Callahan's Place 02 - Time Travelers Strictly Cash (v5.0)

by Spider Robinson

  "Oh for God's sake," Doc Webster groaned. "Don't tell me. A talking dog has walked into Callahan's Place on Tall Tales Night. If that hound tops my story, I'm going on the wagon—for the whole night."

  That broke everyone up, and Long-Drink McGonnigle was particularly tickled (say that three times fast with whiskey in your mouth). "Patron saint of undershorts," he whooped, "it makes so much sense I almost believe it."

  "You think I'm kidding?" the stranger asked.

  "That or crazy," the Doc asserted. "A dog hasn't got the larynx to talk—let alone the mouth structure—even if he is as smart as you say."

  "I've got two hundred dollars says you're wrong," the stranger announced. He displayed a fistful of bills. "Any takers?"

  Well, now. We're a charitable bunch at Callahan's, not normally inclined to cheat the mentally disturbed. And yet there was a clarity to his speech that belied his derelict's clothes, a twinkle in his eye that looked entirely sane, and a challenging out-thrust to his chin that reminded us of a kid daring you to hit him. And there was that wildly improbable handful of cash in his hand. "I'll take ten of that," I said, digging for my wallet, and a dozen other guys chimed in. "Me too." "I'll take ten." "I'm in for five." Doc Webster took a double sawbuck's worth, and even Fast Eddie produced a tattered single. The guy collected the dough in a hat that looked like its former owner had been machine-gunned in the head, and the whole time that damn dog just sat there next to the table, watching the action.

  When the guy had it all counted, there was a hundred and seventy bucks in the hat. "There's thirty unfaded," he said, and looked around expectantly.

  Callahan came around the bar, a redheaded glacier descending on the shabby man. The barkeep picked him up by the one existing lapel and the opposite collar, held him at arm's length for a while, and sighed.

  "I like a good gag as well as the next guy," he said conversationally. "But that's serious money in that hat. Now if you was to ask that dog his name, and he said 'Ralph! Ralph!' and then you was to ask him what's on top of a house and he said 'Roof! Roof!' and then you was to ask him who was the greatest baseball player of all time and he said 'Ruth! Ruth!', why, I'd just naturally have to sharpen your feet and drive you into the floor. You would become like a Gable roof: Gone with the Wind. What I mean, there are very few gags I've never heard, and if yours is of that calibre you are in dire peril. Do we have a meeting of the minds?" He was still holding the guy at arm's length, the muscles of his arms looking like hairy manila, absolutely serene.

  "I'm telling you the truth," the guy yelped. "The dog can talk."

  Callahan slowly lowered him to the floor. "In that case," he decided, "I will fade your thirty." He went back behind the bar and produced an apple. "Would you mind putting this in your mouth?"

  The guy blinked at him.

  "I believe you implicitly," Callahan explained, "but someone without my trusting nature might suspect you was a ventriloquist tryin' to pull a fast one."

  "Okay," said the guy at once, and he stuffed the apple in his face. He beckoned to the dog, who came at once to the center of the room and sat on his haunches. He gazed up inquisitively at the shabby man, who nodded.

  "I hope you will forgive me," said the dog with the faintest trace of a German accent, "but I'm afraid my name actually is Ralph."

  There was silence, as profound as that which must exist on the Moon now that the tourist season is past. Then, slowly at first, glasses began to hit the fireplace. Soon there was a shower of glasses shattering on the hearth, and not a drop of liquid in any of 'em. Callahan passed fresh beers around the room, bucket-brigade fashion, his face impassive. Not a word was spoken.

  At last everyone had been lubed, and the big Irishman wiped off his hands and came around the bar. He pulled up a chair in front of the dog, dropped heavily into it, and put a fresh light to his cigar.

  "Sure is a relief," he sighed, "to take the weight offa my d… to sit down."

  You must understand—we were all still so stunned that not one of us thought to ask him if he was bitching.

  "So tell me, Ralph," he went on, "how do you like my bar?"

  "Nice place," the dog said pleasantly. "You guys always tell shaggy-… uh, person stories?"

  "Only on Wednesday nights," Callahan told him, and explained the game and current topic.

  "That sounds very interesting," Ralph said, parodying Artie Johnson. His voice was slightly hoarse but quite intelligible, "Mind if I take a shot at it?"

