by Mike Resnick
"Christ!” he muttered. “They all look like criminals."
He sighed, then turned to Felina, who was hungrily eyeing a trash container.
"Come on,” he said.
She took one last loving look at the trashcan, then fell into step beside him as he turned onto 42nd Street.
"Howdy, neighbor,” said a sibilant voice as he passed a darkened building.
Mallory stopped and turned, and found himself facing a large man with green skin and cold, lifeless eyes.
"Looking for sssomething unusual?” hissed the man, and Mallory noticed that his tongue was quite long, and forked at the end.
"As a matter of fact, I am,” he replied. “Where can I find a leprechaun?"
The man wrinkled his face in distaste. “You don't want a leprechaun, pal; they're nothing but trouble.” He grinned. “But I can fix you up with a nice ssscaly lady. You've never made it until you've made it with a lizard!"
"No, thanks,” said Mallory.
"We can take care of your ladyfriend, too,” said the man persuasively. “Cat-girlsss go crazy over lizardsss."
Mallory shook his head. “I'm after leprechauns"—he flashed the wad of bills Mürgenstürm had given him—"and I'm especially after one named Flypaper Gillespie."
"If your ladyfriend isss into leashesss and collarsss, my brother Izzy can show her a real good time,” continued the man, ignoring Mallory's query.
"If you can't tell me where to find Gillespie, who can?” persisted Mallory.
"You're sssick!" hissed the man. “I'm offering you an unforgettable night of ssslime and sssin, and all you want are leprechaunsss!"
He disappeared into the shadows, and Mallory, after waiting a moment to see if he would return, shrugged and resumed walking. He passed a number of sex stores which displayed an endless variety of odd-looking devices, most of which couldn't possibly have been worn or used by human men and women.
"Goblin girls!” whispered another voice. “Pretty young goblin girls!"
Mallory didn't even turn to see who was speaking to him, but grabbed Felina by the hand and increased his pace. He crossed Eighth Avenue, walked past another row of sleazy theaters and pornography shops—including one that promised a full refund if any customer could suggest anything that made one of their college-educated masseuses blush—and turned north when they got to Ninth Avenue.
The flashing neon lights vanished and the street, though darker, felt safer and less sleazy. They passed, in quick succession, a Greek restaurant that featured human and inhuman belly dancers, an English tea shop populated by gray-haired military types who all carried riding crops under their arms, a tavern that seemed to be a hangout for elves, and a cafeteria that claimed to have the rawest meat in the city and was filled to overflowing with goblins and trolls who made hideous growling and ripping sounds as they ate. Finally they came to the Emerald Isle Pub, and Mallory stopped abruptly.
Felina peered in the window. “There aren't any leprechauns in there,” she announced.
"But there are Irishmen,” replied Mallory. “And if they can't tell me where to find leprechauns, nobody can.” He looked at her sternly. “Are you going to behave yourself, or am I going to have to leave you out here in the rain?"
"One or the other,” answered Felina with an inscrutable smile.
"Outside it is, then,” he said firmly.
"Wait!” she said as he approached the door.
"You'll sit still and keep quiet?"
"Probably."
"All right,” he assented. “But the minute you start making a pest of yourself, out you go."
In answer, she rubbed up against him and purred, just as he opened the door.
"Not in front of everyone!” he whispered, embarrassed.
She grinned and stepped back as he ran a hand through his rain-soaked hair and surveyed the interior of the pub.
It was a small room, containing a bar and half a dozen tables, but it felt warm and cozy rather than hot and cramped. The tables were circular and well worn, the chairs were sturdy and functional, the floor was bare and unvarnished, and the walls contained a number of framed prints of the Irish countryside, plus a few autographed photos of Irish actors, athletes, and authors. The bar's stock was prominently displayed, and Mallory noticed that while there were literally hundreds of bottles of whiskey, there was no wine, nor were there any clear drinks such as gin or vodka. It was as if the management knew its clientele's tastes and saw no reason to display anything that wasn't in demand.
