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The Chinese Sandman [A John Justin Mallory Story] by Mike Resnick Mallory put the final thumbtack into his Playmate centerspread, then stood back to admire it as it hung above his desk in all its pneumatic glory. "Just what the Mallory and Carruthers Detective Agency needed to make me feel at home," he said at last. "I wish you wouldn't do that, John Justin," said his partner, turning her head away in distaste. "And I wish you wouldn't keep drawing underwear on them with your magic marker every month," replied Mallory. "We each have to learn to live with disappointment." "It's indecent," snorted Winnifred Carruthers. Mallory stared at the centerspread. "You know," he remarked, "I don't think it's silicon at all." "Certainly it is," said Winnifred. He shook his head. "Nope. I think it's helium." He waited for her to smile at his joke. When no smile was forthcoming, he sat down at the desk and picked up a _Racing Form_. "I see Flyaway is running again today," he noted. "How many has he lost now?" asked Winnifred. "Something like 40 in a row?" "42," said Mallory. "43," purred a feminine voice. "You're forgetting the one at Saratoga where he refused to leave the gate." "That doesn't count," said Mallory. "They refunded the all the bets." "43," persisted the voice. "Why don't you go kill a fish or something?" muttered Mallory. A feminine figure jumped down from her perch atop a magic mirror that continually played the fourth inning of a 1932 American Association game between the Stranger City Mauve Devils and the Raddish |
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