  "You just heard the Doc's stinker," Callahan said. "If you can beat that, you're top…"

  "Please," Ralph interrupted with a pained look. "As you told me a moment ago, I've heard them all before. All right, then: I have an animal story. Did any of you know that until very recently, a tribe of killer monkeys lived undetected in Greenwich Village?"

  The Doc had nearly found his own voice, but now he lost it again. Me, I'd already crapped out—but it was fun to see the champ sweat. I resolved to buy the dog a beer.

  "To some extent," the German shepherd went on, "it was not surprising that they escaped notice for so long. They had extremely odd sleeping habits, hibernating for 364 days out of every year (365 in Leap Years) and emerging from the caverns of the Village sewers only on Christmas Day. Even so, one might have thought they could hardly help but cause talk, since they tended when awake to be enormous, ferocious, carnivorous, and extremely hungry. Yet in Greenwich Village of all places on earth they went unnoticed until last year, when they were finally destroyed."

  The dog paused and looked expectant. Sighing, Callahan reached over the bar and got him a glass of gin. Ralph lapped it up in a twinkling, looked up at us, and delivered.

  "Everyone knows," he said patiently, "that Yule gibbons ate only nuts and fruits."

  Not, I am certain, since the days when Rin-Tin-Tin ran in neighborhood theaters has a German shepherd received such thunderous applause. We gave him a standing ovation, and I want to say Doc Webster was the first one to rise (despite the fact that, by virtue of his earlier rash promise, he was now on the wagon for the evening). Callahan nearly fell off his chair, and Fast Eddie tried to strike up "At The Zoo," but he was laughing so hard his left hand was in G and his right in Eb. As the applause trickled off we toasted the dog and blitzed the fireplace as one.

  And the man in shabby clothes, whose existence we had nearly forgotten, stepped up to the bar (minus his apple now) and claimed the hatful of money.

  Callahan blinked, then his grin widened and he returned behind the bar. "Mister," he said, drawing another gin for Ralph, "that was worth every penny it cost us. Your friend is terrific, and I'm honored to have you both in my joint. Here's another gin for him, and what're you drinking?"

  "Scotch," the shabby man said, and Callahan nodded and reached for the scotch—but I used to work in a boiler factory once, and so I choked on my drink.

  Callahan looked around, puzzled. "What is it, Jake?"

  "His lips, Mike," I croaked, wiping fine whiskey from my beard. "His lips."

  Callahan turned back to the guy, gently lifted the scrofulous mustache and examined the guy's lips. There were two. "So?" he said, peering at them.

  "I read lips," I managed at last. "You know that. That guy's voice said 'scotch,' but his lips said 'bourbon.' "

  "How the hell could you tell?" Callahan asked reasonably.

  "I swear, Mike—he said 'bourbon.' Here: look." I wear a mustache myself, middlin' sanitary, but I covered most of it and all of my mouth with my hand. Then I said, "Scotch… Bourbon… See what I mean? It ain't the lips, entirely—the mustache, the cheek muscles— I'm telling you, Mike, the guy said 'bourbon'." Callahan looked at the guy, then at me… and then at the dog.

  "I'm sorry, Joe," the dog said miserably. "I thought sure you'd want to stick with scotch."

  The shabby man shrugged eloquently.

  "Well, I'll be a son of a…" Long-Drink began, then caught himself. "You're the ventriloquist!"

  Doc Webster roared with laug
hter, and Callahan's eyes widened the barest trifle. "I surely will go to hell," he breathed. "I shoulda guessed."

  But I was watching the look exchanged by Joe and Ralph, the way both of them ever so casually got ready to bolt for the door, and I spoke up quickly.

  "It's okay, fellas. Don't go away—tell us about it."

  They froze, undecided, and the rest of the boys jumped in. "Hell, yeah." "Give us the yarn, Ralph." "Let's hear it." "Get that dog another drink."

  Ralph looked around at us, poised to flee, and then he met Callahan's eyes for a long moment. He looked exactly like a dog that's been kicked too often, and I thought he'd go. But he must have heard the sincerity in our voices, or else he read something on Callahan's face, because all at once he relaxed and curled up on the floor.

  "It's all right, Joe," he said to the shabby man, who still stood undecided. "These people will not make trouble for us." The shabby man nodded philosophically and accepted a bourbon from Callahan.