A huge, redheaded, freckle-faced bartender was staring curiously at him, as were a trio of old men who were sitting at a small table in one corner. Two more men, dressed in tweeds and turtlenecks, stood in the middle of the room, throwing darts into pictures of Queens Elizabeth I and II. A dozen others were scattered in twos and threes about the room; most of them wore tam-o'-shanters and about half of them had long scarves wrapped with careful nonchalance about their necks. A jukebox played an unending series of bouncy Irish melodies, most of them about girls named Kathleen or Molly.
"Good evening to you,” said the bartender in a very thick brogue as the dart players tallied up their scores and sat down to do some serious drinking. “Can I be offering you a glass of good Irish whiskey?"
"Why not?” assented Mallory, approaching the bar while Felina leaped atop a stool and stared, unblinking, at the dart throwers.
"I've not seen you here before,” said the bartender.
"That's not surprising,” replied Mallory. “I haven't been here before."
"Would you be an Irishman?” asked the bartender, studying him carefully.
"John J. O'Mallory,” replied Mallory.
"Then the first drink is on the house,” said the bartender with the delighted smile of a man who has found a new source of income.
"That's very generous of you."
"And what will your friend be drinking?"
"Nothing,” said Mallory as the bartender poured him a shot of whiskey. “You don't seem to mind her presence."
"Why should I? Cats originated in Ireland, you know."
"No, I didn't."
The bartender nodded. “Cats, whiskey, fine linen, and revolution—our four gifts to the world."
"How about leprechauns?” asked Mallory.
"The Little People?” said the bartender contemptuously. “They may be Irish, but they're hardly a matter of pride. A vicious, untrustworthy race, if you ask my opinion."
"Do they ever come here?"
"I wouldn't have one in the place!” bellowed the bartender.
"Are you talking about the English?” asked one of the old men who were sitting in the corner. “Shooting's too good for them!"
"No,” said the bartender. “We're discussing the Little People."
"Oh—them," said the old man. “Shooting's plenty good enough for them.” He looked at Mallory. “What do you think of the English?"
"I've told the Sons of Erin not to goad my customers,” said the bartender ominously.
"Just starting a pleasant little conversation,” said the old man. “And you watch your tongue. The Sons of Erin remember who their friends are."
"Better by far than they remember who their creditors are,” retorted the bartender caustically. “Or would you like to bring your bill up to date?"
"Maybe you'd better go back to the old country,” shot back the old man. “America's turning you into a capitalist bloodsucker."
"There's nothing in the old country except a lot of rocks, and a batch of old men sitting around in pubs plotting revolution,” said a ruddy-faced middle-aged man at another table.
"I heard that, Fitzpatrick,” said the first old man, “and all I can say is that if the Knights of the Shamrock would do a little less talking and a little more fighting, we might all be able to go back to the old country."
"Hah!” shot back Fitzpatrick. “When did the Sons of Erin ever kill anything except a bottle of whiskey?"
"Fighting words!” cried the old man
, scrambling to his feet.
"If they are, maybe I'd better tell the English to use them on you!” snapped Fitzpatrick, also rising.
"Would you care to step outside and repeat that?” said the old man.
"Indeed I would,” said Fitzpatrick, taking his coat off, rolling up his sleeves, and spitting on his hands. He walked to the door. “Marquis of Queensberry rules?"
"Absolutely,” agreed the old man, picking up a shillelagh and following him out onto the sidewalk.
Three or four customers followed them out, but the rest paid no attention to them—except for Felina, who walked to the window and pressed her face up against it curiously.
"Does this happen very often?” asked Mallory, turning to the bartender.
"No more than three or four times a night,” replied the bartender, obviously unconcerned.
"Maybe we'd better break it up,” suggested the detective.
"There's no hurry."
"Shillelagh or no shillelagh, the old man hasn't got much of a chance."
The bartender smiled. “They're just going to trade insults to get their blood properly boiling—and before that happens, they'll get so cold that they'll come back inside."
"You mean they're just going to talk?" demanded Mallory.
