Stalking The Zombie
John Justin Mallory is the star of three detective novels set in a fantasy New York: Stalking the Unicorn, Stalking the Vampire, and Stalking the Dragon. When I had seven Mallory novelettes, written for magazines and anthologies over the years, it was suggested that I had quite enough wordage for a collection … but I needed something with “Stalking” in the title so readers would know it was a Mallory book. So I sat down and wrote this story, and it became the title story of Stalking the Zombie.
John Justin Mallory crumpled his empty paper coffee cup and flipped it toward the wastebasket in the corner of his office. It hit the wall a few inches above the top of the basket and rebounded onto the floor.
“I don’t think LeBron James is trembling in his boots yet,” remarked Periwinkle, the magic mirror that hung on the wall just behind Mallory’s chair.
“LeBron James doesn’t wear boots,” said Mallory.
“He also doesn’t miss shots from eight feet away,” shot back Periwinkle.
“I’m not joining the Knicks anytime soon, so he can rest easy,” said Mallory, picking up the copy of the Racing Form he had been reading.
“That’s it?” demanded Periwinkle. “You’re just going to leave it lying on the floor?”
“I’ll pick it up when I get up.”
“That could be an hour!”
“So what?” said Mallory.
“It means I have to look at it,” said Periwinkle.
“I don’t know how to point this out to you, but you’re just a decorative object.”
“An object!” bellowed Periwinkle. “Is that all I mean to you?”
“Be quiet!” growled a feminine voice from atop the refrigerator in the next room. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”
“That’s an object!” said Periwinkle. “I’m a work of art.”
“All right, I’m awake now,” said the voice from atop the refrigerator. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Beats me,” said Mallory. “What small defenseless animal did you kill and bring back here?”
“I don’t remember.” This was followed by a ladylike burp. “But it’s gone.”
“There’s a paper cup on the floor,” said Mallory. “Why don’t you eat that?”
“I like to play with my food first,” said the voice.
“Or torture it.”
“I just said that.” Suddenly a 90-pound creature that seemed human at first glance but was definitely feline hurled itself through the air, landing lightly on Mallory’s desk. “Skritch my back.”
“Later,” said Mallory. “I’m doping out the fifth race at Belmont.”
“You lost the first four already?”
“Go kill a mouse or something, Felina,” said Mallory.
“They’re not very filling,” said Felina.
“There’s the door,” said Mallory without looking up from his Form. “Go kill an elephant.”
“Now you’re joking,” said Felina. “I can’t eat a whole elephant.” She paused thoughtfully. “Maybe a rhinopotamus.”
“Go away or be quiet,” said Mallory, studying the Form. “I’ve got serious work to do here.”
“At least Flyaway’s not running today,” said Periwinkle.
“Why should today be any different?” asked Felina. “Flyaway never runs, especially when John Justin bets on him.”
Mallory folded the Form and laid it on his desk. “I can see I’m not going to get anything done,” he muttered.
“Okay, give me a minute,” said Periwinkle.
“What are you talking about?” asked Mallory.
“Whenever you don’t get anything done, you relax with a Bettie Page movie,” answered the mirror. “I just have to remember where I filed it. Here, watch this while I look.”
A baseball diamond appeared, with a goodly number of underweight and overweight players looking rather ridiculous as they ran out onto the field and took their positions.
“What the hell is this?” said Mallory.
“A 1937 Continental Association game between the Grantville Geldings and the Merrivale Monorchids,” answered the mirror. “Ah! Here it is!”
An instant later Bettie Page covered the mirror, doing her Dance of Sublime Surrender, and an instant after that Col. Winnifred Carruthers entered the office. “What is that?” she demanded.
“Just Perriwinkle having a little joke,” said Mallory.
The burly gray-haired woman approached the mirror. “You think this is funny, do you?”
“He made me do it!” said Perriwinkle nervously. “It’s all his fault. I wanted to show him Alexander Nevsky but he insisted!”
“John Justin, have you no shame?” said Winnifred wearily.
“I left it in my other suit,” said Mallory.
“That would be a wittier remark if you actually owned another suit,” she replied.
“We all have our own ways of relaxing,” said Mallory. “You go on safaris in Central Park, Felina tortures small defenseless animals, Perriwinkle shills for unwatchable foreign movies, and I watch Bettie Page.”
“Disgusting!” said Winnifred,
“Black-and-white foreign movies?” said Mallory. “They certainly are.”
