Callahan's Con

by Spider Robinson

  Erin nodded once. “Yeah.”

  I hoped she had him figured right. I’d have assumed, myself, that a guy like Tony would prefer them uncooperative. And would be too childish to defer immediate pleasure for future reward.

  But she had appealed successfully to his child’s curiosity. “Okay,” he said, and let his hands fall and stepped back a pace. “This I gotta see.”

  She nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”

  He shrugged his right shoulder to settle the backpack, and turned to go, but she held up a hand to stop him. “Tom,” she called over her shoulder, “don’t you have an indelible Magic Marker under the bar?”

  “No, Erin.”

  “Over by the controls for the pool lights.”

  “I don’t think s—Wait, you’re right, here it is.”

  He gave it to Fifty-Fifty, who brought it to Erin. She offered it to Tony, and when he took it from her left hand, she left the hand out, palm up. “Sign your name here,” she said. “Just the way you sign it on a check.”

  Tony frowned at her, suspecting some sort of put-on. He must have decided what the hell. How many people in his life could possibly have tried to put him on? He uncapped the marker and scribbled on the palm of her hand. When he attempted to keep writing right on up her wrist, she pulled her hand away and plucked the marker from his grasp. “See you tomorrow,” she told him.

  He was beginning to understand that she was not afraid of him, and it amused the hell out of him. “Yeah,” he said. He turned on his heel and headed for the exit, walking right through Zoey and me as if we had been stalks of rye in his path. By the time I had my feet under me and was tracking him again, he was nearly to the gate. Just as he reached it, a woman tried to enter, and they almost collided.

  When they both came to a halt, inches apart, the top of her head came up to about the middle of his chest. She stood her ground, glared up at him and waited for him to back up and get out of her way. Instead he reached out, grabbed both her breasts, and honked them. She emitted a hypersonic shriek, her eyes rolled up in her head, and she fainted. Tony chuckled one last time and let go of her; she dropped like a sack of rocks, landed on her back and lay still. He stepped over her and left. For today.

  Do I have to tell you the unconscious woman on my doorstep was Field Inspector Ludnyola Czrjghnczl? It didn’t surprise me any.

  Being nearest, Zoey and I were the first to reach her.

  “They just don’t make civil servants like they used to,” I said, kneeling beside the sleeping bureaucrat. Pulse strong and regular, respiration nominal, color pale but not really much paler than what she had started with.

  “They do seem to have skimped on materials,” Zoey agreed, staring down at her. “I’ve got shoes I bet weigh more than she does.”

  “Her first visit, it took her at least five minutes to become hysterical. Today, she passed out cold in under five seconds. At this rate tomorrow morning she’ll wake up thinking of us and die before she can get out of bed.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  The Field Inspector’s eyelashes began fluttering. All at once she sucked in a great volume of air through her mouth, and her eyes snapped open. The first thing she saw was me, and she tried very hard to back away from me, but planet Earth was in the way. Then she caught sight of Zoey, and that was different. A characteristic dull glitter I hadn’t realized was missing returned to her eyes, and she stopped wanting to escape. She actually said, “Aha.” She got to her feet slowly and methodically, as if it were a new procedure and she was translating the instructions from colloquial Fukienese. She brushed off my attempts to help, and accepted Zoey’s, so that when she was on her feet again, they were face-to-face.

  “You are Zoey Berkowitz,” she charged.

  Zoey pled guilty with a nod.

  “Maternal parent and legal coguardian of the minor child Erin Stonebender-Berkowitz.”

  Zoey admitted the second count of the indictment.

  “Is the said child here now?”

  “No,” Zoey and I said together, pointedly not looking anywhere near the grown-up Erin.

  The Field Inspector’s manner grew a degree or two chillier. “I see,” she said. It was the middle of the afternoon on a school day. “And where is she, at this point in time? If you know.”

  “At the library,” I said—unfortunately, at the same instant that Zoey said, “At the gym.” A perfect train wreck. Needless to say, there is no gym anywhere near Key West’s only library. Neither of us even tried to salvage it; we just stood there with egg on our faces and waited for what would come next.

  Once more she managed to cool another degree or two without quite freezing solid. “I see,” she said again, probably lying this time. “And when will she be back?”

