Stalking the Dragon (13 page)

“Okay, you had your fun. Now how do I disconnect you?”

“I'm already disconnected, Honeylamb. My God, you sure know how to turn a girl on!”

“I don't think I should be listening to this,” said Joe.

“I don't think
I
should be either,” said Mallory, putting the phone back in his pocket.

They walked past a block of condemned buildings. Joe used his sword to scare off the omnipresent beggars, and Felina, after half a block of jumping over sidewalk squares without touching the lines, began jumping over sleeping drunks and addicts instead.

Finally Jeeves tugged at Mallory's sleeve. “Can you call your partner back?” asked the gremlin.

“No,” said Mallory. “I don't know where she is. Why?”

“I just think going back is a waste of time,” said Jeeves. “You can phone Brody and see if anyone's contacted him. Why go all that way to ask him?”

“We'll also want to examine the premises again. There might be something we missed.”

“I doubt it,” said Jeeves. “We were only there for a day.”

“And JFK was only in Dallas for a few hours, and they're still finding evidence almost half a century later,” said Mallory, sidestepping two more hookers and their business manager, a leprechaun decked out in a thousand-dollar suit and chewing on a solid gold toothpick.

After they'd gone another half block and the panhandlers were getting more numerous and aggressive, Mallory felt a sharp claw tapping him on the shoulder. He turned to find himself facing Felina.

“What is it?” he said.

“I just want you to know that I'm not talking to you, John Justin,” said the cat-girl.

“And to what do I owe this rare treat?”

“It's not a treat!” she snapped. “It's a punishment!”

“Okay, to what do I owe this cherished punishment?”

She frowned. “Is ‘cherished' good or bad?”

“Yes,” said Mallory.

“I'm not talking to you because you wouldn't let me eat that bird.”

“You'd have broken all your teeth on it,” said Mallory.

“I'm used to eating raw things.”

“Not
that
raw,” said Mallory.

“Well, I just wanted you to know that I'm never speaking to you again for as long as I live.”

“Thanks for informing me.”

“I mean it, John Justin. These are the last words I'll ever speak to you.”

“I'll just have to live with the disappointment,” said Mallory.

“Don't worry about the cat creature,” said Belle. “
I'll
never desert you.”

“I can't tell you how comforting I find that,” said Mallory in bored tones.

Suddenly an anguished scream came to his ears, and Mallory turned to see Jeeves lying on the sidewalk, clutching his knee.

“What the hell happened?” asked the detective.

“I tripped,” grated the gremlin. “And I felt something pop when I hit the ground.”

“Can you walk?”

“I don't think so. Where's the nearest hospital?”

“About five blocks,” said Mallory.

“I'll never make it,” said Jeeves. “You'd better carry me.”

Suddenly a grim smile crossed Mallory's lips. “I'm in a hurry. But I'll leave Joe here with you while I have Belle call an ambulance.”

“But—”

“It's okay. Joe's happy to stay. After all, I wouldn't want you running off the second I was out of sight.”

“What are you talking about?” said Joe. “He just blew out his knee.”

“Then he won't be needing it, will he?” said Mallory. “Joe, count to five, and if he isn't standing, bury your sword in his knee.” He turned to the cat-girl. “Felina, if he tries to run, he's all yours to play with for as long as you want.”

Joe frowned. “Are you sure?”

Mallory looked down at Jeeves. “Well,
am
I sure, or are we about to cripple you for no good reason?”

Jeeves got to his feet. “I don't like any of you very much.”

“What did
I
ever do to you?” asked Belle.

“What's going on?” asked Joe.

“That's what we're going to find out,” said Mallory. “He's supposed to be an expert on dragons, and for all I know he is. But in the course of the whole evening he never asked a question that I couldn't have asked, never gave any information I didn't know by the time we'd left Brody's place. And for the past couple of hours, every time I suggest going back there, he tries to talk me out of it. He even faked busting up his knee.”

“What does it mean?” asked the goblin.

