Callahan’s Secret, page 7
“So they weld—well hell, hi, Pyotr, wait a half while I finish telling Mike this story—they weld manacles on this giant alien, and they haul him into court for trial, and the first thing he does, they go to swear him in and he swallows the bailiff whole.”
Mike had told me this gag, but he is a very compassionate man. He relit his cheroot and gave me the straight line, “What’d the bailiff do?”
“His job, o’course—he swore, in the witness. Haw haw!” Pyotr joined in the polite laughter and took my arm. “Time to bottle it up, Pyotr you old lovable Litvak? Time to scamper, is it? Why should you have to haul my old ashes, huh? Gimme my keys, Mike, I’m not nearly so drunk as you think—I mean, so thunk as you drink. Shit, I said it right, I must be drink. All right, just let me find my pants—”
It took both of them to get me to the car. I noticed that every time one of my feet came unstuck from the ground, it seemed to take enormous effort to force it back down again. A car seat leaped up and hit me in the ass, and a door slammed. “Make sure he takes two aspirins before he passes out for good,” Callahan’s voice said from a mile away.
“Right,” Pyotr said from only a few blocks distant, and my old Pontiac woke up grumbling. The world lurched suddenly, and we fell off a cliff, landing a million years later in white water. I felt nausea coming on, chattered merrily to stave it off.
“Splendid business, Pyotr old sock, absolutionally magnelephant. You drive well, and this car handles well on ice, but if you keep spinning like this we’re going to dend up in the itch—mean, we’ll rote off the ride, right? Let’s go to the Brooklyn Navy Yard and try to buy a drink for every sailor on the U.S.S. Missouri—as a songwriter I’m always hoping to find the Moe juiced. Left her right there on the bartop, by all the gods! Jus’ left her and—turn around, God damn it, Heft my Lady back there!”
“It is all right, Jake. Mr. Callahan will leave her locked up. We will wake her for several days, correct Irish custom, yes? Even those not present tonight should have opportunity to pay their respects.”
“Hell, yeah, sure. Hey! Funeral. How? Bury or cremate?”
“Cremation would seem appropriate.”
“Strings? Gearboxes? Heavy metal air pollution? Fuggoff. Bury her, dissolve in acid, heave her into the ocean off Montauk Point and let the fish lay eggs in her sounding box. Know why I called her Lady Macbeth?”
“No, I never knew.”
“Used to sneak up and stab me inna back when didn’t expect it. Bust a string, go out of tune, start to buzz on the high frets for no reason at all. Treacherous bitch. Oh, Lady!”
“You used each other well, Jake. Be glad. Not many have ever touched so fine an instrument.”
“Goddam right. Stop the car, please. I want to review inputs.”
“Open the window.”
“I’ll get it all over the—”
“It’s raining. Go ahead.”
“Oh. Not sure I like Finn’s magic. Have to pay attention to notice it’s raining. Right ho. Oh.”
Eventually the car stopped complaining and rain sprinkled everything but Pyotr and me and then my house opened up and swallowed me. “Forget aspirins,” I mumbled as my bed rushed at me. “Don’ need ’em.”
“You’ll be sorry tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry now.”
The bed and I went inertialess together, spun end over end across the macrocosmic Universe.
I was awakened by the deafening thunder of my pulse.
I knew that I was awake long before I had the power to raise my eyelids. I knew it because I knew I lacked the imagination to dream a taste like that in my mouth. But I was quite prepared to believe that the sleep had lasted at least a century; I felt old. That made me wonder if I had snored right through the wake—the wake! Everything came back in a rush; I flung open my eyes, and two large icicles were rammed into the apertures as far as they would go, the points inches deep in my forebrain. I screamed. That is, I tried to scream, and it sounded like a scream—but my pulse sounded like an empty oil tank being hit with a maul, so more likely what I did was bleat or whimper.
Something heavy and bristly lay across me; it felt like horsehair, with the horse still attached. I strained at it, could not budge it. I wept.
