by Mike Resnick
"I meant like Yellow Cabs,” said Mallory, stepping back around the corner and out of the elephant's sight.
"Yellow Cab at your service, sir,” cried a voice, and Mallory turned just in time to avoid bumping into a bright yellow elephant, also resplendent in its trappings. “Non-stop to Fifth Avenue and Central Park,” continued the elf who perched on its back. “Guaranteed arrival before midnight."
"That's only two blocks from here,” said Mallory.
"Not the way old Jumbo goes,” replied the cabbie. “He zigs and zags and backtracks like crazy. Not fast, mind you—it's a perfectly smooth ride, and much better than some of those modern, stripped-down models—but determined. There's a fruit stand at 58th and Broadway that he hasn't missed in twenty years. Great memory!"
"Why don't you train him better?"
"Break his spirit?” said the outraged cabbie. “I wouldn't think of it!"
"It seems to me that there ought to be a happy medium between breaking his spirit and spending two hours to travel a hundred yards."
"We travel miles!" protested the cabbie. “Of course, we don't go in a very straight line ... but then, getting there is half the fun.” He glared at Mallory. “It's New Year's Eve and I'm a busy man, a very busy man. Now, do you want a ride or not?"
"We'll walk,” replied Mallory.
"Your loss,” said the cabbie. He kicked the yellow elephant with a tiny foot. “Come on, Jumbo—mush!"
The elephant squealed, pivoted 180 degrees, and headed off at a trot, ignoring his rider's frantic instructions.
"Does everyone around here make as little sense as you and that elephant driver?” asked Mallory.
"I thought he made perfect sense,” replied Mürgenstürm.
"You would,” said Mallory. “Let's get going."
"Right,” agreed Mürgenstürm, heading off across Fifth Avenue.
As Mallory stepped away from the building he saw that the broad street had suddenly become filled with traffic as elephants, horses, and oversized dogs, all brightly colored and brilliantly harnessed, moved up and down the thoroughfare, either carrying passengers on their backs or pulling them in gaily decorated open-air carriages.
They reached the far side of the street, and then began following a complex and circuitous route between buildings and through alleys, up twisting ramps and down spiraling stairwells, into and out of strange-smelling basements, until Mallory, who was trying to remember which way he had come, was thoroughly confused. Finally they halted at a small, grass-covered, fenced yard.
"Here we are,” said the elf.
"What's the address here?” asked Mallory.
"Fifth Avenue and 57th Street."
"Come on!” said Mallory irritably. “We've walked at least a mile since we were there."
"A mile and a quarter, I should imagine,” agreed Mürgenstürm.
"Then how can we be back where we started? Where are the streets and the stores?"
"They're here. We just approached from a different direction."
"That's crazy."
"Why must everything look the same from every angle?” asked Mürgenstürm. “Do both sides of a door look the same? Is the interior of a Black Forest torte identical to the exterior? Believe me, John Justin, we're really at the corner of Fifth and 57th. We're simply backstage."
"Where's the front of the stage?"
"Ah,” smiled the elf. “To see that, we'd have to retrace our steps."
"I wouldn't know where to begin,” said Mallory.
"At the beginning, of course."
"You know,” said Mallory, “I'm beginning to dislike you intensely. You've always got a slick answer, and nothing you say makes any sense."
"It will,” Mürgenstürm assured him. “Wait until you've been here awhile."
"I don't plan to be here awhile,” said Mallory. He turned his attention to the yard, which was about fifty feet on a side and thoroughly overgrown with weeds. “This is where you kept the unicorn?"
"That's right,” said the elf, opening the gate. “Watch your step."
"More Subway Gnomes?” asked Mallory.
Mürgenstürm shook his head. “Larkspur wasn't exactly what one would call housebroken.” He walked gingerly to a gnarled tree, and the detective followed him. “I had him tethered right here."