“I don't know, but I'll give plenty of ten-to-one that when we get to Brody's place, he's not there.”

“Well,” said Jeeves, “since you know all about Brody, you won't be needing
me
anymore, so I'll just take my leave of you.”

He started walking back the way they had come, only to find Joe confronting him with his sword.

“Not just yet,” said Mallory. “I think we'd like to enjoy your company a little longer. Joe, you're in charge of him.”

“Right,” said the goblin.

“Let's go,” said the detective.

They began walking toward Brody's again. When they got within half a block, Mallory felt a familiar tapping on his shoulder.

“I'm hungry, John Justin,” said the cat-girl who was never going to speak to him again.

C
HAPTER
16

1:48
AM
–2:06
AM

The lobby of the Plantagenet Arms was filled with marble-topped little tables serving latte to well-dressed if not well-conditioned women wearing a variety of minks and sables, and looking down their noses as anyone gauche enough to be wearing cloth or even sealskin coats. Winnifred stood at the edge of the area, waiting for her partner to arrive.

“You have an inscrutable expression on your face, John Justin,” she noted as Mallory and his party entered the hotel.

“Let me ask you a riddle,” said Mallory. “What's the difference between a wild-goose chase and a tame-dragon chase? And before you spend too much time thinking about it, let me suggest that the answer is: nothing.”

She stared at Jeeves. “
He's
the culprit?”

Mallory shook his head. “Him? He's just the flunkie.”

“I resent that!” said Jeeves.

“Resent it all you like,” said Mallory. “Just don't deny it, or your nose might start to grow.”

“So you've solved it?” said Winnifred with a smile. “That's good news indeed!”

“I haven't solved a damned thing,” answered Mallory. “But at least I know who the bad guys are. What I don't know is
why
.” He turned to the goblin. “Joe, you wait here. And Jeeves doesn't leave, no matter what.”

“Got it,” said Joe.

Mallory walked to an elevator, waited for the door to slide open and for Winnifred to enter it, then turned to Felina.

“You, too,” he said.

“I'm not talking to you forever and ever,” said the cat-girl.

“Forever and ever ended three minutes ago,” said Mallory.

“Oh,” she said, entering the elevator and smiling. “Then I'll come.”

They emerged at Brody's suite and looked around.

“Neat as a pin,” said Mallory. “Every cushion is plumped up, every glass washed, everything spick-and-span. I'll bet he flew the coop four or five hours ago and tipped the maid to clean the place tonight, just to make sure he hadn't left any clues behind.”

“Still, we might as well check each room to make sure he's not hiding. He could have tipped her so we'd see it like this and
assume
he's gone.”

“There's an easier way,” said Mallory. “Felina, is anyone else here?”

The cat-girl sniffed the air, then walked a few feet in each direction and sniffed again. “No, John Justin.”

He walked to a closet and opened it. It was empty. He then went to the bedroom, checked the closet there, and got the same result.

“Well, that's that,” he said, returning to the main room. “A stone cold trail.”

“He's pretty distinctive in appearance,” noted Winnifred. “There must be ways to track him down.”

“There are,” agreed Mallory. “But we've got to find him—and we especially have to find Fluffy—by midafternoon at the latest. Let's not forget that he may be the culprit, but retrieving Fluffy is the object of the exercise.”

“Maybe we should just turn the case over to the police,” suggested Winnifred. “I mean, you can hardly expect him to pay us for apprehending him and getting Fluffy to the show on time.”

“Not
him
,” said Mallory. “But the Grundy offered to double what Brody was paying us.”

“That's right!” said Winnifred. “I forgot!”

Mallory walked to a window and opened it, oblivious of the noise of the traffic and the odors wafting to his nostrils. “Now that we're working exclusively for you,” he said in a loud voice, “I don't suppose you'd like to help us earn our fee?”

“Nothing would make me happier,” answered the Grundy's voice.

“Good!”

“Unfortunately, happiness is denied to me,” continued the demon.

