Callahan's Place 09 - Callahan's Con (v5.0) Read Free Page A

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