “You live in Manhattan, don't you? Now think.”
“Of course!” exclaimed Mallory. “The Battery!”
They caught a bus that took them south. Mallory sat down on a seat with a torn cushion. Felina stood on the adjacent seat, studying the pornographic graffiti with a mystified expression on her catlike face. Nathan, whose wings prevented him from sitting, stood stoically on one foot, leaning on his spear.
“You look like you're going to fall over, Scaly Jim,” offered McGuire, who was seated across the aisle from Mallory.
“I saw this in a book,” answered the dragon. “The Maasai do it all the time.”
“Must be an obscure book,” said McGuire. “This is the first I've seen of it.”
“You ought to read more about the Maasai. They were drinking blood long before Aristotle Draconis was born.”
“But not before Vlad Drachma, if we're to believe what we're told,” shot back the little vampire.
“Do you?” persisted Nathan. “Believe it, I mean?”
“Absolutely. As old as the hills are, he's older.”
“You sound terrified of him.”
“I am.”
“Then why are you still with us?” asked the dragon.
“I just hate questions like that,” muttered McGuire.
“He's here because he said he'd help,” interjected Mallory, “and he's a man of his word.”
“But is he a bat of his word?” asked Nathan.
“So far.”
Nathan shrugged, and his posture made it clear that he didn't
have much use for any vampire, even undersized balding ones.
The bus slowed down, caught in traffic. Cars started honking, which didn't make the traffic any faster but did make it appreciably louder.
“Where the hell do they all come from?” muttered Mallory. “There's eight zillion cars out tonight, and I don't know a single New Yorker who drives.”
The bus made slow headway, but after another few minutes it let them off in the Battery, the area at the southern end of Manhattan where the city was first settled.
“Maybe this wasn't the greatest idea in the world,” said Mallory. “We could do a house-to-house search and not finish by Memorial Day.”
“I smell him,” said Felina.
“Where?” asked Mallory, suddenly alert.
She pointed to her left. “That way.”
“That's Battery Park,” said Nathan.
“Figures,” said Mallory. “Let's go. Felina, don't get too far ahead of us. This is a dangerous customer.”
“It makes sense,” said McGuire thoughtfully.
“What does?” asked the dragon.
“Battery Park,” replied McGuire. “The Battery itself is filled with apartments and offices, but no one enters the park at night. Well, no one but bats and a few small animals,” he amended.
“That doesn't make as much sense as you think,” said Mallory.
“Why not?” asked McGuire, puzzled.
“I thought he had to have his native soil. He's not going to find it in a New York park, and I doubt that he's parked his coffin here.”
McGuire shook his head. “He won't be sleeping here. Don't forget—he sleeps by day.”
“Okay, what is he doing here?” asked Mallory.
“Luring victims, having romantic assignations with your kind or mine, or maybe just relaxing among his own species.”
“But by dawn he's got to be back in his coffin?”
“Well, in his soil,” answered McGuire. “The coffin's just a container, so to speak.”
“Wings O'Bannon wouldn't depend on a cat creature to track his prey,” offered Nathan. “He'd roust a couple of vampires out of their nests and beat the information out of them.”
“Would he, now?” said Mallory.
“That's what hard-boiled private dicks do.”
“Even when they're surrounded by hundreds, maybe thousands, of the vampire's bloodsucking friends who know that the cops never go into the park at night?”
“What makes you think they never go into the park at night?” asked Nathan.
“We're in the park,” said Mallory. “You see any cops?”
“Well, now that you mention it…” said Nathan. He frowned. “We're at a dead end, with no one to question.”
“That's your considered opinion?” asked Mallory.
“Yes.”
“I'm surprised your last book sold as many as six hundred copies.”
“What other options are there?” asked the dragon.
“Felina can keep following Vlad Drachma's scent until we catch up with him. We can interview some of the residents of the park; you'd be surprised how reliable their information can be, especially if you cross their palms with money instead of kicking the shit out of them. We can hunt for Drachma's coffin.”
“It won't be here.”
“I agree,” said Mallory. “But there are half a dozen freighters at the dock over there.” He gestured to the pier that seemed to terminate just short of the park.
“Well, yes,” agreed the dragon, “I suppose you could try all those things. They just don't occur to hard-boiled men of action.”
“That's probably why so few of them live past thirty,” replied Mallory. “How big is this damned park, I wonder?”
“I'd say about twenty-one acres,” answered McGuire.
“That looks about right,” agreed Mallory.
“It should,” said the little vampire. “I read it in a guide book.”
As they walked deeper into the park, Mallory was able to see that there were thousands, possibly even millions, of bats sleeping in the trees. Most were small, normal-looking animals, but a few were quite large, and he decided that they must be vampires.
They came to an all-night lemonade stand, run by two goblins, who for some reason seemed to have more economic get-up-and-go than any other species, including Man.
“Get your lemonade here! Only six dollars a cup!”
“That seems a little high for a paper cup of lemonade,” said Mallory.
