Stalking the Dragon (22 page)

“You're right,” he said. He trudged off a couple of steps, then turned
back to her. “You know something? You're still very special. I was right to have fallen for you all those years ago.”

Mallory watched her turn her head and wipe a tear away, while all other eyes were on Herman, who scuttled off without another word and soon disappeared between buildings across the street from the Garden.

“Well, so much for that,” Winnifred said to Mallory with forced nonchalance. “Shall we proceed?”

“Might as well,” said Mallory. He turned to Marius. “You kept your end of the bargain. I'll speak to Hennigan.”

“Thanks,” said Marius. He checked the hourglass suspended from his neck. “If I hurry, I can make it out to Jamaica in time to dope out the Daily Double.”

He spun around three times and vanished in a puff of smoke, which startled Mallory, Winnifred, Dugan, and Dawkins, but elicited nothing more than another burp from Felina.

“Okay,” said Mallory, heading toward the exhibitors' entrance. “Let's go.”

A uniformed man was standing just in front of the door. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “May I help direct you?”

“Why not?” said Mallory agreeably.

“Are you here for the dragon show, the snake-charming seminar, the basketball game, the Steel Cage Tunisian Death Match betweenWilbur the Slug and Mad Dog Marvin, or perhaps the Travel Patagonia slide show?”

“The dragon show,” said Mallory.

The guard studied the little group. “Excuse me, sir, but would your name happen to be John Justin Mallory?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” said the guard with a smile. “Will you and your party come this way, please? One of our directors, Percy Picayune, is waiting to personally process you.”

C
HAPTER
30

11:49
AM
–1:15
PM

“I don't like the feel of this, John Justin,” said Winnifred softly.

“Neither do I,” said Mallory. “But we can't get to the ring if we don't enter the building.”

They fell into step behind the guard and were ushered down a narrow corridor to a small office. Seated behind a long wooden desk was a balding, slightly plump man with exceptionally thick glasses. He wore an expensive blue sharkskin suit, and a number of rings glinted on the fingers of both hands.

“John Justin Mallory?” he said as the guard left the office and shut the door behind him.

“You know it is,” answered Mallory.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Percival Picayune.”

“I know who you are.”

“I must admit I am surprised that you got this far,” said Picayune. “I was under the impression that Marius the Mage was hired to stop you.”

“He failed,” said Mallory. “So did the gunmen. You might consider that before you go too far out on a limb.”

“Gunmen?” repeated Picayune, arching an eyebrow. “I strongly disapprove of such methodology. I am an enforcer of the law; I have never broken it, and I don't intend to break it today.” He stared at Mallory. “Are you aware that you don't exist?”

“You wouldn't say that if you'd been as intimate with him as I have!” snapped Belle.

“There is no record of your birth,” continued Picayune, ignoring the cell phone. “There is no record of you attending school. You don't have a Social Security number. You do not have a driver's license. You are legally a nonperson. I think we may have to arrest you for impersonating a human being.”

“Try to keep me away from the show and they may have to arrest you for
impersonating a human being with a split lip, a bloody nose, and a black eye,” said Mallory angrily.

“Others have tried,” said Picayune confidently.

“I'm not others,” said Mallory. “Dugan, open the door and let's get to the ring.”

Dugan grabbed the knob and turned it. “It's locked,” he announced.

“Put the damned thing off its hinges,” ordered Mallory. “Put your back into it.”

The big zombie pulled. Nothing happened.

“There's a magical force field around it,” Picayune informed them, “and only I know the words that will open it. Now let's all sit here calmly and quietly, and I'll end the spell when our discussion is over. It shouldn't take more than another six or seven hours.”

Suddenly Winnifred's Magnum was in her hand, pointing at Picayune. “I think you'll do it now,” she said.

“I don't yield to threats,” he said calmly.

“John Justin?” said Winnifred.

“Shoot him in the wrist,” said Mallory. “He'll still have one hand left to vote for corrupt politicians.”

