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The Amorous Broom A John Justin Mallory story Mike Resnick John Justin Mallory, his feet up on his desk, his battered fedora worn at an angle, was studying the Racing Form. "You know," he announced, "I think I just may take a run out to the track this afternoon." "Oh my God!" breathed Winnifred Carruthers, his pudgy, pink-faced, gray-haired partner. "That poor creature is entered again, isn't he?" "How did you guess?" asked Mallory. "It's the only time you ever go to the track—when Flyaway's running." " 'Running' is an overstatement," said the not-quite-human creature perched atop the refrigerator in the next room. "Flyaway plods." "When I want advice from the office cat," said Mallory irritably, "rest assured I'll ask for it." "That's what Flyaway does," continued Felina from atop the refrigerator. "He rests assured." "If you ever leave here," said Mallory, "don't apply for a job as a comedian." "Why should I leave here?" purred Felina. "It's warm and dry and you feed me." "How many races has Flyaway lost in a row now, John Justin?" asked Winnifred. "Fifty-three." "Doesn't that suggest something to you?" she persisted. "That it's past time for him to win." "You are the finest detective in this Manhattan," continued Winnifred. "How can you be so stupid?" "O ye of little faith," said Mallory. "You've solved a lot of tricky cases, and put yourself in harm's way at least half a dozen times. Did you do it solely so you could keep losing your money on Flyaway?" "When I go out on a case, my function is to detect," replied Mallory. "When I go to the track, my function is to bet. Why do you have such a problem with that? Mallory & Carruthers is paying its bills. This |
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