Callahan's Lady

by Spider Robinson

  I was not scared. I had passed way beyond scared, seconds ago. I knew scared would return as soon as I felt the knife again, but now I was conscious only of a vast sadness, sadness and the bitter taste of defeat. It seemed unfair, and anticlimactic, of the universe to torment me further by adding dollops of guilt and shame to my sorrow. I had been stupid: the message did not need underlining. So why did I also have to bear the guilt for the death of an innocent bystander, somebody’s harmless, brainless auntie? Not to mention the beagle, which Travis was probably going to stomp to death and sell to a Korean restaurant.

  “Go ’way,” I croaked. “It’s a game we play—”

  “That’s right, Auntie,” Travis said, grinning. “We playin’ a game. Like foreplay, you dig? Better beat it on home, we jus’ gettin’ to the good part.” He unzipped his fly partway with his knife hand, still holding me by the hair.

  “If it is a game, dear boy, then I should very much like to play too, if I may. And in my judgment it is your turn to be It.”

  Big Travis frowned, confused. I closed my eyes and groaned, because I knew how he always reacted to confusion. Sure enough, he let go of my hair, and as I slumped back onto my heels I heard his snakeskin boots stride slowly away.

  “Old woman,” he said, “I think it be your turn to be shit—”

  I knelt there marinating in sorrow for a thousand years. I could feel things rearranging themselves inside me where he had stabbed me, cut edges rubbing past each other, but the pain could not distract me from my sadness and guilt. Something exploded in my head, and I knew I had to open my eyes and look at her, had to see her sweet, well-intentioned, stupid face once, so that I could take the sight of it to Hell with me. I deserved to; I had gotten her killed. I turned my head in her direction with a massive effort and forced my eyes open.

  There was something wrong with what I was seeing. The point of view was too high. I was on my feet! How had I gotten to my feet?

  At once came the thought, Maureen, if you are strong enough to get up on your hind legs, you are strong enough to turn around and run.

  I calculated my chances of escape at one in a hundred. But even that one chance made it more imperative than ever that I see the old lady’s face before she died. I focused on it, squinting because she was silhouetted against the mouth of the alley.

  Then she took a step forward, toward Travis. She entered a zone of weak light reflected from something shiny in the trash around us, and I saw her fairly clearly.

  She could have been a duchess. Her bearing was as aristocratic as her accent. She was smaller and slighter than me. She was dressed very expensively and very elegantly and very tastefully. She carried no purse. I guessed her an expensively preserved fifty. She carried herself like someone used to respect. She looked like a nice old lady, and my heart sank.

  She was still holding that leash in her hand. On the other end of it was the beagle. He looked as sad as I felt.

  Getting enough air to shout hurt dreadfully, but I did it anyway. “Lady, run!” I called. “He’s got a knife.”

  She stood her ground. “I know, dear. Don’t be afraid.” Her voice was deep and throaty, and she sounded just slightly tipsy, as though she’d been nipping at the port. A British Tallulah Bankhead.

  “That dog come at me,” Travis said, “an’ I’ll take it away from you, put it someplace you might not like.”

  “Oh, I’ve always been one for a fair fight,” she said cheerily, and let go of the leash. “I’ll take him alone, Charles,” she told it. It looked up at her and panted mournfully.

  Travis stood still for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Sure is a night for dumb bitches,” he said, and moved toward her.

  Then something happened and he fell down.

  I was looking right at them and that is what I saw. Doubtless it surprised him even more than it did me. It didn’t seem to surprise the duchess at all. I swear I never saw her move a muscle.

  He got his hands under him, and then his feet, stayed in a crouch and felt his face. He glanced down at his hand, flung something from it that made a splatting sound on trash cardboard. “Jesus, Christ,” he said softly, “you broke my damn nose!”

  “It protrudes,” she said. “Or did.”

  Travis’s nose was inordinately important to him. I should know; I’d worked hard keeping it fed. He made an animal sound.

  She sighed. “I shall only give you one more lesson, dear boy,” she said. “Then if you absolutely insist I shall kill you.”