Winnifred sat down at her desk, straightened out a couple of doilies, and moved her flower vase three-eighths of an inch to the left. “Ah, well, you are what you are.” Her gaze fell on the Racing Form. “I hope you’re not betting on Flyaway again today.”
“He’s not entered.”
“Good,” said Winnifred. “The poor benighted animal deserves a rest.”
“He rests the second the starting gate opens,” offered Felina.
“I wish I could disagree with that,” said Winnifred with a sigh.
Mallory was about to reply when there was a knock at the door.
“Felina, open it and let whoever it is in.”
“I’m the office cat,” she said. “That’s not part of my job description.”
“Feeding the office cat’s not part of mine,” said Mallory.
“I’ll get it!” she yelled, leaping across the room and flinging the door open to reveal a balding, underweight, very nervous man dressed all in black.
“Col. Carruthers?” he asked, looking uncomfortably at Felina.
“I’m Col. Carruthers,” said Winnifred.
“That’s a relief,” said the man. “The Mallory and Carruthers Detective Agency comes highly recommended, but of course I had no idea what constituted a Mallory or a Carruthers.”
“Come on in,” said Mallory.
“Thank you,” said the man, entering the office.
“Have a seat,” continued Mallory, indicating a chair that faced his desk.
“I’d prefer to stand,” said the man, eyeing Felina nervously.
“As you wish. Now, who are you, and what can we do for you?”
“My name is Nightspore, Aloysius Nightspore,” he said. “I am one of the owners of Nightspore, Nightspore, Nightspore, and Cohen. You’ve heard of us?”
“Aren’t you a rock group?” asked Mallory.
Nightspore shook his head. “Dear me, no. We’re undertakers.”
“Okay, you’re undertakers,” said Mallory. “What seems to be your problem?”
“One of our … ah … clients has gone missing.” He grimaced uncomfortably. “Our most important client.”
“Let me see if I understand you correctly,” said Winnifred. “Someone has stolen a corpse?”
He shook his head. “No, no one stole it.”
“Well, it sure as hell didn’t just get up and walk out on its own power,” said Mallory with a chuckle.
“In point of fact, that is precisely what it did,” replied Nightspore.
“Damn!” muttered Mallory. “Every time I think I’m getting used to this Manhattan, something like this happens!”
“Let me explain,” said Nightspore.
“I think you’d better,” agreed Winnifred.
“Have you ever heard of Big Benny Bernstein?”
“He’s been a local politician forever,” said Winnifred. “What we used to call a ward healer.”
“Well, he died two days ago,” said Nightspore.
“Natural causes?” asked Mallory.
“I suppose it’s natural that death results from two bullets in the spleen, another one in the heart, and one more in the liver,” agreed Nightspore.
“Four shots would do it,” agreed Mallory. “And the killer had two left if he needed them.”
“Well, in theory,” said Nightspore. “In point of fact, the other two shots just frightened the three women away.”
“Three women?” said Mallory.
“Big Benny was always just a bit scandal-prone,” answered Nightspore.
“I’d say he was energetically scandal-prone,” said Mallory.
“Anyway, they’re giving him a first-rate sendoff tomorrow afternoon,” continued Nightspore. “The Mayor, the Governor, one of our Senators, half the City Council, eleven members of the State Legislature—and now there’s no corpse.”
“You say he just walked out?” said Mallory. “How do you know someone didn’t steal the body?”
“He was laid out in his coffin after we embalmed him, and suddenly two of my assistants witnessed him get up and walk out the door.”
“Have you got any details? Was there any external stimuli—a full moon, anything like that?”
“They were on their break, having a drink and playing that hit CD by Vlad and the Impalers, and one of them mentioned that he was going to see Bubbles La Tour at Salacious Sally’s Five-Star Burlesque Emporium later tonight—and suddenly Big Benny sat up, said he wasn’t ready to give up all the good times yet, and just like that he climbed out of his coffin and walked out the door.”
“And this was how long ago?” asked Winnifred.
“Let’s see,” said Nightspore. “It’s almost five now, so I guess it was about four this afternoon.” He looked like he was trying to hold back some tears. “If we don’t have him back in time for the funeral we’ll be ruined! I don’t care what you charge, just get him back no later than nine tomorrow morning!”
“We’ll need a retainer,” said Mallory.
