by Mike Resnick
“Avast there!” said a strong female voice. “Are you from the Match?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Mallory.
“The Paris Match,” she said. “You know—the newspaper!”
“I'm afraid not.”
“Damn!” said the swimmer, who now came up alongside the boat. “Well, do you see any members of the press in the area?”
“There's nothing in the area except us,” said Mallory.
“And twenty-seven trillion and seventy-three fish,” added Felina helpfully.
“Were you expecting the press?” continued Mallory.
“Of course,” said the woman. “Whenever you swim the English Channel, you expect the press to greet you at the other end.”
“The English Channel?” repeated Mallory.
“All right, all right,” she said irritably. “I know I went a little off course, but they set me straight at Brisbane.”
“Not as straight as you think,” said Mallory. “This is New York.”
“Are you quite sure?” she asked. “It smells just like Liverpool.”
“Not as sure as I was when I first arrived here,” answered Mallory. “But pretty sure.”
“Damn!” said the woman. “I'm getting really tired of all this swimming.”
“Let me give you a hand into the boat.”
“Oh, I couldn't do that,” she replied. “Not at all cricket. Hardly the British thing to do.” She paused. “Well, I must be off. Treading water is a total waste of energy. Is Maggie Thatcher still the prime minister?”
“I'm afraid not,” said Mallory.
“What a shame! What Brit does Ronald Reagan confide in these days?”
“Hardly anyone since he died,” replied Mallory.
“My goodness!” she said. “Who's left to face the Soviet Union? I'd best be off immediately,” she said. “I'll stay in France only long enough to give the press their interviews and have dinner at Maxim's, and then, if we haven't subdued the Falkland Islands yet, maybe I'll swim down there and lend a hand.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?” said Mallory.
“Apologize to the New York press for me,” she said, starting to swim away. “I hate to disappoint them, but I really must get to France. I hope they have a soufflé at Maxim's; I'm getting rather tired of fish.”
“Those are my fish!” Felina yelled after her, but she was already out of earshot.
“Every time…” said Mallory.
“Every time?” repeated Jeeves curiously.
“Every time I think I'm starting to understand this Manhattan, something like that happens.”
“This Manhattan?”
“Never mind. If I try to explain, we'll both wind up with headaches.”
“I don't have a headache, darling,” said the cell phone.
“I thought we weren't on speaking terms,” said Mallory.
“I forgive you,” said the phone.
“Hey!” hissed Felina, staring angrily at Mallory's pants. “It's my job to forgive him!”
“Lose the bimbo,” said the phone. “I'll be waiting for you.”
They reached shore in another few minutes, and Mallory pulled out the phone.
“I want the same number I dialed before,” he said.
“Kiss me first,” said the phone.
“I haven't got time for this nonsense.”
“No kiss, no call,” pouted the phone.
Mallory put the phone back in his pocket and walked into a nearby drug store.
“You got a phone?” he asked the goblin behind the counter.
“Hey!” said the cell phone. “I'm a phone!”
“I want one that doesn't talk back,” said Mallory.
“Wouldn't you rather have a condom?” asked the goblin, staring at Mallory's pants.
“No,” said Mallory.
“You sure?” persisted the goblin. “I've never heard one of them talk before. If you're on friendly enough terms to have a conversation with it, the least you can do is protect it.”
“Just a phone.”
“We got blueberries, orangeberries, redberries,” said the goblin. “We got phones that play the Star-Spangled Banner when they ring, we got phones that cast a holographic image of Voluptuous Vanessa doing her specialty act (with or without the snake), we got phones that play the fourth quarter of the 1967 Super Bowl, we got—”
“I don't want to buy a phone,” said Mallory, struggling to get a word in edgewise. “I just want to borrow one.”
The goblin stared at him. “How do I know you'll bring it back?”
“I'm not taking it anywhere. I just need to use it right now.”
“That's what they all say,” replied the goblin. “Then they call Madam Bolero's House of Spanish Pleasures in Madrid and I'm stuck with the bill.”
“I want to make a local call.”
“Madrid isn't local.”
“I'm not calling Madrid.”
“You're not?” said the goblin. “Are you sick or something?”
“Something,” answered Mallory, trying to control his impatience.
“All right,” said the goblin, placing an old-fashioned dial phone on the counter. “Give me ten dollars and you can make a one-minute call.”
“That's extortionate,” said Mallory.
“That's business,” replied the goblin with a smile.
“Are you open to a counteroffer?”
“Sure.”
“One dollar for ten minutes.”
“Out of the question,” said the goblin.
“You're quite sure?” said Mallory.
“How dumb do I look?” said the goblin.
“Don't ask.” He turned to the door. “Felina! Come in here.” The cat-girl entered the store. “Would you like a new toy to play with?”
She grinned and nodded.
Mallory gestured to the goblin. “Here it is.”
“On second thought, a dollar for ten minutes is a perfectly reasonable price,” said the goblin quickly.
Felina took a step toward him.
“What the hell,” said the goblin, standing absolutely motionless, “friends don't charge friends. Use it for free.”
Felina took another step.
“I'll pay you a dollar a minute!” said the goblin desperately.