"There's a big difference between talking revolution and fighting one. If they liked to fight, they'd be in Belfast, setting off bombs."
"And this happens every night?"
The bartender nodded. “Except on Sundays."
"Why not Sundays?” asked Mallory, curious.
"We're closed on Sundays."
Felina returned to the bar and perched on the stool next to Mallory.
"I thought you were going to watch the fight,” said the detective.
"All they're doing is yelling at each other,” she replied with a shrug. Suddenly a bowl of peanuts captured her attention, and she began playing with them, arranging them in simplistic patterns on the surface of the bar.
The bartender noticed Mallory's empty glass. “Can I be giving you a refill, O'Mallory?"
"Why not?” said Mallory, shoving his glass toward the bottle. He looked at the bartender. “I'd also like a little information."
"If it's within my power to give, it's yours."
"Thanks. I'd like to know where to find a leprechaun named Flypaper Gillespie."
"No, you wouldn't,” said the bartender. “He's a mean one, Gillespie is."
"I know he is,” said Mallory, pulling out his wallet and flashing his detective's license. “He took something that doesn't belong to him. I've been hired to get it back."
"Well, I'll be!” cried the bartender with delight. “A genuine shamus, right here in my pub!"
"Can you help me?"
"I can't, but maybe I can introduce you to someone who can. Finnegan!” he bellowed.
A slender, bearded, auburn-haired man in a wrinkled corduroy suit got up and walked over to the bar, carrying a small notebook in his hand.
"O'Mallory,” said the bartender, “this is Finnegan, our resident poet. Finnegan, say hello to Detective John J. O'Mallory."
"Pleased to meet you,” said Finnegan.
"Likewise,” said Mallory. “I don't think I've ever met a poet before. Do you have any books out?"
"I'm our resident unpublished poet,” said Finnegan dourly. “The list of markets I haven't yet cracked is truly phenomenal. I've been turned down by everyone from Playboy and Atlantic Monthly to college publications that pay with free copies instead of money.” Finnegan paused and shook his head. “Sometimes I marvel at my consistency."
"What do you write about?” asked Mallory.
"What does any Irish poet write about?” replied Finnegan wryly. “I attribute my failure entirely to a secret consortium of highly placed and influential British editors."
"He's written a lot of poems about the Little People,” added the bartender. He turned to Finnegan. “O'Mallory is looking for Flypaper Gillespie, and I figured an expert on the Little People might know where the slippery little bastard is."
"What's he done this time?” asked Finnegan, lighting up a foul-smelling pipe.
"Robbery."
"Was it bigger than a breadbox?” asked Finnegan.
"I beg your pardon?"
"That wasn't a facetious question, O'Mallory,” said the Irishman. “Please answer it."
"A lot bigger,” said Mallory. “Why?"
"Leprechauns keep pots of gold,” replied Finnegan. “I thought everyone knew that. Oh, they're not at the end of the rainbow—in fact, most of them are buried in Central or Gramercy Parks—but as long as what he stole won't fit in the pot, at least you don't have to go out looking for it with a shovel."
At that moment Fitzpatrick and the old man and their partisans reentered the pub, their arms around each other's shoulders in good fellowship.
"A round for the house,” said Fitzpatrick.
"Right,” said the old man. “And in honor of the new bond we've just forged between the Sons of Erin and the Knights of the Shamrock, I'm paying."
"The hell you are,” said Fitzpatrick. "I was at fault. I'm paying."
He slapped some money on the bar, and the old man brushed it onto the floor. “The Sons of Erin are paying, and that's final."
"If you were half the man you think you are, you'd let a real Irishman pay and keep your mouth shut!” bellowed Fitzpatrick, throwing the old man's money back at him and placing another bill on the bar.
The old man spat on the bill, turned on his heel, and walked back out the door. Fitzpatrick, growling threats and curses, followed him. Felina glanced at them, but remained where she was.
"I guess they're going to have to have another fight to see who won the last one,” said the bartender. He turned to Mallory. “Can I fill you up again?"
