Callahan's Lady Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  SPIDER ROBINSON

  “If I didn’t think it understated

  his achievement, I’d nominate

  Spider Robinson…as the

  new Robert Heinlein.”

  —New York Times

  “Nobody’s perfect.

  But Spider comes pretty damned close.”

  —Ben Bova

  “Robinson has a rare gift for

  creating characters who are

  instantly believable and lovable…

  A pleasure to read!”

  —Quill & Quire

  SPIDER ROBINSON IS “A MASTER!”-Locus

  Wild and witty, Spider Robinson’s famous Callahan stories—collected in Callahan’s Crosstime Saloon, Time Travelers Strictly Cash and Callahan’s Secret—are perhaps his most delightful achievements. Here at last is the fourth book of the series. And, as fans and critics know, there’s no place in the universe as outrageously bizarre as Callahan’s Crosstime Saloon.

  Or is there?

  Welcome to Lady Sally’s: a house of incredible repute whose dedicated staff of erotic artists bring all sorts of fantasies to life. Come and mingle in the Parlor with the Lady’s select clientele—including priests, cabbies, KGB agents, and even a purebred werebeagle. Then visit the Bower, where consenting adults consent in every conceivable combination. Or, if you prefer a little more privacy, there are suites designed to suit any taste, from Mistress Cynthia’s Dungeon to the Cheerleader’s Bedroom.

  Just don’t forget to leave a tip…

  (P.S.—Don’t be surprised if the Lady’s husband, Mike Callahan himself, drops by to join the pun-and-games!)

  Books by Spider Robinson

  TELEMPATH

  CALLAHAN’S CROSSTIME SALOON

  STARDANCE

  (collaboration w. Jeanne Robinson)

  ANTINOMY

  THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS

  TIME TRAVELERS STRICTLY CASH

  MINDKILLER

  MELANCHOLY ELEPHANTS

  NIGHT OF POWER

  CALLAHAN’S SECRET

  TIME PRESSURE

  CALLAHAN AND COMPANY

  (omnibus)

  CALLAHAN’S LADY

  This Ace book contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition. It has been completely reset in a typeface designed for easy reading, and was printed from new film.

  CALLAHAN’S LADY

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Ace hardcover edition/May 1989

  Ace mass-market edition/March 1990

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1989 by Spider Robinson.

  Cover art by James Warhola.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole

  or in part, by mimeograph or any other means,

  without permission. For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue,

  New York, New York 10016.

  ISBN: 0-441-09072-9

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

  The name “ACE” and the “A” logo

  are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Like all of them,

  this book is for

  Robert Anson Heinlein

  and

  Virginia Gerstenfeld Heinlein

  with gratitude,

  respect, and love

  but it is also dedicated to

  all the artists, male and female,

  who deserve a place like Lady Sally’s House

  in which to practice their fine art—

  or at the very least,

  relief from slavery,

  extortion, violence,

  and contempt.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  The author would like to thank Jeanne Robinson and Mary Mason for their invaluable assistance in the creation of this book.

  DISCLAIMER

  Callahan’s Lady is a work of fiction; any resemblance to real persons (living, just existing, or dead), places or events is unintended and purely coincidental.

  The author, who has heard from dozens of readers who combed Suffolk County looking for a bar called Callahan’s Place, does not wish to be responsible for people wandering around the seamier parts of Brooklyn looking for a bordello. Anyway, it’s closed now.

  Lady Sally’s House

  First Floor Layout

  (no pun intended)

  created by Spider Robinson

  with a 512K Macintosh

  and an Imagewriter I

  CONTENTS

  BOOK ONE—A VERY VERY VERY FINE HOUSE

  CHAPTER 1: THE LADY

  CHAPTER 2: THE HOUSE

  CHAPTER 3: FINAL EXAM

  BOOK TWO—REVOLVER

  CHAPTER 4: REPEAT BUSINESS

  CHAPTER 5: REVOLVER

  BOOK THREE—THE PARANOID

  CHAPTER 6: FOR THE ASKING

  CHAPTER 7: THE PARANOID

  BOOK FOUR—DOLLARS TO DONUTS

  CHAPTER 8: FUNNY MONEY, HONEY

  CHAPTER 9: DOLLARS TO DONUTS

  CHAPTER 10: FIRST STINGS FIRST

  CHAPTER 11: WILLOUGHBY, WEEP FOR ME

  CHAPTER 12: SWITCH AND BAIT

  CHAPTER 13: LADY AND THE TRUMP

  CHAPTER 14: AN IMMODEST PROPOSAL

  BOOK ONE

  A VERY VERY VERY

  FINE HOUSE

  CHAPTER 1

  THE LADY

  It’s a good idea to stake out a spot near an alley, if you can manage it without a fight. Occasionally you get a john who’s in a big hurry, or who enjoys the thought of making out in almost-public. Either kind can be dealt with in a quarter of the usual time, with minimal effort, and neither kind is liable to insist on a discount. Besides, if you think about it, they are getting a discount since they don’t have to pay for a room.