  This time neither of us spoke, waiting for the other to go first.

  “You don’t know when she will return.”

  “At suppertime,” I said, precisely as Zoey said, “Not until late.” Then we both sighed.

  So did the Field Inspector. “I would like to inspect the child’s domicile,” she said.

  “Now?” Zoey and I squeaked in unison, and then exchanged a glance, as if to say, See, that wasn’t so hard.

  “Is that a problem?”

  Zoey and I keep The Place pretty organized—the bar, barbecue, pool, deck, fireplace, grounds, and parking lot are all kept just as clean and together as we can manage to make them. Even the exterior of our own home is at least as well maintained as those of the other four cottages. The inside, however, is customarily a sty. Zoey and I try to be responsible innkeepers, but as far as our own quarters go, we’ve agreed since we met that if you find you have the energy for housework, you’re just not doing enough fucking. I tried to remember when was the last time we’d hosed the place out, and failed.

  Field Inspector Czrjghnczl grew impatient. “The bungalow in the center would be yours, I take it,” she said, and set off for the house without waiting for an answer. Zoey and I both opened our mouths to call after her, and perhaps Zoey had actually thought of something to say—I know I was bluffing—but then I spotted something and waved my hand to catch her eye, and pointed. Crumpled on the ground between two chairs: Erin’s dress.

  So we watched the Field Inspector in silence as she strode across the compound to our home, ignoring every one of my customers and giving the widest possible berth to the pool. She marched right up the steps, pushed the screen door open, and went inside without so much as pausing, let alone knocking; the door swung shut behind her with a clack.

  Zoey and I looked at each other, sighed, took each other’s hand, and followed after her. “I hope Erin had time to make a dent,” Zoey said.

  “I hope she had time to get out of sight bef—”

  Earsplitting scream.

  My front door did not have time to open again: Field Inspector Ludnyola Czrjghnczl came right back out through it like a cannonball through a condom. She was already moving so fast that her feet never touched the porch, and once she had earth rather than floor under her feet again, she accelerated sharply. Zoey and I could both tell we were in her way, and tried to move apart so she could pass between us, but our reflexes weren’t fast enough; she struck our still-joined hands so hard that we spun apart in opposite directions. By the time I got my feet under me and got oriented, she was out the gate and gone, thundering footsteps dopplering off toward Duval Street.

  Dead silence in The Place. As one, we all turned to stare at my house.

  Nothing happened for ten longish seconds. Nobody seemed disposed to go in the house and investigate. Certainly not me, and it was my house. Finally we heard a high-pitched extremely irritated voice inside mutter, “Oh, God damn it. All right, let’s get it over with.” Another voice, lower in pitch and more resigned in tone, said, “I zuppoze ve may ass vell.” I knew both voices—we all did—but we still didn’t get it yet.

  Alf the Key deer and Ralph Von Wau Wau came out onto my porch together. By which I m
ean together.

  “What the hell does a person have to do to get a little friggin’ privacy around here?” Alf asked us.

  In retrospect I figure it must have been the abrasive, pugnacious manner, the tendency to turn conversation to confrontation. I can’t think why else I’d have looked at a delicate graceful elfin creature with a high voice and jumped to the conclusion that it was male.

  “Doesn’t anybody knock, anymore?”

  “Now, Alafair,” Ralph reminded her, “ziss iss not our house.”

  “It wasn’t hers either, dammit. She should have knocked.” Alf’s nose was glowing bright red.

  In my defense, I wasn’t the only one who’d misjudged Alf’s sex; so had pretty much everyone else. You could tell by the wave of laughter that rose up and filled the compound.

  Does that make us sound insensitive to Alf and Ralph’s discomfiture? We weren’t, I promise you. They were our friends, and we were all fond of both of them; the pain of empathy was part of why we had to laugh so loud. Another part was release of tension: we had just, in the space of a few minutes, survived very-near-misses by two different planet-killing asteroids—a sociopathic monster and a civil servant. The first excuse to laugh that came along was a goner. We—no offense to Ralph—howled.