Winnifred aimed the gun and squeezed off a shot. The bullet bounced off Picayune's wrist and careened around the room, finally burying itself in a sedate portrait of Bubbles La Tour with her clothes almost on.

“What the hell's going on?” muttered Mallory.

“I am armored in my righteousness,” answered Picayune.

“Dugan, you want to take a whack at him?”

The zombie took a step forward, then stopped with a puzzled expression on his face.

“What's wrong?” asked Mallory.

“My hand's stuck to the doorknob,” replied Dugan.

They remained in the room for almost an hour. Every few minutes Mallory would shoot at Picayune with Winnifred's gun, or throw something at him, but to no avail.

“We'd better think of something soon,” said Winnifred. “It's after one o'clock.”

“I'm open to suggestions,” said Mallory.

“If you'll tell me you lust for my ripe young body, I'll tell you how to get out of here,” said Belle.

“This is no time for jokes,” said Mallory.

“Who's joking?”

“If you know how to get out, why didn't you say so an hour ago?”

“You weren't desperate enough an hour ago,” answered Belle. “Just tell me you lust for me, and I'll tell you what to do.”

“Tell me now.”

“This office needs new wallpaper,” she said.

“Damn it, Belle!”

“And the ceiling needs a paint job.”

“All right,” said Mallory. “I lust for you. Now tell me.”

“You've got to say it with sincerity,” replied Belle.

“Why don't you ask for a million dollars while you're at it?” said Mallory.

“I'm never speaking to you again,” said Belle, stifling a sob.

Mallory held the phone to his lips. “I lust for your hot young body,” he whispered.

“Louder.”

Mallory looked uncomfortably around the room. Finally he sighed, took a deep breath, and yelled: “I lust for your hot young body!”

“Much better,” said Belle.

“Okay, I kept my end of the bargain. How do we get out of here.”

“Percy Picayune is keeping you here because none of you own Fluffy, so you're trying to enter under false pretenses, and he's armored in his righteousness, right?”

“Right,” said Mallory impatiently.

“Well, there's someone in the room who has even more right on her side,” said Belle. “She's been kidnapped, she's legally entered in the show, and Percy has no right to keep
her
out.”

“You know,” said Winnifred, “it makes a twisted kind of sense.”

“It's ridiculous!” said Picayune uneasily.

“Sounds pretty good to me,” said Mallory, taking Fluffy from Winnifred and holding her up. “What do I do now, Belle?”

“Point her at a wall,” said Belle.

Mallory did as he was told.

“Now I'm going to hit M over high Q,” announced Belle. Instantly the room was filled with a high-pitched whistle that was intensely painful. Winnifred winced and moaned, Mallory thought his fillings were going to fall out, Dawkins applied his favorite defense mechanism by fainting dead away for the third time in six hours, Picayune clasped his hands to his ears—and Fluffy, startled, opened her mouth and spewed forth a sheet of flame. Only Dugan seemed unmoved.

“Now point her at Percy,” said Belle.

Mallory held the little dragon up a foot from Picayune's face.

“Now, Percy,” continued Belle, “do you still feel armored in your righteousness, or are you going to let us go to the ring?”

Picayune's face and body sagged in defeat. He turned to the door. “Open, Sesame,” he intoned, and the door swung inward.

“'Open, Sesame'?” repeated Mallory. “What's so magical about that? I could have said it any time.”

“But you didn't,” replied Picayune. He walked over to where Dugan was helping Dawkins to his feet for the third time that morning. “Is your boss going to be here?”

“Absolutely,” answered Dawkins. “There's a lot of money riding on this one.”

“Good,” said Picayune. “I'll walk you to ringside.”

“Why?”

“Conditions have changed,” replied Picayune, “and I've got some bets to lay down.”

