"Laura Resnick - Fluff the Tragic Dragon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Laura)

_Arnaud! _
"I say we take a little dose of reality," I snapped. "We can't call the
cops, the rodent man, or the _Times_ and say we have a _dragon_ in the
basement, for God's sake."
"No, but the _Inquirer_ would go for it," said Arnaud.




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 "Maybe even the stinking _Post_," added Ricardo.
"All right, Miss Reality," said Mrs. Pearl a trifle snidely. "You go
down and see what's living in the basement, and then you tell us what to do
about it, you're so smart."
Everyone fixed their gazes unwaveringly upon me. Stalling for time, I
suggested, "Why don't we wait and bring this up at the next tenants' meeting?"
"Darling, nobody _ever_ goes to tenants' meetings. That's so Midwestern
of you," Arnaud chided.
"Look, Arnaud, the landlord may be slow, but this really is his
responsibility," I said, sounding mature and wise.
"That's so naive of you," he replied dismissively.
"Beside," said Mrs. Castrucci, fingering her rosary with one hand as
she gestured against the Evil Eye with the other, "whadda make you think he
gonna believe more than you believe, without you see with you own eyes?" Her
English, usually rather good, deteriorates sadly under emotional stress.
"Fine," I said, losing patience with the whole scene. "Fine! I'll go
and look at your dragon, and then I will make a rational suggestion. After
that, you can do as you please. I'm supposed to be lying on my couch right
now, dying in peace and comfort."
Fumiko bowed, and Ricardo made some sort of voodoo gesture. He added,
in the kindest tone I'd ever heard him use, "Hey, man, they gonna remember you
in this building for years to come. You gonna be like a saint on West 93rd
Street."
"Okay, okay," I said, descending the stairs.
"Those who are about to die salute you!" Arnaud cried.
"See if you can find my quarter while you're down there!" Mrs. Pearl
called.
"I'm going to move when my lease comes up," I muttered.
I reached the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner to the laundry
room. It was utter chaos down there. The hastily dropped laundry baskets of
half a dozen tenants cluttered up the place. It was while I was wondering who
was stupid enough to wash a silk blazer in an industrial machine that I heard
the noises.
I froze when I heard the first heavy, echoing sigh. When it was
followed by a deep, primordial growl and the scent of smoke, I did everything
a good gothic heroine does -- I gasped, I pressed a trembling hand to my
heaving breast, the hair on the back of my neck stood up, and a deathly chill
raced down my spine. Believe me, it's not a routine a girl wants to go through
every day.
"Who's there?" I demanded, my voice squeaking in a manner that would