“You can destroy buildings, kill thousands of people, cause the city to freeze in midsummer just by blowing on it, and you can't help a man you've
just employed to solve a problem for you,” said Mallory. “Exactly what the hell kind of ethical system is that?”

“Mine, for better or worse,” answered the Grundy. “Use your brain, John Justin Mallory. You know what your next step has to be.”

“The hell I do!”

“Then you'd better consider it very carefully or your fee will fly away to the four winds.”

“Look,” began Mallory, “can't you just—?”

“I can't be bothered now,” said the voice. “I have to groom Carmelita.”

“Thanks a heap,” said Mallory bitterly.

There was no reply, nor did he expect one.

“All right,” he said wearily, shutting the window and turning back into the room, “how many more dragon ponds and missing-creature kennels
are
there in this town?”

“We've been to all the major ones,” said Winnifred. “Besides, she's more likely to be in some hotel room, of which this city possesses about two hundred thousand.”

“I know,” he said. “And checking with the Prince of Whales and some of the other fences won't help. As good as Fluffy's supposed to be, you can't just buy her, change her name, and show her in your colors; as Jeeves kept saying, she's the most recognizable dragon in the country.”

“If we had time, we could get out to Brody's ranch, talk to his associates, check into his finances,” said Winnifred. “We may still, but we can't do it by midafternoon.”

“Why does that damned demon keep telling me I know everything I need to know?” muttered Mallory. “You could fill a book with what I don't know about this case. Add in what I don't know about dragons and you've got a trilogy.”

“Don't berate yourself, John Justin,” said Winnifred. “We haven't failed yet.”

“No,” he said, checking his wristwatch. “We have fourteen more hours in which to fail.” He shook his head. “Damn! We could have used that money, too.”

“Yes, we could,” agreed Winnifred. “I hate to point fingers, but if you just didn't bet on Flyaway every time he runs…”

“He
never
runs,” said Felina. “That's his problem.”

“Shit!” exclaimed Mallory. “That's it!”

“What is, and how many legs has it got?” asked Felina eagerly.

“That's what the Grundy was telling me!”

“I don't follow you, John Justin,” said Winnifred.

“Flyaway!” replied Mallory. “Hell, he said it plain as day: our fee will fly away.”

“I'm still confused.”

“It's as close as that idiot ethical system of his will let him come to pointing me in the right direction!” said Mallory.

“It has something to do with that poor horse you're always betting on and losing on?”

He shook his head impatiently. “No. He couldn't be
that
direct.”

“Then I don't understand,” said Winnifred.

“Think about it,” said Mallory excitedly. “There's no money for winning Eastminster, just a trophy and a piece of ribbon. And we know there's no money in stealing the dragon; you can't sell her because she's too easy to recognize. So where
is
there money?”

Winnifred looked puzzled. “All right—where?”

“In betting on the outcome!” he replied. “We've been using the terminology all night without even thinking about it: Fluffy is the favorite, Carmelita is the second choice, and so on.”

“But that doesn't make any sense, John Justin,” said Winnifred, frowning. “The Grundy has the defending champion, right?”

“Yes.”

“And if Fluffy hadn't been entered, the Grundy's chimera would be a heavy favorite to win?”

“Very likely,” said Mallory. “No, scratch that. Certainly.”

“Then I just don't see it,” said Winnifred. “If Fluffy was an odds-on favorite, and Brody faked her kidnapping so he could bet on someone else, then Carmelita becomes as heavy a favorite as Fluffy was, so how can he show more of a profit by betting on her?”

“I don't know the answers yet,” said Mallory. “But I sure as hell intend to find out.”

“How?”

“I'm going to talk to the one man who can answer my questions—my bookie.”

CHAPTER 17

2:06
AM
–2:33
AM

Joey Chicago's Three-Star Tavern looked like it belonged in the 1950s. Some of the customers were dressed as if they didn't know that it
wasn't
still the 1950s.

