Callahan's Secret by Spider Robinson Page B

ever accused you of it, either.” “No, I mean I just now come to realize what a blessed long time it’s been snce I been hung over myself.” “Really? You?” The Drink is one of Pyotr’s steadiest (or unsteadiest) customers. “You must have the’ same funny metabolism I have-ouch!” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Used to have.”
    “No,” he said thoughtfully. “No, I’ve had hangovers. Lots of ‘em. Only I just realized I can’t remember when was the last time I had one.” Slippery Joe Maser had overheard. “I can. Remember my last hangover, I mean. About four years ago. Just before I started comin’ here. Boy, it was a honey-“
    “Ain’t that funny?” Noah Gonzalez put in. “Damned if I can remember a hangover since I started drinking here myself. Used to get ‘em all the time. I sort of figured it had something to do with the vibes in this joint.”
    Joe nodded. “That’s what I thought. This Place is kinda magic, everybody knows that. Boy, I always wake up hungry after a toot, though. Hell of a stiff neck, too.”
    “Magic, hell,” Long-Drink said. “Callahan, you thievin’
    spălpeen, we’ve got you red-handed! Waterin’ your drinks., by God, not an honest hangover in a hogshead. Admit it.” “I’ll admit you got a hog’s head, all right,” Callahan growled back, returning with my coffee. He stuck his seven ‘o’clock shadow an inch from Long-Drink’s and exhaled rancorous cigar smoke. “If my booze is watered down, how the hell come it gets you so damn pie-faced?”
    “Power of suggestion,” the Drink roared. “Placebo effect. Contact high from these other rummies. lbll him, Doc.”~
    Doc Webster, who had been sitting quietly hunched over his drink, chose this moment to throw back his head and shout, “Woe is me!”
    “Hey, Doc, what’s wrong?” two or three of us asked at once.
    “I’m ruined.”
    “How so?”
    He turned his immense bulk to face us. “I’ve been moonlighting on the side, as a theatrical agent.”
    “No foolin’?”
    “Yeah, and my most promising client, Dum Dum the Human Cannonball, just decided to retire.”
    Long-Drink looked puzzled. “Hey, what the hell, unemployment and everything, you shouldn’t have any trouble lining up a replacement. Hell, if the money’s right, I’ll do it.” The Doc shook his head. “Dum.Dum is a midget. They cast the cannon special for him.” He sipped bourbon and sighed. “I’m afraid we’ll never see an artist of his caliber again.”
    Callahan howled, and the rest of us accorded the Doe the penultimate compliment: we held our noses and wept.
    He sat there in his special-built oversize chair and he looked grave, but you could see he was laughing, because he shook like jello. “Now I’ve got my own back for last night,” he said. “Guess my riddles, will you?” He finished his bourbon.
    “Well, I’m off. Filling in tonight over at Smithtown General.” His glass hit the exact center of the fireplace, and he
    strode out amid a thunderous silence.
    We all crept back to our original seats and placed fresh orders. Callahan had barely finished medicating the wounded when the door banged open again. We turned,’ figuring that the Doe had thought of a topper, and were surprised.
    Because young Tommy Janssen stood in ‘the doorway, and tears were running down his face, and he was stinking drunk.
    I got to him first. “Jesus, pal, what is it? Hare, let me help you.”
    “Ricky’s been kicking the gong-” he sang, quoting that old James Taylor song, “Junkie’s Lament,” and my blood ran cold. Could Tommy possibly have been stupid enough to… but no, that was booze on his breath, all right, and his sleeves were rolled up. I got him to a chair, and Callahan drew him a beer. He inhaled half of it, and cried some more. “Ricky,” he sobbed. “Oh, Ricky, you stupid shit. He taught me how to smoke cigarettes, you know that?”
    “Ricky who?”
    “Ricky Maresca. We grew up together. We… we were