Callahan's Secret (4 page)

Our lovemaking was about as good as a first time can be. It was not the telepathic experience it could become with practice and study, of course-pethaps even less so than a simple sporting event might have been. I spent most of my time in my own head, startled by the unexpected magnitude of my own need, and~then bemused by the discovery that hers was even greater. Phe~ii~enčy vs. tenderness ratio definitely tilted to the left, and there seemed to be some question as to who was raping whom. It got pretty athletic in spots. (Doubtless noisy as well, though I’m sure the rain blanketed most of it.) Most of the information that we passed back and forth came directly from the spinal column or just a little bit higher up.

But tenderness was in there too, and caring, and sharing, and something oddly like nostalgia, and so all in all it was about as nice a last time as you could have asked for, -too. Our afterglow-durations synched, which is always nice, and we picked little roofing-pebbles from each other’s backs, for all -the world like monkeys hunting lice. In the process we magically dried out again. It turned out that we both smoked the same brand of cigarette, but when we took two from the pack, Finn’s magic selectively failed and they soaked through. We wasted two more before giving up, then I cautiously experimented and learned that a joint was immune. Opinionated man, Finn-but maybe he knows something. We dressed while we toked, and when we were dressed we started drifting over toward the stairwell.

I stopped. “Mary, let’s not go down yet. Once we do it’ll be wall-to-wall introductions and smiles and drinks and toasts. I want you to meet my friends-but I haven’t-had a chance to get to know you yet.”

“As the old joke goes, it’s been the equivalent of a formal introduction.”

“You know what I mean. I don’t know where you live or where you grew up or what you want to do with your life or how many husbands you have-hell, I don’t know your last name!”

“I don’t know yours.”

“My point exactly. The inmates downstairs, lovable and extraordinary though they be, will keep-let’s talk.”

“Let’s talk later: you know we will. Right now I want to go where there are lights on.”

“Yes, but-“

“I want to check the staircase over one more time, too.”

“-it’s perfectly-“

“All right, I want to hear people admiring it.”

“-you -don’t-“

“I want a drink.”

“-I bow to superior intelligence.”

Warm light and happy noise and the smell of good suds came flooding out the opened door; as we descended the stairs the sour, oddly pleasant aroma of Callahan’s everpresent El Ropo cigars joined the mix.- Under the laughter and talk, Fast Eddie Costigan was playing Mac Rebennac stuff, and occasionally one patron or another would scat along with him. Noah Gonzalez was working on a gag he’d picked up from Al Phee, juggling full shot glasses, and by God he finally had it down cold. A small cheering section had gathered; while they clapped, Noah started sipping from the shots as they passed his face. (Noah works for the Suffolk County Bomb Squad, is why one leg is artificial, and a merrier man you’ll never meet.) Mary and I joined the onlookers; true artistry is rare. Noah drained two tumblers, spilling no more than a teaspoon or so on himself, then swallowed, wiped his mouth without losing rhythm, and hollered out, “Open wide, Drink!”

Long-Drink McGonnigle never blows a cue. “Hit me,” he cried, and opened his mouth wide.

This is what I think I saw: the shot glass still containing whiskey went up one last time, tilting this time in stately slow motion so that the contents almost spilled; then it came down, and Noah caught it,-stopped it cold with three fingers, the contents departed on a high trajectory, Noah flung it back into the stream of traffic so that it made up the lost time, we held our collective breath-and the Drink whipped his head two inches to the left and the flying booze impacted squarely against the back of his throat. A roar went up, and Noah laughed so hard he lost all three glasses, and-perhaps most magnificent of all-Long-Drink did not lose so much as a drop of the load.

So rarely in life are we privileged to be present at such a moment. When I was ten, my family spent a summer vacation puptenting around New Hampshire, and inevitably we took the cog railway up Mount Washington, a journey itself worth remembering, but what I will never forget as long as I live is standing at the bookoff railing with the family, admiring the view while trying to keep from being blown over the edge by the fierce mountaintop wind, and the truly beautiful thing that happened then. Dad’s hat blew off, before he could even try to save it, and sailed out over an indescribable gulf, bound for the state of Maine with every chance of making it. He’d been a little grumpy earlier that day, and had regained his good spirits by force of will only a short time earlier, the rest of us made small cries of dismay as we watched his hat recede. So did several bystanders. But Dad was heroically determined to keep his good mood: he forced a smile, and even essayed a joke. “Don’t worry,” he called above the wind, “there’ll be another one along in a minute.” He put up his hand as if to pluck a hat from the sky. And a hat flew into his hand.

