by Mike Resnick
“Then it should be relatively safe,” said Mallory. “Let's go.”
He entered the building and found himself in the Grand Foyer. He waited for the other three to join him, then looked around. To his left was the floor of the Exchange itself, to his right a series of conference and media rooms.
“They seem to have pulled all the guards,” remarked Nathan.
“You think so, do you?” asked Mallory.
“Yes, I do,” said Nathan. “I mean, look at all the expensive electronic equipment on the Exchange floor. Tens of millions of dollars' worth. Only a fool would leave them unguarded.”
“Unless there's something even more valuable to guard,” said the detective.
“Are you just killing time, or did you have some point to make?” asked McGuire.
“Those things in the next room are just machines,” said Mallory. “They break, you fix ‘em or you build new ones. They compute, but they don't think.” He paused. “But those people upstairs…them you can't rebuild, and they're the brains of the outfit, the ones that make the machines worth so much.”
“You're talking about them like they're machines themselves,” noted McGuire.
“They're moneymaking machines,” answered Mallory. “And it's my guess that like any of their kind, their twin fuels are greed and corruption.”
“Then why should they let a private eye and his award-winning biographer in here in the first place?” asked Nathan.
“You've won an award?” said McGuire, surprised.
“I will, now that I'm teaming with a real Marlowe.”
“Mallory,” the detective corrected him.
“So based on what you say, they've let us in because they can make a profit on us,” said McGuire. “How?”
“I suspect that once you get the hang of it, you can find a profit in anything,” said Mallory.
“Give me an example.”
“Look at the oil companies,” said Mallory. “The price of crude goes up halfway around the world, and tomorrow the price of gas at your local station is up fifteen cents a gallon. But that crude won't get processed and reach here for months. The stuff you're paying fifteen cents extra for was bought when it was cheaper and has been sitting at the gas station or the refinery for months.”
“I never thought of that,” admitted McGuire.
“Me neither,” said Nathan.
“Somehow I'm not surprised,” said Mallory. “You know, there's an old myth that seven financiers run the economy of the world in secret.” He glanced at the ceiling. “I guess it's really only five. And I think it's time to go visit them.”
“How do you suppose they can help us?” asked McGuire.
“I don't know. Maybe we'll let Wings O'Bannon's creator use his keen deductive mind and figure it out.”
“Me?” said the dragon nervously.
“Why not?” said Mallory. “You're an award-winning author, aren't you?”
“Suddenly my stomach hurts,” said Nathan.
“Don't worry about it,” said Mallory. “I'll do the talking.”
“Maybe we should just stay here and protect your back,” suggested McGuire.
“From two floors away?” replied Mallory.
“You never know where danger might come from,” said McGuire weakly.
“True,” agreed the detective. “But I've got a pretty good idea where it's not coming from. I'll post the pair of you outside the door to their room, but you're not doing anyone any good here on the ground floor.”
Mallory headed off toward an elevator, but Felina saw the escalator first and pounced on it.
“I like moving stairs,” she confided at the top of her lungs.
“Thanks for yelling,” said Mallory sardonically. “I wouldn't want our presence to startle anyone once we get off at the third floor.”
“I'm thoughtful to a fault,” replied Felina with a happy smile.
They reached the third floor without incident. The first thing they noticed was that the corridor was lined with uniformed guards. Only one office was lit, and Mallory began walking toward it. The guards scrutinized him and his group carefully, but made no move to stop them.
Mallory finally reached the door, then stopped and turned to McGuire and Nathan.
“Your choice,” he said. “Come in, or stay out here.”
“I'm coming in,” said Nathan. “Do you think they'll mind if I take notes, or maybe record the conversation?”
“If they do, I'm sure they'll make their objections known to you,” answered the detective.
“Well, I'm sure not staying out here alone,” said McGuire nervously. “I'm coming in, too.”
Mallory opened the door, and his party entered a plush, well-appointed suite. Four expensively dressed gray-haired men, each puffing on a cigar, were waiting for them, as was a young woman in a business suit who was seated at a huge mahogany desk.
“Good evening,” said the detective. “My name is—”
“Skip the preliminaries,” said one of the men. “Time is money.”
“Right,” said another. “You got a proposition for us?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“That's a very awkward manner,” said the woman. “Explain yourself.”
“I have a challenge for you.”
“Do we look like Boy Scouts to you?”
“No,” said Mallory. “Especially the young lady. In fact, what you look like is the Wall Street Five.”
“You know who we are?” asked one of the men, surprised.
“I think everyone knows who and what you are,” answered Mallory. “But I guess not everyone knows what to call you.”
“Well, I'll be damned!” said one of them. “Who told you about us?”
“A friend.”
“And why does this friend think we'd be interested in helping you?”
“He doesn't think you're at all interested in helping me,” said Mallory. He paused meaningfully. “But he thinks you'd probably like to help yourselves.”
“Explain yourself,” said one of the men.