C
HAPTER
31

1:15
PM
–4:01
PM

The first problem was to get past the seemingly endless line of middle-aged and elderly ladies waiting to get into the wrestling arena, each with a shining hatpin in her hat or her hand. The beer vendors were selling an occasional glass to the occasional male customer, while some entrepreneur had set up a stand that sold sherry and brandy to the hatpinned ladies and was doing a land-office business.

They had just made it past the worst of the crowd when they bumped into a burly, bald, bearded man wearing dark glasses and an overcoat with its large collar turned up. His glasses began slipping, and he quickly grabbed them, turned his back to the entrance to the wrestling area, and put them back on.

“Don't give me away, I beg of you!” he whispered.

“To whom?” asked Winnifred, looking around for a potential enemy.

He gestured toward all the women who were waiting to purchase their tickets. “
Them!
”

“Why would they be interested in you?” she persisted.

He briefly lifted the sunglasses. “
Now
do you know?”

She looked mystified. “No.”

“What kind of rasslin' fan are you?” he demanded.

“I'm not any kind,” she replied. “We're on our way to the Eastminster show.”

“
I
know him,” said Picayune. “You're the Belgrade Butcher, aren't you?”

“I used to be,” replied the man. “But the political situation keeps changing. I've been the Belgrade Butcher, the Borneo Butcher, the Beijing Butcher, the Brazilian Butcher…you name it, I've been it.”

“So why are you hiding?” asked Mallory.

“I haven't read a newspaper in years,” said the man. “How was I to know
that anyone called the Baghdad Butcher was supposed to be a good guy these days? I climbed into the ring two weeks ago, and I gouged out one of Handsome Henry's eyes—his glass one; we're friends, and I wouldn't want to hurt him—and I chewed on his ear, and I threw a metal chair at his grandmother who was sitting at ringside, just the normal stuff, you know? But the Commissioner came to the dressing room later and told me that if I was going to be the Baghdad Butcher I couldn't do any more gouging and biting and kicking because Baghdad is our friend these days. So last week I fought fair against the Mongolian Monster—and I thought my own fan club would kill me. You never saw so many bloodthirsty little old ladies in your life!”

Two elderly women in print dresses began yelling and threatening each other with hatpins, one declaring her loyalty to the Crazed Czech while the other kept screaming that he didn't belong in the same ring with Lovable Luke.

“Let me see if I've got this straight,” said Winnifred, trying to ignore them. “Your fans are mad because you didn't break any rules?”

“Or any heads,” said the Butcher. “They don't understand that it's all an act, that no more than two or three rasslers actually die in the ring during any given week. Well, okay, Halloween got a little out of hand, and we all thought Drooling David's axe was a phony at Thanksgiving, but we're not out there to kill each other—well, most of us aren't—and my fan club just won't accept it.”

“Still, you're a huge well-muscled guy—so why are you hiding from a bunch of little old ladies?”

“
You
stand up to seventy enraged women brandishing hatpins and see how
you
like it!” said the Butcher bitterly. “Besides, now they want all their Christmas presents back—the M-16, the rack, the AK-47, the switchblade, the vial of acid, all of the things they wanted me to use in the ring—and the fact of the matter is that I hocked them to buy more volumes of poetry. They'd kill me if they found out.” He dared a glance at the box office, where some women were eyeing him curiously. “Don't give me away, please!”

“We won't,” said Mallory. “But what are you doing here if you're not wrestling?”

“Picking up my paycheck for last week's match,” said the Butcher. “Then it's off to a nice, secluded island with Keats, Shelley, Frost, and Milton. I'll
give them a year or two to forget, and then I'll come back as the Vehement Venezuelan…or is that too literate?”

“Just a bit,” said Mallory.

“How about the Terror of Tehran?”

“Watch a newscast or two just before you come back to see who we're mad at,” said Mallory. “You'll come up with the right moniker.”

“They don't even have electricity where I'm going.”

“It sounds idyllic,” remarked Winnifred. “Why even come back?”

“I miss the glory.”

“There's glory in being a bad guy?” asked Mallory.

