Callahan's Crosstime Saloon (14 page)

Didn’t want to leave you hanging. Please destroy this belt. The next time we all might not be so lucky. Many thanks from both of us.

Callahan tossed the belt into the fireplace, and it landed with a crunching sound. Then he picked up the sphere, and held it in his big hand. For the second time in two days, the fireplace faded from sight, but this time it was replaced by a mountain stream, crisp clean pines in the background, anachingly beautiful sunset playing tag with ominous grey stormclouds.

Bobbi Joy sat by the stream, her guitar across her lap, and her unscarred face was more beautiful than all the sunsets that ever were. She gazed serenely at all of us, and fitted her fingers to the strings.

It began slowly, a simple statement of key woven out of ninth chords that rose and fell like cyclical hopes in a crazy time-signature. Gradually, the pauses between the ringing chords were filled in with rhythmic direction, picking up speed and becoming almost a calypso beat-save that calypso never used such chords. And Bobbi Joy sang:

I walk around with … doubt inside of me

I don’t believe in … what I try to be

Words I whisper … seem like a lie to me

Strange thing

Wonder what’s happening?

Her voice spoke of confusion and fear, of doubt and loneliness; and our hearts sank within us.

I’m scared that maybe … I’m what I seem to be

Today is only … another dream to me

Fading,quickly … from my memory

Strange thing Wonder what’s happening?

All around the room I saw men respond to that plaintive question, saw them wince at the thought of failure, as Bobbi Joy went into the bridge of her song. Cradled in strings and an ironically mellow organ, she went on:

The sky is changing color

And the ground is far away

I wandered in my mind

And now I’ve lost the way …

Where are the places … that I used to go?

Who are the people … that I used to know?

Will things be any … better tomorrow?

Strange thing Wonder what’s happening?

And then, cutting through our despair as the sun cut through the holographic clouds, a full orchestra came out of nowhere, a warm carpet of sound that swelled in moments to an almost Wagnerian peak. Bobbi’s face was transfused with a startling smile of pure joy, and fullthroated she sang:

And then I meet a Meddler

And the Meddler comes to me

He tells me of my future

And he comforts me …

And the final verse exploded in Callahan’s Place like a hallelujah chorus of horns and violins, banishing all the fear and the uncertainty and the pain, turning them all to nothing more than paid dues, the admission price to happiness:

Now rain is falling … like a beautitude

Trees are weeping … tears of gratitude

There’s been a change in … my whole attitude

Strange thing

Good things are happening

Strange thing—

Good things are happening

And with a flurry of trumpets, the song died. Bobbi Joy smiled a deep, satisfied smile and disappeared, taking her mountain stream with her.

Callahan’s arm came down fast, and the sphere exploded in the center of the fireplace. And in that moment we realized, all of us in Callahan’s Place, that the Meddler’s guess had been part right. Just as there are laws of Conservation of Matter and Energy, so there are in fact Laws of Conservation of Pain and Joy. Neither can ever be created or destroyed.

But one can be converted into the other.

Just Dessert

Sooner or later, just about every bar acquires that most obnoxious of nuisances: the practical joker. I’d have thought Callahan’s Place would be immune to that particular kind of carbuncle-we don’t seem to pick up the standard idiots that most saloons have to put up with, the weepy drunks and the belligerent loudmouths and the ones who drink to get stupider. It’s almost as though some sort of protective spell ensures that the only people who find Callahan’s are the ones who should-and the ones who must.

But very occasionally, some refugee from the Dew Drop Inn does accidentally wander in, usually for just long enough to make us appreciate his absence when he finally leaves. There was, for instance, the guy of an ethnic extraction I can’t specify without getting a lot of Italians mad at me, who represented a juke-box concern. He made Callahan an offer he couldn’t refuse-so Mike didn’t bother refusing. The guy’s broken arms eventually healed, I understand, but he never got over the amnesia. Then there was the gent who brought his young secretary in to get her drunk for carnal purposes. Callahan got a little sloppy that night: somehow all the ginger ale ended up in her glass and all the vodka in his. When he woke up he was a far piece from nowhere, minus a secretary and a rather sporty pair of pants.