“Here!” cried Nightspore, pulling a wad of money out of his pocket and throwing it at the detective. Felina leaped forward and caught it in her mouth before it reached him, while Nightspore walked to the door. “Remember—by nine at the latest!”
Then he was gone.
“What do you think, John Justin?” said Winnifred.
“I think if Felina eats that money I’ll slit her open from top to bottom to get it back.”
“What else do you think?” she said as Mallory reached out and took the roll of bills out of Felina’s mouth.
“It doesn’t taste as good as a rat that’s been dead a week,” complained Felina. “Or a month. Or two months.” She paused thoughtfully. “Three months, maybe.”
“In answer to your other question,” said Mallory, “it sounds like Big Benny wants one last night on the town. How hard can it be to spot a zombie enjoying himself?”
“I don’t know,” answered Winnifred. “But have you noticed that none of our cases ever turn out to be as easy as they look when we accept them?”
“That goes with the territory, at least in this Manhattan.” He checked his wristwatch. “Damn. Stopped again.”
“It’s 5:20,” offered Winnifred.
“Well, we’ve got less than sixteen hours to find one runaway corpse in a city of eight million,” said Mallory. “I suppose it makes sense to split up.”
“I agree.”
“The question is: where? I’ll check out Salacious Sally’s a little later, when she’s open for business, but where else do we look?”
“Clubs that play bad rock music, his favorite restaurants, political rallies, party headquarters, the same places he’d hang out if he was still alive,” said Winnifred. “Remember, he left the funeral parlor because he wasn’t ready to give up all the things he enjoyed yet.”
“All right,” said Mallory. “I’ll take Broadway and everything west of it; you have everything east.”
She nodded her agreement. “We should arrange a meeting, to compare notes.”
“Eleven o’clock at the Slithering Snake?” suggested Mallory.
She just stared at him.
“Eleven o’clock back here,” he amended,
“Sounds good,” she said. “I’ll need ten minutes to prepare, and then I’m off after him.”
“What kind of preparation do you need to do?” asked Mallory. “Research him on the internet?”
“I have to go to my apartment, pick up my .550 Nitro Express, pass the word to some of my safari trolls—especially my gunbearer and my tracker—and change into my khaki shorts and shirt, and my hiking boots.”
“Are you sure you’ll need all that?”
“What if he goes to Central Park, or even Gramercy Park?” replied Winnifred. “The game’s afoot, John Justin!”
“We just want to find him, not blow him to smithereens,” cautioned Mallory.
“He’s already dead,” said Winnifred, “so what harm can it do?”
Mallory shrugged, unable to come up with an answer.
“I’ll see you in five and a half hours,” she said, walking out the door.
“I’m going with you, John Justin!” purred Felina.
“You could stay here and protect the office,” said Mallory without much hope.
She shook her head. “No! My place is beside you. Well, behind you, anyway—at least until I decide to desert you in the end.”
“You could desert me right now,” suggested Mallory. “Think of the time you’d save.”
“No,” said Felina. “Someone has to protect you from Big Benny and Bubbles La Tour and all the other evil denizens of the night.”
“I can’t tell you how safe that makes me feel,” said Mallory sardonically. He got to his feet and walked to the door. “All right, let’s get this show on the road.”
“I have a question, John Justin,” said Felina, leaping lightly off the desk.
“What is it?
“Are zombies good to eat?”
* * *
They walked past the Vampire State Building and were headed in the direction of Madison Round Garden when Mallory spotted Ming Toy Yingleman’s Almost-Kosher Delicatessen at the corner.
“Didn’t Big Benny used to eat at that joint?” he wondered aloud.
“I don’t know,” said Felina helpfully. Then: “What does an almost-Kosher taste like?”
“Just like a nearly-Neapolitan, only different.”
“Thank you, John Justin,” said the cat-girl. “You know everything.” She turned around. “Skritch my back.”
“Later.”
“All right.” A brief pause. “Is it later yet?”
“Not til a week from Tuesday.”
The answer seemed to satisfy her, and Mallory headed off toward the deli. As he entered he walked up to the cashier and asked if Big Benny had come in recently.
“About ten minutes ago,” was the answer.
Mallory looked around. “I don’t see him.”
“Of course not,” said the cashier. “We threw him out.”
“Why?”
“Don’t let the peeling wallpaper and the cracks in the ceiling fool you, fella. We’re a high-class establishment—and we don’t serve zombies.”
