Stalking the Unicorn: A Fable of Tonight

by Mike Resnick

  "I like you,” said Felina, rubbing her hip against his and purring. “You're not like the others."

  "Thank you,” said Mallory. “I think."

  "You're not like them at all,” she repeated. “You're crazy! Imagine anyone wanting to fight the Grundy!"

  "I didn't say I wanted to,” replied Mallory. “I said that for the right price I was willing to."

  She rubbed up against him again. “Can I come along?"

  "I thought you were afraid of the Grundy."

  "I am,” she assured him. “I'll desert you in the end, but it'll be fun in the meantime."

  Mallory stared at her for a moment.

  "Can you follow a unicorn's scent?"

  "I suppose so."

  "Okay, you're hired. Now, let's get going. We're not going to find it by hanging around here talking."

  She stared at the ground, nostrils twitching, then walked to the gate, opened it, and headed off down the twisting, deserted street.

  "I'm sorry that events have taken this unexpected and distressing turn, John Justin,” said Mürgenstürm as he and Mallory fell into step behind Felina.

  "It could be worse. At least we know who we're looking for now—and we've still got most of the night ahead of us."

  "True,” said the elf. “But as you actively seek the Grundy, so he will actively defend himself.” He paused. “Still, you're risking your life for me, and I'm grateful."

  "You're overreacting,” said Mallory. “The Grundy doesn't even know I'm here."

  Suddenly there was a clap of thunder, and a flash of lightning momentarily illuminated the night sky.

  "Don't bet on it, John Justin Mallory!" said a hollow voice from a nearby courtyard.

  Mallory raced off in the direction of the voice, but found nothing except eerie shadows flickering on the stone gargoyles that stared down at him from a balcony overlooking the empty street.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 3

  9:58 PM-10:22 PM

  They had proceeded for another block when Mallory noticed that his surroundings were getting brighter.

  "I must have gotten turned around,” he remarked to Mürgenstürm. “I could have sworn we were going back the way we had come."

  "We are, John Justin,” said the elf.

  Mallory shook his head. “The street was dark before. Now look at it. The streetlamps are starting to glow, and a number of the apartments are lit up."

  "They always were,” Mürgenstürm assured him.

  "Bullshit."

  "They were,” repeated the elf. “You simply couldn't see it before."

  "Why not?"

  Mürgenstürm scratched his head. “I suppose it's because you were an intruder who had wandered over from your Manhattan. Now, for better or worse, you're a participant."

  "That makes a difference?"

  "All the difference in the world."

  "Why?"

  "Excellent question."

  "You don't know,” said Mallory.

  "I have never pretended to be anything other than what I am: a devilishly handsome elf of normal intelligence and sexual needs—"

  "And severely diminished expectations of longevity,” interjected Mallory.

  "True,” agreed Mürgenstürm unhappily. “At any rate, I have never claimed to be a scholar or a clairvoyant, and I find it thoroughly ungracious of you to constantly belittle me for these shortcomings."

  Mallory was about to answer him, but at that moment they followed Felina around a corner and he realized that Mürgenstürm's Manhattan had come fully to life. It was still cold and raining, but the street was bustling with elves, gnomes, goblins, trolls, and even less human passersby, as well as an assortment of men and women. Sturdy multihued elephants and draft horses pulled an endless stream of carts and carriages, while odd little street vendors who were neither men nor elves were hawking everything from toys to mystical gemstones.

  A large man with scaly skin and strange, staring eyes stood in front of a clothing store, slowly turning the crank on a music box with long, webbed fingers, while a little blond boy on a leash walked up to Mallory with a cup in his hand and a hopeful smile on his face. Mallory tossed him a coin, which he caught in the cup, and, after bowing deeply, he cartwheeled up to a passing woman and did a little jig until she, too, had made a contribution.

  "I'm on retainer plus expenses, right?” said Mallory suddenly.

  "That's right, John Justin,” replied Mürgenstürm.

  "I just wanted to make sure you remembered."

  "Why?” asked the elf.