  You have to look them over carefully before going up that alley with them. Even the cheapest, sleaziest hotel room has an inhibiting effect on a rapist or mugger or nutcase. Whereas an alley is a place from which he can escape in two directions in a hurry.

  But it had been my experience that, while perhaps a quarter of all johns were weird in one way or another, less than one in a hundred was dangerously weird. And I had never met one of those that I couldn’t cope with. I used to quote those statistics about how the vast majority of murder and rape victims were assaulted by someone they knew. So when I hit the set that night, the first thing I did was to grab a spot near a good alley. One with no overlooking windows or fire escapes, or intrusive lights. I got there just ahead of Suzy Q, and he glared at me, but surrendered the spot. (Suzy was a pre-op transsexual, who billed himself as the One-Stop-Shop, and he and I had an understanding. He didn’t mess with me, and I let him stay a pre-op transsexual.)

  The moon was just coming up over the pool hall across the street when a well-dressed couple walked past me: a short, sad-looking man and somebody’s maiden auntie, talking in low voices.

  I only noticed them because of the glance the auntie gave me. Lots of well-dressed aunties looked at me with a mixture of pity and condescension and revulsion. This one’s eyes held only pity. Somehow that was even more irritating.

  So I half watched them as they walked by me and neared the mouth of the alley. I noticed vaguely that he had awfully big ears, and that she had a pretty fair little shape for an auntie. And then his worried-sounding murmur rose in volume, so that I caught the last two words “—right now!” He thrust something into her hands, and she took it at once, began doing something to his neck with it. The gestures she made were oddly familiar, but I couldn’
t place them. She stood back, and I got it. He now wore a dog collar around his neck, and the end of the leash was in her hand.

  And they ducked into the alley.

  I broke up. They were just the most unlikely couple I could imagine to grab an alley quickie—much less to be into B&D.

  I stopped laughing almost at once. When I was her age, came the thought, I’d probably have to take the weird johns too.

  Or maybe their relationship was personal rather than professional. In any case, they were consummating it in my goddam alley. I followed them into the alley on cat feet.

  A shaft of moonlight on the alley wall provided dim illumination. I saw them about twenty yards away, their backs to me. I moved so that I was no longer silhouetted against the mouth of the alley for them, and settled into voyeur mode.

  The show was already in progress: he was removing his clothes with considerable haste. All of them, which I thought was strange and rather rash considering the exposed location. As he removed each garment he handed it to the auntie. In a surprisingly short time he was stark naked. Not even socks; not a wristwatch or a ring. Just the collar. He looked…like they all look.

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t watch,” I heard her say, and she turned away from him. She was British, and unquestionably she was someone’s maiden aunt. I had heard that some Brits were into this sort of thing. The question was, did I let them proceed with whatever the hell it was they were doing, or chase them off my turf?

  While I was deciding, he changed…

  I don’t scream, okay? I never have, not once in my life. Oh, I’ve yelled at the top of my voice a few times, hollered “Ouch!” or “Stop!” or “You bastard!” or whatever. But that cliché of a thousand suspense films, the unspellable, unpronounceable, generic falsetto female scream, is just not natural to me. Believe me, the life I’ve had, if it was going to happen it would have by now.

  I didn’t scream this time, as he changed. But I tried.

  If you go to the movies much, you’ve probably seen a physical transformation very like it. That was my first thought: state of the art special effects. Skin stretched or shrank, changed color, changed texture, sprouted hair. Bones shifted, melted, extruded. The overall effect was a shrinking, a compacting. There was a constant muffled sound, like someone tearing up a whole chicken wrapped in a towel. I remembered that the moon was full tonight.

  Maureen, I thought, you are watching a werewolf change shape in an alley in Brooklyn, while his auntie discreetly turns her back.

  Of course I was wrong. Even in the lousy light, I could see the moment the transformation was finished that he was not a werewolf. If he had been, I think I would have refused to believe my eyes. But what they told me was so silly I simply could not disbelieve it.

  He was a werebeagle.

  There was no mistaking that shape, those ears. I had been in love with a beagle from ages five to seven, and had never really gotten over his loss. I recognized the new smell which was making the alley even riper than it had been a moment ago. Well, of course, I thought dizzily, it stands to reason that a beagle’s bowels must be smaller…

  Perhaps that small, homely detail made it plausible to me. They’d certainly never mentioned such a side effect of lycanthropy in any of the movies, and I knew I would never have thought of it myself—but it made sense. I didn’t stop to work this out consciously at the time; I simply believed what I was seeing.

  And did what seemed an intelligent thing: I turned very quietly on my heels and began tiptoeing out of there. This wasn’t my alley (although I had thought so until twenty seconds earlier); if people wanted to walk their werebeagles here it was none of my affair.

  How could I have guessed that I was walking in the wrong direction?

  I’d have sworn my heart was already beating at maximum speed, but it revved up sharply as a large male figure appeared just before me in the mouth of the alley, silhouetted against the lesser darkness of the street. Then I recognized him, and felt a wave of relief. All right, I thought. If the gods had allowed me to summon any one I chose to assist me in that moment…well, he would have been somewhere above fifth on the list. It was Big Travis, my pimp.