  He sprang upward toward her, screamed, and did a back flip. At least it looked as if he tried to. But although he tucked well, he just didn’t rotate fast enough, and landed hard on his back. He stayed tucked. After a moment, he began making an odd, whistling sound.

  “I, for one, certainly hope we’re done now,” she said, and waited.

  It took him long seconds to straighten out, and more to let go of his crotch and get his breathing back to normal. He got to his feet slowly and with extreme care. He looked down stupidly at the knife he still held in his hand. Then he looked back up to her. Travis’s crotch was inordinately important to him, too, and I had no idea what on earth was going on but I, for one, was sure we were not done now. He began to growl—

  And she took a step toward him, eyes flashing, and the growl turned into a yelp, and he fled.

  He ran so fast he lost his footing, fell headlong, did a tuck and roll and came up running even faster; so fast that when he burst out of the alley he had to run a few thundering steps along the side of a parked Buick to make his turn.

  The duchess did not relax. She was already relaxed. She sniffed. “What an asshole,” she said delicately.

  The beagle, panting happily, seemed to nod.

  I was still on my feet, but the alley wall was against my back now. I decided I was hallucinating, that I must have gone mad, like people did in the movies. I thought of a movie they showed us once in one of my dozens of schools, “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.” Was this my dying fantasy? Was Big Travis even now slicing me open, humming thoughtfully and artistically? I did feel my feeble reserves of strength draining, and I did hear a humming sound.

  I shoved myself away from the wall, tottered forward four steps on my stilts, stared at the calm, unruffled auntie. She separated into two identical copies of herself, like an amoeba reproducing. So did the beagle and everything else. I made an immense effort and resolved the double vision.

  “Thank you for not dying,” I said. My voice sounded distant. “It was kind of you.” Manners. Duchesses placed high value on manners. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to now. Terribly sorry. Will you excuse me—?”

  Falling to my knees hurt worse the second time. The light at the end of the alley began receding rapidly, taking the deadly duchess and her dog with it.

  My last thought was that I’d have to hurry if I wanted to get to Hell before the evening rush—

  But I woke in another place.

  Or so it seemed when consciousness first returned. I was lying on my back on a very comfortable bed, under soft warm covers. I had only the vaguest recollection of the fight, something unimportant that had happened a long time ago. Nothing hurt, not even my side. I did not try moving to see if that would make it hurt. I was too weak to move.

  Wherever I was, it was quiet and peaceful here. The room was not dark; a soft feeble light source of some kind lay to my right. The air was full of pleasant girl-scents. This was not a hospital room or an emergency ward or a police infirmary. And it certainly didn’t seem to be Hell.

  With great effort I rolled my head to the right, toward the light, and became much less certain.

  My vision was watery at first. But even in the first glance there was no mistaking what I saw. A small naked man.

  No, not naked, wearing some sort of odd, leather harness, and slippers, and a short apron-like affair tied around his waist that left his buttocks bare. His back was to me. He seemed to be making an effort to move quietly. He was standing before
a large beautiful old dresser, and from its second drawer he was just removing a red satin corset, taking care not to let it rustle.

  Jesus God, I thought, while I was hallucinating killer aunties Big Travis killed me and now he’s rented me to a necrophiliac. A necrophiliac fetishist. Doesn’t anybody just want to get naked with a nice cool corpse and make love normally any more?

  No, I decided, this will not do. I picked my johns while I was alive and I’ll pick them now, and this guy is entirely too scary! Even for a corpse. Oh God, I think I’m naked under this blanket—

  I summoned up all the energy I had for a roof-raising shriek of terror and rage and outrage. What came out was a squeak, such as you might hear from a sleeping baby mouse having a bad dream, and almost at once I stopped being afraid. Because the squeak caused him to leap a few inches in the air like a startled burglar, and when he spun around and gasped at me his face held such a comic mixture of dismay and confusion and fear and anger with himself that if I’d had the strength, I might have giggled. He looked so silly in that apron and straps. Jiminy Cricket in bondage. Balding slightly, with the beginnings of a pot belly. He gestured vaguely with the red corset and began speaking in a high rapid voice. “Oh God, I was sure I could do it without waking you I’m so terribly sorry I’m such a fool oh I beg you please don’t tell Mistress Cynthia please don’t or she won’t punish me tonight!” He waited expectantly. Garters dangled agitatedly from the corset.

