Callahan's Place 09 - Callahan's Con (v5.0) (37 page)

“And then one day Mary Callahan
proved
to you that the brakes you replaced weren’t the ones that failed.
 
Right?”

“Yeah, so?
 
I was mistaken then, so I must be now?”

“You sentenced yourself to ten years of mortal guilt you didn’t deserve, because you rushed to judgment, and because something in you decided even guilt was easier to bear than your naked grief.
 
So in the first place, the universe owes you ten years you prepaid…and in the second place you should maybe use it to make damn sure of your facts this time.
 
We’ve already
climbed
these stairs together, you and I, Jake, and I won’t be around for the next flight.
 
Why don’t you learn from your mistakes: this time try just assuming that you’re
not
a worthless piece of shit and get on with your life, and see how that works out?”
 

I hadn’t often seen the Doc this angry; it would have been startling, if I’d cared.
 
“What difference does it make?”

His eyes flashed.
 
“If you had broken, bay whack when I first met you, it would have been the tragic waste of lun more wife.
 
If you break now, it’s the end of The Place and you fucking nell wo it…and you will
not
dishonor my memory that way or I
will
haunt your ass, you binny skin of a such!”
 
He turned on his heel and strode away.
 
Mei Ling, whose presence I had failed to note, went after him.

Nobody else said anything.
 
I had no idea what to say or do.
 
I looked over at Erin, and she was as clueless as me.

Long-Drink McGonnigle dropped into a chair next to me and put his feet up on my thighs.
 
Someone gasped.
 
“Look at it this way, Jake,” he said.
 
“First time out, you croaked a wife and kid.
 
This time you still got the kid.”
 
He spread his hands.
 
“Clearly you’re improving.”

I stared at him and then stared at his feet across my lap and then stared at him, and just then, deadpan, he let loose a fart they must have heard up on Duval Street, that went on long enough to plant beans in it.

I roared with laughter.
 
I didn’t want to, I just couldn’t help it.
 
After a moment of shocked silence, several other people lost it too.
 
“Chuckles the Clown,” someone said, and the laughter redoubled.

Somehow Drink knew or guessed how long it was going to take me to segue from laughing helplessly to sobbing like a baby; when that happened he was kneeling beside me with his long wiry arms around me, and he held me until I had accomplished all I could that way.
 
Somewhere in there Erin joined the huddle from the other side, crying just as hard as I was, and I managed to get an arm around her too.

Finally we all pulled apart and located tissues or sleeves.
 
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Erin said, in a way that meant not
I admit blame
but simply
I am sad
.

I nodded.
 
“Me too, honey,” I said, and just then Field Inspector Ludnyola Czrjghnczl sat down heavily on my lap.
 
The tall mug of Irish whiskey in her hand slopped over, and a goodly hot dollop landed on my hand.
 
I winced, drew in breath to swear…and let it out again.
 
Suddenly something was clear to me, for the first time—several things.
 
“You know,” I told her, licking my hand, “I think I understand why you piss me off so—”

“Shut up,” she said.
 
“Please.”
 
She held up her mug, emptied it as if it were so much hemlock, and tossed it into the pool.
 
“I cannot drink any more courage than this or I shall throw up, so I must do this now.”
 
She paused to wipe whipped cream off her upper lip, and sat up straighter on my lap.
 
“I realize I am the lashed…the last person here you want to talk with now.
 
And I am certain I understand less about what went on here tonight than anyone present.
 
But it seems to me that you people are not being very scientific.”

She had managed to engage my attention.
 
My attitude toward her had been evolving lately, but—
 
“Not scientific?
 
Lady, we saved the universe once.
 
And the world,
twice
.
 
Nikola Tesla hangs out here, when he’s on earth.
 
Why—”

“What is the scientific method?” she interrupted.

“Find puzzle.
 
Form hypothesis.
 
Perform experiment.
 
Revise—”

“Stop right there!” she commanded.
 
“Why have you not
experimented
?”

“We did,” Erin said mournfully.
 
“Twice.”

Ms. Czrjghnczl shook her head violently.
 
“Not what I mean.”
 
She lurched up off my lap, reeled over to Erin and took her hand.
 
“Look, I like your logic for one hour or twenty-four, right?
 
Nothing else makes sensological…makes psychological sense, okay?
 
Only it didn’t work.
 
So there’s gotta be something you’re missing.
 
Something, maybe some
little
something you don’t understand about the way that belt works.
 
Like some cars pull to the left.”
 
Erin stared up at her.

“Fine,” I said.
 
“So what the hell are we supposed to do about it?”

“
Experiment
,” she insisted, still looking at Erin.

Erin’s eyes widened.
 
“Oh my God,” she said slowly.
 
“Oh, I am a major fool.”
 
She turned to me.
 
“How long have you had that damned belt?”

I was lost.
 
“I don’t know.
 
Fifteen years—twenty, maybe.
 
You’d have to—”
 
I shut up.
 
On automatic pilot, I’d been about to say
you’d have to ask Zoey
.
 
Suddenly I could see that my future was going to be an infinite series of such unexpected knifings in the back of the heart.

Erin failed to notice.
 
“But way before I was born, right?”

“Sure.
 
Since well before I opened Mary’s Place, and met your mother.”

“Where in Mary’s Place?
 
Where did you keep it?”

“In an old footlocker under the bed.”

“Always?
 
Even before you met Mommy?”

“Yeah, sure.
 
Why?”
 