  “Hey, Baby Love,” he said lazily.

  I had always hated that stupid name: now it sounded sweet in my ears. Bad weirdness was behind me, but my protector was here. “Travis! Jesus, I’m glad you came along—you won’t believe what I just saw—”

  “You won’t believe what I just heard.”

  “—later, honey; first come see this, honest to God you’ll—”

  I was shocked when he hit me.

  I had actually thought I could control Big Travis—that I was controlling him. It was a powerful and necessary illusion for a girl in my position, I guess. I took a great deal of secret pride in being able to control so strong and wild an animal. Perhaps Travis was aware of the illusion, and had allowed it to persist as his means of controlling me. If so, the illusion backfired on us both, for it had given me the idea that I could get away with skimming from him. It kept me from noticing a smouldering glow in his eyes that night, and it persisted right up to the moment his big fist smashed into my left side, just below the ribs, and its loss caused me several kinds of pain.

  Least of which—at first—was the physical pain. Travis had hit me much harder than that once, back when we’d been defining our relationship. I was convinced that I had allowed him to do so then, deliberately given him the illusion that he was the one in control, as a means of establishing my control over him.

  But this was different. The last time had been the kind of male violence I was familiar with: he’d picked the quarrel, spent a few minutes shouting and working himself up to it, built his anger to the proper dramatic peak, and let fly. I had had plenty of time to decide how I wanted to react. This sudden explosion of cold violence was shocking, dismaying, disappointing…and above all infuriating. I might have accepted a slap in the face; but an unexpected punch in the side seemed…disdainful, rude.

  “You son of a bitch,” I gasped, backing away against the wall. I wanted to rub where it hurt, but I was so mad I wouldn’t. “What the hell was—”

  “You been holdin’ out on me, girl,” he said. His voice unnerved me as much as the punch had. Travis knew.

  I felt faintly dizzy.

  I tried anyway. “Bullshit! You know how many guys I do a night, you know what I charge, you get a dollar for every dollar I make, even the tips.” Believe it or not, most street girls give all their earnings to their man, in exchange for room, board, protection, and all the luxuries they can wheedle. Since I’d learned where Big Travis hid his cash (pimps don’t use banks), I didn’t mind that so much—my money was mine on twenty-four hours’ notice, anytime I decided to leave—but a girl likes some folding green in her pocket, so…

  “Been talkin’ to your johns. You raised your prices. And still gettin’ tips on top of that.”

  Shit. “Then I must be worth it! If I can get more than the going rate out of those bozos, it’s my business.”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s my business. And I’m teachin’ you what happens when you screw around with my business.” He shook his head again and stared closer. “Bitch, what you smilin’ for?”

  “Because I know something you don’t know.”

  “What that be?”

  I felt very tired all of a sudden. “I grew up on Army bases. My father started me on hand to hand combat when I was six. I took a punch from you once because I figured that a bodyguard is more use with his precious male ego intact. But I would say that this relationship has come to an end. You take all my money, and then the first time I actually need you, you punch me. I know half a dozen guys I can replace you with, Travis. Thanks for everything, and you were a fair lay, but I am now going to beat the living shit out of you.” I squinted through the darkness. “What are you grinning for?”

  He laughed aloud. “’Cause I know somethin’ you don’t know.”

  “What’
s that?”

  “Look down.”

  I shook my head. “Nice try, Travis.”

  He was nearly hysterical now. “No, no,” he said, backing away. “I’ll stand right here. Just take a peek.”

  I glanced down and back up before he could have moved. Nothing there. I took two steps forward to attack him before it registered.

  If I hadn’t been wearing a white blouse I’d have missed it altogether in the dim light. A large spreading dark stain…

  Suddenly the pain in my side went from dull ache to lancing agony, and I was so scared I seemed to become hollow. He was still laughing at me, rocking slightly back and forth.

  “Oh yeah? Well I can handle a knife, jerk, that’s first year stuff, what do you think of that?” I screamed.

  —and fell hard onto my knees—

  His laughter tapered off. “I think you in your last year,” he murmured, and moved toward me.

  I saw his knife now. The blade was long and wet, and I knew I’d taken it all; I was cut bad. Most murder victims, I remembered thinking, are killed by someone they know…

  I swayed on my knees. My arms were too heavy to lift. So were my eyes. I have seen a man turn into a beagle, I thought, and now I am going to die, and my last sight on earth will be Big Travis’s crotch there, coming closer to my face. No fair. I wasn’t ready. Start again—

  “Told you once before, be no second chances, sweet thing. Whore cross me once, she’ll do it again, an’ I can’t be bothered spendin’ energy keepin’ you scared.” He took me by the hair, yanked my head back so that I was looking up at him, throat exposed. I was grateful, thinking that I preferred to die seeing his face. Then I saw his face. “My other bitches already scared good—but when they read tomorrow in the News what Baby Love looked like when she was found, the gon’ get industrious. I don’t plan to let you die fo’ ’nother hour or so…so the first thing we got to take is your voice…”

  “You must stop this at once. At once, do you hear?” someone’s British maiden aunt said.