Mallory and his party entered the place. The wall was lined with a row of leather booths. There were a few tables, a pair of pinball machines, and a long bar with leather barstools that had seen better days. The wall behind the bar was covered with the photographs of great Americans: Babe Ruth, Al Capone, Man o' War, and Voluptuous Vanessa.

The detective turned to Joe. “Find a booth or a table and sit there with the gremlin until I call you or tell you it's time to leave.”

“And if he tries to escape?” asked Joe.

“That would make me very unhappy,” said Mallory.

Joe smiled and patted the hilt of his sword. “Not as unhappy as it'll make
him
,” he assured the detective.

“Joey,” said Mallory to the man behind the bar, “give my ladyfriend here”—he indicated Felina—“some milk.”

Joey Chicago made a face. “You want milk, go to a dairy.”

“You got cream for a brandy alexander?”

“Ah, Brandy Alexander,” said a short man at the bar. “She belongs in the Ecdysiasts' Hall of Fame. I knew her well. And often. What a dish!”

“I'll have to charge you for the whole drink,” said Joey Chicago.

“That's fine. Felina, drink what the man gives you and try to behave yourself.”

“How come you never give me anything easy to do?” she complained.

“Okay, here's an easy one. Go out in the street without the cream and wait for me.”

“I'll behave,” she said, walking to the bar. “Give me a tall one.”

“You talking drinks or tomcats?” asked Joey Chicago.

“Yes,” said Felina with a catlike smile.

Mallory looked around and spotted the man he was after: normal height and weight, dressed in a white suit, a black silk shirt, a silver necktie, a black handkerchief in a breast pocket, a straw hat in February, and two-toned shoes that looked like they should have spikes on the bottoms. The detective and Winnifred walked over to the third booth and sat down opposite him.

“Hi, Harry,” said Mallory. “Let me introduce you to my partner, Winnifred Carruthers.”

Harry the Book tipped his hat. “Pleased to meet you, ma'am. Any friend of Mallory's is”—he considered it for a moment—“a friend of Mallory's.”

“I've heard a lot about you,” said Winnifred, extending her hand.

Harry studied the hand, then chose to ignore it when he determined there was no money in it. “I would not believe a word the cops say, ma'am,” said Harry. “They have riotous imaginations.” He turned back to Mallory. “Six, two, and even that you are not here to lay a bet at two in the morning, but I would love for you to prove me wrong.”

“Are you ever going to rent an office again?” asked Mallory.

“You're sitting in it,” replied Harry. “Most of my clientele winds up in here, and besides my personal mage has staked out the men's room as
his
office. Beware of all the black candles should you pay it a visit,” he added confidentially. He folded his hands on the table between them. “Now what can I do for you? After all, it is my understanding that Flyaway is not running this week. Well,” he added, “not in a
real
race, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mallory, momentarily distracted.

“You know how they hold publicity stunts for charity from time to time, like having a football player or a track star run against a horse?”

“Yeah, but those are exhibitions,” said Mallory. “The racetracks don't allow betting on them.”

Harry the Book smiled. “Do I look like a racetrack?”

“So Flyaway's in a race against a man?” said Mallory. “Who's he up against—that wide receiver for the Mauve Devils? Or maybe that kid from Miskatonic University who set the record for the hundred-yard dash?”

“They disallowed it,” said Harry.

“The record?” asked Mallory. “Why?”

“I guess you did not see what was chasing him,” answered Harry.

“So who's Flyaway up against?”

“A former mountain climber by the name of Lester Glover.”

“Fast?” asked Mallory.

“Well, it is said that he went down Pike's Peak pretty damned fast,” allowed Harry. “I understand he will make the next edition of Mr. Guinness's record book.”

“He must be very sure-footed,” offered Winnifred. “Those mountain paths can be tricky.”

“I do not believe he ever saw one,” said Harry. “He slipped on a ledge and went top to bottom in twenty-two seconds flat.”

“It sounds painful,” she said.

“He didn't feel a thing the first twenty-one seconds,” said Harry. “Anyway, they amputated both his legs, and he's on oxygen, and of course he's in a wheelchair, and I seem to remember that his left arm doesn't work very well.”