  Alf’s nose, being where she keeps part of her brains, is normally very large and bright red; now embarrassment made it look like a molten baseball or a radioactive tomato. “Haven’t you assholes ever seen two people in love before?” she demanded indignantly. Just then her partner finally managed to achieve separation, with a small popping-cork sound like punctuation by Victor Borge.

  This set off a second wave of laughter, louder and more intense than the first.

  Divine fire suddenly touched my brow. “Be careful, Ralph,” I called out. “If she ever decides the relationship’s in the toilet, she’s liable—”

  Just behind me, an unmistakable foghorn voice joined in. “—to send you a deer john letter,” Doc Webster and I finished together.

  The laughter redoubled, mixed now with applause. Doc and I exchanged bows, and then a low five. He and his wife, Mei-Ling had obviously come from an afternoon at the beach, just in time to steal my punchline.

  The infuriated little quadruped stuck her tongue out and gave us a loud Key deer Bronx cheer. The pitch of her voice made it sound like a model airplane doing loops.

  Suddenly the Doc’s expression changed. “Oh, my God,” he murmured.

  “Doc, what is it?” Mei-Ling asked, alarmed.

  He had a thousand-yard stare. “Don’t you know who that is there with Ralph?” he said, gesturing toward the porch.

  I braced myself. I didn’t know exactly what was coming, but I feared the worst.

  Mei-Ling’s eyes widened, then closed. She took a deep breath, opened them again, and she and her husband said the awful words together.

  “She’s rude Alf, the red nose-brain deer.”

  The group scream of horror and dismay actually caused the poinciana canopy overhead to shiver and shed scarlet leaves; to our neighbors, it must have sounded as if we’d all been suddenly immersed in chilled bat guano. It probably would have frightened them, if they hadn’t been our neighbors. A ragged barrage of mixed nuts, used tea bags, swizzle sticks, sugar packets, ice cubes, balled-up napkins, tomatoes, scoops of ice cream, the contents of numerous glasses, and at least one shoe began to rain down on the Websters. And there Zoey and I were, right in the line of fire…

  5

  PROS AND CONS

  I put out the word.

  Well, we all did. Cell phones were made to beep and glow, then chittered into. Laptops were booted—G chord—and coaxed into producing the sound of a thousand baby chicks somewhere far away being fried in oil, followed by the “Chi gong, chi gong” which announces a successful internet connection (what the Chinese have to do with it, I’ll never understand) and the popcorn sounds of e-mail being typed and sent. A fax or two were transmitted. In one or two extreme cases, actual physical messengers were dispatched to summon people so eccentric or so broke they did not use any communications technology. Whatever the medium, the message always boiled down to, “Please come to The Place tonight for a Counsel Council.” In one case it was compressed all the way down to, “Jake says hey Rube.”

  By an hour or so after sundown, just about all the hardcore regulars currently in town were present, along with a scattering of newer parishioners including novices and even postulants like Alf and Lexington.

  Given the logistics of our layout, there’s really only one practical way to hold a large conference in The Place. Everybody who expects to be talking a lot more or less has to get into the pool. Everyone else gathers around it to listen and respond. Fortunately in Key West the weather is always perfect for this. I customarily open the bar for the duration of a Council: anybody may help himself, as long as he fetches at least one drink to someone in the pool each time he does. The cash drawer is left open, folks deposit their money without supervision or formalities, and the next day I just figure out how much booze is missing and punch that into the register to humor the IRS.

  “Okay,” I said, when I judged it was time to call us to order, “all of you know the basics of the situation now, right? We need to defeat a giant homicidal psychopath, in such a way that he doesn’t find out. Now it seems—”

  “Order of Jake, point,” said Walter.

  “Yes, Walter?”

  “Is really trip this necessary? We offed him pay today; why keep on it not doing? Money’s no us for problem.”

  “Good pinto,” Brad agreed.

  Walter had a point. There’s this cluricaune…never mind, it’s a long story. What it comes down to is, we all more or less gave up worrying about money a long time ago. There was no reason we couldn’t just pay the weekly bite Little Nuts demanded and forget him.

  “That’s easy for us to say,” said Double Bill. “Few of our neighbor establishments are as fiscally fortunate.”

