by Mike Resnick
“So are you going to tell me what I want to know,” said Mallory, “or am I going to get a court order to impound the ship and everything in it?”
Blight glared at him again. “If I had a yardarm, can you guess who I'd hang from it right this minute?”
“Just tell me what I want to know and I'll be out of your hair,” said Mallory.
“But I won't be,” said a smooth, cultured voice.
They all turned and saw a very well-dressed man reaching the top of the gangplank. His suit was custom tailored and European, his tiepin held a huge diamond, and his shoes were handmade Italian.
“You again?” roared Blight.
“Me again,” said the man, totally unflustered by Captain Blight's belligerence.
Blight turned to Mallory. “I was right! You're just his stalking horse!”
“I never saw him before in my life,” said Mallory.
“Then you don't watch the news on television often enough,” said the man. “I am Clarence Drummond at your service.” He handed Mallory an embossed business card.
“You're goddamned ACFO, is what you are,” muttered Captain Blight.
“My good man,” said Drummond, “as long as you insist on keeping the cargo aboard ship, I shall continue to file legal briefs to force you to relinquish it.”
“What's this all about?” asked Mallory.
“It's about seven thousand cartons of cigarettes in the hold of the Moribund Manatee,” explained Drummond.
“What about them?”
“Captain Blight refuses to unload them.”
“They were smuggled by a couple of crewmen who have since gone on to their rewards in Davey Jones's locker,” said Blight. “That makes them mine, and I can get a better price in Patagonia. Now why can't the ACFO leave me alone?”
“Because American citizens have every right to smoke those cigarettes,” answered Drummond.
“Maybe the Captain's doing them a favor,” said Mallory. “That's a lot of cancer in the hold of the ship.”
“The ACFO's position is that Americans have a constitutional right to contract cancer, and Captain Blight is standing in the way of their exercising that freedom,” said Drummond. “I'd stay and explain our position in detail, but I just stopped by for a moment to see if he's changed his mind.” He looked at his diamond-studded Rolex. “I really must run. I'm due in court in another twenty minutes.”
“Another cigarette case?” asked Mallory.
“No,” answered the lawyer. “This one involves a college binge eater who gobbled down thirty-four cheeseburgers and twelve chocolate malts in a single sitting.”
“He must have been as sick as a dog,” said the detective.
“That's beside the point,” answered Drummond. “It was his legal right to order that meal.”
“Then what's the suit about?”
“The American Civil Freedoms Organization is suing the short-order cook who filled the order and let him get that sick. Wherever there is suffering, there must be a culprit.”
“Sounds like your organization has more business than it can handle.”
“True, true,” agreed Drummond. “Tomorrow we're defending two innocent souls who were prevented from exercising their freedom of self-expression at the Temple of All Saints.”
“They weren't allowed to speak?”
“I didn't say freedom of speech. I said freedom of self-expression.”
“What's the difference?” asked Mallory.
“They were suicide bombers.”
“Well, it's sure comforting to know that you're out there protecting us from our worst tendencies,” said Mallory.
“It's a dirty job, standing up for the poor and disadvantaged whether they want you to or not, but someone's got to do it,” said Drummond. He turned to Blight. “I'll be back. You can't prevent the public from exercising its rights forever.”
He turned on his heels, walked to the gangplank, and left the ship.
“So you really don't work for him?” said Blight.
“I really don't,” said Mallory. “And if you'll tell me what I want to know, I'll tell you how to get him to stop bothering you.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“It's a deal!” said Blight. “How do I make him go away?”
“Next time he comes by, tell him you'll only discuss releasing your cargo if he'll have a friendly smoke with you.”
Blight frowned. “That's it? That's your whole plan?”
“Where I come from, the ACFO only protects other people's rights to kill themselves. They don't practice those rights themselves. This guy seems cut from the same mold.”
“You know, now that you mention it…” said Blight.
“Okay, so now can you hunt up the information I need?”
“I'll have the purser get right on it,” said Blight. “We had gambling, floor shows, all kinds of entertainments. I even had one of the strippers get semidressed and sell some of the cigarettes from the hold. He's got to have spent money on something.”
Blight walked over to the ship's intercom and told the purser what he needed.
“It'll just take a minute or two,” he said, returning to Mallory.
“While we're just passing the time of day,” said McGuire, “I'm not without my contacts. Possibly we could do some business. Besides the cigarettes, what contraband do you carry?”
“Just the one,” said Blight. “There are six of them, I think.”
“Uh…I'm confused,” said McGuire.
“The dance band,” answered Blight. “A drummer, two trumpets, a sax, a clarinet, and a piano. Six Contras from Nicaragua. Or was it seven? I can't remember. There might have been a trombone, too.”
“I guess maybe we'll do business some other time,” said McGuire.
“I'll tell you, I'm glad this voyage is over,” said Blight. “A captain's job is never done. I performed seventeen weddings, eleven divorces, three baptisms, a bris, and three funerals.”
“Three funerals?” said Mallory. “That's a lot of people to die on a five-day voyage, isn't it?”