“And
he's
what Flyaway has to run against?” said Mallory. “It'll be a slaughter.”

“Most of the oddsmakers agree with you.”

“So what
are
the odds?” asked Mallory.

Harry grimaced. “The best I can offer is eighty to one,” he said.

“A nickel for a four-dollar bet?”

“No, three hundred twenty dollars for a four-dollar bet.”

Mallory shook his head in frustration. “You don't understand: I'm not betting on Glover. I'm betting on Flyaway.”

“I know.”

“And he's an eighty-to-one longshot to beat a legless man who's on oxygen?”

“Those odds sound about right to me, John Justin,” said Winnifred.

“I will be honest with you, Mallory,” said Harry. “You can get better than a hundred to one from most of my competitors.”

Winnifred glared disapprovingly at Mallory as he pulled out a twenty and forked it over. “On Flyaway's nose.”

“Done,” said Harry, taking the bill and stuffing it in a pocket. “I hope your day was going well before this terrible misfortune befell it.”

“I almost forgot what we came here for,” said Mallory. “We need information.”

“Certainly,” said Harry. “The first thing I can tell you is that anyone who bets on Flyaway is not the brightest bulb on the lamp.”

“Let me ask my questions first, then tell me how dumb I am, okay?” said Mallory.

“The floor is yours,” said Harry. There was an angry inhuman growl from beneath the table. “The table is yours,” he amended.

“I have a client who owns the favorite for the Eastminster show tomorrow. Well, today.”

“Good,” said Harry. He signaled to Joey Chicago. “I assume you are on retainer, so you're buying.”

“The dragon is missing,” continued Mallory.

“What dragon?”

“The favorite for the show. I have a feeling that my client faked its kidnapping, but I don't know why. I thought you might throw a little light on the subject.”

“I'd like to help,” said Harry. “but you could write a book about what I don't know about dragonnapping. In fact, I'm sure someone already has.”

“He offered me a lot of money to find it…” began Mallory.

“Then why do you think he stole it himself?”

“Because he's flown the coop and saddled me with an assistant who's been less than useless.”

“Hey, Gently,” said Harry to a morbidly obese balding man in a plaid suit. “Come over and say hello to John Justin Mallory and his partner.”

The pudgy man approached them. “The famous detectives?”

“Well, the detectives, anyway,” said Winnifred.

“And this is Gently Gently Dawkins, one of my employees,” said Harry.

“Everyone calls us Harry's stooges or his lackeys,” said Dawkins. “But we're not.”

“No?” said Winnifred.

“No,” said Dawkins, with a look of pride. “We're his flunkies.”

“That'll do, Gently,” said Harry. “I think I see some candied peanuts over on the bar.”

Gently Gently Dawkins backed away, then turned and raced to the bar, and grabbed a handful of the peanuts.

“What was that about?” asked Mallory.

“I'll match my useless assistants against yours any day of the week,” said Harry. “At least he's as honest as the day is long, especially this time of year.” He paused. “Now what is it that you two wish to know?”

“Why would our client fake a kidnapping, and then pay us five thousand dollars if we can find the dragon and get her to Eastminster by ring time?” asked Winnifred.

“Five large?” said Harry, clearly impressed. “Maybe he really wants her back.”

“He doesn't,” said Mallory. “I'm convinced of that. Winnifred and I are just for show.”

“I thought he was showing the dragon.”

“He's
not
showing the dragon. There has to be money involved. I need to know what's going on.”

“The dragon is the heavy favorite,” said Harry, pulling out a small notebook. He flicked a wand at it, and it turned to the page he wanted. “The morning line has her at six to five.”

“If she loses,” said Mallory, “the second choice is the Grundy's chimera.”

“Three to one right now,” said Harry, checking his book, “but I would expect her to go down to two to one or even nine to five by post time.”

“Post time?”

“Ring time,” amended Harry.