But even as I asked the question, the answer was beginning to come to me.
 
“Holy shit.
 
There wasn’t an Erin around, then
.”

“Right,” she said.
 
“I can go back to then and get the belt, and
experiment
with it at my leisure until I understand exactly what I got wrong, and then put the belt back right where I got it!”

“But—but—but you’ve already used up your windows—”

“No, I didn’t!
 
I stutter-stepped, remember?
 
To minimize my own exposure.
 
Out of every two seconds, I was only there for half a second or less.
 
I still have seventy-five percent of each window left!
 
I’ll have to do some fancy timing, but—”
 
She broke off, stood up on her chair and kissed Ludnyola Czrjghnczl on the cheek.
 
“Thank you!” she said.
 
Then suddenly she was on my lap, without having covered the intervening distance.
 
She was a hell of a lot lighter than the Field Inspector had been.
 
Her smile was so beautiful I felt an impulse to shield my eyes.
 
“Wish me luck, Daddy!” she said, and kissed me on the mouth, and by the time I could get my mouth open again to say good luck, she was gone.

No, I was mistaken.
 
There
she was.
 
Over there by the side of the pool, standing next to that big good-looking naked broad yelling “H-O-L-Y
SHIT
!” who was my wife Zoey.
 
I tried to get up and found I was paralyzed; she had to come to me.

*
 
*
 
*

It took a ridiculously long time to explain to her what had just happened—even after I could talk again.
 
From her point of view, she had pushed the button on the Meddler’s Belt…and then for a second or two it got very dark and cold and she felt just terrible all over…and then she was standing naked by the pool, and everybody she knew was staring at her and grinning and crying and applauding.
 
(I’ve had dreams like that.)
 
When she finally got it, she hugged me and Erin so hard I heard bones creak in all three of us.
 
It was something like ten minutes before we could stand to stop hugging, even for long enough to go to the bathroom.

*
 
*
 
*

So as you can probably imagine, there then ensued a certain period of celebration, raucous enough that a few cops came down from Fantasy Fest to see what all the fuss was, and ended up staying, fascinated by Alf, Ralph and Pixel…

…and then, a few hours after sunrise, after most of the wounded had tottered off to their homes, Zoey and I held a somewhat shorter but just as gratifying period of private and most personal celebration, raucous enough in its own way that Fast Eddie nextdoor threatened to turn a hose on us and Pixel the cat thereafter regarded me with a new respect…

…and then there was a fairly
long
period of unconsciousness bordering on clinical coma…

…and finally an informal group gathering around the barbeque table, which started out as a walking-wounded-taking-light-nourishment-with-their-medication sort of thing, and then, as the medication began taking hold, evolved into the first brunch I’d ever attended that began at sundown and would still be going strong at midnight.
 
Erin was finally thirteen years old again, as God had clearly intended from the start, and it was so wonderful to have her back, Zoey and I couldn’t stop smiling at each other; it was so miraculous to have our Zoey back that Erin and I couldn’t stop smiling at each other.
 
I kept bumping into things, crosseyed because I could not bring myself to take my eyes off either of them for a second.
 
You don’t know what you’ve got until you lose it.
 
If you then get it back, you’re Lazarus on laughing gas.

So it wasn’t until sometime well after 9 PM that Ludnyola Czrjghnczl was able to get me aside and say, “You never got a chance to tell me what it is about me that…”

“Pisses me off?”

She blushed and nodded.
 
“I presume you mean something beyond the obvious, something other than my job and the…trouble I’ve been making for you.”
 
She dropped her gaze.
 
“Something personal.”

I tried to blow it off.
 
“Look, somebody comes up with the idea that saves my wife from certain horrid death, that’s all they have to do to get a free pass from me.
 
You can piss me off any time you feel like it.”

“I’d still like to understand.”

I thought about it.
 
“Pull up a chair,” I said, and we took a table behind the fireplace, where we were unlikely to be interrupted by merrymakers.
 
Along the way I signaled Tom for two coffees.
 
We’ve evolved a fairly sophisticated signal system over the years.
 
When he dropped the coffees off at our table, and she’d taken a sip of hers, she looked up at me and said, “This is just the way I take it.”

“One sugar, regular milk, touch of nutmeg,” I agreed.
 
“I noticed earlier.
 
Comes with the job.”

She nodded slowly, sipped more coffee, and said, “Go ahead.”

I sipped some myself.
 
Two sugars, 18% milkfat cream, half a shot of the Black Bush.
 
“You’re right: it
is
something beyond your occupation, and its intersection with my little scene here.
 
But it isn’t personal.
 
Exactly.
 
Well, maybe, in a sense—”

“I see,” she said, deadpan.
 
Was that a little dry wit in there?

One more gulp of coffee.
 
Should have asked Tom for a whole shot.
 
Spit it out, Jake.
 
No, not the coffee, the apology—and don’t call me Shirley.
 
“Here’s the thing,” I said.
 
“Every time I see you I get pissed off, but it isn’t you I’m getting pissed off at.
 
I mean, I hardly even know you, you know?
 
And as I
get
to know you, I kind of like you.
 
Even before you saved my world, I mean.
 
What I keep getting p—”
 
I saw her expression.
 
“What I keep getting angry at is not you.
 
It’s me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Every time I see you, even now, you remind me of a hole in my bucket.
 
A burr under my saddle.
 
A piece of unfinished karma—”

“Ah.
 
Now I understand.”