  "Because I'm soaked to the skin and freezing my ass off,” said Mallory, striding toward the front door of the clothing store. The organ grinder stepped out of his way, and Mallory noticed that he had a row of gills running up each side of his thick neck.

  "Don't overdo it, John Justin,” Mürgenstürm cautioned him. “My funds are quite limited."

  "Then pull some more out of the air."

  "That money's no good."

  "What?" said Mallory ominously.

  "Oh, it's perfectly good in your Manhattan,” the elf assured him. “But where would we be if anyone in my world who needed money could simply produce it out of empty air?"

  "Then give me some money that works here."

  Mürgenstürm begrudgingly counted out $500 and gave it to him, along with a handful of change. Mallory inspected the money briefly, then placed it in his pocket and entered the store, which was surprisingly crowded given the time of night. The clientele wore everything from tuxedos to suits of armor, except for a portly, middle-aged man who wore nothing except a bowler hat and a gold-handled umbrella. Most of the mannequins displayed various satin and velvet robes and gowns, though a handful sported chain mail, and one was equipped with jodhpurs and a pith helmet. Two live models, one well over seven feet tall and the other shorter than Mürgenstürm, walked up and down the aisles showing off marked-down seer-sucker suits.

  "Interesting,” remarked Mallory.

  "Pedestrian,” replied Mürgenstürm, obviously unimpressed.

  "May I help you?” asked a smartly dressed man, approaching them.

  "Yes,” replied Mallory. “I need an overcoat, preferably something with a fur collar."

  "I'm afraid that's out of the question, sir,” replied the man.

  "How about a fleece-lined ski jacket?"

  The man looked mildly distressed and shook his head. “I'm terribly sorry, sir, but we simply don't carry anything that exotic."

  "You don't carry anything exotic?" repeated Mallory. “What the hell have you got on display?"

  "You refer, doubtless, to our safari outfit,” replied the man, gesturing toward the mannequin with the pith helmet. “I'm afraid that's our only truly outré outfit, sir."

  "Look,” said Mallory. “All I want is something that will keep me warm and reasonably dry."

  "And it shouldn't be too expensive,” added Mürgenstürm hastily.

  "Well, let me take your measurements, and I'll see what we can do for you, sir,” said the man, whipping out a pen and a note pad.

  "Don't you need a tape measure?” asked Mallory.

  The man looked amused. “Whatever for?"

  "Damned if I know,” admitted Mallory.

  "Shall we begin, sir?"

  "Go right ahead."

  "Age?"

  "Thirty-seven,” said Mallory, puzzled.

  "Legs?"

  "Yes."

  The man tried to hide his annoyance. “How many, sir?"

  "Two,” said Mallory.

  "Eye color?"

  "Brown."

  "Any scars?"

  "Any scars?” repeated Mallory, puzzled.

  "Please, sir. Others are waiting."

  Mallory shrugged. “One, from an appendectomy."

  "Are you right-handed or left-handed?"

  "Right."

  The man looked up and smiled. “I believe that's everything. I'll be right back."

  "Strange,”
muttered Mallory as he watched the man scurry across the store.

  "Why should you say that, John Justin?"

  "You didn't find that unusual?” asked Mallory.

  "Not really. He should have asked about cavities and fillings, of course, but they're obviously understaffed."

  Just then a woman screamed at the far end of the store, and a moment later Mallory saw Felina leap up onto a display counter, hissing furiously. She was wearing a hat that seemed to be composed entirely of bananas, grapes, and oranges, and it was apparent that she was prepared to fight to the death for it.

  "If you won't pay for it, you must give it back!” said a saleswoman, approaching her.

  Felina hissed again and leaped lightly to a chandelier.

  "Cat-people really aren't at their best in places like this,” said Mürgenstürm sadly. “They simply don't understand the capitalist ethic."

  "Go buy the damned thing for her and get her out of here before she kills someone,” said Mallory.

  "She's not on an expense account,” protested Mürgenstürm.

  "Just do it,” said Mallory. “You can take it out of my pay."