“Where did he go?”
“I sent him down the block to Odd Oswald’s. They’re less fussy about their clientele.”
“Thanks,” said Mallory, heading out the door, grabbing Felina by the hand and dragging her away from the display case.
“There were dead fish right there for the taking,” she protested as they emerged onto the sidewalk.
“We have work to do.”
“I hate you!” she hissed. “And I’m never speaking to you again!”
“I’ll just have to live with the disappointment,” said Mallory.
“Of course, I might talk to you someday if you begged me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of making you compromise your principles.”
“What’s a principle?” asked Felina. “Is it good to eat?”
“Only with pickles and hot fudge,” said Mallory.
“Will you point one out to me, John Justin?” she asked, purring and rubbing her hip against his.
“They’re kind of rare in these parts,” said Mallory. “Besides, you’re never speaking to me again.”
“Oh, that,” said Felina. “I forgive you.”
“You’ve made my year.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Odd Oswald’s,” said Mallory. “It’s supposed to be around here somewhere.” He looked across the street. “Yeah, there it is.”
The two of them crossed the street and walked into the restaurant.
“There he is,” said Mallory, indicating a white-haired man in a beautifully-tailored suit who was arguing with a waiter.
“This is unacceptable!” yelled Big Benny Bernstein, staring at his plate. “I don’t want brains! I want knishes, and some chopped liver on the side!”
“But sir, you’re a zombie,” said the waiter patiently.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” demanded Big Benny. “One joint won’t feed me at all, and the other brings me a plate of”—he made a face—“brains!”
“But this is a restaurant for creatures of the night,” explained the waiter patiently.
“I don’t care! Bring me some lox and blintzes.” Big Benny frowned thoughtfully. “Well, maybe wrapped around a brain. Oh, and a cup of java.”
“All we have is blood, sir.”
“What the hell kind of deli is this?” bellowed Big Benny.
“One for zombies,” said Mallory, stepping forward.
“Do I know you?” asked Big Benny.
“Not yet,” said Mallory. “You ran off at a very inopportune time. My name’s Mallory. I’ve been hired to bring you back.”
“I’m not ready to go back. The world is fill of wine, women and song.”
“You had your whole life to enjoy them,” said Mallory. “But your whole life ended a couple of days ago, and now it’s time to embark on your afterlife.”
“You insist?” said Big Benny.
“I’m afraid so.”
Big Benny got up and began walking toward the door. As he passed an empty but unbussed table he picked up a half-empty cup of blood, stared at it, then shrugged and drank it.
“Not bad,” he admitted.
“I think that’s what the waiter was trying to explain to you,” said Mallory. “Like it or not, you’re a zombie now.”
“Not!” yelled Big Benny, throwing another cup of blood into Mallory’s face. By the time the detective had wiped it out of his eyes, Big Benny was nowhere to be seen.
“Thanks for your help,” said Mallory wryly.
“I didn’t do anything,” said Felina.
“I was being sarcastic.”
“What’s sarcastic?” she asked. “It is good to eat?”
Mallory walked out onto the sidewalk and looked up and down the block. There was no sign of Big Benny.
“Okay,” he said, “use that nose of yours and tell me which way he went.”
She sniffed the air. “Away.”
“Away in which direction?”
“North, or maybe east,” she said, and then frowned. “Or west.”
“Point.”
She extended a finger toward his chest.
“Not at me,” said Mallory. “Point to where he went.”
“I don’t know where he went,” said Felina. “But,” she added, pointing north on Ninth Avenue, “he headed off that way.”
Mallory resisted the urge to yell, “Follow that zombie!” and settled for telling her to follow his scent, which sounded less dramatic but at least told Felina what he wanted her to do.
They passed a tavern for ghouls, another for leprechauns, one for vampires, and had finally reached one that specialized in zombies when Felina came to a stop.
“Here?” asked Mallory.
She nodded.
“Let’s go in, then,” said Mallory.
She reached her hand out and shook his. “It’s been nice knowing you, John Justin, but I think it’s time to desert you.”
“Am I in that much danger if I go in?”
“Probably no more than if you go into that bar,” she said, indicating the vampire tavern.
Mallory was still debating entering the bar when he heard the sound of shattering glass, and a voice that sounded like Big Benny’s began screaming almost incoherently.
Suddenly Mallory smiled.
“What’s so funny, John Justin?” asked Felina.