  "How come you can talk?" Fast Eddie asked Ralph. "I mean, if it ain't no poisonal question or nuttin'."

  "Not at all," Ralph answered. "I was… created, I suppose you'd say, by a demented genius of a psychology major named Malion, who was desperate for a doctoral thesis. He had a defrocked veterinary surgeon modify my larnyx and mouth in my infancy, apparently in the mad hope that he could condition me to parrot human speech. But I'm afraid his experiment blew up in his face. You see," he said rather proudly, "I seem to be a mutant.

  "This, naturally, was the one thing Malion had never planned for. How could he? Who could guess that a dog could actually have human intelligence? For all I know I am unique—in fact I fervently and desperately hope so. If there are other dogs of my intelligence, but without the capacity for speech, who would ever know?" Ralph shuddered. "At any rate, I destroyed all of Malion's hopes the first time I got tired of his damned yammering and told him what I thought of him and Pavlov and Skinner in no uncertain terms. At first, naturally, he was tremendously excited. But within a few hours, as I reminded him of highlights of our past life together, I could see dawning in him the fear that any lab-researcher—let alone a behaviorist—might feel upon realizing that one of his experimental animals is an aware attack dog.

  "And eventually, of course, he realized the same thing that had kept my own mouth shut for so many months: that if he attempted to write me up for his doctorate, they'd laugh him off the campus. He abandoned me, simply kicked me out in the streets and locked my doggy-door. The next day he left town, and hasn't been heard from since."

  "Cripes," said Eddie, "dat's awful. Abandoned by yer creator."

  "Like Frankenstein," Doc Webster said.

  "Damn right," Ralph agreed. "I'd like to get my paws on that pig Malion."

  Then he realized what he'd just said and barked with laughter. The Doc drained his own glass with a gulp and tossed it over his shoulder, squarely into the fire.

  "I beg your pardon," the shepherd continued. "Anyhow, I got by for quite a while. It's not too hard for a big dog to survive in Suffolk County, especially when the summer people go. But what drove me crazy was having nobody to talk to. After all those years of keeping my mouth shut, so as not to spoil my meal ticket with Malion, I was like a pent-up river ready to burst its dam. But every time I tried to strike up a conversation, the other party ran away rather abruptly. A few children would talk to me, but I soon stopped that too—their parents gave them endless grief for telling lies, and one day I found myself obliged to bite one father. He took a shot at me—with a silver bullet.

  "So I tried to sublimate. I found a serviceable typewriter in a junkyard, swiped paper and stamps and became a writer—of speculative fiction, of course. Since I lived mostly in the remaining farmland east of here, I selected pastoral pen names like Trout and Bird and Farmer—although occasionally I wrote under an old family name, Von Wau Wau."

  "Holy smoke," Wyatt breathed. "So that's what that hoax was all about…"

  "Eventually I acquired something of a following… but answering fan mail is not the same as talking with someone. Besides, I couldn't cash the checks.

  "Then one day, outside a bar in Rocky Point, I happened to overhear some fools making fun of Joe here, because he was a mute. 'Dummy,' they called him, and his face was red and he was desperate for a voice with which to curse them. So I did. They fled the bar, screaming like chickens, and ten minutes later Joe and I left the empty bar with the beginnings of a partnership."

  "I get it," I said, striking my forehead with my hand. "You teamed up."

  "Precisely," Ralph agreed. "I could have the pleasure of conversing with people, at least by proxy—and so could Joe, simply by letting me put words in his mouth. He grew that mustache to help, and we worked out a fairly simple script and cues. To support ourselves, we hit upon the old talking-dog routine, which we have been working in taverns from Ronkonkoma to Montauk over the last six months. The beauty of it is that while people virtually always pay up, they never believe I can truly speak. Always they speak only to Joe, congratulating him on his fine trick even if they can't figure out how he does it. I suppose I should be annoyed by this, but truthfully, I find it hilarious. And at any rate, it's a living."

  Doc Webster shook his head like… well, like a dog shaking off water is the only simile I can think of. "And to think it took you guys all this time to come to Callahan's Place," he said dizzily.

  "I feel the same," Ralph said seriously. "You are the first men who have ever accepted Joe and me as we are, who knew the truth about us and did not run away. Or worse, laugh at us.

