Stalking the Dragon—but he has appeared in quite a few novelettes and stories as well. And while horses don’t race in this New York, it doesn’t mean that the tracks and the pari-mutuel machines have shut down.
“So who do you like in the sixth?” asked Mallory as he stuck his feet up on the desk and began browsing through the .
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Winnifred Carruthers, pushing a wisp of gray hair back from her pudgy face and taking a sip of her tea. She was sitting at a table in the kitchen, browsing through the memoirs of a unicorn hunter and trying not to think about what the two donuts she had just eaten would do to her already ample midriff.
“It’s a tough one to call,” mused Mallory, staring aimlessly around the magician’s apartment that he and Winnifred had converted into their office. Most of the mystic paraphernalia—the magic mirror, the crystal ball, the wands and pentagrams—had been removed. In their place were photos of Joe DiMaggio, Seattle Slew, a pair of Playboy centerspreads (on which Winnifred had meticulously drawn undergarments with a magic marker), and a team picture of the 1966 Green Bay Packers, which Mallory felt gave the place much more the feel of an office and which Winnifred thought was merely in bad taste. “Jumbo hasn’t run since he sat on his trainer last fall, and Tantor ran off the course in his last two races to wallow in the infield pond.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” said Winnifred, trying to hide her irritation. “After all, we formed the Mallory & Carruthers Agency two weeks ago, and we’re still waiting for our first client.”
“It takes time for word to get out,” replied Mallory.
“Then shouldn’t we be out spreading the word after you shave and press your suit, of course?”
Mallory smiled at her. “Detective agencies aren’t like cars. You can’t advertise a sale and wait for customers to come running. Someone has to need us first.”
“Then won’t you at least stop betting next week’s food money on the races?”
“In the absence of a desperate client, this is the only way I know of to raise money.”
“But you’ve had six losing days in a row.”
“I’m used to betting on horses in my New York,” replied Mallory defensively. “Elephants take awhile to dope out. Besides, they’re running at Jamaica, and they haven’t done that in my New York in 35 years; I’m still working out the track bias. But,” he added, “I’m starting to get the hang of it. Take Twinkle Toes, for instance. Everything I read in the Form led me to believe he could outrun Heavyweight at six furlongs.”
“But he didn’t,” noted Winnifred.
“Outrun Heavyweight? He certainly did.”
“I thought he lost.”
“By a nose.” Mallory grimaced. “Now, how the hell was I supposed to know that his nose was two feet shorter than Heavyweight’s?” He paused. “It’s just a matter of stockpiling information. Next time I’ll take that into consideration.”
“What I am trying to say is that we can’t afford too many more next times,” said Winnifred. “And since you’re stranded here, in this Manhattan, it would behoove you to start trimming your— our —expenses.”
“It’s my only indulgence.”
“No it’s not,” said Winnifred.
“It’s not?” repeated Mallory, puzzled.
“What do you call that , if not an indulgence?” said Winnifred, pointing to the very humanlike but definitely feline creature perched atop the refrigerator.
Mallory shrugged. “The office cat.”
“This office can’t afford a cat—at least, not this one. She’s been drinking almost a gallon of milk a day, and the last time I went out shopping she phoned the local fishmonger and ordered a whale.”
“Felina,” said Mallory, “is that true?”
The catlike creature shook her head.
“Are you saying you didn’t order it?” demanded Winnifred.
“They couldn’t fit it through the doorway,” answered Felina,
“So who do you like in the sixth?” asked Mallory as he stuck his feet up on the desk and began browsing through the .
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Winnifred Carruthers, pushing a wisp of gray hair back from her pudgy face and taking a sip of her tea. She was sitting at a table in the kitchen, browsing through the memoirs of a unicorn hunter and trying not to think about what the two donuts she had just eaten would do to her already ample midriff.
“It’s a tough one to call,” mused Mallory, staring aimlessly around the magician’s apartment that he and Winnifred had converted into their office. Most of the mystic paraphernalia—the magic mirror, the crystal ball, the wands and pentagrams—had been removed. In their place were photos of Joe DiMaggio, Seattle Slew, a pair of Playboy centerspreads (on which Winnifred had meticulously drawn undergarments with a magic marker), and a team picture of the 1966 Green Bay Packers, which Mallory felt gave the place much more the feel of an office and which Winnifred thought was merely in bad taste. “Jumbo hasn’t run since he sat on his trainer last fall, and Tantor ran off the course in his last two races to wallow in the infield pond.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” said Winnifred, trying to hide her irritation. “After all, we formed the Mallory & Carruthers Agency two weeks ago, and we’re still waiting for our first client.”
“It takes time for word to get out,” replied Mallory.
“Then shouldn’t we be out spreading the word after you shave and press your suit, of course?”
Mallory smiled at her. “Detective agencies aren’t like cars. You can’t advertise a sale and wait for customers to come running. Someone has to need us first.”
“Then won’t you at least stop betting next week’s food money on the races?”
“In the absence of a desperate client, this is the only way I know of to raise money.”
“But you’ve had six losing days in a row.”
“I’m used to betting on horses in my New York,” replied Mallory defensively. “Elephants take awhile to dope out. Besides, they’re running at Jamaica, and they haven’t done that in my New York in 35 years; I’m still working out the track bias. But,” he added, “I’m starting to get the hang of it. Take Twinkle Toes, for instance. Everything I read in the Form led me to believe he could outrun Heavyweight at six furlongs.”
“But he didn’t,” noted Winnifred.
“Outrun Heavyweight? He certainly did.”
“I thought he lost.”
“By a nose.” Mallory grimaced. “Now, how the hell was I supposed to know that his nose was two feet shorter than Heavyweight’s?” He paused. “It’s just a matter of stockpiling information. Next time I’ll take that into consideration.”
“What I am trying to say is that we can’t afford too many more next times,” said Winnifred. “And since you’re stranded here, in this Manhattan, it would behoove you to start trimming your— our —expenses.”
“It’s my only indulgence.”
“No it’s not,” said Winnifred.
“It’s not?” repeated Mallory, puzzled.
“What do you call that , if not an indulgence?” said Winnifred, pointing to the very humanlike but definitely feline creature perched atop the refrigerator.
Mallory shrugged. “The office cat.”
“This office can’t afford a cat—at least, not this one. She’s been drinking almost a gallon of milk a day, and the last time I went out shopping she phoned the local fishmonger and ordered a whale.”
“Felina,” said Mallory, “is that true?”
The catlike creature shook her head.
“Are you saying you didn’t order it?” demanded Winnifred.
“They couldn’t fit it through the doorway,” answered Felina,
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