Stalking the Dragon (14 page)

“Hot Horse Hennigan,” repeated Mallory. “Got it. I'll need some more names soon.”

“Perhaps if you will let your partner help me…” suggested Harry.
“With both of us manning phones, or at least me manning one and her womaning the other, we can get through this twice as fast.”

“I don't know,” said Mallory. “That's going to leave me shorthanded.”

“Shorthanded for what?” asked Harry. “We will find out if this Brody made any bets, never fear.”

“We have a second client,” explained Mallory. “It's worth another ten thousand to us if we can find the dragon and get it into the ring on time.”

“The goblin with the sword belongs to your entourage, does he not?” asked Harry.

“I want him to stay here and guard our prisoner until we catch his boss,” said Mallory, indicating Jeeves. “All that leaves me is Felina.”

“Let me consider this,” said Harry.

“Don't consider it long,” said Mallory. “The clock is ticking.”

“No, that is just Dean End Dugan picking his teeth,” said Harry. He was silent a moment longer. “I have it. We will make a trade until ring time. I will loan you Gently Gently Dawkins and Dead End Dugan, and you can leave the goblin here with me.” He paused. “I use Dugan for
difficult
collections. Your sword-carrying flunkie can fill in for him.”

“Then who will watch the prisoner?” asked Winnifred.

“Hey, Joey?” shouted Harry.

“Yeah?” asked Joey Chicago.

“Are you in possession of an empty beer keg?”

“At the rate things are going, I'll have one in ten minutes.”

“Fine,” said Harry. He turned back to Mallory. “If I have to send the goblin out to make a collection, we will simply nail the gremlin inside a beer keg until he comes back.”

“Why don't we
not
trade and we'll nail him in right now, and I'll take Joe Enlai with me?”

“Think about it, John Justin,” said Winnifred suddenly. “Who's more likely to get people to talk to you—a little goblin with a sword who looks like a refugee from a cartoon, or a six-and-a-half-foot zombie?”

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” replied Mallory.

“But you will also have Gently Gently Dawkins,” noted Harry. “The more bodies you have, the more ground you can cover.” He shot Mallory a quick
glance from under the brim of his hat. “You of course will pay for all his meals while he is with you.”

“Does he do anything but eat?” asked Mallory.

“Not to worry,” said Harry. “Dugan can go months without eating, so it evens out.”

“And if they're keeping the dragon underwater,” added Dawkins, “why, Dugan's your man. He never breathes.”

“If they're keeping the dragon underwater,” said Mallory, “she drowned.”

“I never thought of that,” admitted Dawkins.

“Why am I not surprised?” muttered Mallory.

“You seem less than thrilled with our arrangement,” noted Harry.

“Let's be honest,” said Mallory. “Dawkins is not going to outwit any suspects, and the only way he'll intimidate them is by eating them out of house and home.” He signed. “Okay, let me take a look at the other one.”

“Dugan, come over here!” called Harry.

The zombie walked over and stood in front of their booth.

“Well?” asked Harry.

“He looks like Primo Carnera with eczema,” said Mallory approvingly. “I'll take him.”

“Check in by phone every couple of hours, John Justin,” said Winnifred. “Brody doubtless made the bets under a phony name. If we can find it, and match it with an address, it might save you a lot of legwork.”

“Right,” said Mallory, getting up from the booth. He turned to Harry. “The zombie knows he's coming with me?”

“Dugan, go with this guy,” said Harry. He smiled. “Now he knows.”

“Does he owe us money?” asked Dugan.

“No, he is a Good Guy. He will aim you at the Bad Guys.”

“I'm thirsty,” said Dugan.

“No you're not,” said Harry. “You're dead.”

“I forgot,” said Dugan. Then: “I'm dead
and
thirsty.”

“Concentrate on being dead, and worry about thirsty later,” said Harry.

“Yes, boss,” said Dugan.

“You see?” said Harry to Mallory. “You just have to be firm with him.”

“And what about Dawkins?” asked Mallory.

“Sweetest guy in the world. Salt of the earth. Loyal as a hound dog.” He paused briefly. “Just don't get your fingers too near his plate when he's eating.”