When the Practical Joker arrived, however, it was not Callahan but Doc Webster who fixed his wagon.

It was a Friday night, and the place was more crowded than Dollar Day in a cathouse. Fast Eddie was sharing his piano bench with three other guys, Callahan and Tom Hauptman were behind the bar, busier than a midget mountain-climber, and we were plumb out of beer nuts. Me, I was sandwiched between Doc Webster and Noah Gonzalez at the bar, feeling the urgency of hydraulic pressure, wishing there wasn’t a wall of folks between me and the jake.

I guess it was the huge number of cars scattered around out in the parking lot that made that sadistic jackass think he’d found the perfect place to pull off his little gag. Come to think on it, maybe Fate was leading him to Callahan’s after all.

In any case, he came shouldering through the throng with his two buddies on either side of him at about eleven, and the three of them took up position at the bar just beside the Doc. I noticed them out of the corner of my eye and gaped like a fish with lockjaw. The guy in the middle was plainly and simply the ugliest man I had ever seen.

When they passed out necks he thought they said “sex” and asked for lots and lots. His chin and his Adam’s apple looked like twin brothers in bunk beds, his nose appeared to be on sideways, and his eyes were different sizes. His ears were so prominent that from the front he looked like a taxicab coming down the street with the doors open, and his hair resembled a lawn with persistent crabgrass. The longest strands issued from his nostrils. As he reached the bar, the clock over the cashbox stopped, and I couldn’t blame it a bit. I forgot about my bladder and gulped the drink I’d been nursing.

The Doc saw my face, swiveled his massive bulk around to look, and damn’ near dropped his Scotch; you have to understand that the Doc firmly believes in the Irish legend that on Judgement Day you will be suspended head-down in a barrel containing all the liquor you’ve ever spilled, and if you drown, to Hell with you. Even Callahan shuddered.

The guy glanced at the perfectly ordinary-looking accomplices on either side of him, pulled a fistful of singles from the pocket of his sportscoat, and said, “Boilermakers.” The noise of the crowd had begun to abate as folks caught sight of the apparition, and the single word was plainly audible.

Callahan’s cigartraveled from one side of his mouth to the other. He shrugged his broad shoulders and produced three shotglasses and three chasers, unable to take his eyes off the guy in the middle.

The three of them lifted their shots, upended them, then did the same with the beers.

“Again,” said the ugly man, and Callahan refilled their glasses.

The second round went down, if anything, faster than the first.

“Again.”

Callahan blinked, shrugged again and made three more boilers.

Gulp-gulp-gulp.

Now, even in Callahan’s Place on a Friday night, amid some of the most dedicated drinkers that ever tried to outdo a sponge, this sort of thing is bound to attract some attention. The silence was nearly complete; some of the boys in the far corners began climbing up on tables and chairs to watch, and there were enough necks being craned to make a chiropractor dizzy with glee. Over at the piano Fast Eddie began a pool, taking bets on how many more rounds the three strangers could survive.

After the sixth set of boilers had been made and unmade, Callahan tried to call a halt. “Sorry, gents. If you want to commit suicide, you’ll have to find another joint.”

The two flankers nodded, but the ugly man reached into his sports coat pocket again, produced a chopstick, and balanced it on his index finger. “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” he said clearly and distinctly. “British constitution. The Leith police dismisseth us. Sister Suzie’s sewing shirts for soldiers …”

He kept it up until Callahan, exchanging looks with Doc Webster, put another shot in front of him. The guy shut up and gulped the sauce, sent a glass of beer after it, and waited expectantly.

Callahan sighed and opened a fresh bottle, and I could tell from the label that it was the colored water Tom Hauptman drinks when he’s working (explaining to anyone who’ll listen that “The wages of gin are breath”). I guess the big barkeep figured this mug was too far gone to notice the difference.

But as he reached out to pour, the unlovely customer put his hand over his glass. “Wait a bit,” he said faintly, his voice suddenly wavering. “I … I don’t know. Maybe I … oh Lord, I don’t feel too good. I think I’m gonna be …” He clutched his middle and leaned over the bar, and a ghastly mess splattered on the counter-top.

A great disgusted groan went up, and those of the boys with weak stomachs began to make their way toward the door.