The voice spoke in an earsplitting whisper. “Good morning, Jake.”
“Fuck you too,” I croaked savagely, wincing as the smell of my breath went past my nose.
“I warned you,” Pyotr said sadly.
“Fuck you twice. Jesus, my eyelashes hurt. What is lying on me?”
“A cotton sheet.”
“Gaah.”
“You should have accepted the aspirins.”
“You don’t understand. I don’t get hangovers.”
Pyotr made no reply.
“Damn it, I don’t! Not even when I was a lush, not the first time I ever got smashed, not ever. Trick metabolism. Worst that ever happens is I wake up not hungry—but no head, no nausea, no weakness, never.”
Pyotr was silent a long time. Then, “You drank a good deal more than usual last night.”
“Hell, I been drunker’n that. Too many times, man.”
“Never since I have known you.”
“Well, that’s true. Maybe that’s…no, I’ve fallen off the wagon before. I just don’t get hangovers.”
He left the room, was gone awhile. I passed the time working on a comprehensive catalog of all the places that hurt, beginning with my thumbnails. I got quite a lot of work done before Pyotr returned; I had gotten halfway through the hairs on my forearms when he came in the door with a heavily laden tray in his hands. I opened my mouth to scream, “Get that food out of here!”—and the smell reached me. I sat up and began to salivate. He set the tray down on my lap and I ignored the pain and annihilated bacon, sausage, eggs, cheese, onions, green peppers, hot peppers, bread, butter, English muffins, jam, orange juice, coffee, and assorted condiments so fast I think I frightened him a little. When I sank back against the pillows the tray contained a plate licked clean, an empty cup and glass, and a fork. I was exhausted, and still hurt in all the same places—that is, in all places—but I was beginning to believe that I wanted to live. “This is crazy,” I said. “If I am hung over, the concept of food ought to be obscene. I never ate that much breakfast in my life, not even the morning after my wedding night.”
I could see Pyotr now, and he looked embarrassed, as though my appetite were his fault.
“What time is it?”
“Seven P.M.”
“God’s teeth.”
“It was four in the morning when we arrived here. You have slept for thirteen hours. I fell asleep at noon and have just awakened. Do you feel better now that you have eaten?”
“No, but I concede the trick is possible. What’s good for total bodily agony?”
“Well, there is no cure. But certain medications are said to alleviate the symptoms.”
“And Callahan’s has opened by now. Well, how do we get me to the car?”
In due course we got to Callahan’s where Lady Macbeth lay in state on top of the bar. The wake was already in full swing when we arrived and were greeted with tipsy cheers. I saw that it was Riddle Night: The big blackboard stood near the door, tonight’s game scrawled on it in the handwriting of Doc Webster. On Riddle Night the previous week’s winner is Riddle Master; each solved riddle is good for a drink on the Riddle Master’s tab. The Doc looked fairly happy—every unsolved riddle is a free drink for him, on the house.
The board was headed “PUBLIC PERSONALITIES.” Beneath that were inscribed the following runes:
Hindu ascetic; masculine profession
tramp; crane
profligate; cheat
span; tavern, money
fish; Jamaican or Scottish male, caviar
certainly; Irish street
handtruck; forgiveness
pry; manager
smart guy; Stout
chicken coop; more loving
bandit; crimson car
coffin; baby boy
tote; subsidy
moaning; achieve
irrigated; laser pistol
Nazi; cook lightly
British punk; knowledge, current
chicken coop; foreplay
wealthier; nuts to
Italian beauty; stead, depart, witness
toilet; auto, senior member
be dull; Carmina Burana
grass; apprentice, younger
valley; odd
burns; leer at
Example: penis; truck = peter; lorry = Peter Lorre. Extra drinks for identifying Categories I-IV
People were staring at the board, seemed to have been staring at it for some time, but none of the riddles were checked off yet. I paid my respects to the Lady, said hello to Mike, accepted a large glass of dog-hair. Then, deliberately, I turned away from the Lady and toward the board. (Why don’t you take a crack at it before reading further?)