  Satisfied, the little elf walked over to pay for the hat. A moment later Mallory's salesman returned, carrying a red satin robe with a coal black cape.

  "How do you like it, sir?” he said, holding it up to the light.

  "It's lovely,” said Mallory. “But it's not what I asked for. I've got to wear it outside."

  "Certainly,” said the man. “That's why I chose red and black. They won't show the dirt as much as our more popular gold-and-white combination."

  "I'm not so much concerned with the dirt as I am with the cold and the rain."

  "Ah, you must be referring to the belt!” said the salesman. “Not to worry, sir. The new XB-223 belt has a much better control system.” He held up the belt for Mallory's inspection.

  "Mostly, I was referring to the fabric."

  "Just try it on, sir,” said the salesman, holding it out for him. Mallory decided that he would waste less time by humoring the man than by arguing with him, and allowed the salesman to help him into the robe. “Oh, it's you, sir, no doubt about it! Are you ready for our free field-testing?"

  "Field-testing?"

  "Certainly. We stand behind all our products. Come this way, sir."

  He led Mallory to a small, transparent booth, and ushered him inside.

  "Put the belt on the first notch,” he instructed the detective.

  Mallory did so, and a moment later he was bombarded by water from half a dozen hidden spray nozzles. The torrent continued for thirty seconds, then stopped abruptly.

  "How do you feel, sir?” asked the salesman.

  "Dry,” said Mallory, surprised.

  "Now, if you'll draw the belt into the second notch..."

  Mallory did so, and the compartment quickly filled with snow. Then, a moment later, it vanished.

  "Warm and cozy?” asked the salesman.

  Mallory nodded.

  "It's those XB-223 belts,” said the salesman. “Absolutely fabulous!” He paused. “Would you care to field-test it for deserts, tropical rain forests, or mine shafts?"

  "No,” said Mallory, stepping out of the booth. “This will be fine."

  "Shall I gift wrap it, sir?"

  "No, I'll wear it. How much do I owe you?"

  "Two hundred seventy-three rupees, sir."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Two hundred seventy-three rupees, with tax."

  "How much is that in dollars?"

  "It's an Indian product, sir. I'm afraid we can't accept American money for it."

  "But I don't have any rupees."

  "No problem, sir. Shall we bill it to your account?"

  "Why not?” said Mallory with a shrug.

  "I'll need your address,” said the salesman.

  Suddenly an idea struck Mallory. “Do the Grundy or Flypaper Gillespie have accounts here?"

  The salesman turned pale. “The Grundy?” he whispered.

  "Or Flypaper Gillespie."

  "Why do you want to know?” stammered the man.

  "They're old friends of mine, but I've misplaced their addresses."

  "They're your friends?" repeated the salesman, horrified. “Take the robe! There's no charge!"

  "How can I find them?"

  "I don't know,” whimpered the salesman, backing away from him. “But when you do, remember to tell them that I gave you the robe for free!"

  He turned and rushed off into the crowd of shoppers. Mallory watched him for a moment, then walked out of the store, where he found Mürgenstürm and Felina waiting for him on the sidewalk. The cat-girl was smiling, showing off her hat to any and all passersby.

  "You owe me one hundred fifty-six pesos,” announced Mürgenstürm.

  "We're even,” said Mallory, setting the belt on the first notch and marveling at the way it instantly protected him from the rain. “I got the robe for free."

  "How did you manage that?"

  "I have friends in high places,” said the detective dryly. “All right, Felina—can you pick up Larkspur's scent?"

  The cat-girl walked up to Mallory, rubbed up against him, and purred.

  "Don't do that,” said the detective, looking around uncomfortably.

  "Scratch my back,” she said.

  "Not in front of everyone."

  She rubbed against him again. “Scratch my back or I'm leaving,” she said insistently.

  He grimaced and began rubbing her back. A blissful smile spread across her face, and she began writhing sinuously beneath his hand.

  "Enough?” asked Mallory after a moment.