  There were rumbles of agreement. Most of the bars in Key West—like most of the people in Key West—are just barely hanging on.

  “You want that guy in here every week, like a recurring yeast infection?” Long-Drink asked Walter and Brad.

  They frowned. “Hell, on,” Brad muttered. “Ton if we can help it.”

  Treading water beside me, Willard spoke up. No, I take that back: he wasn’t Willard, now. He was the Professor once again, for the first time in many years. “There’s another point to consider,” he said. “Remember what Little Nuts wants the money for. He plans to use it to finance a war with the Russian mob—here on Key West.”

  There was a collective rooba rooba of dismay.

  “Sounds like the problem might be self-correcting, then,” suggested Marty.

  The Professor looked pained. “How’s that?”

  “Well, there are three possible outcomes. The Russians win, and everything goes back to just the way it was. Or they and Tony Junior take each other out, and we’re shut of two nuisances. At worst Tony wins, in which case we’re no worse off than we are right now. Better, maybe, because he turns his attention elsewhere.”

  “That turns out not to be the case, I’m afraid,” said the Professor. (I don’t believe I know any politer way to say “You’re full of shit.”) “In the first place, you neglect a fourth possibility: Tony and the Russians might prove so evenly matched that neither can defeat the other. Key West is not a big rock; they could easily destroy it altogether.”

  A rumble went around that was the vocal equivalent of a shudder.

  “But consider this,” the Professor said. “No matter which of the four outcomes we get…we definitely get a boatload of FBI agents and state cops with it.”

  “Jesus Christ!” said at least a dozen people. I was one of them. Another dozen or so went for “Holy shit!” “My word,” “God bless my soul,” “Yikes,” and “Ouch” also had their adherents, and we’re multicultural enough that “Caramba,” “Bojemoi,” “Sacre bleu
,” “Vaffanculo,” and “Oy,” all put in an appearance.

  “They’ll be all over Key West like ants at a picnic,” the Professor went on when the hubbub had subsided somewhat. “They’ll talk to everybody they think Tony might have extorted. We’re having trouble enough dealing with a state education department inspector—does anybody here think we’re ready to persuade the FBI we’re normal citizens?”

  I thought about it. Suppose Lex stayed at the bottom of the pool, and Ralph and Alf kept their mouths shut, and Erin held off on time-traveling or teleporting anywhere for an hour or so, and none of the Callahans picked that moment to arrive naked from the other end of space and time, and no aliens or gangsters happened to shoot any of us or set off any thermonuclear devices in our midst…could we possibly all play normal human beings well enough to convince FBI agents?

  Nah.

  No way in Hell. I wasn’t sure exactly what it would be, but something would surely go wrong. Pixel, perhaps: I was confident I could get Ralph and Alf to (literally) play dumb, but as one of my favorite songwriters said, you just can’t herd cats: there’s simply no controlling Pixel. (Well, maybe two of his former servants could manage it, a little—Robert and Virginia Heinlein—but nobody since.) He’d probably take offense at something and walk through a wall and that’d be it. Or Nikola Tesla would show up, juggling balls of fire—and Nikky has been pissed at the FBI ever since they stole all his papers and possessions from his hotel safe the day he died. With my luck, he’d demand his stuff back and underline the point with lightning bolts.

  One of our newer regulars, Papaya, spoke up. He’s got a terrible stutter I won’t attempt to reproduce, on the grounds that Papaya would edit it out of his speech if he could do so in life, and I can do it for him here, so why not. (What about Walter and Brad, then, you ask? Neither of them has a problem with the way they speak. Why—do you?) I mention it only because he’s a classic example of why I contend we need laws to constrain parents in the naming of their children. His people are Cajun Conchs, who came to the Keys generations ago from Nova Scotia by way of Louisiana, and they thought nothing of naming a boy after one of their favorite local fruits. Unfortunately the family name was LaMode. If you tell people your name is Papaya LaMode, they’ll naturally conclude you have a stutter, not to mention an odd sense of humor; almost inevitably, you’ll develop both. Maybe the sense of humor is compensation enough; I don’t know. “So if I’m hearing you right, we seem to have four basic alternatives—none of which is acceptable. Is that the situation?”