"Of course," she said, sounding mildly insulted.
"It's called Ancient Games. It's a book about folklore," I added, and gave her the author and publisher. "Plus he'd like recommendations – companion pieces, that kind of thing."
"I think I know who to call. I'll give you a call when everything's assembled. Is there anything else you'd like from the city? I don't think fast food would keep, but then you never know what preservatives they load it up with."
I considered for a moment. The city does have some comforts that one misses, having grown up there. Nightclubs at midnight, food stands at three am, and all my accompanying sins came back to haunt me. Loud music, dim bars, the elevated trains, the bitter cold canyon-effect where the winds cut through the gaps between high downtown buildings, chilling any exposed skin down to the bone. My apartment building, my office building. The hospital.
"No," I said. "There's nothing else I need."
"So long as you're sure. You only need to call, Christopher."
"Thank you, Marj. Save the receipts and send them on."
I could picture her smiling on the other end of the telephone. "You miss the ephemera. I see. Goodbye."
"Thanks again."
Marjorie had never failed to find a book, and I knew to expect the package in pretty short order. I had thought that would probably be the end of it, since the book Lucas had asked for didn't look particularly expensive. I imagined the next communication from her would be in the form of a letter, shoved inside a book so the post-office wouldn't notice it when it shipped media-mail.
Instead, I had a telephone call two days after I placed the order.
"Christopher, it's Marjorie," she said, the line crackling and popping behind her voice.
"Are you on a payphone?" I asked.
"Worse – my cellular."
"Oh, Marjorie."
"I know – I'm ashamed of me too, but I had to crack and get one. Anyway, this isn't the kind of thing I could borrow a phone for."
"Why? What's the matter?"
"Well, I've found a source for the book you're after, but she's...eccentric."
"God, no."
"Yep, one of those. The whole place reeks of cigarette smoke."
"I'm so sorry to send you there, Marj."
"Well, we all make sacrifices for literature. That isn't the problem. I assume your client can handle a little smell."
"He doesn't seem picky. What's the problem?"
"She won't sell unless she talks to you. She says she doesn't sell to just anyone and that she wants to see what you're made of first. I didn't tell her it was for a customer of yours."
"Thank you. Should I call her?"
"Well, I'm standing outside the shop now – I can put her on the phone with you."
"I'll owe you my soul."
"I don't want it second-hand from the devil, you'll have to owe me something else."
I laughed. "Go ahead, put her on."
There was a loud staticky sound, the slam of a door, and then a querulous voice on the other end of the line. "Who is this?"
"Ma'am, my name's Christopher Dusk. You've been speaking to my friend Marjorie, I'm the one who asked her for help. You have a copy of a title I'm looking for, I think?"
"I own it."
"So I'm told. I understand you have some reservations about selling?"
"I do! I do, young man," she said. Her voice rose and feel creakily. "What do you want this book for?"
"Well, ma'am, to be honest, I had it recommended to me."
"By who?"
I drummed my fingers on the counter. "An old friend of mine. If you'd rather not sell, I won't try to make you. It's just that they said it was a great book, and I wanted to read it myself. I'm a voracious reader – always looking for different sorts of things to read," I said, hoping I sounded convincing.
"Are you an artist?"
"A....what? No, ma'am, I'm – " I hesitated for only a split second before plunging ahead, "I'm a roofer, ma'am."
"A what?"
"A roofer – you know. Shingles, tar, that kind of thing."
She hemmed to herself thoughtfully, muh, muh, muh.
I thought of the way Lucas had phrased his request – ask if she has other volumes she'd recommend as companions. As if he knew the trouble I'd run into, and who I'd run into it with.
"If you're worried I can't afford it..." I left the words dangling in the air.
"Money on the spot," the woman said. "Cash."
"Of course – Marjorie will pay for it there and ship it to me. I live outside the city."
"Aha."
"You wouldn't happen to have any other books that you think would go well with it?"
There was another loud noise, and I was abruptly cut off. I stared down at the phone, then hung up and stared at it some more. It rang again five minutes later.
"Marjorie?" I asked, picking up the receiver.
"Well, whatever you said must have been the right thing – I have book in hand, or rather in bag."
"Did she put any other books in with it?"
"Not unless you count an incredibly aged and fragrant bookmark. You must be very fond of this young man."
"He's a customer, that's all."
"Huh. Christopher, this phone is giving me brain cancer as we speak. I'm going to hang up now."
"I'll look forward to that package," I said, and the line went dead for the second time.
Unfortunately for me and for Lucas, the first thunderstorm wasn't an isolated incident. That week there were three more, and I doubted he'd trekked out from The Pines in the rain just to get to my shop. Even if there hadn't been any lightning, the dirt roads outside of town saturated until they couldn't hold any more water. They turned into mud, then into a kind of filthy swamp, and then into quick-flooding murky pools. The field between The Pines and Low Ferry became a water meadow and soon enough the real roads began to wash out too. The mail was held up for a week solid. It was getting colder and it looked as though we would have snow for Halloween, as I'd thought.