Free Callahan's Secret by Spider Robinson Page B

value of the Free Lunch next to it, but nobody watches to make sure it stays that way. I mind me of a bad two weeks when that Free Lunch was the only protein I had, and nobody so much as frowned at me.)
    But while he is a bit on the pale side for a man of Middle European stock, Pyotr certainly never looks undernourished, and so there was never any need for us to pry into his personal affairs. Me, I figured him for some kind of a pensioner with a streak of pure altruism, and let it go.
    He certainly looks old enough to be a pensioner. Oh, he’s in very good shape for his age, and not overly afflicted with wrinkles, but his complexion has that old-leather look. And when you notice his habit of speaking into his cupped hand, and hear the slight lisp in his speech, and you realize that his smiles never seem to pry his lips apart, you get the idea that he’s missing some bridgework. And there’s something old about his eyes….
     
    Anyway, Pyotr was busier than usual that night, ferrying home all the casualties of Lady Macbeth’s wake. It took
    quite a while. He took three at a time, using the vehicle of whoever lived furthest away, and taxied back for the next load. Two out of every three drunks would have to taxi back to Callahan’s the next day for their cars. I was proud of the honor being paid my dead Lady. Pyotr and Callahan decided to save me for last. Perhaps on the principle that the worst should come last-I was pissed, and at the stage of being offensively cheerful and hearty. At last all the other wounded had been choppered out, and Pyotr tapped me on one weaving shoulder.
    “So they weld-well bell, 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 compassiotiate 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 hew!” 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 deed up in the itch-mean, we’ll rote off the ride, right? Let’s go to the Brooldyn 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? Fuggolf. Bury her, dissolve in acid,’ heave her into the ocean off Montauk