“And if Fluffy—that's the dragon—doesn't make it to the ring?” asked Mallory.

“Then she will be odds-on, maybe three to five. There is not supposed to be anything else that can give her a run for the money.”

“Then it still doesn't make any sense!” muttered Mallory. “If one of the two is missing, the other's got a lock on it. Why fake the kidnapping when you'll make even less betting on the Grundy's chimera if Fluffy's not there?”

“Not necessarily,” said Harry.

Suddenly Mallory was alert. “Why not?”

“It depends on when he makes—or made—his bet or bets,” said Harry.

“Go on.”

“Well, if he bets today, he might get three to one if he is exceptionally lucky, or more likely two to one. Tomorrow, it will be even shorter odds, and his three to one will be but a distant memory.
But
,” continued Harry, “if he laid his money down three months ago, on a future book…”

“What's a future book?” asked Winnifred.

“You know how you can go to Vegas, or even on the Internet, and get the odds on any upcoming event—ballgames, races, elections, everything?” asked Harry.

“So I've been told.”

“Well, you can get them on dog shows too,” said Harry. “And I seem to remember a few months back there was a rumor that the Grundy's chimera was pregnant and would not make the show, and for a week or two, until the rumor proved to be false, her odds shot up to forty to one.”

“So what?” asked Mallory. “She'll be odds-on tomorrow.”

Harry shook his head. “With a normal bet, you would be right. But if you lay down your money on a future book, you get the odds that your pick is at the moment you make the bet.”

“Even if she drops from forty-to-one to even money?” asked Winnifred.

“Even so,” said Harry. “But if she breaks a leg, or retires, or even dies, you are still stuck with the bet.”

“So if our client knew the chimera wasn't pregnant,” said Mallory, “if he maybe even started the rumor himself and laid his bets with a future book, he stands to get a forty-to-one return if she wins tomorrow.”

“That is correct.”

Mallory wrote Brody's name down on a napkin and shoved it across the table. “Can you find out if this guy placed some big money bets around town, or even out of town, on Carmelita—the Grundy's chimera?”

“It will take some work, but I can do it—for, shall we say, half of your retainer?”

“Only half? You're all heart, Harry,” said Mallory bitterly.

“You are mistaking him for a human being,” said Gently Gently Dawkins from the bar. “He is a bookmaker.”

“But a bookmaker with a heart, as you suggest,” said Harry. “To that end, I will take your marker.”

“I'll pay cash,” said Mallory, pulling out his wallet and peeling off five hundred dollars of the thousand Brody had given him. “But this is the end of it. No more later.”

“This is very strange,” said Harry. “The stars have not stopped in their courses and the rivers are not flowing upstream, and yet you are in possession of five yards, and it looks like you have even more than that. It causes me serious pain to suggest it, but maybe you should quit while you are ahead of the game.”

There was a horrible grating noise coming from the back of the room.

“What was
that
?” asked Winnifred nervously.

“Oh, that is just Dead End Dugan,” said Dawkins. “He is another of Harry's flunkies.”

“He sounds horrible,” she said.

“He differs from Benny Fifth Street and myself in that he is dead, and somewhat bigger than a mountain, but other than that we are alike as peas in a pod.”

“Mighty few pods have zombies in them,” noted Mallory.

“Well,” said Dawkins, “the truth of the matter is that he has not fully adjusted to being a zombie yet. For example, zombies cannot metabolize food or drink, but he is always munching on a pizza or pouring himself an Old Peculiar from the bar.”

“Fascinating,” said Mallory, who was considerably less than fascinated. He turned to Harry the Book. “Okay, can you get going on this right away?”

“This may take some time,” replied Harry. “There are more than two hundred local bookies, and that is before we cross the river to New Jersey or sojourn up to Connecticut, and of course there is always Vegas.”

“We need to know before tomorrow afternoon,” said Mallory.

“You can start with this,” said Harry. “The biggest future book in town is run by Hot Horse Hennigan over on the corner of Greed and Gluttony.”