  “Nng,” I whispered.

  He slapped himself in the face. “Oh, I’m such a fool please forgive me of course I’ll go at once pretend I was never here just go back to sleep I promise everything is all right you’re in good hands the best hands the very best hands and there’s nothing to be afraid of Doctor Kate fixed everything someone will be here soon to look after you if you want anything I’m really sorry please don’t tell Mistress Cynthia thank you!”

  He sprang for a door I had not yet seen and was gone before I could say “Nng” again.

  Then he sprang back into the room, scurried to the dresser, snatched up some nylons to go with the corset and was gone again.

  It never occurred to me to doubt that he was real. I know the limitations of my imagination. But those same limits left me unable to guess how I ought to react.

  I decided I did not need to. I went to sleep. My first intelligent decision for a long time.

  I should have stuck with it. When I woke again I felt just awful, stiff and sore and queasy and sour and sweaty. My mouth was dry and tasted foul. My cheek hurt. My knees ached. My head throbbed. There was more light than last time, and it hurt my eyes even through the lids. But the worst was my side. It felt as if someone had had carnal knowledge of the knife wound. That much pain was scary.

  I whimpered, and tried to curl up around my left side. Gentle firm hands touched my shoulders, pressed me back. Woman hands. One of them brushed my hair back, stroked my forehead. The hand was cool, its skin soft. The fingers wandered at first, then seemed to sense little currents of pain beneath the skin and targeted them. I gave up the struggle to remain tense, let myself go as limp as the pain in my side would let me. I kept my eyes closed, because as long as I didn’t open them, nobody could scare me or make me think or ask me questions. Not even me. Blindness wasn’t a lot of comfort, but it was all I had.

  When people rub your head for you they never quite get the right spots. She never missed. Her fingers traced veins of suffering, soothed knots of muscle, stimulated circulation, adjusted their pressure and direction with uncanny precision. As my headache washed away, the pain in my side began to diminish slightly. Which made the fear begin to ease, which caused the faint nausea to wane, which helped the headache…

  “That’s better,” she said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Her voice was as gentle and firm as her hands. I remembered it very well. Those compassionate fingers trolling for pain across my forehead were the ones that had wiped up the alley with Big Travis.

  I opened one eye part way. The duchess, all right, resplendent now in evening dress. The sad-faced man with the big ears, the one who turned into a beagle when the moon came out, stood silently behind her. No sign of the little man in the apron. Her eyes were kind. She smiled faintly.

  “Sleep some more,” she suggested.

  Splendid idea.

  The third time I awoke I did not feel as good as the first time or as bad as the second time. My side hurt as much, and there were aches at my knees and the right side of my face, but I felt stronger. I was alert, and terribly thirsty.

  “Water,” I croaked.

  The light was dim again. Someone got up from a chair in response to my plea, but from the sound and silhouette I could tell it was not the duchess, nor the sad-faced man, nor the cricket in the apron. Someone bigger, heavier than any of them. Another woman, in a robe. She crossed the room, then came back again, stood just outside my peripheral vision.

  My head was lifted from a pillow. Wetness occurred at my lips. I drank eagerly.

  “Easy now,” she said. “Not too fast.” Her voice was deep and slightly husky.

  Finally I lay back and sighed. “Where am I?”

  “That’ll have to wait,” she said. “I’ve got more important questions.”

  “What could be more important than ‘where am I?’?”

  “Your answers will tell me how much painkiller I can give you.”

  “Go!”

  “I need to know what drugs you’ve taken in the last forty-eight hours—scrip, street or even booze. Also, what do you take regularly, and when did you last eat?”

  “I don’t do drugs.”

  She said nothing at all.

  “Oh, coffee and cigarettes, and some juice with the johns when I’m working, half a pint of tequila, maybe that much vodka. But not, you know, drugs. Are you some kind of cop or what?”

