Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [30]
“So a familiar, er, applies for the job?” I said.
“It would be more precise to say that a particular entity chose to answer my summons,” Max said. “An entity that deemed itself equal to the task of helping me protect New York from Evil.”
Nelli rolled over onto her back. Her tongue dangled sideways out of her mouth. Her paws flailed as she wriggled to scratch her back against the floor.
Lucky, who had been sitting immobile in a chair with a dazed expression on his face, suddenly became alert. “Did you say the IRS is bothering you?”
Max said to me, “Ah! I think your friend is feeling better.”
“ ’Cuz, you know, I can maybe help you with that,” Lucky said. “Discourage unnecessary inquiries into your perfectly legitimate business interests. As a favor. For a friend of Esther’s.”
I was glad that the very first thing I had thrown into the garbage urn was Lucky’s gun. I didn’t think he had noticed its rematerialization, and I thought everyone would be safer if he didn’t get his hands on it again.
I said firmly, “I don’t want anything bad to happen to a civil servant, Lucky. On behalf of me or Max.”
He shrugged. “If you change your mind . . .”
Despite some misgivings, I decided it was time to make introductions. “Lucky, this is Dr. Maximillian Zadok. He’s sort of a specialist in strange events.”
“Yeah,” said Lucky. “I think I get that. How do ya do, Doc?”
“How do you do, Mr. . . .”
“Lucky Battistuzzi,” was the reply. “I’m a hitter for the Gambellos.”
“A hitter?” Maxed asked with a puzzled expression.
Lucky waved aside the question. “Mostly retired. I just come out now and then when something special needs doing. Like this problem we got here.”
“Ah, a problem!” Max looked interested now. “I suppose that explains why you’re here so late, Esther?”
“Late?” I glanced at my watch. “Max, it’s not even nine o’clock in the morning.”
“It’s Saturday morning?” he asked in surprise.
“Sunday morning. Just how long have you been in the lab?”
“Good heavens! I really did lose track of time.” He explained to Lucky, “Conjuring a familiar is most absorbing work. Not to mention time consuming.”
“Are you talkin’, like, a sorcerer’s familiar?” Lucky asked.
“Precisely.”
“That’s your familiar?” Lucky asked, pointing at the dog.
“Yes.”
“That dog?”
“Yes, but—”
“It’s your familiar?”
“Yes.”
Lucky took a long look at Nelli. She looked back at him. After a long moment, the gangster said, “In that case, Doc, I’m real sorry I tried to whack it.”
“Hmm.” Max tugged absently on his beard as he considered what we had told him about Chubby Charlie’s death. “Interesting. Very, very interesting.”
“Yes, but is it supernatural?” I asked.
I immediately realized my mistake. Max started lecturing. The gist of it was, there is no such thing as “supernatural,” that’s a false construct; almost everything (though not quite everything) in the universe is natural, but some things are mystical or magical, and some are not.
Lucky summed up my feelings perfectly by interrupting Max’s monologue to say, “Whatever. Who cares? The point is, Doc, do you got any idea what the hell is going on here?”
We had left the laboratory and were upstairs in the bookstore, sitting in comfortable, prettily upholstered chairs in the reading area set up around the fireplace. The shop had well-worn hardwood floors, a broad-beamed ceiling, dusky rose walls, and a soothing atmosphere.
I had gratefully helped myself to coffee at the small refreshments station that Max kept stocked for his customers. It sat near a large, careworn walnut table with books, papers, an abacus, writing implements, and other paraphernalia on it.
Max didn’t bother opening the store for business yet. No one but us was awake this early on a Sunday