Callahan's Place 09 - Callahan's Con (v5.0) (31 page)

Aldo was lost in admiration.
 
“Jesus Christ, that’s beautiful, Boss.”

“Uh huh.
 
Wake up Vinnie and clean up.
 
We’re out of here.”

10

Who knows where or when?

If it ain’t one thing, it’s two things.

—Grandfather Stonebender

“Oh, I’ll probably have a lump for awhile.
 
But you can’t hurt an Irishman by hitting him in the head.”

“You look great for your age, Daddy.”

I winced and thanked my naked two-year-old daughter gravely.
 
“And how are you feeling, princess?”

She grinned hugely.
 
“Aw, you know me.
 
I just hope adults enjoy adultery as much as I’ve enjoyed my infancy.”

We were back in the car and moving with traffic, headed for the marina where the
Flat Rock
lay waiting for another chance to telescope my spinal column.
 
The sun was low in the sky, but would probably last long enough for us to get under weigh, at least.
 
Bill was driving, so that Erin and I could hug.

“So what’s up with Tony?” I asked.

Her grin got even bigger.
 
“He’s driving north to St. Augustine.
 
He couldn’t get his handcuffs to close tight enough to work on me, and he’s one of those guys that hates to drive with the top up, so he solved the problem by tossing me in the trunk.”

“Jesus, what an idiot!”

“Oh, you noticed?
 
I wish I could see his face five hours from now, when he gets to the outskirts of St. Gus and opens that trunk.
 
I left him my clothes, and a note that says,
I had another sip hidden in the fanny pack
.”

Bill and I roared with laughter.

“I really enjoyed you at this age,” I told her.
 
“It’s nice to see it again.
 
You’re a cuddly little armful.”

“How am I at twenty-one?” she asked.

“The second most beautiful woman on the planet.”

“How
is
Mom?
 
Freaking out, right?”

“Roger that.”

“You’d think she would have got it out of her system by now.”

“If she was ever going to, she would have when you rode the Shuttle to orbit—”

“I’m gonna ride the Shuttle?
 
Cool
.”

Oh.
 
From her point of view, that hadn’t happened yet.
 
This was tricky stuff.
 
“Yeah.
 
Uh, maybe you better not ask why.”

“Course not. “

“I’m just saying you’re right: it’s always been irrational for your mother and I to worry about you.
 
You came out of her womb more competent than the two of us put together.
 
But two million years of hard-wiring doesn’t give a damn about reason.
 
I’m going to have to call her soon and let her know you’re okay.”

“I know, Daddy.
 
It’s flattering.
 
And really sweet.
 
If it makes you guys feel better to worry, you go right ahead.”

“Well, for a start,” I said, “why don’t you get in the back and buckle up?
 
This isn’t safe; if we had an accident, the airbag—”

“Relax,” she said, tugging on my beard.
 
“If we had an accident I’d just pop out of here.”

It doesn’t matter how many times you tell yourself, or even have it proved to you: it’s just really hard to wrap your mind around the concept that all your child needs is a split second’s warning to be safe from any harm.

“How are you and your friend getting home to Key West?
 
How did you two get here so fast?”

It suddenly dawned on me and Bill that this Erin had not met him yet.
 
For her, “home” was still Long Island.
 
But she knew about Key West.
 
She must have come from a point after we’d decided to move, but before we got there—because we’d all met Bill the hour we arrived.
 
“I’m sorry—Erin, let me present my good friend and yours-to-be, William B. Williams.
 
Bill, this is my daughter Erin Stonebender-Berkowitz.”

She was delighted.
 
“What a great name!
 
‘Double Bill’…pleased to meet you.
 
Do people call you Bbiillll?”

He flashed his pirate grin, and took his hand off the gearshift long enough to pat the top of her head.
 
“Only you, sugarbush—nobody else can say it.”

“Cool sarong.”

“Thanks.
 
I can’t understand why anybody in Florida wears pants.”

“Me either.
 
So did you guys fly here or what?”

I explained about
the
Flat Rock
.
 
“I don’t intend to push her on the way home, if that’s all right,” Bill said.
 
“We really strained her on the way up here.”

“And ourselves,” I agreed.
 
“I’m gonna need a week of chiropracty to put some space between my ass and my shoulder blades again.
 
It’s alright with me if we just let the damn boat
drift
south.
 
Once I call your mother from the marina and let her know you’re okay and we’re on our way home, I’m not in a hurry any more.”
 
I’d tried to call her already on the borrowed cell phone; unfortunately, when that bullet had smacked into the fence and croquet-balled my head into the street, I’d landed on the phone.

“It’s a two-man boat?” Erin asked.

“The only reason your Mom isn’t here.
 
But hell, you don’t take up any more room than the beer we drank.”

She grimaced.
 
“Thanks, but I’m not crazy about open boats.
 
Especially cramped ones, especially for hours and hours.
 
Especially in the dark.”
 
The sun was indeed just about to set.
 
“You guys go ahead: I’m just gonna hop home, okay Daddy?”

“Sure, why not?” I said.
 
“Wish I could do it myself.
 
We’ll see you there, pumpkin.”

Pop
.
 
She was gone.

“Man,” said Bill, shaking his head.
 
“Once in awhile I think I can imagine what it must be like to teleport.
 
But I can’t picture myself attempting it from a moving car.”

“She’s done it from a moving Space Shuttle.
 
Uh…she will real soon, anyway.”

We reached the marina just after the last trace of light left the sky.
 
While Bill prepared the boat for departure, I wandered off to find a pay phone.
 
When I came back, Bill read my expression.
 
“No luck?”

I shook my head.
 
“Two pay phones in this place, both vandalized.
 