  "For now,” she replied smugly, starting off again with one hand securing her hat, and Mallory and Mürgenstürm fell into step behind her. She remained on the thoroughfare for two blocks, then turned onto a narrow street. She proceeded for a few yards, then paused, puzzled, looked around, walked over to a mailbox, jumped atop it, and began licking the outside of her left thigh.

  "What's wrong?” asked Mallory.

  She continued licking herself for another moment, then turned to him.

  "I've lost the scent,” she announced.

  "But Larkspur definitely entered this street?"

  She shrugged. “I think so."

  "You think so?” he demanded, as she went back to licking her thigh.

  "He came this far, but there have been too many people passing by. I don't know where he went next."

  "Wonderful,” muttered Mallory. He walked a few feet down the street. “How about here?"

  She jumped off the mailbox, walked over to where Mallory was standing, sniffed the air, and shrugged again.

  Mallory looked down the dimly lit street, which was practically devoid of pedestrians. A number of the buildings fronting it had been rehabilitated, and one of them boasted a brightly illuminated open-air restaurant. Due to the icy rain most of the tables were deserted, but one of them was occupied by two men. The man with his back to Mallory was wearing a trenchcoat and a felt hat, while the man seated opposite him, far smaller in size, wore a shopworn double-breasted suit and was continually wiping the rain from his face with a large silk handkerchief. As Mallory drew closer he saw that they were playing chess.

  "Well, we've got to start somewhere,” said Mallory, approaching the two chessplayers. He stood there for a moment while they continued staring intently at the board, then cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon."

  "No offense taken,” answered the man in the trenchcoat, without looking up from the chessboard. “Now, go away."

  "I wonder if I might ask you a question,” persisted Mallory.

  "You might,” said the man. “I probably wouldn't answer you, though."

  "It'll only take a second."

  The man looked up irritably. “It's already taken twenty seconds.” He turned to his opponent. “This had better not be coming off my time."

  "Of course it is,” said the smaller man in a slightly n
asal accent that Mallory couldn't identify. “Remember V-J Day? I stood up and cheered, and you took a whole minute off my time."

  "That was different,” said the man in the trenchcoat. “Nobody said you had to get up."

  "It was patriotic."

  "It was your decision to be patriotic. I, on the other hand, was minding my own business when this inconsiderate dolt approached me."

  "Thirty-nine days, eight hours, six minutes, sixteen seconds, and counting,” said the smaller man firmly.

  The man in the trenchcoat glared furiously at Mallory. “Now see what you've done!” he snapped.

  "I heard you say something about V-J Day,” said Mallory. “Have you guys really been playing since World War II?"

  "Since February 4, 1937, to be precise,” said the smaller man.

  "Who's ahead?"

  "I'm down one pawn,” said the man in the trenchcoat.

  "I mean, how many games have each of you won?"

  "What a damnfool question! I hope you don't think I'd be sitting here in the rain on New Year's Eve if I'd already beaten him."

  "You've never beaten him?” said Mallory. “Then why keep trying?"

  "He's never beaten me either."

  "You two must have set a record for consecutive draws,” remarked Mallory.

  "We've never played to a draw."

  Mallory blinked the rain from his eyes. “Let me get this straight,” he said at last. “You've been playing the same game of chess for half a century?"

  "Give or take,” acknowledged the man in the trenchcoat.

  "Chess doesn't take that long,” said Mallory.

  "When we play it, it does,” said the smaller man with a touch of pride.

  "Right,” agreed his opponent. “The game's the thing—at least the way me and the Weasel play it."

  "The Weasel?” asked Mallory.

  "That's me,” said the smaller man with a self-effacing smile. “And he's Trenchcoat."

  "Don't you have real names?"

  "We know who we are,” said Trenchcoat, lighting up a bent Camel cigarette.

  "And you've been sitting right here for fifty years?"

  "Not really,” replied Trenchcoat. “We began in the back of a saloon down in the Village, but they lost their lease about thirty years ago."

  "Thirty-two years, to be exact,” corrected the Weasel.

  "So we've actually only been here about a third of a century."