Callahan's Place 09 - Callahan's Con (v5.0) (3 page)

He hung his head.

“Tarara Buhm, D.A.?”

He nodded.

I took in a long slow breath, let it out even slower.
 
“Right.”
 
I turned back to the Antichrist.
 
“Listen, Field Marshal Von…I’m sorry, Field Inspector Czrjghnczl…I’d just like to—”

“The accent is on the ‘rjgh,’” she interjected.

Another long slow breath.
 
“Right.
 
As I was saying, I’d like to—”

Harry picked then to shriek, “I’d like to cut the mustard with you and then lick the jar clean afterwards, you spicy slut!”

She turned bright red and spun on her heel, ready to do battle.
 
Then she relaxed a little.
 
“Oh for God’s sake.
 
I thought it was a person.”

For once, Harry was speechless.
 
He blinked at her for a moment…then rose into the air with a flurry of angry flapping and flew past me.
 
In a place of honor behind the bar sits an old fashioned pull-chain toilet, a little under five inches tall but fully functional.
 
Harry landed, perched on it, put it to its intended use, and flushed it.

“What a disgusting parrot,” she said.

“True, but he’s not dead.”

She didn’t get the reference, and I didn’t try to pursue it.

“Excuse me, madam,” Ralph von Wau Wau said behind her.
 
“On what basis do you say that my friend Harry is not a person?”

Uh-oh
, I thought.
 
You don’t often hear Ralph drop that Colonel Klink accent of his…but when he does, it’s time to seek cover.

She of course had no way of knowing that, and his tone was soft and gentle.
 
She turned around, and whether she intended to debate with him, or simply tell him she was too important to do so, cannot be known, because when she finished turning he was not there.
 
Nobody was.
 
She had just heard his voice from two feet behind her, and now nobody was there; she blinked in annoyance.

Then she thought to look down.

She had been opening her mouth to speak as she turned.
 
Now it just kept opening, until she looked like she were using it to pleasure an invisible elephant…but nothing could come out of it because she could not stop inhaling.

It was hard to blame her.
 
It’s disturbing enough to look down and discover a full-grown, visibly pissed-off German shepherd at your feet.
 
But if it challenges you to argue semantics with it, and you don’t lose your cool…Jack, you dead.
 
I sighed.
 
I could already tell this was probably going to cost me.

“I vill admit,” Ralph told her, “his sense of humor leaves virtually everything to be desired.
 
But by zat criterion zere are very few perzonss present here right now.”
 
His fake accent was starting to come back, an encouraging sign.

She yanked her eyes away from him with an almost audible sucking sound, and looked quickly around her.
 
I could tell she was looking for the ventriloquist who was causing this dog to appear to talk, and she kept trying even though she kept coming up empty.
 
Again, hard to blame her.
 
The night I met Ralph myself, maybe a quarter of a century ago at the original Callahan’s Place, he was working a ventriloquist con, in partnership with a mute guy.
 
We only caught on because the guy wasn’t very good at lip synching.
 

But finally she gave up.
 
You could see that she wanted to hit a delete key and make Ralph go away.
 
But she couldn’t find one.
 
“Vould you mind telling me just vat
your
definition of ‘perzonhood’ entailss?” he repeated.

Since he persisted in speaking she would have to answer him, but that didn’t necessarily mean she had to concede he existed.
 
She stared straight ahead of her and addressed the empty air.
 
“The abortion controversialization has made the legal definition quite complexitized; it would be imprudent to paraphrase it from memory.
 
I can however direct you to—”

“The hell with the legal definition,” Alf yelled.
 
“Answer the damn question, lady.”

She froze.
 
This new voice was much higher in pitch and reedier in tone than Ralph’s, did not sound even vaguely canine, and had no accent at all—Southern Florida Standard English, if that isn’t an oxymoron.
 
But it came from roughly the same
height
as Ralph’s voice, so she already sensed she was in trouble.

Again she looked down.

And again performed her Linda Lovelace At The Zoo impression.
 
And once again, I could not find it in my heart to fault her for it.
 
Most people are stunned silent by their first sight of
 
a Key deer.
 

They look pretty much like any other deer…only seen through the wrong end of a telescope: perfect little miniature creatures.
 
One taller than knee-high would be considered a basketball player by his tribe.
 
Tourists who take the trouble to get past the safeguards protecting Key deer and see one up close just about always react with awe.
 
Even without hearing one speak.
 

Much less speak rudely.
 
“Come on, come on, sugar—we
do
have all day, but we have better things to waste it on than you,” Alf snapped, twitching his tail.

The Inspector could not seem to shake off her paralysis; every time she started to, her eyes refocused on Alfie and her mainspring popped again.
 
Alf’s nose is hard to look away from, so big and red he looks like W.C. Fields’s lawn ornament—apparently there’s an auxiliary brain in there.
 
The bureaucrat tried looking away from it…and found herself staring at Ralph; no help there.
 
I felt an impulse to intervene somehow, but many years ago I gave up trying to find ways to cushion fellow humans against that first meeting with people like Ralph or Alf.
 
There
is
no way to cushion it, that I’ve ever found; it’s simply a sink-or-swim kind of deal.
 
Best to let the hand play out as dealt.

Long-Drink McGonnigle stood up, frowning.

Shit, where did I put that fifth ace?
 

He loped over to the chalk line before the fireplace, and raised his glass.
 
Silence.
 
“To manners,” he said, emptied his drink in a gulp, and flung the glass into the hearth.
 
The smash was loud and musical.

There was a ragged but strong chorus of, “To manners!” and more than a dozen glasses followed Long-Drink’s in a ragged barrage.

Newcomers to our company often find our toasting customs almost as startling as Ralph Von Wau Wau: a sudden thunder of bursting glassware can make some people jump a foot in the air.