“I call that damned generous of you,” said Mallory, picking up a phone. “Felina, stay right where you are.” He dialed Brody's number.
“Yeah?” said Brody.
“This is Mallory again. Anything yet?”
“Still no,” said Brody.
“Well, stay by your phone, though I'll be damned surprised if you actually get a ransom demand.”
“Will do,” said Brody.
Mallory broke the connection and handed the phone back to the goblin, who was trying unsuccessfully to ignore the fact that Felina was standing six inches from him and smiling hungrily.
“Are you sure you don't want it, old friend?” said the goblin. “Just say the word and it's yours—gratis.”
“I'll cut my throat if you say yes,” threatened the cell phone.
“Don't tempt me,” muttered Mallory. He walked to the door. “Come on, Felina.”
They walked out into the night. There was a cold wind and a few stray snowflakes, and most of the buildings were closed for the night. Jeeves was waiting for them outside the drugstore. “I assume he hasn't been contacted?” said the gremlin.
The detective shook his head. “I never thought he would be. I just had to make sure.” He paused. “Well, where to next?”
Jeeves lowered his head in thought. “I'll have to give it some thought. We just eliminated the most likely place for dragons.”
“You know,” remarked Mallory, “it occurs to me that the very best way to hide something is to keep it in plain sight. I think I read that in a Sherlock Holmes story.”
“I have a difficult time believing that would work with elephants or tubas,” said the gremlin.
“No,�
� said Mallory. “But I have a feeling I know where it'll work with an eleven-inch dragon.”
“Where?” asked Jeeves.
“Where almost everyone has a small animal as a familiar.”
The gremlin looked completely mystified.
“Next stop: Greenwitch Village,” said Mallory.
CHAPTER 7
9:21 PM–9:48 PM
Mallory and his two companions emerged from the subway platform and stood in the chilly night air, staring at their surroundings.
“There must be two hundred coffee shops,” commented Jeeves. “Do you come here often?”
“Not when I can help it,” replied Mallory.
“And it's really filled with witches and the like?” asked the gremlin nervously.
Mallory nodded and pointed across the street, where an ogre had just emerged from a supermarket with a slab of raw, blood-covered meat under his arm. He turned left, almost bumped into a zombie, they growled at each other, and then they continued on their ways.
“I don't like it here,” said Jeeves nervously.
“Neither do I,” said Mallory. “Still, I don't suppose it's any worse than Greenwich Village back in my Manhattan.”
“I like it,” said Felina, sniffing the air. “There are lots of little animals here. Fat little, tasty little, juicy little animals.”
“Most of those little animals aren't what they seem,” said Mallory.
“If they're big animals in disguises, there'll just be that much more to eat,” said Felina.
“Just stay close,” said Mallory.
“What do we do now?” asked Jeeves.
“Now we hunt up someone who can help us,” said Mallory, walking down a street that led him deeper into the Village.
After they'd gone a block, a goblin stuck his head out from between two decrepit buildings.
“Pssst!”
“We're not buying any,” said Mallory.
“But you don't know what I'm selling,” said the goblin.
“Whatever it is, we don't want any.”
“Not even the hottest pornography ever printed?” said the goblin.
“Go away,” said Mallory.
“Uh…let's not be too hasty,” said the cell phone. “Ask how much he wants for it?”
“For you, seventy-three dollars,” said the goblin.
“That's outrageous!” said the cell phone.
“Okay, keep your shirt on,” said the goblin. “Since it's after closing time, thirty-four dollars.”
“Forget it,” said Mallory.
“And because it's Valentine's Day, I'll knock the price down to four dollars. Share it with a loved one.” The goblin paused. “In fact, you'd better bring her along.”
“Why?” asked Jeeves curiously.
“It'll take two people to carry it.”
“A porn book?”
“Well, it's disguised as the Oxford Dictionary,” said the goblin. “But all you have to do is pick out the right words and put them in the proper order, and voilà! you've got something that'll be even more outrageous than Fanny Hill, The Autobiography of a Flea, and even The Congressional Record.”
Mallory turned to Jeeves. “Let's go.”
“Wait!” cried the gremlin. “I've got a nude Raquel Welch calendar!”
“She never posed for one,” said Jeeves.
“Triple your money back if I'm lying.”
“Let me see it,” said Jeeves.
The goblin held up a calendar with a photo of a dumpy redhead who was working on her second half-century.
“And that's supposed to be Raquel Welch?” demanded Jeeves.
“Absolutely.”
“They ought to arrest you for fraud.”
“I never said it was the Raquel Welch,” said the goblin defensively. “It's a Raquel Welch. In fact, she was my fifth grade geography teacher before she became Raquel Glubowitz.”
“Are you quite through annoying us now?” asked Mallory.
“Hey, Mac,” said the goblin. “This is a capitalist society. I'm simply fulfilling my function.”
“Fulfill it with someone else,” said Mallory, starting to walk off again.
“Sex toys from Paris!” cried the goblin.
Mallory turned and glared at him.
“Well, sept toys, actually,” said the goblin, “but sex sounds so much better, don't you think? And this way I get to toss in the seventh toy for free.