“My name is John Justin Mallory, and I'm a detective. I'm on the track of an incredibly powerful vampire who goes by the name of Vlad Drachma. This vampire is literally thousands of years old, seems to have near-superhuman strength, and has been on a killing spree since he arrived here from Transylvania last week. He killed my partner's nephew earlier tonight. It's my job to bring him in, but so far I haven't had much luck.”
“How do you think we can help?” asked the woman. “And more to the point, why should we?”
“You make your money by bilking the public,” said Mallory bluntly. “Well, this particular vampire is fully capable of costing you twenty to thirty members of that public every week.”
“Vampires all start out hot and energetic,” said one of the men. “It's just a phase they go through.”
“Vlad Drachma has been going through this particular phase since before Moses brought the Ten Commandments down from Mount Sinai,” answered Mallory. He stared at each of them in turn. “I don't think any of you have a charitable bone in your bodies, so I won't appeal to your better natures or ask you to help me. But I think for people in your position selfishness is considered a virtue, or at least a survival trait, so I urge you to help yourselves.”
“We will need a moment to confer,” said the woman, getting to her feet. “We'll be back directly.”
The five of them left the room.
“Well?” said Mallory.
“I thought you insulted them,” said McGuire.
“They're beyond petty emotions like love and hate and fear and jealousy,” answered Mallory with absolute certainty. “All they care about is profit and loss.”
“I hope you're right.”
“While you were studying each of them,” said Nathan, “which one did you decide was the weak link?”
“Who knows?”
“But it's your job to know!” insisted the dragon.
“Right now
my job consists of apprehending Vlad Drachma, and I'm grateful to anyone or anything that will help me accomplish my purpose.”
“How, exactly, can these five help?”
“Anyone who runs the world is probably not without resources,” said Mallory with a smile. He was about to say something more when the Wall Street Five reentered the room.
“Well?” asked Mallory.
“Mr. Mallory, we have a deal,” said the oldest of the men. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am John D. Stoneyfeller. If it flies, I own it. If it pulls freight, I own its tracks. If it's parked in your garage, it goes nowhere without my tires and my engine. And if it works for a union, you'll never find it in my employ.”
“P. J. Morgan,” said another. “I shortened it from Morganthau. I issued every credit card in your wallet. And all of your savings are on deposit in my bank, because regardless of the names they use, every bank is my bank.”
“William Vandergilt at your service. Do you eat fried cicadas or chocolate-covered ants?”
“No,” said Mallory.
“Then I can say without fear of contradiction that every piece of food you've eaten for the last thirteen years, be it animal or vegetable, has been my food, picked on my farms or dispatched in my slaughterhouses.”
“And I am Andrew Boatnagie,” said the fourth man.
“Transportation, money, and food seem to be spoken for,” replied Mallory. “What do you control?”
“Control is such an insipid word, Mr. Mallory,” said Boatnagie. “I am the czar of your leisure time. Not a movie gets made, not a play gets produced, not a sporting event takes place, not a book gets published, not a CD or DVD gets cut, until I greenlight it.”
“And if the public doesn't like what you present?”
“Let them go to a competitor.”
“Are there any?”
Boatnagie smiled. “Never for long.”
“You're four captains of industry, to be sure,” said Mallory. He turned to the young woman. “And you are…?”
“Miss Subways,” answered the woman.
“Miss Subways?” repeated Mallory. “Like in On the Town?”
“No,” said Stoneyfeller. “Like she owns every subway in the USA, Europe, and Japan—the cars, the tracks, the stations, even the concessions.”
“I assume you didn't inherit them?” said Mallory.
She smiled a chilling smile. “What fun would that have been?”
“So, Mr. Mallory,” said Stoneyfeller, “our combined might is at your service. Not only that, but with a snap of our collective fingers, we can supply you with cannon fodder almost beyond calculation. How may we help you destroy this foul fiend who would dare interfere with our profit flow?”
“I'm going to have to give it a little thought,” replied Mallory, “and decide how best to utilize you.”
“Fine,” said Morgan. “We'll be right here waiting, and woe betide the vampire that is foolish enough to match strength with us.”
“He's pretty strong,” offered McGuire.
“So are we,” answered Boatnagie. “Economically speaking, that is—and when all is said and done, what other type of strength matters?”
Mallory walked to the door.
“You'll be in touch?” said Miss Subways.
“First chance I get,” he promised her.
Then, followed by Felina, McGuire, and Nathan, he left the room, walked to the escalator, and a moment later emerged from the main entrance to the building.
“How does my nose look?” he asked McGuire.
“Why?”
“I just want to make sure it didn't grow six inches after I lied about getting back to them.”
“Aren't we going to?”
Mallory shook his head. “No. It's a pity, too. There's not a drop of red blood left among the five of them. They'd be immune to Vlad Drachma's bite.”
“Then why won't you use them, if you're so sure they could help us with Drachma?”
“Because,” replied Mallory, “while I was listening to them, I realized that sometimes the cure is worse than the disease.”
“So it's back to Square One?” asked McGuire.
“Not exactly,” replied Mallory. “While I was listening to them, something they said gave me an idea…”
“So what's your insight?” asked McGuire.