Mallory shook his head. “No, I've got to keep my wits about me. In fact, I think I'd like to slosh a little cold water on my face and freshen up."
The bartender pointed to a door at the back of the room, and Mallory, after making sure that Felina was still engrossed with her peanuts, went through it. He found himself in a tiny vestibule, confronted by three more doors: one for men, one for women, and one for staff. He chose the first and entered the room.
There were three urinals, one no more than a foot above the ground, one of normal size, and one that stood well above his eye level. Mallory stood before the middle one and tried not to think about what kind of being would use the one on his right. Then he walked over to a trio of sinks that were built in the same proportions, turned on the cold water in the middle sink, and splashed a few handfuls on his face. He groped blindly for a paper towel, found it, and wiped off his face.
Then, refreshed, he returned to the bar, where Felina was still arranging the peanuts in geometric patterns.
"Ah, O'Mallory!” said Finnegan, looking up from his notepad. “I wrote a couplet while you were gone. Would you care to hear it?"
Mallory shrugged. “Why not?"
The poet cleared his throat, looked down at his notepad, and read in a deep voice: "Revolution, devolution, achievable, believable, cleavable; Eire, fire, pyre, shire, perceivable, grievable, relievable." He looked at Mallory. “What do you think?"
"What does it mean?” asked Mallory.
"Mean?” repeated Finnegan. “My dear O'Mallory, a poem doesn't mean; it simply is!"
"I don't know,” said Mallory, deciding that Felina's peanut designs made more sense than Finnegan's poem. “It seems to me that if you're exhorting your audience to expel the British, you really ought to let them know."
"Spoken like a true detective,” said Finnegan in exasperation. “Just the facts, ma'am. What happened on Friday night at eight-thirteen?” He downed his drink, then looked over at Mallory. “This couplet is a clarion call to arms, a promise of the Good Life, a rejection of all things British, an appeal to reject Protestant values, and a cunningly concealed erotic double entendre, all brilliantly reduced to the most subtle symb
olism."
"It sounds like a bunch of words strung together without any verbs,” said Mallory.
"Must everything sound like ‘Roses Are Red’ to you, O'Mallory?” demanded Finnegan. “Where is your Irish soul? Perceivable, grievable, relievable," he intoned again. “My God, it's brilliant!"
"Well, it rhymes, anyway,” said Mallory.
"It does, doesn't it?” said Finnegan, frowning. “I'll have to do something about that.” He began scribbling furiously.
"Just a minute,” said Mallory. “Before you get too engrossed in that, I've got a few more questions."
"What were we talking about?” asked Finnegan.
"Flypaper Gillespie."
"Ah, yes. Detestable little nuisance. Totally immoral, like all leprechauns, but he's got a certain animal cunning that most of them lack.” He paused, then nodded his head. “Yes, there's no question about it—Gillespie is the nastiest of them all."
"Tell him about the poem,” suggested the bartender.
Suddenly Finnegan's eyes blazed with hatred. “Do you know what that dirty little bastard did last month?"
"He wrote a poem?” guessed Mallory.
"He not only wrote it!” raged Finnegan, as Felina jumped away from the bar at the sound of his voice. “He actually sold it, just to humiliate me! Not only that, but the meter was off, the imagery was totally mundane, and he didn't even mention Ireland!"
"Have you got any idea where I can find him?” asked Mallory.
"He's probably on some college campus, giving dramatic readings and signing copies of his damned poem!” said Finnegan bitterly.
"At one in the morning?” asked Mallory dubiously.
"No,” admitted the poet. “He's probably at home, counting all his ill-gotten loot and framing the reviews of his poem.” He slammed a fist down on the bar. “He must have slipped somebody at the Times some money. No critic with any taste at all could actually like that poem!"
"Maybe the reviewer was a leprechaun,” said the bartender soothingly.
"That's got to be it!” exclaimed Finnegan. “I should have known!” He turned to a new page in his notebook and began writing a letter of protest to the Times.