But the real stampede began when the hapless stranger’s two companions, grinning wildly, produced a pair of spoons and dug in.

I would have bet my store teeth that nothing short of an earthquake could empty Callahan’s Place on a Friday night, but that about did it. Folks fled in all directions, out the front door, the back door, even the windows, horror on every face, hideous gargling cries fading into the night.

When the smoke had cleared and the commotion ceased, Callahan, the Doc and I were the only survivors, and even the indomitable Callahan looked green about the gills. Tom was out cold on the floor behind the bar.

And that damned practical joker and his two cronies turned around, looked at the empty saloon, and began laughing hard enough to bust a gut, slapping their thighs and punching each other on the shoulder.

“What the hell …” I began, and the ugly man, looking fully recovered now, turned to face me, still laughing fit to kill. He pulled open his sports coat, disclosing a hot water bottle pinned over the inside pocket. “Beef stew,” he gasped, and his pals began laughing even harder.

Callahan went from pale green to bright red, and his hand went under the bar, emerging with a softball bat.

“No, Mike!” I cried, “Don’t! I know how you feel, but there’s just a wild chance that some jury somewhere in the world might convict you.”

Muscles bulged in his jaw, but he got a grip on himself and lowered the bat. The three waterheads kept on chortling, oblivious.

“All RIGHT, goddammit,” Callahan bellowed. “You’ve had yer fun. Now get the rest o’ this crap off my bar and get outa here before I murder yez.” I was startled to notice that Doc was grinning broadly. It didn’t figure to be his kind of humor.

The three wits, sensing danger at last, nodded and began spooning up the remains of the stew. In no time the bar-top was reasonably clean. The ugly joker offered Callahan a ten-spot for his trouble, and nearly had it for dessert. Still smiling idiotically,. they headed for the door and disappeared into the night.

Callahan caught sight of the Doc’s grin and glared at him, still furious. “What the hell are you laughin’ at?” he growled, and the Doc’s grin got even wider.

“I saw that gag pulled once before, Mi , ‘ he said, “and I recognized it right off.”

“So that makes it funny?”

“Hell, no.”

“Well then?”

“That guy’s stomach must be pretty good to handle all that booze,” the Doc said happily, “but I wonder how he and his buddies are gonna like the seasoning I put in the stew while their backs were turned.”

The Doc opened his pudgy fist, and there was a little bottle in it, labeled, “serum of ipecac.”

Callahan’s eyes widened, and then he smiled.

“A Voice Is Heard In Ramah …”

How should I know?

It was a combination of things, I guess, and no one special reason. For one thing, the place doesn’t look like much from the outside. Nor is the interior by any stretch of the imagination romantic-more like a cross between a Chinese firedrill and Tim Finnegan’s last party, most nights. But then you can’t tell that from the highway either. Whatever the reason, it just sort of turned out that women didn’t come into Callahan’s Place.

All right, maybe I’m ducking the issue. Maybe there was some kind of masculine aura about the place, a psychic emanation of chauvinist-piggery that kept it a male bastion for so long. Maybe we were extended adolescents, emotionally retarded, projecting a telepathic equivalent of the “No Girls Allowed” sign on Tubby’s clubhouse. There’s surely no doubt that Callahan’s is culturally descended from the grand tradition of Irish bars, and they tend to be misogynistic. LongDrink McGonnigle’s father-in-law, Thirsty O’Toole, assures us that Irishmen go to pubs to get shut of the women.

But I can’t really believe there was ever any prejudice intended. Callahan doesn’t insist that his customers be human. Certainly no effort was ever made to bar women, as happened at McSorley’s. But men didn’t come to Callahan’s Place to meet women, and that may be why the few that chanced to drop in generally left quickly.

Then one night a woman walked in and stayed, and I was real proud of the way the boys acted.

It was a Punday Night, as it happened, a little late in the evening. A perfectly good topic-“trees”-had been worked over for so long that the three surviving contestants, Doc Webster, Tom Flannery, and LongDrink, were … pardon me … stumped. Callahan declared all three co-winners and, as custom demanded, refunded their might’s tab. But as it was still a bit early we decided to hold a play-off for Grand Pundit, no holds barred, any topic, and the three champions agreed.