And the little putz behind the counter is a redneck who hates all men with beards; he wouldn’t let me use the house phone even when I offered him cash.
 
I think he saw our boat and pegged us for dope runners.”

“I’ll go reason with him,” said Bill.
 
He happened to have a heavy wrench in his hand.

“No, forget it,” I said, and stepped aboard.
 
“It doesn’t matter.
 
By now Erin’s long since home, and Zoey knows she’s safe.
 
Let’s just gas up and go—I’m tired of Miami, and darkness doesn’t improve it.”

*
 
*
 
*

I’m not a boat guy.
 
The trip back home was more pleasant than the mad race north had been.
 
But not a hell of a lot more pleasant.
 
Apparently a boat designed for ultrahigh speed handles poorly at low speed—I believe the technical phrase is, “wallows like a pig”—and the compromise speed Bill settled on was not enough help.
 
I’m always scared on a small boat, and adding in darkness and great distance from shore didn’t help a bit.
 
At one point a dolphin broke the surface nearby, for all I know just to say hello, and nearly gave me a heart attack.
 
I never actually became officially seasick, quite, but I was very glad when the lights of Key West came into view, and gladder still when Houseboat Row loomed up out of the darkness.

By the time we approached the gate of The Place I was damn near euphoric.
 
The warrior returneth home to his lady, triumphant after a successful campaign.
 
Tony Donuts Junior would not be back anytime soon: he had a lifetime of running to begin, and even he wasn’t stupid enough to return to a cul-de-sac that was his last known address, where he would stand out like a target, and where any number of people would be happy to rat him out.
 
As for Charlie Ponte and his friends, they had never heard of us and had no reason to.
 
Even if they ever caught up with Tony, and even if they paid attention to a word he babbled, Tony himself wasn’t aware of any connection between The Place and the person he thought of as Ida Alice Shourds except that she’d had a drink in there once.
 
He would be more likely to associate her with the porno store where he’d seen her most recently—and that store had been closed, bankrupted by the Internet, for months.
 
(The owner, an acquaintance of the Professor’s, had simply tossed the porn tapes themselves into the dumpster and left town, the empty boxes still on the shelves.)

On top of everything else, in order to get from Houseboat Row back to The Place, it had been necessary to pass through the first night of Fantasy Fest.
 
Can you picture a party in Paradise, crashed by every benign weirdo in the world?
 
Or have you ever been to the Masquerade of a World Science Fiction Convention, and if so can you picture that event with everyone present loaded on mescaline?
 
That’s as far as I’m going to go in describing Fantasy Fest here; the job has been done too well too many times before, and you can find lengthy discussion, including streaming video and stills, with two minutes on any search engine.
 
The point is that by the time I was close enough to read the small familiar sign above the gate that discreetly proclaims, “The Place…because it’s time,” I had been grinning like an idiot for so long my face hurt, and I didn’t mind a bit.
 
I can still remember that cotton candy feeling.

Things went sour real fast, then.

First of all, just as I reached the open gateway, I remembered for the first time in hours that my friend Doc was dying.
 
The knowledge just dropped unwanted back into my consciousness, and a large fraction of my good cheer got lopped off the top right there.
 

Then I stepped through the gate and found, instead of the hero’s welcome I’d been imagining, a dead house.
 
Even though it wasn’t quite midnight yet, The Place was dark, the bar closed, the pool empty; the only action I could detect was lights and murmurs indicating a small quiet gathering on the patio around behind Doc’s cottage.
 

I
 
realized I should have been expecting it.
 
Tom had only done what I’d have done if I’d been paying attention to my business—it was silly to stay open nights during Fantasy Fest, since nearly all of my clientele would be out there participating every night.
 
Doubtless that was where most of them were now.
 
Nonetheless, I felt a letdown: nobody was around to slap some fatted calf on the barbie for me.

“I guess I’m just going to head home,” Double Bill said.
 
“I’m wiped.”

“I hear that,” I told him.
 
“But just come in for a cuppa, okay?
 
Zoey’s going to want to thank you.”

My house was dark.
 
I assumed Zoey would be with the group behind Doc’s place, and headed there.
 
On the way I found myself thinking that people gathered to comfort a dying man weren’t going to be a receptive audience for witty complaints about my boat-battered butt, and caught myself resenting Doc.
 
Sumbitch has been upstaging me since the day I met him.
 
At my age you finally start to cut yourself a little slack when you notice your own monstrous selfishness emerging—it’s
not
monstrous, it’s hard-wired, and the only thing that’s really your fault is how much you
indulge
it—but it’s still never fun to confront.
 
By now my good mood was still in place—but constructed of cornflakes and library paste.

And then I rounded the corner into Doc’s back yard, and the people facing my way saw me, and the people facing away from me saw their faces and spun around, and everybody started talking at once.
 
At first all I could glean was that everybody was upset with me for some reason, so there went the last of my good mood.
 
But then I began to pick individual voices out of the wash of sound, and to sort out the questions they were asking me, and in a matter of seconds I went from being officially in a bad mood to being terrified.

The Doc’s stentorian “Dammit Jake, whoa didn’t you fine?” came through first, followed by Field Inspector Czrjghnczl’s “Is your daughter alright, Mr. Stonebender?” and Long-Drink’s, “Jesus, where’s Zoey?” and Tom Hauptman’s, “Oh dear, aren’t they with you?” and finally Fast Eddie’s miserable, shamed, “I’m sorry, Boss: I tried ta stop her, but she wouldn’t lissena me.”
 
As the combined meaning began to come through, I screamed an unspellable syllable, spun on my heel and sprinted as fast as I could to my own cottage next door, kicked the back door open and raced inside.