  "I thank you."

  And Joe pointed at his own chest and nodded vigorously. Me too!

  Callahan's face split in a broad grin. "Sure and hell welcome, fellas," he boomed, "sure and hell welcome—any time. I can't think of any two guys I'd rather have in my joint."

  And another cheer went up. "To Ralph and Joe," Long-Drink hollered, and two dozen voices chorused, "To Ralph 'n' Joe." The toast was drunk, the glasses disposed of in unison, and the place started to get real merry. But an idea struck me.

  "Hey, Ralph," I called out. "You want a job? A real job?"

  Ralph paused in midlap and looked up. "Are you crazy? Who'd hire a talking dog?"

  "I know the only place around that might," I told him confidently. "Jim Friend over at WGAB has been talking about taking a year off, and he's a good friend of mine. How'd you like to run a radio talk show at 4 a.m. every morning?"

  Ralph looked stunned.

  "Yeah," Callahan agreed judiciously, "WGAB would hire a talking dog. Hell, maybe they got one already. Whaddya say, Ralph?"

  I could see Ralph was tempted—but German shepherds are notoriously loyal. "What about Joe?"

  "Hmmm." I thought hard, but I was stumped.

  Joe was gesticulating furiously, but Ralph ignored him. "No," he decided. "I could not leave my friend."

  "I'll think of something," Callahan promised, but Ralph shook his head.

  "Thank you," he said, "but there's no use in raising false hopes. I'm resigned to this life."

  "Mister," Callahan said firmly, "that's what this Place is all about. We raise hopes, here—until they're old enough to fend for themselves. Wait—I got it! Joe!"

  The shabby man looked up from his drink, shamefaced.

  "Get that frown off yer phiz," Callahan demanded. "You can type, can't ya?"

  Joe nodded, puzzled. "I taught him," Ralph said.

  "Then I can help ya," the big Irishman told Joe. "How would you like a job over at Brookhaven National Lab?"

  Joe looked dubious, and Ralph spoke up again. "I told you, Mr. Callahan—writing just isn't the same as talking to people."

  "Hold on and listen," Callahan insisted. "Over at Brookhaven, they got a new computer they're real proud of—they claim it's almost alive. So they're reviving the old gag about having experts try to tell the computer from a guy on a teletype. They're lookin' for a guy right now, who don't mind carryin' on conversations th
rough one-way glass on a teletype all day long. I bet we could get you the job. How 'bout it?" And he hauled out the blackboard he uses to keep score for dart games, and gave it and some chalk to Joe.

  The shabby man took the chalk and carefully printed, THANK YOU, I'LL GIVE IT A TRY, in large letters.

  "Well, Ralph," Callahan said to the dog, "it looks like you're a DJ."

  And Ralph yelped happily, nuzzling Joe with his head, while we all started cheering once again.

  And, hours later, as we all got ready to bottle it up and go, Ralph turned to Joe and said, almost sadly, "So, Joe my friend. After tomorrow, perhaps we go our separate ways. No longer will I dog your heels." Joe winced and wrote, NO LONGER WILL I HEEL MY DOG, EITHER.

  Doc Webster made a face at the plain Coca-Cola that sat before him on the bar. "I might have to heal the both of you if you keep it up," he growled, and I could see he was still a little miffed over his defeat by Ralph.

  "Oh no," Ralph protested. "I want to get my new job right away. The only other work for a dog of my intelligence is as a seeing eye dog, ja? And radio work is better than replacing a cane, nein?"

  "Cane-nein?" the Doc exploded. "Canine? Why you…"

  But over what the portly sawbones said then, let us draw a censoring veil of silence. His bark always was worse than his bite.

  Say—if Ralph really makes it on radio, and becomes a dog star: is that Sirius?

  Concerning "Dog Day Evening":

  For some reason, as I mentioned in this book's foreword, funny stories don't seem to get nominated for Hugos. In the last ten years, fewer than five percent of the Hugo nominees have been funny stories, and very few of those have won.

  "Dog Day Evening" was nominated in 1978, and didn't win. There are four very good reasons why it didn't win: the other four stories nominated, all of which were superb (the winner was Harlan Ellison's "When Jeffty Was Five"). But I can think of only one reason why it was even nominated in the first place, while other, and I think better, Callahan stories failed of this honor.