I sipped my club soda. “I wish I could,” I said. “But not tonight.”

“Something on?”

“Just that I’m beat. I’m going straight home, and the most active thing I intend to do is say a quick prayer to St. John of God.”

“Is he somebody I should know about?”

“He’s the patron saint of booksellers.”

“Yeah? Who’s the patron saint of dog groomers?”

“Damned if I know.”

“I hope we’ve got one. I’ve been bitten and scratched and peed on and I ought to have someplace to turn. As far as that goes, I wonder if there’s a patron saint of lesbians. All those cloistered nuns, there damn well ought to be. Seriously, do you suppose there is?”

I shrugged. “I could probably find out. I only know about St. John of God because Mr. Litzauer had a framed picture of him in the back room of the shop. But there must be books with lists of the patron saints. I’ve probably got something in the store, as far as that goes.”

“It must be great, having that shop. Like living in a library.”

“Sort of.”

“The Poodle Factory’s like living in a kennel. You going? Hey, have a nice night, Bern.”

“Thanks. And I’ll check out St. Sappho tomorrow.”

“If you get a chance. Hey, is there a patron saint of burglars?”

“I’ll check that, too.”

I rode three different subway trains to Broadway and Eighty-sixth and walked a block to Murder Ink, where I sold my shopping bag full of books to Carol Bremer. She got all my vintage mysteries; I could do better wholesaling them to her than waiting for somebody to pick them off my shelves.

She said, “Charlie Chan, Philo Vance-this is wonderful, Bernie. I’ve got want-list customers for all this stuff. Buy you a drink?”