Mallory looked at the weathered brownstone house at the far end of the yard. Many of the windows were boarded over, all the lights were out, and a storm door swung noisily back and forth on a single rusty hinge.
"That house goes with this yard?” asked Mallory.
"Yes."
"Does anyone live there?"
"It's been empty for more than a year,” replied Mürgenstürm. “That's why I used the yard; I knew there was nobody around to object."
"Almost nobody,” Mallory corrected him dryly. He squatted down and examined the ground.
"Did you find anything?” asked the elf after a moment.
"Just unicorn tracks."
"Are there any signs of a struggle?” suggested Mürgenstürm.
"You think maybe someone stopped to wrestle Larkspur two out of three falls before leading him away?” said Mallory irritably.
"I'm just trying to be helpful,” apologized Mürgenstürm.
"You can start by shutting up,” said Mallory. He straightened up, then began a systematic search of the yard.
"What are you looking for?” asked Mürgenstürm.
"I don't know,” replied Mallory. “Footprints that don't belong to you or Larkspur, a scrap of clothing, anything that looks out of place.” He walked through the knee-high weeds and grass for another minute, then shook his head, grimaced, and returned to the tree.
"No clues at all?” asked the elf.
"I have a horrible feeling that we're going to have to follow a trail of unicorn shit to solve this case,” said Mallory. He walked carefully to the gate, followed by Mürgenstürm. “Think now!” he said. “Who else knew Larkspur was here?"
"No one."
"Someone had to know. Someone stole him. Who owns this place?"
"I have no idea. I suppose I could find out,” said the elf. Suddenly his narrow shoulders slumped. “But not until the city offices open tomorrow morning, and then it'll be too late."
Mallory's eyes darted to the shadows, then focused again on Mürgenstürm. “Keep talking,” he said in a low voice.
"About what?” asked the elf.
"Anything. It doesn't matter. We're being watched."
"You're sure?"
Mallory nodded.
"I wasn't aware of it. It must be your long experience as a detective."
"It's my long experience dodging bill collectors,” replied Mallory. “Start talking about unicorns. Whoever it is, he's coming closer."
Mürgenstürm's face went blank. “I don't know what to say."
"Ten minutes ago I couldn't shut you up!” hissed Mallory. “Now talk!"
"I feel silly,” said the elf.
"You're going to feel a lot worse than silly if you don't say something!"
"Give me a hint,” said Mürgenstürm desperately.
Mallory cursed, and suddenly hurled himself into the darkness.
"Got you!” he cried triumphantly, and emerged a moment later with a scratching, spitting, clawing girl in his arms.
"Let me go!” she snarled.
Mallory felt her twisting free and released his grip. She hissed at him, then sprang lightly to the top of the fence and crouched there.
"Who are you?” demanded Mallory.
"I know her,” said Mürgenstürm. “She's Felina."
"What are you doing here?” persisted Mallory.
"I have as much right to be here as you!” she replied hotly. “Maybe more!"
"She was probably just rummaging through the house, looking for garbage,” said Mürgenstürm.
"Then why was she hiding?"
"I don't like people!"
As Mallory studied her more closely, he found to his surprise tha
t she wasn't a girl after all—at least, not like any girl he had ever seen. She was young and slender, and her limbs were covered with a fine orange down faintly striped with black, while her face, neck, and chest were cream-colored. Her orange irises were those of a cat, her canines were quite pronounced, and she had whiskers—feline, not human—growing out of her upper lip. Her ears were a little too rounded, her face a touch too oval, her nails long and lethal-looking. She wore a single garment, a short tan dress that looked like it had been found on one of her garbage-hunting expeditions.
"What are you?” asked Mallory, genuinely curious.
"Felinis majoris," she answered defiantly.
"She's one of the cat-people,” explained Mürgenstürm. “There aren't very many of them left anymore."
"Why don't you like humans?” continued Mallory.
"They don't like anybody,” said Mürgenstürm before Felina could answer. “Dogs hunt them, humans shun them, real cats ignore them."