“Now, Ms. Belch…” Long-Drink said, turning and advancing on Field Inspector Czrjghnczl.
 
This was not going well.
 
“…exactly what the hell makes you think you have the right to saunter in here and make wild insinuations and vile threats about people you’ve never even met?”

This was something she knew how to deal with: her blank face congealed.
 
“And you are…”

The Drink nodded.
 
“Magnificent.
 
I know.”

“Well, in point of fact, Mr. Nificent, I happen to be fully authorized to—”

“Author-ized?” Doc Webster interjected.
 
“Nonsense.
 
Where’s your elbow patches?
 
Your coffeemaker?
 
The beads of blood on your forehead?
 
The line of creditors hounding your footsteps?
 
No offense, Ralph.”

“I doubt she’s authored a thing in her life,” Long-Drink agreed.
 
“She looks like more of an editor, to me.”

She rebooted.
 
“In point of fact, I am fully authorized by the state to investigate and make recommendatory suggestions for disposition
vis a vis
the educational slash residentiary status of minor children deemed to be in a state of potentialized risk.”

“Wow,” Marty Pignatelli said.
 
“You carry a piece?”

She gave him a withering glare.

“Not even a throwdown?”
 
Marty’s an ex-cop.

It had been over a decade since I had last heard someone use the word “slash” in a sentence which did not also have the word “prices” in it.
 
I couldn’t help wondering who was responsible for
major
children.
 
And of course, “…state of potentialized risk,” was one for the archives.
 
But I wasn’t thinking about any of those things, just then.
 
I was beginning to understand just how much trouble I was in.
 

This was no mere garden variety bureaucrat: this was the hydroponic monoculture logic-resistant kudzu-gene Frankenfood kind.
 
She didn’t
need
a damn gun.
 
Sweat ran down my back into my shorts.

It was time to start proffering olive branches.
 
“Field Inspector Czrjghnczl,” I said, carefully placing the accent on the ‘rjgh,’ this time, “I don’t think anyone here would question your authority, your responsibility, or your probity.
 
Would we, folks?”
 
I put just enough spin on the last three words that the response was a strained silence.
 
I went on, “There’s really no need at all to approach this in an adversarial spirit.
 
I’m sure that with open, honest communication we can arrive at a mutually—”

It was working, I could see it in her eyes.
 
My submissive display was pulling her back from the very edge of a snit.
 
There was still hope for negotiation.
 
I was trying to recall everything I knew about stalling, when without warning the situation went completely to hell.

*
 
*
 
*

It happened too fast to really grasp, but as I reconstruct things, what started it was Pixel the cat, materializing on the countertop behind me…less than a foot from where Harry the parrot still sat on his little porcelain throne.
 
Yes, he’s
that
Pixel: the Cat Who Walks Through Walls, former master of Robert A. Heinlein; he wandered into our company and took us captive shortly after Mr. Heinlein’s death in 1988.
 
You’d think Harry would be used to his sudden appearances by now, after more than a decade of mutual ballbreaking, but it still gets the little guy every time.
 
He screamed “
Jesus Christ
,” erupted from his commode like a Nike from its launch rack, and made a beeline for whatever he happened to be looking at at the moment.
 
Which was Field Inspector Czrjghnczl, of course.

From her point of view she was suddenly under scuz missile attack, albeit a missile trailing feathers and profanity.
 
Her reaction must have been just as automatic as his: she tried to bat Harry out of the air with her deadly briefcase.
 
She had excellent reflexes, too; the only thing that saved Harry a nasty concussion was the twenty-five pounds or so of cat that seemed to be attached to her arm all of a sudden.
 
Painfully attached: I’ve seen Pixel dice melons with those claws.
 
He doesn’t like it when anyone but
him
gives Harry a hard time.

Still operating on hardwired programming, she let go of the briefcase and tried to fling him from her arm.
 
But just as she got to the point where she planned to “snap the whip” and use centrifugal force to unseat him…he was just
gone
.
 
She ended up in a spinning, off-balance stagger.
 
Alf just had time to bray, “Hey, I’m walkin’ here—
I’m walkin’, here
—” before Ludnyola tripped over him.
 
Ludnyola’s brain was lagging three or four crises behind and her reflexes had done all they could; she would have gone down and landed heavily on that infinitely fragile little animal.
 
But Ralph von Wau Wau roared, and reared up on his hind legs, and suddenly all the frenzied high speed activity congealed into a static tableau.

Ralph and Field Inspector Czrjghnczl appeared to be dancing.
 
A new dance, one I felt definitely had possibilities.
 
Her arms hung limp at her sides, and Ralph was holding her up by the tits.

She stared, from Ralph down to her chest and back up to Ralph, whose muzzle panted and drooled slightly a few inches from her face.
 
Her brain caught up, or perhaps only her reflexes.
 
She screamed, pushed Ralph violently away, and sprang backward.

Most of us started yelling, but of course the more we yelled the more determined she became to keep on back-pedaling.
 
And she had only been about twelve steps from the pool to start with.

It will be very bad,
I thought,
if she falls in the pool
.

She stopped on the eleventh step, and planted her feet firmly, oblivious to the water just behind her.
 
By now her brain had definitely caught up, and overruled the reflexes.
 
A civil servant never retreats, no matter what.
 
Not even if it
is
the only sane thing to do.
 
The hounds of Hell can always be slapped with a subpoena or threatened with a seven-year audit.
 
I could see her using fire-extinguisher blasts of anger to smother her fear.
 
She took a deep breath, raised her voice, as if she didn’t already have anyone’s attention, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I require your cooperation.
 
Are either of the parents of Erin Stonebender-Berkowitz here present?”