This, you may say, and I will agree, is a wonderful thing, a marvelous thing. But the beautifuI thing, the thing that came back to me again and again during my stormy adolescent battles with Dad and kept me from ever really hating him, is what he did then. He caught the hat, smoothly, and without the slightest hesitation placed it on his head, pokerfaced. Even -the fact that it was a perfect fit did not faze him. “You see?” he said, and held a deadpan all the way through the ensuing ovation. I’ve always loved and admired my dad, but in that two or three seconds he became immortal.

Some moments are golden, is what I’m saying, and what Noah had just pulled off was.one of those, somebody playing above himself. It made me feel awed and happy and grateful. Callahan’s Place had done me proud, serving up some magic for mejust as I brought Mary in the door to meet it. After the inevitable storm of glasses bad shattered in the fireplace, I joined the throng of people who wanted to buy Noah and Long-Drink a drink. We were all disappointed, as Callahan had caught the act and announced that the boys’ tab was covered for the night-but I was mildly annoyed to notice that -Mary too bad offered the pair a drink…from a flask. She had insisted on coming down here, putting off our getting to know each other (other than in the biblical sense, I mean), because she wanted a drink-which she’d had with her. We could have sat up there on the roof and killed the flask, talked for hours before coming downstairs…

Hush, I told myself sensibly. Sexual intercourse vests no property rights. And how could I resent any combination of crcumstances which had allowed me to witness the triumph of Noah and the McGonnigle? All around the room, people whose attention had been elsewhere were getting the tale secondhand and kicking themselves. Let it go, Jake- “That was special,” Mary told me, grinning and taking my hand.

“Yes, indeed. Noah claims he’s working up a routine with live čhainsaws, and now I think I believe him. What’ll you have?”

She sniffed the air. “Do I smell coffee?”

“Jamaican Blue Mountain. Mike has Mends in Tokyo. And, anticipating your next question, he also has Old Bushmill’s, distilled in Ireland, and fresh whipped cream, and he knows how. Come on.”

Callahan was working up a sweat behind the bar when we got there, but he stopped short as he came past us with twelve drafts in his big hands and said to Mary, gesturing in my direction, “Mary, if your tastes are as simple as this, you might be interested in dating me sometime.”

“What can I do?” she said. “He’s got the negatives. But thanks.”

Callahan wrinkled his big broken nose and grimaced.

“Damn. Jake, what’ll you charge me for a print?”

“Sorry. The rights are tied up. Mike, you sure picked a good staircase-putter-inner. You do know where that thing came from?”

“Sure do,” Callahan said. “I made a point of asking Sally for it when I heard she was closing. Yeah, Mary does good work. What’ll you folks have?’

“God’s Blessing on us both, Mike,” I told him. He nodded and went off with his dozen overdue beers.

Mary was smiling broadly. “I like this place, Jake.”

“I already knew you had good taste. Pun intended.”

“Ouch. You did warn me.”

“Around here we don’t even wait for straightlines.”

“Well,” she said, absolutely pokerfaced, “the shortest distance between two puns is a straightline,” and helped herself to some peanuts from the free lunch.

I felt like I had the time I was coming on just a little to a stranger about what a hot guitarist I was, and discovered too late that I was talking to Mr. Amos Garrett. (Remember the demonic guitar break in Maria Muldaur’s “Midnight At the Oasis”? That Amos Garrett.. -) “And the success of any pun,” I tried to riposte, “is in-“

“-the oy of the beholder,” she finished for me.

Hmmm…

Mike returned wth a pair of Irish coffees. “Two God’s Blessings,” he announced. “I could swear I still hear rain-but you two are bone-dry, and I don’t see a brolly.”

“Finn’s doing,” I explained, and he nodded. “Say, Mike, where do you know Mary from? And how come you never invited her around before?’

“Long story. Excuse me, will you? It’s time to get the evening started.”

He emptied a glass that Shorty Steinitz had foolishly left unattended and banged it on the bartop. “All right, folks-Tall Tales Night is now in session. Who’s first?’