“When I've got Straight Arrow Slim on the mat, and ten thousand little old ladies are screaming ‘Defenestrate him!'…well, there's nothing quite like it.”

“No, I don't suppose there is,” said Winnifred distastefully.

Just then a little old lady walked by. She passed a note to the Butcher and kept going to the box office. He opened it, and a smile came to his face.

“What's that?” asked Mallory.

“One of my fans. She recognized me despite the coat and shades, and gave me a recipe for kidney pie.”

“That was very thoughtful of her,” said Winnifred.

“It's for Heroic Henry's kidneys,” said the Butcher. He looked around. “You know, if
she
could spot me, so can others. I'd better leave before they do.”

And with that, he made his way to the exit.

“How much worse can a dragon show be?” said Winnifred.

A huge gorgon passed by, led by a small green elf, as if to remind them that a lot more than dragons were competing.

“Let's follow the elf,” said Mallory. “He seems to know where he's going.

They ran the gamut of goblins selling everything from hot dogs and beer to Waterford crystal and secondhand pulp magazines, passed the basketball venue (he could tell by the chorus of boos that Heartless Herman and the Manhattan Misfits were off to their usual horrendous start), the pornographic movie theater, a sparsely attended meeting of the DAR (Daughters of the Armenian Revolution), and finally came to the huge arena that had been set aside for the Eastminster show.

They got in line behind a gorgon, a chimera, and a gryphon, and gradually made their way to the entrance.

“Got your admission passes?” asked a bored man in a candy-striped jacket and straw hat, both of which seemed totally incongruous on a snowy February day.

“This is Mr. Brody's entry, Fluffy,” replied Mallory, indicating the dragon. “We're just delivering her.”

“Nobody gets in without a pass, Mac,” said the man. “Am I gonna have to call Security?”

Percy Picayune stepped forward. “Let me handle this.”

“You can argue all you want,” said the man, “but no one gets in without—”

“I'm not here for the show,” said Picayune, flashing his outdated IRS credentials. “We've been meaning to speak to you about your charitable deductions.”

The man suddenly looked very nervous. “It's my wife's fault,” he said. “I told her and told her that Saks and Bloomingdale's aren't charities.”

“Let's talk about your medical expenses,” said Picayune.

“If I don't lose seven hundred bucks to my doctor on the golf course, he might misdiagnose me on purpose.”

Picayune just stared at him without saying a word.

“Okay, okay, so it was fifty bucks,” said the man, suddenly drenched in sweat. “But the principle is the same. I just wrote down the wrong number.”

“And what about your entertainment deduction?”

“My God, how did you find out about her?” said the man.

“It's my business to find out.”

“Don't tell my wife or she'll kill me!”

“We'd better talk about this down at the main office,” said Picayune.

“Isn't there any way we can just forget about all this? If I promise never to do it again?”

Picayune frowned. “All right,” he said. “You have us at a disadvantage. We're in a hurry. Let us pass, and I will ignore your little fiduciary indiscretions—
this
time.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the man.

He was still thanking Picayune when Mallory's party was fifty feet inside the arena, walking past grooming tables, portable pens, hitching posts for the larger entries, even a huge barred aviary for banshees and harpies. The place smelled of grooming lotions, and the occasional chattering of the toy and miniature animals was drowned out by the occasional roar of the giant ones.

“How did you know?” asked Winnifred when Picayune had caught up with them.

“Know what?” replied Picayune.

“That he cheated on his charitable and business deductions?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“I hate to interrupt,” said Mallory, “but we seem to be surrounded by gorgons—and more than one of them has a lean and hungry look.”

Winnifred pointed to a sign that said
Grooming Area
.

“It's an all-breed show,” Belle spoke up. “Even I know that. You just have to find out where the dragons are.”

“Dugan, you're taller than the rest of us,” said Mallory. “Do you see them?”

“See what?” asked Dugan.