“Felina, are you ready?” asked Mallory as he walked to the door.

“For what?” she asked. “And did you know you have a dead man and a blimp following you?”

“Oh, well,” said Mallory as she joined him, Dawkins, and Dugan, and they headed toward Hot Horse Hennigan's. “I never could spell incognito anyway.”

C
HAPTER
18

2:33
AM
–3:08
AM

“So where do we find Hennigan?” asked Mallory, as they walked out into the street.

“In his office,” said Dugan.

“I'd never have guessed,” said Mallory. He turned to Dawkins. “Where's his office?”

“The Met,” replied Dawkins.

“The Metropolitan Museum of Art?”

“No.”

“The Metropolitan Opera?”

“No.”

“We could play guessing games all night, or you could just tell me,” said Mallory.

“The Metropolitan Five-Star Map Store, Luggage Shop, and Burlesque Emporium.”

“An interesting combination,” remarked Mallory.

“Oh, it makes perfect sense,” said Dawkins.

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” Dawkins assured him. “Say your wife catches you tossing money at Voluptuous Vanessa or Slinky Sally while they're onstage. What could be handier than a map store and a luggage shop, just in case she didn't bring her pistol with her? And you can get passports right next door.”

“A government office is next to a strip show?”

“Not exactly,” said Dawkins. “It's the Handy Dandy Quick Print Shop. They say they can get you a passport in two minutes, three if you don't have a photo.”

“Yeah, I can see where that might come in handy.”

“It's a necessary public service,” continued Dawkins. “They estimate that
they save eight to nine hundred husbands a year. And of course, the Rest-in-Peace All-Night Mortuary is just across the street, for those husbands whose wives come prepared.”

“It's that wild a show?” asked Mallory.

“Hot Horse Hennigan wouldn't use it for an office if it didn't attract people.”

“What about women who want to bet?” asked Mallory.

Dawkins frowned. “Women don't bet. They're smarter than men. Everyone knows that.” He paused briefly. “But for those who do, Fast Buck Flossie operates a very classy handbook out of the Lucretia Borgia Beauty Shop just up the street.”

“Well, introduce me to Hennigan when we get there, and maybe we can figure out what name Brody used when he made his bet and where he's holed up now.”

“I thought we'd watch the show first,” said Dawkins.

“Why?”

The chubby man shrugged, a shrug that seemed to go all the way down to his toes. “You never know.”

“You think Hennigan might be stripping between Voluptuous Vanessa and Slinky Sally?” asked Mallory sardonically.

“Well, when you put it that way, probably not,” admitted Dawkins. “But you haven't lived until you've seen Lascivious Lezli the Lizard Girl shed her skin.”

“We'll let Dugan watch for us,” said Mallory. “Maybe he'd like to live again.”

“I don't remember enjoying it that much the first five times,” said Dugan.

“It's got to be better than dying,” offered Mallory.

“Maybe,” admitted Dugan. “Less restful, though.”

“I can believe that,” said Mallory.

They had to stop for a moment as they passed a cheap gift shop and Felina pointed out each of the sixty-eight presents she wanted for her birthday, once she remembered when her birthday was. They stopped again when they passed an all-night bakery and Dawkins felt compelled to buy a
small chocolate cake and four eclairs to hold him until they reached Hennigan's headquarters, which was three blocks away.

“How about
you
?” asked Mallory of the zombie when they were on their way again. “Aren't you going to tell me what you want?”

“Should I?” asked Dugan.

“I don't know. Do you eat?”

Dugan paused the blinked his eyes very rapidly. “I can't remember.”

“Good,” said Mallory. “Hold that thought.”

Dugan stared at his open right hand. “How?” he asked.

“I don't want to offend anyone,” said Mallory, “but right now it is looking like Harry got the better of our trade.”

“I take umbrage at that,” said Dawkins.

“Will umbrage fit in your mouth with all those eclairs?” asked the detective.

“You never can tell when I'll need my energy,” said Dawkins defensively.

“I think you left it in your other suit,” said Mallory.

“You are a cruel, unforgiving taskmaster,” said Dawkins with all the dignity he could muster.

“I thought Harry was the one without a heart.”