“You find anyone selling it for three bucks a cup, we'll lower our prices. This is a seller's market, chum!”
“Of course no one's undercutting you,” said Mallory. “It's October. No one else is crazy enough to sell an iced drink.”
“See?” said one of the goblins. “If you want an ice-cold lemonade, you have to come to us.”
“But I don't want one,” said Mallory. “It's so cold I can see my breath.”
The other goblin pulled out a pair of glasses. “Polarized lenses!” he exclaimed. “You can see right through your frigid breath with them.”
“Fine, but I still don't want a lemonade.”
“How about iced tea with lemon?” said the first goblin. “Of course you'll have to imagine the tea.”
“Forget it,” said Mallory. “How about helping me with what I want?”
“This ain't a good year for radical ideas…” said the first goblin dubiously.
“Still, it can't hurt to listen,” said the second. “Especially since we're stuck here with seventeen barrels of lemonade that nobody wants.”
“I'm looking for a vampire,” said Mallory.
“You've come to the right place!” said the first goblin enthusiastically. “I can introduce you to a nineteen-year-old: beautiful body, perfect teeth, hardly digs her nails in at all when she holds your hand.”
“You talking about Vera?” asked his companion.
“Right. What a honey!”
“Vera Cruz is fifteen.”
“Well, she's a mature fifteen,” said the first goblin to Mallory. “What do you say, pal?”
“I say I know who I'm looking for.”
“Then why are you asking us for an unforgettable night of sin with an underage vampire girl?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” said Mallory. “How about helping me find the one I'm looking for instead?”
“Well, it's not as much fun, but what the hell, who is it?” said the first goblin.
“A vampire named Vlad Drachma.”
“That sounds like a man's name.”
“It is.”
“We don't keep track of that,” said the goblin. “You want a specialist.”
“A specialist in what?” asked Mallory.
“In male bats.” He put two fingers in his mouth and emitted a whistle that was so high-pitched Mallory was sure the fillings were about to fall out of his teeth.
“Hey, have a little consideration,” growled something that was neither man nor bat. “Some of us are trying to sleep here.”
“Some of you are too cheap to rent a room,” shot back the goblin.
“We don't all trade in nine-year-old girls,” said the voice. “Some of us have legitimate professions.”
“Yeah, you field-test benches in the park every night,” said the goblin.
The voice uttered a curse and Mallory could hear a heavy body getting to its feet and stalking off.
“What the hell was that?”
“Billy Bitchum.”
“Billy Bitchum?” repeated Mallory. “Didn't he used to be a gossip columnist a few years back?”
“Yeah.”
“So what happened to him?”
“All the dirt he imbibed turned him into that,” said the goblin, pointing toward a not-quite-human figure shambling off across the park. “After a while all the slime he spread made his paper so slippery no one could hold it. It kept sliding out of their hands. So he lost his job. Of course, he tried to borrow money, but he'd slandered every
person he knew, and no one would give him a penny, not even to move to another continent. So he wound up here, sleeping on a different bench every night. When he's hit every bench, I suppose he'll move on to Grammercy Park.”
“Why can't he just choose one and stay put?” asked Mallory.
“Slides right off by morning,” answered the goblin. “He may not write anymore, but once a slimeball, always a slimeball.” He paused. “Are you sure I can't sell you a pack of nicotine-free cigarettes?”
“Have they finally made one that's really nicotine-free?”
“These are,” said the goblin. He handed one to Mallory, who stared at it and frowned.
“This is just the paper,” said the detective. “There's nothing inside it.”
“See?” said the goblin. “One hundred percent nicotine-free.”
“It's one hundred percent tobacco-free.”
“Right. Not a single carcinogen in the pack.”
Just then a small man, his arms morphed into wings, walked up. He was wearing a colorful flowing satin shirt, a brocaded vest, skintight pants, and pink ballet shoes. His nose seemed to want to extend well beyond his face, and the tip of it was almost black.
“It took you long enough to get here,” said one of the goblins. “Didn't you hear me whistle?”
“You know it takes me time to make myself presentable,” said the man. “I'm here now, so what do you want?”
“This fellow here”—the goblin indicated Mallory—“has some questions for you.”
“I'm five foot eight, I don't each sushi, and I adore Xavier Cugat,” said the man.
“Those weren't my questions,” said Mallory. “You got a name?”
“Raoul.”
“Hello, Raoul. I'm looking for a vampire who goes by the name of Vlad Drachma. You know anything about him?”
“Does he dance? Is he a Johnny Mathis fan? Does he mix blood with his latte?”
“I don't know.”
“Is he a fruit bat at all?”
“I don't know. He comes from Transylvania, if that helps.”
“Is that anywhere near Guadalajara?”
“Nine, ten thousand miles,” said Mallory.
“Why would I know anything about him?” said Raoul. “Not all vampires speak with accents and sleep in dirt, you know. I come from Ecuador. I only sip the blood of sweet young things—don't ask—and I sleep in a casket of ripe avocados while playing Charo's recording of ‘Perfidia’ on my Walkman.”
