M Is for Magic Read Free

meet the Fat Man’s sister?”
    He scratched at his cheek. “Can’t say as I did. His sister…huh? Hey—the Fat Man didn’t have a sister.”
    â€œYou sure of that?”
    â€œSure I’m sure. It was the day my sister had her first kid—I told the Fat Man I was an uncle. He gave me this look and says, ‘Ain’t no way I’ll ever be an uncle, Joe. Got no sisters or brothers, nor no otherkinfolk neither.’”
    If the mysterious Miss Dumpty wasn’t his sister, who was she?
    â€œTell me, Joe. Didja ever see him in here with a dame—about so high, shaped like this?” My hands described a couple of parabolas. “Looks like a blonde love goddess.”
    He shook his head. “Never saw him with any dames. Recently he was hanging around with some medical guy, but the only thing he ever cared about was those crazy birds and animals of his.”
    I took a swig of my drink. It nearly took the roof of my mouth off. “Animals? I thought he’d given all that up.”
    â€œNaw—couple weeks back he was in here with a whole bunch of blackbirds he was training to sing ‘Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before mmm mmm .’”
    â€œ Mmm mmm ?”
    â€œYeah. I got no idea who.”
    I put my drink down. A little of it spilt on the counter, and I watched it strip the paint. “Thanks, Joe. You’ve been a big help.” I handed him a ten-dollar bill. “For information received,” I said—adding,“Don’t spend it all at once.”
    In my profession it’s making little jokes like that that keeps you sane.
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    I had one contact left. Ma Hubbard. I found a pay phone and called her number.
    â€œOld Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard—Cake Shop and licensed Soup Kitchen.”
    â€œIt’s Horner, Ma.”
    â€œJack? It ain’t safe for me to talk to you.”
    â€œFor old time’s sake, sweetheart. You owe me a favor.” Some two-bit crooks had once knocked off the Cupboard, leaving it bare. I’d tracked them down and returned the cakes and soup.
    â€œOkay. But I don’t like it.”
    â€œ You know everything that goes on around here on the food front, Ma. What’s the significance of a pie with four and twenty trained blackbirds in it?”
    She whistled long and low. “You really don’t know?”
    â€œI wouldn’t be asking you if I did.”
    â€œYou should read the Court pages of the papers next time, sugar. Jeez. You are out of your depth.”
    â€œC’mon, Ma. Spill it.”
    â€œIt so happens that that particular dish was set before the King a few weeks back…. Jack? Are you still there?”
    â€œI’m still here, ma’am,” I said quietly. “All of a sudden a lot of things are starting to make sense.” I put down the phone.
    It was beginning to look like Little Jack Horner had pulled out a plum from this pie.
    It was raining, steady and cold. I phoned a cab.
    Quarter of an hour later one lurched out of the darkness.
    â€œYou’re late.”
    â€œSo complain to the tourist board.”
    I climbed in the back, wound down the window, and lit a cigarette.
    And I went to see the Queen.
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    The door to the private part of the palace was locked. It’s the part that the public don’t get to see. But I’ve never been public, and the little lock hardly slowed me up. The door to the private apartments with the big red heart on it was unlocked, so I knocked and walked straight in.
    The Queen of Hearts was alone, standing in frontof the mirror, holding a plate of jam tarts with one hand, powdering her nose with the other. She turned, saw me, and gasped, dropping the tarts.
    â€œHey, Queenie,” I said. “Or would you feel more comfortable if I called you Jill?”
    She was still a good-looking slice of dame, even without the blonde wig.
    â€œGet out of here!” she