down wearily in his chair, briefly looked at the Playmate he'd pinned up on the wall (and on which Winnifred had meticulously drawn undergarments), and considered taking a hit from the office bottle, which shared a drawer with his collection of old Racing Forms and garish pulp magazines.
"Welcome back," said Perriwinkle, his magic mirror. "How much did you lose today? You did lose, didn't you? I mean, I haven't noticed the stars stopping in their courses or anything like that."
"If there's one thing I hate, it's a lippy mirror."
"I have no lips."
"Details, details," muttered Mallory.
"Let me show you something to relax you," suggested the mirror.
"An old Bettie Page striptease might be nice," said Mallory.
"Mundane," said Perriwinkle contemptuously. "But if you must see a stripper, how about Tassle-Twirling Tessie Twinkle, the Lizard Girl? She removes her skin four times a night, and five on Saturdays."
"Please," said Mallory. "I almost just ate."
"Okay, hurt my feelings, spit on my offerings," said the mirror. "See if I care."
It fell silent, and began displaying a 1934 Southwest Association game between the Phoenix Pompadours and the Great Falls Geldings.
"Wonderful," said Mallory. He spent the next half hour opening his mail, which consisted entirely of unpaid bills, except for an ad to eat at Cannibal Joe's new all-night diner, which moved to a new location each day (or oftener if necessary). He finally finished, made a paper plane out of the heating bill, and gently tossed it toward the fireplace on the far wall. It got halfway there when a graceful figure that at first seemed human but was definitely feline launched itself from its perch atop the refrigerator in the next room and snared the bill in her mouth.
"If you like it, I have a dozen more," said Mallory dryly. "I'll even pour a little mustard on them for you."
"I thought it was a little white bird," said the cat person, spitting the bill onto the floor. "A fat little white bird. A fat helpless little white bird. A delicious fat helpless . . ."
"Spare me the catalog of its virtues."
"All right," she said, hopping lightly onto his desk and lying on her stomach. "Skritch between my shoulder blades."
"I've been meaning to ask you for some time now, Felina," said Mallory. "What exactly is the difference between scratching and skritching?"
Felina reached out a hand, extended her fingers, and suddenly a two-inch claw shot out of each. "I scratch," she said. "You skritch."
He reached out and skritched her back. Then suddenly she sat up.
"Let me guess," he said. "I did it wrong."
"Shhh!" she hissed. "They're arguing."
Mallory looked around the empty office. "Who's arguing?"
"Them."
"I don't see anyone."
"Me neither," said Perriwinkle, the game vanishing long enough for it to look around the room.
"They're outside the door," said Felina.
"What are they arguing about?" asked Mallory.
"You."
Mallory slid open his desk drawer and made sure his pistol was in it.
"They're arguing about how much they're willing to pay you," continued Felina.
"Are they now?" said Mallory, closing the drawer.
Felina nodded. "One of them is saying that if you cost too much they should just forget about it, and the other says it doesn't matter what you charge because you almost certainly won't survive to collect it."
"So there are two of them," said Perriwinkle.
"You must have been the brightest one in your class," said Mallory sardonically.
"That's it!" snapped Perriwinkle. "No more Rita Hayworth movies for you!"
"Is that a promise?" said Mallory.
"Bah!" said the mirror, reverting to the second inning of the baseball game in a grainy black and white.
"Are they still arguing?" asked Mallory.
Felina shook her head. "No, now they both agree that you'll die a horrible death before they have to pay you." She shot him an innocent, ingratiating smile. "Can I watch?"
Mallory didn't know whether to ignore her or throw something at her. While he was making up his mind, the door opened and a pair of men walked in. Each wore a dark, ill-fitting suit; one was too tight and the sleeves and cuffs were too short, while the other was too loose, with sleeves and cuffs held back by thick rubber bands. The men were each about six feet tall, with wild black hair, clear blue eyes, and shaggy mustaches. Mallory's first thought was that they were twins, or at least brothers. His second was that they needed a good barber and a better haberdasher.
"Mr. Mallory?" said the one on the left.
"That's right."
"We are in desperate need of your services," said the one on the right. "Mallory and Carruthers is