“He is a bookie. What's your excuse?”

“Hey, Mallory,” interrupted Dugan.

“Yeah?”

“Your cat-thing's gone.”

Mallory looked around. “Again?” He raised his voice. “Felina!”

Felina emerged from between two buildings. “You ruin everything,” she complained.

“It's one of my special talents,” said Mallory. “What did I ruin this time?”

“There was the cutest little rat,” she said. “He looked so lonely, and you scared him away. I was just going to—”

“Torture and eat him?” suggested Mallory.

“Well, I was going to cuddle him first.”

“That makes all the difference,” said Mallory.

“It might,” agreed Dugan. “No one ever cuddled me when I died.” He
scratched his head. “At least I don't think so.” A pause. “Well, definitely not the third time.”

Mallory looked ahead and saw the flashing lights of the burlesque theater's marquee.

“Okay,” he said, turning to Dawkins. “Where do I find him?”

“I told you: at the Metropolitan Five-Star—”

“Let me amend that,” interrupted the detective. “Where inside the theater do I find him?”

“I don't know,” said Dawkins. “If he's hungry, he could be at the candy counter. If he's thirsty, there's a bar. If he has to answer a call of Nature—”

“Let's pretend he's not hungry, he's not thirsty, and he either has no urge to visit the men's room or else he's incontinent. Now where do I find him?”

“He's got a private office.”

“Where?”

“At the Metropoli—”

“Harry
is
going to take you back when we're done, isn't he?” growled Mallory.

“Oh, yes,” said Dawkins proudly. “I am one of Harry's three favorite flunkies.”

“How many has he got?”

“So far, counting all of us including Dugan, three.”

“All right,” said Mallory. “Clearly you're having difficulty telling me where to locate Hennigan, so why not just tell me what he looks like and I'll take it from there.”

“He looks like a bookie,” answered Dawkins.

They passed a taco vendor with a cart, and Mallory bought a pair of tacos, which he handed to Dawkins. “Here,” he said. “Eat these. Maybe your brain just needs more calories.”

“That's what Harry is always saying,” replied Dawkins, taking the tacos and biting into one.

“I can't imagine why,” muttered Mallory.

They reached the theater, and Felina immediately began giggling.

“What is it?” asked Mallory. “Is some small defenseless creature in distress?”

“This woman is so silly!” said Felina, pointing to a poster of Dressy Tessie Torso, who was wearing a pair of shining silver pasties. “Look where she's wearing her earrings!”

“I'm sure she'll realize the error of her ways and take them off before her act is over,” commented Mallory dryly.

“Will you buy me some earrings like that?” asked Felina.

“If we find Fluffy and get her to the ring on time,” said Mallory. “You think that'll help you concentrate? I would like one member of this party besides me to be thinking about what we're doing.”

“Yes, John Justin.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes, John Justin.”

“You think you can behave yourself in the theater, or do I have to leave you out here?”

“Yes, John Justin.”

He stared at her. “What year is it?”

“Yes, John Justin.”

“Don't just stand there, gents,” said the leprechaun that was selling tickets in a glass-enclosed booth. “You're taking up space. How many will it be?”

“Does Hennigan own a piece of this place?” asked Mallory.

“I don't know,” said Dawkins. “Why?”

“Because if he does, he makes a tidy profit just from admissions before anyone can even lay a bet.”

“That's not what most of 'em come here to lay,” said the leprechaun with a leer. “How many tickets?”

“Is there a discount for cat-people?” asked Mallory.

“Not a chance.”

“What about zombies?”

“Never.”

“Are you sure?” said Dugan ominously, stepping up to the leprechaun's window.

“Change of policy!” announced the leprechaun. “All zombies are free on Saturday nights.”

“This is early Tuesday morning,” said Mallory.

“It's Saturday night on Betelgeuse,” said the leprechaun quickly. He turned back to Mallory. “You owe me for four tickets.”

“You just said he was free.”

“He is,” said the leprechaun. “But that one”—he pointed at Dawkins—“takes up two seats.”

“Dugan, reason with him,” said Mallory, starting to head into the theater.