“Got one,” I said at once, and allowed Long-Drink to help me to the board. “First one in line,” I said, marking with chalk. “Hindu ascetic; masculine profession. That’s Jain; Man’s Field, and Category One is Actresses.”
Doc Webster looked pained. “Say Film Women,” he suggested. “More accurate. Mike, one for Jake on me.”
Given the category Section I was fairly simple. I got b) ’Bo; Derrick. Long-Drink McGonnigle got c) Rakehell; Welsh. Tommy Janssen figured out that d) and e) were Bridge It; Bar Dough and Marlin; Mon Roe. Josie Bauer took f) Surely; Mick Lane and g) Dolly; Pardon. We collected our drinks gleefully.
I suspected that the second category would be Male Actors (or Film Men), but kept my mouth shut, hoping I could figure them all out and do a sweep before anyone else twigged. This turned out to be poor tactics; I got a), b), d) and f), but while I was puzzling over the rest, Shorty Steinitz spoke up. “The category is Male Film Stars, and the first one is Jimmy; Steward!” I tried to jump in at once, but Long-Drink drowned me out. “Got b): Alec; Guinness! Hey, and f) has to be Carry; Grant.”
“And d),” I said irritably, “is Robber; Red Ford. But what about the others?” We stared at them in silence for awhile.
“A hint,” Doc Webster said at last: “With reference to g), the first name is what I’ll be doing if you do the second.”
“Got it!” Long-Drink cried. “Keenin’; Win.” The Doc grimaced. Callahan was busy keeping score and distributing the prizes, but he had attention left to spare. “That third one there, c): That has to be Hennery; Fonder.”
There was a pause, then. Nobody could figure out “coffin; baby boy.” (Can you?) After awhile we turned our attention to the remaining two categories, but the silence remained unbroken. The Doc looked smug. “No hurry, gents and ladies,” he said. “Closing time isn’t for several hours yet.” We all glared at him and thought hard.
Surprisingly, it was Pyotr who spoke up. “I have a sweep,” he stated. “Category IV in its entirety.”
Folks regarded him with respectful interest. He was committed now: if he missed one, he would owe the Doc all six drinks. The Doc looked startled but game—he seemed to think he had an ace up his sleeve. “Go ahead, Pyotr.”
“The category is Famous Monsters.” The Doc winced. “The first is Bella; Lieu Go See.” Applause. “Then John; Car a Dean.” More applause.
“Not bad,” the Doc admitted. “Keep going.”
“The next two, of course, are among the most famous of all. Be dull; Carmina Burana has to be Bore Us; Carl Orff…” He paused to sip one of the three drinks Callahan had passed him.
“Brilliant, Pyotr,” I said, slapping him on the back. “But I’m still stumped for the last three.”
“That is because they are tricky. The first is tortured, and the last two are obscure.”
“Go ahead,” Doc Webster said grimly.
“The first is the famous Wolfman: Lawn; Trainee Junior.” Delighted laughter and applause came from all sides. “The others are both Frankenstein’s Creature, but it would require an historian of horror films to guess both. Glenn Strange played the Monster in at least three movies…” The Doc swore. “…and the last shall be first; the man who played the Monster in the very first film version of Frankenstein.”
“But we already had Karloff,” I protested.
“No, Jake,” Pyotr said patiently. “That was the first talkie version. The very first was released in 1910, and the Monster was played by a man with the unusual name of Charles Ogle. Read, ‘chars’ for ‘burns’ and you come close enough.”
We gave him a standing ovation—in which the Doc joined.
All of this had admirably occupied my attention, from almost the moment of my arrival. But before I turned to a study of Category III, I turned to the bar to begin the third of the four drinks I had won—and my gaze fell on the ruined Lady. She lay there in tragic splendor, mutely reproaching me for enjoying myself so much while she was broken. All at once I lost all interest in the game, in everything but the pressing business of locating and obtaining oblivion. I gulped the drink in my hand and reached for the next one, and a very elderly man came in the door of Callahan’s Place with his hands high in the air, an expression of infinite weariness on his face. He was closely followed by Fast Eddie Costigan, whose head just about came up to the level of the elderly man’s shoulder blades. Conversations began to peter out.