“I think I know what’s going on in there,” answered Mallory. “And if I’m right, I don’t have to go in.”
“Why not?”
“Because Benny’s going to come bursting out any second.”
And as the words left his mouth, Big Benny Bernstein stalked out of the bar, cursing a blue streak.
“Hi, Benny,” said Mallory.
The zombie peered at him. “Do I know you?”
“We’ve met once before.”
Big Benny frowned. “Did you vote for me in the last election?”
“Anything’s possible,” said Mallory. “What was the problem in there?”
“I asked for a vodka martini,” growled Benny. “I don’t know what the hell they brought me, but it looked like carrot juice. You ever see a martini that wasn’t transparent?”
“Figures,” said the detective.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a zombie. You may not like it, but zombies eat brains and drink blood. Your body can’t metabolize knishes or martinis any more. Why don’t you come back to the funeral home with me?”
“I’m not ready, damn it! For one thing, it’s not fair to my constituents!”
“They’ll never miss you,” said Mallory as Felina saw something moving in a nearby alley and silently headed toward it.
“True,” admitted Big Benny with a sigh. “Besides, what politician really gives a damn about them except on election day?” Hr frowned. “The truth of the matter is that it’s not fair to me. Do you know that I’ve never lazed on a beach in the South Pacific surrounded by six nude and nubile young maidens? Not even once!”
Mallory resisted the urge to remark that Big Benny was the only man he knew who hadn’t experienced that.
“I’ve never eaten at Maxim’s,” continued Benny, tears coming to his eyes. “I’ve never refereed a heavyweight title bout. I’ve never popped open a bottle of Dom Perignon.” He paused, shaking his head sadly. “I’ve never even had my face slapped by Bubbles La Tour.”
“You’ve never had your face slapped?” asked Mallory dubiously.
“Oh, lots of times. But never by Bubbles La Tour.”
“I don’t know how to break this to you, Benny,” said Mallory, “but I don’t think any of these things would appeal to you in your present condition.”
“Maybe not,” agreed Big Benny, “but I have to try. I’ll never have another chance.”
Felina returned with a very dead rat in her hands and a feline smile on her face.
“That was quick,” said Mallory. “Usually you play with them longer.”
“He was already dead,” she answered. “So it’s not as much fun, but he’ll taste just as good. Maybe better. Sometimes it’s good to let them age a little.”
Big Benny stared hypnotically at the rat. “I don’t suppose you’d care to share that,” he said hopefully.
Felina hissed and backed away.
“You know,” said Mallory, “I’ve never been to Maxim’s, but I’d lay plenty of six-to-one that they hardly ever serve dead rats there.” He paused thoughtfully. “Especially without a wine sauce.”
Big Benny frowned, still staring at the rat. “I shouldn’t like that, should I?” he asked.
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“Just between you and me, I think I’m having trouble adjusting to being a zombie.”
“I’d never have guessed,” said Mallory dryly.
“But I ain’t ready to hang it up yet!” said Benny with a sudden burst of emotion. “I’m off to yell ‘Take it off!’ to Bubbles La Tour, and maybe get my face slapped!”
And with that, he turned and began walking toward Salacious Sally’s.
“Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” said Mallory, grabbing his arm.
Big Benny swung his arm and Mallory literally flew through the air, landing about fifteen feet away.
“Don’t try to stop me, copper!” snapped Big Benny. Suddenly he smiled. “Damn! I’ve always wanted to say that!”
“I’m not a copper.”
“Same thing. New let me give you a word of advice: don’t get between me and Bubbles La Tour.”
He headed off again, and this time Mallory knew better than to try to physically restrain him, so he simply followed the zombie at a respectful ten paces. Felina gobbled her snack and then fell into step beside the detective.
After a few blocks Benny turned and headed toward Broadway, then turned again when he reached it and began walking north. He stopped two blocks later when he came to Salacious Sally’s Five-Star Burlesque Emporium, walked up to the cashier, and reached into his pocket. Suddenly he turned to Mallory. “They forgot to put my wallet in this suit,” he said. “Could I borrow a sawbuck?”
“Hell, no,” said Mallory. “My job is to bring you back to where you belong, not treat you to a night on the town.”
“I want that sawbuck,” said Big Benny ominously.
Mallory pulled a revolver out of his trenchcoat pocket. “Don’t do anything foolish.”