“I performed ‘em all after we were in port here,” said Blight. “It was after the ACFO lawyers began shooting at each other. Some disagreement about firearms control.”
“Sounds like you've had an eventful week.”
“Yeah, along with all that other stuff, we fired on two rowboats, a canoe, a humpback whale, and a Greek fishing vessel that were all blocking our way.” He scowled. “Missed the canoe.”
The purser approached them and handed a piece of paper to Blight, who looked at it and turned it over to Mallory.
“Here you are, shamus,” he said. “This is your man's TransEx number.”
“TransEx?” asked Mallory.
“Transylvanian Express card.”
“Thanks,” said Mallory. “Now it's just a matter of finding out when and where he might have used it in New York.”
As Mallory began walking down the gangplank, followed by Felina, McGuire, and Nathan, Captain Blight called after him: “You really think it'll work?”
“Tracing the TransEx card? No reason why not.”
Blight shook his head impatiently. “Insisting that Drummond have a smoke.”
“Absolutely. He may care more about everyone else's rights than his own, but I guarantee he cares more about his own health, safety, and comfort than anyone else's.”
“You sure about that?” asked McGuire softly, as they reached the pier.
“Some things don't change from one Manhattan to another,” said Mallory. “Human nature is one of them.”
“So do we ask P. J. Morgan for help?” queried Nathan as they left the waterfront.
“Not a chance,” said Mallory. “You let one of that bunch into your life, you never get him out.”
“Then what's our next move?” persisted the dragon. “I'm tired of being a spear carrier in this drama. I'm ready to become the hero.”
“You are a spear carrier,” n
oted Mallory, indicating Nathan's spear. “Let's hope you don't have to use it.”
“I hate to interrupt,” said McGuire, “but we seem to have lost the cat thing.”
Mallory looked around and couldn't spot Felina.
“She can't have gone too far,” he said. “Did you see a mouse shoot out from one of the shadows?”
McGuire shook his head. “No.”
“Here she comes,” said Nathan, pointing to a nearby alley, from which Felina was emerging.
“Where were you?” asked Mallory.
“I saw the cutest little dove,” she replied. “Don't you think they're sweet the way they just coo lovingly at the whole world?” She smiled at him, and a pair of feathers fell out of her mouth.
“Are you going to stay with us now?” asked the detective.
“Yes,” she said. “Perhaps. Probably.” She smiled again and emitted a very unladylike burp.
“See that you do,” said Mallory.
“So where are we going?” asked Nathan. “We've only got three or four more hours before it's light out and we've lost him.”
“We've got to find him before we can lose him,” McGuire corrected him.
“We need a hacker,” said Mallory.
“A cabbie?” said McGuire. “What on earth for?”
“A computer hacker,” said Mallory. “Somebody who can break into Transylvania Express's database and find out if Vlad has used his card recently.”
“And where he's used it,” added Nathan.
“And doubtless you have one on retainer that you routinely use in all your cases,” suggested McGuire.
“We've never needed one before,” replied Mallory. “But I think I know one who can help us. I did him a favor last year; he ought to be willing to return it.”
“What favor?”
“I didn't turn him in to the cops,” said Mallory.
“He was breaking the law?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why—?”
“He was hacking into Vito Cherricola's bank account.”
“You were working for Hot Lips Cherricola, the Mafia don?”
Mallory nodded. “I work for whoever needs a detective.”
“Damn! I'm impressed!” said Nathan. “Why didn't you arrest this hacker?”
“I'm not a cop,” answered Mallory. “My job is solving problems, not arresting people. I got him to stop dating Cherricola's daughter and return the money he'd stolen, and to promise not to do either again, so Vito was happy. And in exchange for the hacker's cooperation, I didn't turn him in, so he was happy. He owes me one now. I think it's time to collect.”
“So how do we find him?”
“He lives just a block away from here,” said Mallory.
“Has he got a name?”
“Everyone's got a name,” answered Mallory. “He's probably got five or six for business purposes. The one I know him by is Albert Feinstein.”
“Why do I think that doesn't have a ring of truth and honesty to it?” said Nathan.
“Truth and honesty are not his stock-in-trade,” replied Mallory.
“But he's really good with a computer?” asked McGuire.
“That's why we're going to his place.”
“Maybe when he's got the data you need, I can borrow him for a couple of minutes.”
“What do you need him for, Bats?”
“There's this vampire porno site,” said McGuire uncomfortably. “I gave them a bad credit card number, and they locked me out. Maybe he can get me back in.”
“Why don't you just give them the right number?” suggested Nathan.
“Because I don't own a credit card,” said McGuire.
“How did you buy your computer?”
“I didn't exactly buy it,” replied the little vampire.
“You stole it.”
“I had no choice,” complained McGuire. “I blame it all on racism in high places.”
“Racism?” repeated Nathan dubiously.
“You may think it's all fun and games being a vampire,” said McGuire, “but let me tell you, our welfare checks are smaller than anyone else's. They say it's because we get more food stamps, but they know we can't use them! It's an outrage.”