Ralph Von Wau Wau was pushed forward by the crowd. “I do have a mildly interesting story for you all,” he said, and! glanced at Mary to see how she would take it. I mean, I suppose it’s a subjective thing, but I find a talking dog to be more intrinsically startling than - a seven-foot flying cyborg. But she didn’t blink. Well, I had warned her.

In that charming German accent of his (he is a Shepherd), Ralph told a fairly complex story about a demonically possessed lady of his acquaintance whom he had exorcised after even a bishop had failed; the yarn built inexorably, to the line, “Possession is nine points of the paw,” and produced some very canine howls of agony from the innocent bystanders.

Which of course only inspired Doe Webster. “Damned if I’ll be outpunned by a genuine son of a bitch,” he boomed, and folks made way grinning for him as he stepped forward. Physically the Doc resembles a Sumo wrestler gone to fat. He is the All-time Punday Night Champion and probably always will be; only Long-Drink and I still cherish a hope of supplanting him anymore.

“As many of you know,” the Doc began, “I just got back from visiting Juan Oitiz, an obstetrician friend of mine in Los Angeles. He was nominally on vacation, but one day there was an emergency delivery he just had to attend, so he deputized his brother-in-law Obie Stihl-honest to God, that’s his name, I’d never make up a name like that-deputized Obie to show me around town. We went to Disneyland. Obie turned out to be a dedicated Star Wars freak, with a sense of humor even more depraved than my own-we passed by three sailors on the way in, for instance, and when he noticed they were all Chief Petty Officers, he niade sure to point out the ‘Three C.P.O.s’ (sounds of gagging and dismay from the audience). “So he took me to Adventureland, where you go on a Jungle Boat Ride. Robot hippos come up out of the water and spit at you and so forth.” (“Maybe they were relatives of yours,” Long-Drink murmured, and Callahan shushed him.) “But the worst part was the damned boat captain. Through the whole voyage he kept up a running monologue that had shin splints: bad jokes, worse puns, mother-in-law jokes even. I was in severe pain; fella thought he was a real hot dog. But the wurst was yet to come.” (Gasps.) “As we got back to the wharf, just as I was stepping off the boat, Obie leaned over and whispered in my ear, ‘Now you’re getting to see the dock side of the farce..

A roar of collective anguish went up, and glasses began to fly toward the hearth. “Rest of us might as well fold up,” Tommy Janssen said. “That’s a winner.”

“Strictly speaking,” Callahan said with some reluctance, “I’m afraid it ain’t. That story’d probably take the honors if this was Punday Night-but I don’t really see it as a Tall Tale.”

“He’s right,” Long-Drink said. “It’s nice if the Tall Tale ends with a crime like that, but the Tale itself has to have fantastic elements to it. Sorry, Doc: syntax error.”

The Doc frowned, but what could he say? They were right. And then divine fire touched me, as it had Noah a while earlier.

I wanted to impress my new love, and I wanted to help Doe Webster, and it just slipped out before I knew I was going to speak: “I’m surprised at you boys. The fantastic element in that story is staring you all right in the face.”

Even the Doe looked puzzled. “How’s that, Jake?” Callahan asked.

“Well, how many of you have ever toured Disneyland, or anyplace else, with a fictional character?”

The Doe was the only one who saw it coming; his frown left.

“Doe told you who his guide was: O.B. Juan’s kin, Obie.”

A frozen silence. Group catatonic shock. And then Ralph began to howl, and was joined by the rest. Every glass in the room, full or empty, began a journey whose terminus was the fireplace; Eddie tried to play the Star Wars theme but was laughing so hard he couldn’t get his hands to agree on a key; Callahan reached threateningly for a seltzer bottle; Doc Webster shook my hand respectfully.

I glanced aroUnd for Mary to see if she was suitably impressed, and found her staring across the room. I followed her gaze, realized she was staring at Finn-and realized that Finn was in some kind of trouble.

He was sitting bolt upright in his chair, which he hardly ever does, being so tall, and he was paying no attention to the proceedings around him, and tears were running down his face. The last time I’d seen tears on Finn’s face, years before, the planet Earth had been in serious jeopardy…

He got up and walked stiffly to the bar, and Mary and I moved wordlessly to where we could see what Finn was doing.

He was offering Mike Callahan ten singles. He wanted ten of something. Callahan was looking him over. “How much effect will that have on him?” Mary asked in a whisper.