“It's against my religion to argue with zombies on a Monday night!” shouted the leprechaun. “You're all in for free as guests of the house.”

“Thank the house for us,” said Mallory, entering the lobby. Half the people were balding men in raincoats, lining up to see the show, and the other half were studying
Racing Form
s and various tip sheets, ranging from
Guaranteed Greyhounds
to
Cockfighting Choices
to the
Wall Street Journal
, depending on their particular sporting obsessions.

“So where is he?” asked Mallory.

“Just get in line with all the plungers,” said Dawkins. Suddenly a snare drum and shouts of “
Take it off!
” came to their ears. “I think I'll just slip into the theater just in case Hennigan's girlfriend is working tonight.”

“His girlfriend is a stripper?”

“His girlfriend bets claimers who are moving up in class, which everyone knows is a losing proposition. This is the way she pays off her losses.”

“She can't be too happy about it,” remarked Mallory.

“It doesn't bother her at all, but Billy Pinsky is furious.”

“Billy Pinsky?”

“He runs the strip show two blocks north of here. She used to work for him.”

“
Not that much!
” yelled a voice.

“Lascivious Lezli,” explained Dawkins, shaking his head sadly with the air of One Who Knows. “When she gets carried away she always takes off that extra layer of skin.”

The snare drum started up again.

“Uh…Mallory…?” said Dawkins.

“Go,” said Mallory. “We'll pick you up when we're done.”

“If you absolutely insist,” said Dawkins, racing into the theater.

“I've never seen a fat man move so fast,” commented Felina.

“You probably never saw one so motivated,” said Mallory dryly. He looked around and saw a line forming at an unmarked door about seventy feet away.

“Dugan, come with me,” he said. He turned to Felina. “You, too.”

He walked past all the people waiting to see Hennigan and soon reached the door.

“Hey, fella,” said a man. “There's a line, you know.”

Mallory jerked a thumb in Dugan's direction. “Argue with him.”

The man glanced at Dugan and gulped hard. “Well, if he wants to lay his bet and get back in time to watch Voluptuous Vanessa, who am I to tell him he can't? I mean, if we have to show sympathy to the dying, clearly we have to show even more to the dead.”

“Good decision,” said Mallory, as a small man wearing a bright plaid suit exited the office. The detective held the door open for Felina. He considered leaving Dugan outside to make sure they weren't disturbed, but decided the zombie probably couldn't retain that thought for more than half a minute, so he ushered him into the office.

“So what can I do for you, friend?” said a burly man sitting behind an ornate desk. He wore a sports jacket of brilliant, almost phosphorescent, gold, with a brown shirt, a gold tie, black tuxedo pants, and two-toned golf shoes.

“My name is Mallory.”

“Harry phoned and told me you were coming,” said Hot Horse Hennigan. “Something about the big show at the Garden tomorrow.”

“Right. You run a future book here, right?”

“Straight or future, take your choice.”

“About two or three months ago, when she was thirty or forty to one, someone plunked down a big wad on the Grundy's chimera.”

“Fifty large at thirty-seven to one,” said Hennigan. His eyes narrowed. “Are you going to tell me the hex is in?”

“Not the hex,” said Mallory. “The fix. I need to know who made the bet and where to find him.”

“
You
need to find him?” demanded Hennigan. “I could be out almost two million dollars!”

“Is that more or less than a quarter?” asked Felina.

“What name did he use?” asked Mallory.

“Let me see,” said Hennigan, pulling out the notebook that seemed to be common to all bookies. He waved a small wand and the pages flipped by, finally coming to a stop. “Here it is: John H. Holliday, MD.”

“Wonderful,” said Mallory disgustedly.

“What's wrong?”

“That's Doc Holliday,” said the detective. “Did he give his address as Tombstone, Arizona?”

“As a matter of fact he did,” said Hennigan, frowning.

“Shit!” said Mallory. “Another dead end.”

“Wait a minute,” said Hennigan, still studying his notebook. “We're not giving up on my two million that easily. He said if he won to deliver the money to his friend William Masterson, who lives in Manhattan.”

“Figures,” said Mallory. “That's Bat Masterson. He spent his last few years here as a reporter.”