I just had time to recall that Eddie had vanished mysteriously the night before, and then the two of them moved closer and I saw why everybody was getting quiet. And why the old gent had his hands in the air. I didn’t get a real good look, but what Eddie had in his right hand, nestled up against the other man’s fourth lumbar vertebra, looked an awful lot like a Charter Arms .38. The gun that got Johnny Lennon and George Wallace.
I decided which way I would jump and put on my blandest expression. “Hi, Eddie.”
“Hi, Jake,” he said shortly, all his attention on his prisoner.
“I tell you for the last time, Edward—,” the old gent began in a Spanish accent.
“Shaddap! Nobody ast you nuttin’. Get over here by de bar an’ get to it, see?”
“Eddie,” Callahan began gently.
“Shaddap, I said.”
I was shocked. Eddie worships Callahan. The runty little piano man prodded with his piece, and the old Spaniard sighed in resignation and came toward me.
But as he came past me, his expression changed suddenly and utterly. If aged Odysseus had come round one last weary corner and found Penelope in a bower, legs spread and a sweet smile on her lips, his face might have gone through such a change. The old gent was staring past me in joyous disbelief at the Holy Grail, at the Golden Fleece, at the Promised Land, at—
—at the ruined Lady Macbeth.
“Santa Maria,” he breathed. “Madre de Dios.”
Years lifted from his shoulders, bitter years, and years smoothed away from his face. His hands came down slowly to his sides, and I saw those hands, really saw them for the first time. All at once I knew who he was. My eyes widened.
“Montoya,” I said. “Domingo Montoya.”
He nodded absently.
“But you’re dead.”
He nodded again, and moved forward. His eyes were dreamy, but his step was firm. Eddie stood his ground. Montoya stopped before the Lady, and he actually bowed to her. And then he looked at her.
First he let his eyes travel up her length the way a man takes in a woman, from the toes up. I watched his face. He almost smiled when he reached the bridge. He almost frowned when he got to the scars around the sounding hole that said I had once been foolish enough to clamp a pick-up onto her. He did smile as his gaze reached the fingerboard and frets, and he marveled at the lines of the neck. Then his eyes reached the awful fracture, and they shut for an instant. His face became totally expressionless; his eyes opened again, studied the wreck with dispassionate thoroughness, and went on to study the head.
That first look took him perhaps eight seconds. He straightened up, closed his eyes again, clearly fixing the memory forever in his brain. Then he turned to me. “Thank you, sir,” he said with great formality. “You are a very fortunate man.”
I thought about it. “Yes, I believe I am.”
He turned back and looked at her again, and now he looked. From several angles, from up close and far away. The joining of neck to body. The joining of head to neck-stub. “Light,” he said, and held out his hand. Callahan put a flashlight into it, and Montoya inspected what he could of Lady Macbeth’s interior bracings through her open mouth. I had the damndest feeling that he was going to tell her to stick out her tongue and say “Ah!” He tossed the flashlight over his shoulder—Eddie caught it with his free hand—and stooped to sight along the neck. “Towel,” he said, straightening. Callahan produced a clean one. He wiped his hands very carefully, finger by finger, and then with the tenderness of a mother bathing her child he began to touch the Lady here and there.
“Jake,” Long-Drink said in hushed tones. “What the hell is going on? Who is this guy?”
Montoya gave no sign of hearing; he was absorbed.
“Remember what I said last night? That there are only maybe four Master-class guitar makers left in the country?”
“Yeah. This guy’s a Master?”
“No,” I cried, scandalized.
“Well then?”
“There is one rank higher than Master. Wizard. There have been a dozen or so in all the history of the world. Domingo Montoya is the only one now living.” I gulped Irish whiskey. “Except that he died five years ago.”
