Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [27]
“But Max, I can’t go around town wearing this outfit and—”
He reappeared, wearing a jaunty straw hat that suited him well and holding Nelli’s pink leather leash. “Shall we?”
Nelli leaped to her feet, tail wagging in eager anticipation of a field trip.
“We can’t take a dog to the public library,” I said firmly.
Nelli gave me a wounded look.
“Don’t say ‘dog,’ ” Max reminded me anxiously. Nelli was a mystical familiar, and Max considered it a solecism to refer to her as a dog.
“We can’t take a canine familiar to the public library,” I said.
Nelli whined.
Even getting her all the way up to Harlem would be a challenge, though we had by now learned that some cab drivers were open to monetary persuasion with regard to transporting Nelli. As for the subway, that was out of the question. The rules about animals on public transportation were strict and specific, and (as we had also learned) the Manhattan Transit Authority was not amenable to making an exception for a carnivorous mammal that outweighed many adult women.
“Oh, dear.” Max said apologetically, “I’m afraid Esther may be right, Nelli.”
She looked at him reproachfully as he set down her leash on the old walnut table.
“I will give you a full account of our findings when I return,” he assured her. Lifting the receiver of the heavy old telephone that sat on the table, he added, “I will also ascertain immediately if Satsy is available to watch the store and take you out for your midday perambulation, since Esther and I may be gone for some time.”
Satsy was “Saturated Fats,” a three hundred pound drag queen who had assisted us in solving the problem of the mystical vanishings in spring. Satsy was an occult enthusiast who had already been a regular customer of the bookstore when we became acquainted, and now that Max had, as it were, a pet to care for, Satsy occasionally babysat Nelli and the bookstore in exchange for free books.
After a short telephone conversation, Max announced that Satsy would arrive within an hour of our departure. Nelli’s tail wagged with renewed good humor, since she liked Satsy, who was a kind-hearted companion—and also a pushover who fed her too many treats.
As we exited the store, Max said cheerfully to Nelli, “I’m sure I can count on you to assist any customers who enter before Satsy’s arrival!”
My guess was that when encountering Nelli alone inside the shop, most people sensibly turned right back around and left. But there was no denying that in the jumbled chaos of Zadok’s Rare and Used Books, she was uncannily good at helping people find obscure Latin volumes on alchemy and witchcraft, when asked.
Once we were outside on the street, and my Lycra top, leather boots, and vinyl skirt caused the bright muggy heat of the day to hit me with full force, I opened my mouth again to protest and insist that we go to my apartment before doing anything else today.
But Max spoke first. “Which direction is it?”
“What?”
“The subway train to Harlem,” he said. “Where do we find it?”
I blinked. “You’re getting on the subway?”
Raised in an era when a horse-drawn carriage was the epitome of fast, sophisticated transportation (and would continue to be so for another two hundred years), Max had an unmitigated horror of modern moving vehicles. He preferred to walk to most destinations, and he sometimes paid (outrageous sums) for the slow-moving horse-drawn carriages from Central Park, popular with tourists, to transport him. He only chose to travel by mechanized means when he considered speed imperative.
“Our destination is some distance from here,” he said.
“Well, yes. Seven or eight miles, I’d say.”
“Therefore, although I do not by any means look forward to the journey, a subterranean train is the best means of traveling to Harlem, is it not?”
“Yes. Especially on a weekday morning.” Today was Thursday, and midtown would be clogged with traffic. “We can catch the train at Washington Square, change at Forty-second Street, and get off at One Hundred