“Sorry I asked,” said Mallory with a sigh. He walked over to a middle-aged woman who was trimming a huge gorgon's whiskers. “Excuse me, ma'am,” he said, “but can you direct me to the dragons?”

She turned to him. “You don't want dragons, young man,” she said firmly. “Not when you could have a gorgon, by Champion Monstro out of Champion Behemoth. We're expecting a hatching next week, and only eleven are already spoken for.”

“I appreciate your offer,” said Mallory, “but I really need to find the dragons.”

“You haven't thought it through,” she said. “Dragons and gorgons don't get along. If you have a dragon, what are you going to do with your gorgon?”

“I don't have a gorgon.”

“I just told you we're expecting a hatching. Five hundred dollars takes twelfth choice away.”

Mallory decided he was never going to get his answer. “Thank you, ma'am,” he said, starting to walk off.

“Wait!” said the gorgon exhibitor.

“You've decided to tell me where the dragons are?”

“I need your address so I know where to deliver your gorgon,” she said. “Would you prefer to pay with cash, check, or a credit card?”

“I don't want a gorgon.”

“Are you ill?” she said incredulously. “Of course you want one.”

“No, thank you.”

“But I have three hundred and eighteen eggs due to hatch in six days!” she said. “What am I going to do with them all? Do you know how much a baby gorgon eats?”

“I think I'd rather remain in blissful ignorance,” said Mallory, walking away again.

This time she didn't try to stop him, and a moment later he and his party came upon the chimera grooming area. All but one of the exhibitors had crowded into a tiny area, leaving the bulk of the grooming space to the remaining exhibitor, who was meticulously trimming his chimera's nails while she stood patiently on a grooming table.

“Hello, Grundy,” said Mallory, stepping forward while his entourage kept their distance from the demon.

“You made it,” said the Grundy. “But then, I knew you would.” He reached into the air and magically produced ten thousand-dollar bills. “I am a demon of my word,” he said, handing the money to Mallory. “I will see you in the ring later this afternoon.”

“How does it work?” asked Mallory. “You have a chimera, I have a dragon. Do you sneak into the dragon ring, or do I sneak into the chimera ring? And either way, won't someone notice?”

“You've never been to a show before, have you?” said the demon.

“No.”

“The competition is divided into breeds. Then the various Best of Breed winners compete for—”

“Best in Show?” suggested Mallory.

“Eventually. But to narrow the competition still further, the breed winners compete for Best in Group, and the Group winners compete for Best in Show.”

“Group of
what
?” asked Mallory.

“There is the Winged Group, the Fire-Breathing Group, the Clawed Group, and so forth.”

“So which group is Fluffy in? She's got wings, she's got claws, and she breathes fire.”

“The Fire-Breathing Group,” answered the Grundy. “The wings don't work very well, and the claws are not used in battle.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” asked Mallory.

“I am a sportsman,” replied the Grundy with dignity.

“You're also Evil Incarnate.”

“That too,” acknowledged the demon.

“So where do we find the dragon area?” said Mallory, reaching out to pet Carmelita's head and pulling his hand back just before she could bite it off.

“She's very high-strung,” explained the Grundy. He pointed to a spot about ninety feet away. “I assume you are going to handle her yourself.”

“I'll hire someone, now that I've been paid,” said Mallory. “I don't even know the rules. I sure as hell don't know how to handle Fluffy in a ring.”

The Grundy smiled. “Then you had better learn fast.”

“Why?” said Mallory. “I just told you—”

“No professional handler will take your money, John Justin Mallory.”

“Why the hell not?” said Mallory, pulling out his wallet. “You didn't pay me with bogus bills, did you?”

“No.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“The problem is that Fluffy is the favorite,” answered the Grundy.

“So?” said Mallory.

“So no one wants to be the handler who defeats me,” said the Grundy. “I have been known to become…
irritable
on such occasions.” He paused. “The last time it happened, there were
six
New York boroughs.”

“What do I know about handling a dragon in the show ring?”