“You’re threatening a dead man with a gun and you’re telling me not to do anything foolish?” said Big Benny.
Mallory suddenly felt very unsure of the situation and backed up a couple of steps.
“Not to worry,” said Big Benny. “I’m not here to hurt anyone.” He turned to the cashier. “I’m going in now, Miss. If you have any problem with that, call your boss, and if he has a problem, remind him that it was Big Benny Bernstein’s vote that got this den of iniquity its license back after Classic Night.”
“Classic Night?” repeated Mallory curiously.
“Leda and the Swan,” said Big Benny as he walked through the entrance before the cashier could say a word.
“How soon does Bubbles La Tour come on?” Mallory asked the cashier.
“Five or ten minutes,” she answered. “You’ll know by the cheers. You can hear ‘em a block away.”
Mallory looked around and saw a coffee shop half a block down the street. “Come on,” he said, turning to Felina. “We’ll wait there.”
They passed four stores, which gave Felina the opportunity to point out twenty-seven things she wanted Mallory to buy her, and finally made it to the coffee shop, where he ordered a cup of coffee for himself and a saucer of cream for her.
A few moments later he heard the noise, and in fact was able to determine how many items of clothing Bubbles La Tour had removed by how many ear-shattering cheers he counted. When they had finally died down fifteen minutes later he paid his bill, and he and Felina made their way back to the theater, where he expected to see a very disillusioned Big Benny emerging. But there was no one there, so he posted Felina at the entrance, flashed his credentials at the cashier—most people equated “detective” with “policeman”—and entered the theater. He walked up and down both aisles, looking for Big Benny, but all he saw was a bunch of happily exhausted middle-aged men, their satiated faces glowing with content.
Mallory finally convinced himself that his quarry wasn’t there and walked out just as Lascivious Lezli and Her Educated Snake were taking the stage. Felina was staring at a poster of Bubbles La Tour in a jeweled g-string, and wouldn’t leave until Mallory semi-promised to buy her six hundred of them.
The detective spent the next couple of hours checking bars, strip shows, and gourmet restaurants. Big Benny had actually been to a couple, but had left each abruptly. Finally Mallory checked the time and headed back to the office to meet Winnifred.
She was sitting at her desk when he entered, her pith helmet hanging on the back of her chair, her rifle laid carefully across her desk.
“Any luck?” she asked him.
“I ran into him a few times,” replied Mallory. “I don’t know where he is now.”
“You let him get away?” she demanded.
“I don’t think ‘let’ entered into it,” said Mallory. “He’s five times as strong as a normal man, he feels no pain, and you can’t slow him down with bullets.” He stared at her .550 Nitro Express. “Well, my bullets, anyway.”
“What’s our next step, then?” asked Winnifred. “We only have ten hours left.”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” said Mallory, “and it’s my considered opinion that we let Nature take its course.”
Winnifred frowned. “I don’t follow you, John Justin.”
“All he wants to do is experience some worldly pleasures,” said Mallory. “Wine, women and song, as the expression goes.”
“So?”
“He’s a zombie now,” continued Mallory. “Those pleasures are denied him. He went to a deli. They don’t serve zombies. Then I found him in a restaurant for zombies. He wanted blintzes and knishes, but all they served was brains. Same problem in a bar. He wanted a vodka martini, they gave him a glass of blood—and I’ll lay plenty of ten-to-one that if they’d given him a martini he couldn’t drink it anyway. Next he goes to watch Bubbles La Tour. If you’re a man you’d sooner die than walk out when she’s shedding her clothes—but he’s not a man, he’s a zombie, and that’s exactly what he did.”
“That’s fascinating, John Justin,” said Winnifred, “but I don’t see what you’re leading to.”
“I don’t think we have to spend the night stalking him through the streets of Manhattan. There are thousands of bars and restaurants, dozens of strip shows, at least two political rallies. He could show up at any of them, and even if we luck out and find him, we can’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to do anyway.”
“You’re not suggesting we quit the case?” she said. “We’ve never given up on one yet.”
“I’m suggesting we’ve misunderstood the case from the get-go,” said Mallory.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he’s going to be disappointed every single place he goes. He wants a drink, but his body wants blood. He wants a knish, but his body wants brains. He wants to ogle a woman, but his body has no interest in women. I think the same thing will happen wherever he goes and whatever he tries.” Mallory smiled. “So now I know where we’ll find him.”
“I followed you right up to that last line,” said Winnifred. “Where?”