"I can speak for myself,” said Felina haughtily.
"Then start speaking,” said Mallory. “What are you doing here?"
"Looking for food."
"Do cat-people eat unicorns?"
"No.” Suddenly her eyes widened and she smiled a very feline smile. “It was your unicorn that was stolen!"
"His,” said Mallory, jerking a thumb in the elf's direction. “I'm just helping him look for it."
She turned to Mürgenstürm. “They'll kill you at sunrise,” she said, amused.
"Not if we find it first,” said Mallory.
"You won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know who stole it,” said the cat-girl.
"Who?"
She purred and licked a forearm. “I'm hungry."
"Tell me who stole it and I'll buy you any dinner you want,” said Mallory.
"I never buy dinners,” she said, stretching languorously. “It's so much more fun to hunt for them."
"Then name your price."
"My price?” she said, as if the notion of selling anything was totally new to her. Suddenly she smiled. “My price is that I want to watch his face"—she pointed to Mürgenstürm—"when I tell you."
"Fine,” said Mallory. “Take a good look at him."
"Your unicorn, little elf,” she said, watching Mürgenstürm as a cat watches a mouse, “was stolen by the Grundy."
Mürgenstürm turned a pale green and reacted as if he'd been hit with a sledgehammer.
"No!” he whispered, collapsing cross-legged with his back to the fence.
She grinned and nodded her head slowly.
"What's going on?” demanded Mallory. “Who is this Grundy?"
"He's the most powerful demon in New York!” moaned Mürgenstürm.
"Maybe on the whole East Coast,” added Felina, delighted with the elf's reaction.
"He uses magic?” asked Mallory apprehensively.
"Magic doesn't work, John Justin,” said Mürgenstürm in a dull voice. “You know that."
"Then what makes him a demon?"
"Nothing makes him a demon. It's what he is."
"All right,” said Mallory. “What is a demon?"
"A malevolent entity of incomparable power."
"So is an IRS auditor,” said Mallory irritably. “Be more specific. What does he look like? Has he got horns? A tail? Does he breathe smoke and belch fire?"
"All that and more,” moaned Mürgenstürm.
"Much more,” added Felina happily.
Mallory turned to Felina. “You're sure that it was this Grundy who stole the unicorn?” he asked. “You actually saw him do it?"
She nodded, grinning from ear to ear.
"Suppose you tell me exactly what happened."
"The Grundy and Flypaper Gillespie came up to the fence—"
"Just a minute,” interrupted Mallory. “The Grundy and who?"
"Flypaper Gillespie,” said Mürgenstürm. “He's a leprechaun who works for the Grundy. They call him that because things stick to him."
"What kinds of things?” asked Mallory.
"Wallets, jewelry, amulets—things like that,” answered Felina.
"Go on."
"The Grundy opened the gate, pointed to the unicorn, and said, ‘There he is. You know what to do.’ And Flypaper Gillespie said that he sure did know what to do, and then the Grundy vanished, and Flypaper Gillespie untied the unicorn and led him away.” Felina paused. “That's everything that happened."
"You're sure?” persisted Mallory.
"Yes."
"Where were you all this time?"
She pointed to a second-floor window.
"What were you doing there?"
"Hunting."
"Hunting what?"
"Something tasty,” she replied.
"You say the Grundy vanished,” noted Mallory. “Are you sure he didn't just walk away while you were watching the unicorn?"
"He vanished,” Felina repeated firmly.
Mallory turned to Mürgenstürm. “Tell me more about this Grundy."
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
"Nobody knows that much about him,” replied Mürgenstürm, “except that he's a malevolent entity who is the cause of most of the misery and despair in my Manhattan. He appears, and terrible things happen."
"What kinds of things?"
"Terrible things!” repeated Mürgenstürm with a shudder.
"Like what?"
"Don't ask!"
"It's my business to ask."