“Private eyes don't have insights,” Nathan corrected him. “They have notions.”
“Okay, what's your notion?” asked the vampire.
“Vlad's been living here for a few days, right?” said Mallory.
“I don't know if living is the proper word,” said Nathan. “But go ahead with your notion.”
“It's an expensive town. If he's in a hotel, or even in a mortuary, no one's giving it to him for free. Maybe he doesn't pay for the blood he drinks, but he hangs out at the Gryphon's Roost and for all I know a couple of other places. He's got to pay for whatever he's getting.”
“Of course,” said McGuire. “But everyone needs money, and everyone spends it. What's your point?”
“We're trying to find him, right?” said Mallory. “If he uses cash, where did he convert it from the currency he used in Transylvania? If he uses a credit card—well, you heard P. J. Morgan. He controls every credit card in the world. There's got to be a record of what he's spent, and more important, where he spent it.”
“I thought you didn't want to work with Morgan and those others,” said McGuire.
“I don't.”
“Then how—?”
“We'll go back to the Gryphon's Roost,” answered Mallory. “We know it's his hangout. If he's used any plastic, they'll have a record of it. Once we get his card number, we can always hunt up a hacker who can find out when and where he's using it.”
“I don't know…” said Nathan dubiously.
“What's wrong with it?” asked Mallory.
“Wings O'Bannon never asks for help.”
“That's a book,” said Mallory. “This is the real world.” He grimaced. “Probably a little less real than some…”
He heard a hissing sound above him and looked up to see Felina atop a lamppost, hissing at a banshee that had swooped down and flown off with a pigeon just before she could pounce on it.
“And a lot less real than others,” added the detective. “Felina, come on down.”
“I like it up here,” she said. “I can see clear to the next block.”
“Don't tell me,” said Mallory. “Another dinosaur?”
“Just a lot of people taking off their clothes and dancing.”
“Maybe we should just go take a quick look, in case Vlad's one of them,” said McGuire, heading off in the direction Felina indicated.
“You do what you have to do,” said Mallory, his voice heavy with disgust. “I'm going to the Gryphon's Roost. Felina, come on down or I'm leaving you behind.”
“If you do, I'll never tell you what's waiting for you in that alley you're coming to,” she said.
“If I don't leave, then it doesn't matter what's waiting, does it?”
“I never thought of that,” said Felina, leaping lightly to the pavement. “All right, John Justin, let's go.”
They began walking, followed by Nathan and McGuire. As they reached the alley, a goblin put his fingers into his mouth and gave them an annoying “Pssst!”
“What do you want?” asked Mallory in bored tones.
“Me?” said the goblin. “I don't want anything. But you look like a man who needs something unique, something that causes him to stand out in a crowd.”
“And you don't think walking around with a dragon and a cat-girl will do that?” said Mallory.
“Not as much as this!” said the goblin enthusiastically, pulling a three-foot-long snake out of his pocket. “Just consider its uses. It makes the perfect belt. Skin it and you have the makings of a unique pair of shoes, provided that your size is eight and a half double-A or smaller. If you've grown tired of your pet rat, just leave it alone with the snake f
or a minute and your problems are over. Are you being pursued by an aggressive but morbidly obese redhead with a snake phobia? This is the answer to your prayers. Are you worried about being attacked in your sleep? Leave this snake on the floor by your bedside, and when you hear the revolting squishing sound of his being stepped on in the dark, you'll have up to three seconds to prepare your defense or race out the other side of the bed, provided that it's not pushed up against an open eighth-floor window. There is absolutely no limit to the number of uses to which this snake can be put.”
“I hate snakes.”
“No problem, sir. Feed him and he goes comatose for two months while he's digesting his meal. You won't have to walk him, play with him, groom him, or even acknowledge his existence. Even when he's awake he'll have no more fondness for you than you have for him, so unless you turn your back on him after abusing him, the two of you need never have any physical contact or social interaction at all. What more could a man want to treat himself to on All Hallows' Eve? And—get this!—the price is only three thousand dollars.”
“Forget it.”
“Two thousand.”
“Go away.”
“Seven dollars and ninety-three cents?”
“No.”
“It's not fair!” complained the goblin. “Here I am, entering into an honest transaction, and you aren't holding up your end of the negotiation.”
“I think that sums it up nicely.”
“Okay, take him,” said the goblin, holding out the snake. “He's yours.”
“I don't want him.”
“What has that got to do with anything?” whined the goblin. “This is a free-market society. I'm a merchant. You're a consumer. You're not fulfilling your function!”
“I thought the consumer was always right.”
“That's an urban myth,” replied the goblin. “All right, I'll pay you seventy-five cents to take the damned thing off my hands.”
“No.”
“Two dollars!”
Mallory began walking, followed by Felina, McGuire, and the dragon.
“Five dollars, and that's my final offer!” the goblin yelled after him.
“Good,” said Mallory.
“Six fifty, and I'll throw in the August 1962 issue of Playboy!”
Mallory kept walking.