“Nightspore’s funeral parlor. It’s the only place he belongs.”
“The only place?” she replied. “What about all those zombies that stalk the streets at night?”
“Why do you think they keep on the move and look so unhappy?” said Mallory. “They can’t adjust—and unlike Benny, they don’t have a first-class funeral with Senators, Congressmen, and the Mayor waiting for them. Most of them dress in rags; he’s in a fifteen hundred dollar suit.”
“It sounds logical,” said Winnifred, frowning. “But I don’t know.”
“You’re welcome to stalk him all night if you want,” said Mallory. “Me, I prefer to wait for him.”
She seemed to consider it for a moment, then shrugged. “All right, John Justin. We’ll do it your way.”
“What about my way?” said Felina.
“You don’t have a way,” answered Mallory.
“Oh,” said Felina. Then: “Skritch my back.”
“Later.”
“How soon is later?”
“When cows dance on the Moon.”
“Okay, that seems fair,” agreed Felina.
They left the office and headed to the funeral parlor, with Felina staring so intently at the Moon that she walked into a lamppost and a fire hydrant, but after a few minutes they reached the doorway to Nightspore, Nightspore, Nightspore and Cohen’s Mortuary.
They entered, heard a recording of hymns being played softly in the background, and walked into the main chamber, where a truly magnificent—but empty—casket was displayed in the center.
“What now?” asked Winnifred.
“Now we wait,” said Mallory.
“Until nine in the morning?”
“My guess is that it won’t take that long.”
“I can’t see the Moon from here,” protested Felina.
“Go outside and look from there,” suggested Mallory.
“Thanks, John Justin,” she said with a purr. “You think of everything.”
She walked to the door, then stepped aside as Big Benny Bernstein walked in.
“Hi, Benny,” said Mallory. “I thought you’d show up here.”
“You were right, Shamus,” said Big Benny. “I went to headquarters, but all they wanted to do was discuss things that don’t interest me any more.” He grimaced. “As I was passing by a store window, a fifty-inch flat screen that was on display was showing that old movie about Charlton Heston fighting a million safari ants, and I found myself rooting for the ants.” He shook his head sadly. “I bump into my best friend from the old days, Charlie Becker. He’s a vampire now. I offer him a little of my blood, just for old time’s sake, but when he bites my neck there isn’t any. I’d have asked for some of his brain, but he never had much to start with and he’s still using what he’s got.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mallory. “It sounds like you had a rough night.”
“That’s not the worst of it. I give a lady leprechaun a friendly but intimate pinch, the kind that usually gets my face slapped. Instead she calls me Cuddles and tells me I can have anything I ask for.” Big Benny winced. “And what I asked for was some brain on rye, with a little mustard and relish. Then she slapped me.”
“Poor baby,” said Winnifred sympathetically.
“Suddenly I got very tired,” continued Big Benny. “I went to my apartment, but I didn’t have the key. So I went to a flophouse to take a little nap, but I just couldn’t get comfortable on a mattress, and finally it dawned on me that there was one place I was comfortable.”
And with that, he climbed into his casket, lay on his back, folded his hands across his chest, and closed his eyes.
“Well, that’s that,” said Mallory. “He’s not going anywhere. I think we can call it a night, grab some sleep, and show up in time to get paid tomorrow morning.”
“You’re too trusting, John Justin,” said Winnifred. “You go ahead. I’ll spend the night here and collect our money from Mr. Nightspore when he shows up.”
“You’re sure?” asked Mallory.
She nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
He walked out the door and almost bumped into Felina, who was peering at the Moon.
“I can’t remember what I’m looking for, John Justin,” she complained.
“Six hundred glittering g-strings,” said Mallory.
“Oh, that’s right!” she answered brightly.
“Psst!” came a hiss from a nearby alley. They both turned to find themselves facing a goblin holding a small satchel. “Did I hear somebody say they want six hundred glittering g-strings?”
“Go away,” said Mallory.
“Yes!” said Felina enthusiastically.
“I left my g-strings in my other suit,” said the goblin, “but how would you like two Mickey Mantles and a Willie Mays?”
“Are they good to eat?” asked Felina.
“Why not?” said the goblin with a shrug.
“Do you want half of a very dead pigeon?” she asked.
“Which half and how dead?” replied the goblin.
They were still deep in negotiations when Mallory lost interest and headed for home.