"He's responsible for everything bad that happens here. If there's a natural disaster, he caused it; if there's an unsolved crime, he committed it; if there's an epidemic, he spread it."
"Why?"
"He's a demon. It's his nature."
"How does he vanish into thin air?"
"He is a master of illusion and misdirection."
"But not of magic?"
"No. Although,” added the elf, “he is capable of feats that, even to the experienced eye, are indistinguishable from magic."
"What are his weaknesses?” asked Mallory.
"I don't know if he has any."
"He must, or he'd own the whole city by now."
"I suppose so,” said Mürgenstürm dubiously.
Mallory turned back to the cat-girl. “Think hard, Felina. Did the Grundy say anything else? Did he tell Flypaper Gillespie where to take the unicorn?"
Felina shook her head.
"Did he say how soon he'd be meeting him?"
"No."
"By the way, just for the record, what does a unicorn look like?"
"Just like a horse, only different,” said Felina.
"Different how?" asked Mallory. “Just the horn?"
"Just the horn,” she agreed. “And maybe the legs, and the face, and the flanks, and the tail."
"It looks like a horse except for the head, the body, and the horn?” suggested Mallory sardonically.
She smiled and nodded.
Mallory glared at her for a moment, then shrugged. “All right. Can either of you tell me anything about Flypaper Gillespie?"
"He's a leprechaun,” said Mürgenstürm.
"I know he's a leprechaun!” snapped Mallory. “You told me that already!"
"That totally defines him,” said Mürgenstürm. “What else did you want to know?"
"I almost hesitate to ask, but what does a leprechaun look like?"
"They're sort of ... well, small ... and they've got funny ears, though they're not really pointed ... and, um ...” began Mürgenstürm, struggling to come up with a description.
"They wear tweeds a lot,” interjected Felina helpfully.
"Anyway, you'll know one when you see one,” concluded Mürgenstürm confidently.
"How about behavior?” demanded Mallory, resisting the urge to snatch up the little elf and shake him. “What do leprechauns do?"
"They rob and steal and drink a lot,” said Mürgenstürm. “Mostly Irish whiskey."
"Oh, yes,” said Mürgenstürm. “They never tell the truth when they can tell a lie.” He looked at Mallory. “You seem annoyed, John Justin."
"I can't imagine why,” muttered Mallory. “I'll try once more. Where am I likely to find Flypaper Gillespie?"
"I don't know,” said Mürgenstürm. “I apologize if my answers seem inadequate, but the truth of the matter is that nobody has ever tried to find the Grundy or Flypaper Gillespie before. Usually, people run in the opposite direction."
"So I gather,” said Mallory. “In fact, I think it's contract renegotiation time. I've got a feeling that I'm being underpaid for this job."
"But you agreed to take the case!"
"The case didn't have a goddamned demon in it when I agreed!"
"All right,” said the little elf with a sigh of resignation. “Twenty thousand."
"Twenty-five,” said Mallory.
"Done."
Mallory stared at him. “Thirty-five."
"But you said twenty-five thousand and I agreed!” protested the elf.
"You agreed too damned fast,” said Mallory.
"Well, I'm certainly not going to agree to thirty-five thousand dollars—fast, slow, or otherwise."
"That's your privilege,” said Mallory. “Find Larkspur yourself."
"Twenty-eight and a half,” said the elf quickly.
"Thirty-three."
"Thirty."
"Make it thirty-one and we're in business."
"You promise?” asked Mürgenstürm distrustfully.
"Word of honor."
The elf considered it for a minute, then nodded his assent.
"You're really going to try to find the unicorn?” asked Felina.
"That's right,” said Mallory.
"Even knowing that the Grundy's behind it?"
"Even so."
"Why?"
"Because Mürgenstürm's paying me an awful lot of money,” said Mallory. He paused. “Besides, I haven't been having much luck as a husband or a horseplayer or anything else lately. I think it's about time I got back to doing something I'm good at."