“And you were so outraged you stole a computer.”
“I view it as a long-term loan,” replied McGuire with dignity. “I have every intention of returning it just as soon as they come out with the next generation.”
“Here we are,” announced Mallory, stopping in front of a century-old apartment building.
“How do you know he'll be home?” asked Nathan.
“He's under house arrest.”
“What for?”
“He forged letters of resignation from the whole City Council.”
“So they lock him in his apartment with his computer,” commented Nathan. “Maybe someone should have accepted all those resignations.”
Mallory pressed the bell for Feinstein's apartment.
“This is the Super Secret Spy in the Sky Government Security System,” said a harsh mechanical voice. “Hand over all your money or prepare to be defenestrated.”
“Open up, Albert,” said the detective. “It's John Justin Mallory.”
“Mallory!” cried a human voice. “How the hell are you, and did you bring any jelly doughnuts or ripe naked women?”
“Fine, no, and no. Now let me in.”
The door buzzed, and Mallory held it open until his three companions could pass through it. Then he led them up to the second floor, down a long corridor, and finally into Albert Feinstein's apartment, which was littered with books, magazines, computer manuals, and unwashed dishes.
Feinstein was waiting for them. He was a skinny man, not much taller than McGuire, with a head of unruly red hair and a handlebar mustache. He wore glasses with such thick lenses that they totally distorted the way his eyes looked behind them. He was stark naked except for a shopworn bowler hat.
“Dressed in rather a hurry, didn't you?” remarked Mallory.
“I work in the nude,” answered Feinstein.
“What's the hat for?”
“There's always the chance that I'll get company. Like tonight. What can I do for you, Mallory?”
“What you do best,” said Mallory.
“I can't,” said Feinstein. “You didn't bring any women.”
“All right, what you do second best.”
“You're asking me to break the law and cause someone untold misery, just because you think I'm under some obligation to you, is that it?”
“Yes,” said Mallory.
A huge smile spread across Feinstein's homely face. “I'll be delighted! Whose life are we out to ruin tonight?”
“No one's.”
“What fun is that?”
“I need you to break into a secure database and get some information for me,” said Mallory.
“Happy to,” said Feinstein. “What am I breaking into? The Chase Manhattan Bank? The World Bank? Donald Trump's petty cash account?”
Mallory handed him the slip of paper with Vlad Drachma's TransEx account number on it.
“I want you to discreetly access the Transylvania Express database and find out if this card has been used in the past couple of days—and if so, when and where.”
“Who does it belong to?”
“Does it make a difference?” asked Mallory.
“Only if I want to blackmail him at a later date.”
“Do you have a single moral bone in your body?” asked the detective with a weary sigh.
“I used to,” answered Feinstein. “I had it taken out when they gave me my hip replacement.”
“You're a little young for a hip replacement, aren't you?”
“High Stakes Louie took my original hip when I couldn't pay off one of my bets, so I figured I might as well get a replacement.”
“High Stakes Louie?” repeated Mallory. “I haven't heard of him in a couple of years.”
“He's doing six thousand
years in Leavenworth,” said Feinstein with a satisfied smile. “Seems someone unearthed an almost-authentic computer transcript of his plans to assassinate the president and blow up the Capitol building, and sent it to the Justice Department. We can do perfectly well without a president and all those senators and congressmen, of course, but the building would cost a pretty penny to replace.”
“Vito Cherricola, High Stakes Louie, the City Council,” recited Mallory. “Don't you ever go after a small target?”
“Who would remember Saint George if he had only killed a dragonfly?” responded Feinstein. “By the way, are you ever going to introduce me to your gang?”
“They're my friends,” said Mallory. “Bats McGuire, Scaly Jim Chandler, Felina, say hello to Albert Feinstein, the best and certainly the most immoral hacker in all of Manhattan.”
“One does what one can,” said Feinstein with false humility.
“So go to your computer and do your best.”
“Are you in that much of a hurry?” said Feinstein. “I thought we could exchange dirty jokes for a few minutes, then describe our favorite sexual perversions, maybe make a couple of side bets on tomorrow's races (especially if you're still betting on Flyaway), and then around dawn we'd have some coffee and maybe a cheese Danish or two, and then I'd get your information.”
“I need it now,” said Mallory.
“So you're after a vampire,” said Feinstein.
“Yes, I'm after a vampire. And the longer we talk, the less chance I've got of catching up with him.”
“All right, all right,” said Feinstein, walking to the desk that housed his computer, “don't make a federal case out of it.” He sat down on a beat-up swivel chair. “Activate.”
The computer suddenly glowed with life. “Ready, Darling,” it said in a sultry feminine voice.
“Knock it off, Computer,” said Feinstein uncomfortably. “There are people present.”
“Computer?” whined the machine. “How come you never call me Cutie Pie anymore?”
“Just scan this credit card number and don't hassle me,” said Feinstein.
“Not until you apologize for snapping at me,” said the computer.
“All right, I apologize.”
“And call me Cutie Pie.”
“You're not the only computer in the world,” growled Feinstein.