  She sighed. “In the absence of reliable data, I must reduce your dosage to zero, to be safe.” She made as if to get up.

  “All right! Forty-eight hours? Five or six joints…” She waited, “…and three or four lines. No, all right, let me count them up…eight total, no more, really. Terrible shit; they couldn’t get Third World mothers to feed it to their babies any more so they sold it to Big Travis. So hardly any coke, but a lot of that other kind of ’caine that makes your nose numb. Oh, and one of the johns, I think his pot was dusted, but I didn’t have much of it.” She still waited. “And half a ’lude with a little wine to get to sleep last night.”

  “But no drugs.”

  “I don’t have anything to do with needles!” I snapped, and regretted it. Just talking hurt my side plenty. Emphasis was too costly.

  “I know; I looked for tracks. Even the sneaky places. Speed?”

  “Not for months. I stopped doing it. I never did really like it.”

  She put her face in front of mine, close. I saw only the eyes. “Snort smack?”

  “Never.”

  “Your pimp made you stop.”

  Her eyes were huge. “What have you, been reading my mail? I just let him think that! I’d already decided it was dumb.”

  “And when did you eat?”

  “Pizza for breakfast at ten, a bowl of chili after the lunchtime rush, six hours later I got stabbed, when the hell do I get the god damned painkiller?”

  Her face backed away. “I’m sorry. Right now.” She took a black doctor-type bag from the floor beside the bed, got out a hypo and a small stoppered vial, busied herself loading the needle.

  “That doesn’t look like much,” I complained. “What are you giving me?”

  “Well,” she said, squinting judiciously at the needle as she purged it of air, “with your history I figure you’ve built up a heavy tolerance, so it’s safe to smack you pretty hard. I wouldn’t give this stuff to a civilian. You’ll like it.” She circled my arm with her big hand, squeezed until a vein came up.

  “A-a-l-l right!” I said feebly, looking away. I hate needles. “Thanks. What i
s it?”

  She slid the point home, thumbed the plunger slowly and steadily. “Fifty milligrams of laboratory-pure Placebo in a potassium chloride/dihydroxide solution.” She took out the spike and rubbed the spot with a piece of cotton.

  “Wow. Sounds good.” The name rang a bell. “Isn’t Placebo the Russian word for ‘thank you’?” My father spoke Russian.

  She coughed loudly into her hand, and bent to put away her gear. “Yeah, it’s Russian-made. Experimental. It’ll come on like gangbusters in about four heartbeats.”

  “I can feel it.” The pain, and the body in which it resided, moved about two feet to the left of me and stayed there. I could see it pulsing vaguely in the gloom out of the corner of my eye. “Thanks a lot. What’s your name?”

  “Mary.”

  “Hi, Mary, I’m Maureen.” I realized I’d given her my real name, and wondered why.

  “Hello, Maureen.”

  She sat at my bedside while I enjoyed the feeling of being distant from the pain. I noticed vaguely that she was holding my hand, though I could not feel it.

  “I had morphine once,” I said after a while, “in a hospital, and this is better, you know?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  I rolled my head over and looked at her, focusing with some difficulty. She must have been close to two hundred pounds, and she did not look at all like a jolly fat lady, but I got the idea she could be merry when it suited her. “Hey, Mary, where the hell am I, anyway?”

  “Lady Sally’s house.”

  “Is that the duchess?”

  “Huh?”

  “The killer auntie.”

  “Oh. I think so, yes. Her Ladyship brought you here.”

  “That’s the one. She’s got one wild maid, I’ll tell you.”

  “More than one.”

  “The one I mean was half bald, with his tush sticking out of a cute little apron.”

  She laughed. She tried to keep it down to sickroom volume, but it was a pretty substantial laugh. “That’s Robin. He belongs to Cynthia, not Lady Sally. Don’t worry, he’s harmless.”

  “Tell me about it! The shape I’m in, I chased him out with his tongue between his legs. I mean his tail between his teeth. Boy, this Russian shit is terrific. I always knew rich people had secret dope that was dynamite. You a doctor or a nurse?”