“Felina?” said Mallory.
“Yes, John Justin.”
“If he says another word, kill him.”
“Socialist!” screamed the goblin, darting between two buildings and vanishing from sight.
“Are the goblins this annoying in the Manhattan you come from?” asked Jeeves.
“Yes,” replied Mallory. “But we don't call them goblins back there.”
He commenced walking again, studying the signs as he passed a row of shops, and finally came to a halt.
“Madame Fatima's,” he read. “Spells, curses, hexes, and conjurations.” He shrugged. “First store in the whole block that isn't offering either cappuccino or erotic massages.”
“You didn't read the small type,” said Jeeves, pointing to it.
“Well, let's get on with it,” said Mallory, reaching for the door.
“Are you sure you don't want to reconsider?” asked Jeeves nervously. “After all, she's a witch.”
“Who better to tell us if someone's passing Fluffy off as a familiar?” said Mallory, entering the storefront, followed by Jeeves and Felina.
A gorgeous brunette with an hourglass figure and a revealing black satin gown emerged from a back room to greet them.
“Welcome to Madame Fatima's, John Justin Mallory,” she said.
“I hate her already,” whispered the cell phone.
“You've been here before,” said Jeeves to Mallory.
“Never.”
“Then how does she know who you are?”
“Madame Fatima sees all and knows all,” replied the witch. Suddenly she frowned. “Unless it comes up muddy at Belmont. Then I'm only thirty percent accurate.” She stared at Mallory. “I intuit that you've bet on Flyaway sixty-one times in a row.” She stifled a guffaw. “You're a very slow learner.”
“It's only fitting,” offered Felina. “Flyaway's a very slow runner.”
“I'm not here about horses,” said Mallory. “I'm after a dragon.”
“Try the Yellow Pages,” said Madame Fatima. “I understand there are a lot of hobby breeders in Westchester.”
“Don't go understanding me so fast,” said Mallory. “I'm a detective, here on a case.”
“I knew that,” said Madame Fatima. He stared at her. “Sort of,” she added lamely.
“A toy dragon's been stolen, and I have to find it and return it to its rightful owner by tomorrow afternoon.”
“All this fuss is because some kid lost a toy?” she demanded.
“By definition a toy dragon is a dragon that's less than twelve inches at the shoulder,” said Mallory. “This one happens to be the favorite for Eastminster.”
“Ah! Now I understand,” said Madame. “All I'll need is one of the dragon's scales.”
“I don't have one.”
“A tooth, perhaps?”
“No.”
“Are you sure you wouldn't rather have some cappuccino and an erotic massage?”
“No.”
“Have you at least got a photograph?”
Mallory produced it.
“Ugly little bastard, isn't he?” remarked Madame Fatima.
“Fluffy is absolutely beautiful!” snapped Jeeves.
“Fluffy?” she said, stifling another guffaw. “A dragon?”
“The most beautiful, feminine dragon in the world,” said Jeeves. “Her eyes are—”
“Save it,” said Madame Fatima. “All dragons look alike.”
“I beg your pardon!” snapped Jeeves.
She sighed. “How many eyes has it got?”
“Two.”
“Wings?”
“Two.”
“Legs?”
“Four.”
“Well, there you have it,” she said. “You've seen one dragon, you've seen ’em all.” She turned to Mallory. “What exactly do you want me to do for you?”
“See if anyone's shown up with a dragon today, probably claiming that it's a familiar,” answered the detective.
“Twenty bucks,” said Madame Fatima, holding her hand out.
Mallory dug into his pocket, pulled out a pair of tens, and handed them to her.
“I'll toss in the massage for five more,” she said.
“Just the dragon.”
She shrugged, then lit a pair of candles, closed her eyes, and began uttering a chant in a language Mallory couldn't identify. She spun around three times, stood rigid for a full minute, and finally opened her eyes.
“Well?” asked Mallory.
“There are fifty-seven familiars appearing as dragons just within a mile of us,” she answered. “At least thirty of them are small enough to be the one you're after.”
“How many of them showed up today?”
“It doesn't work that way,” replied Madame Fatima. “A familiar can take any shape it desires. So it might well have been a banshee or a harpy yesterday and a dragon today.”
“So if you tell me that there are a dozen, or twenty, dragons that weren't here yesterday…”
“…they may well have been here yesterday in different forms,” concluded Madame Fatima. “I suppose you'll have to check them out one by one.”
“I haven't got time to track all of them down,” said Mallory. “Besides, this is just a hunch. Fluffy might not be in Greenwitch Village at all. I just thought passing her off as a familiar made sense.”
“Bring me a scale, and I'll pinpoint her whereabouts,” said Madame Fatima.
“If I could pick one of her scales off her, I'd know her whereabouts,” said Mallory.
“Well, yes, there is that,” acknowledged Madame Fatima.
“Thanks for your time,” said Mallory, “but we'd better get back to work.”
“Let me give you a tip,” said the witch.
He looked at her questioningly.
“Talk to Blind Boris.”
“Blind Boris?”
“They call him the Wizard of Christopher Street. You can usually find him on the corner of Christopher and Remorse.”
“Thanks,” said Mallory.