Callahan's Crosstime Saloon Read Online Free PDF

earlier. But somehow none of us was prepared for it when it came.
    Well, how were we to know? It’s not that Callahan’s Place is so isolated from the world that you never expect it to be affected by the same things. God knows that most of the troubles of the world, old and new, come through the door of Callahan’s sooner or later-but they usually have a dollar bill in their fist, not a .45 automatic. Besides, he was such a shrimpy little guy.
    And on top of everything, it was Punday night.
    Punday Night is a weekly attraction at Callahan’s-if that’s the word. Folks who come into the place for the first time on a Tuesday evening have been known to flee screaming into the night, leaving full pitchers of beer behind in their haste to be elsewhere. There’s Sunday, see, and then there’s Monday, and then there’s Punday. And on that day, the boys begin assembling around seven-thirty, and after a time people stop piddling around with drafts and start lining up pitchers, and Fast Eddie gets up from his beat-up upright piano and starts pulling tables together. Everyone begins ever-so-casually jockeying for position, so important on Punday night. Here and there the newer men can be heard warming up with one another, and the first groans are heard.
    “Say, Fogerty. I hear tell Stacy Keach was engaged to the same girl three times. Every time the Big Day come due, she decided she couldn’t stand him.”
    “Do tell.”
    “Yup. Then the late Harry Truman hisself advised her, said, `gal, if you can’t stand the Keach, get out of the hitchin.’ “
    And another three or four glasses hit the fireplace.
    Of course the real regulars, the old-timers, simply sit and drink their beer and conserve their wit. They add little to the shattered welter of glass that grows in the foreplace-though the toasts, when they make them, can get pretty flashy.
    Along about eleven Doc Webster comes waddling in from his rounds and the place hushes up. The Doc suffers his topcoat and bag to be taken from him, collects a beermug full of Peter Dawson’s from Callahan, and takes his place at the head of the assembled tables like a liner coming into port. Then, folding his fingers over his great belly, he addresses the group.
    “What is the topic?”
    At this point the fate of the evening hangs in the balance. Maybe you’ll get a good topic, maybe you won’t -and the only way to explain what I mean is by example:
    “Fast Eddie,” says Callahan, “how ‘bout a little inspirational music?”
    “That would bring the problem into scale,” says Doc Webster, and the battle is joined.
    “I had already noted that,” comes the hasty riposte from Shorty Steinitz, and over on his right LongDrink McGonnigle snorts.
    “You’ve cleffed me in twain,” he accuses, and Tommy Janssen advises him to take a rest, and by the time that Callahan can point out that “This ain’t a music-hall, it’s a bar,” they’re off and running. Once a topic is established, it goes in rotation clockwise from Doc Webster, and if you can’t supply a stinker when your turn comes up, you’re out. By one o’clock in the morning, it’s usually a tight contest between the real pros, all of them acutely aware that anyone still in the lists by closing gets his night’s tab erased. It has become a point of honor to drink a good deal on Punday night to show how confident you are. When I first noticed this and asked Callahan whose idea Punday had been in the first place he told me he couldn’t remember. One smart fella, that Callahan.
    This one night in particular had used up an awful lot of alcohol, and one hell of a lot of spiritual fortitude. The topic was one of those naturals that can be milked for hours: “electricity.” It was about one-fifteen that the trouble started.
    By this point in a harrowing evening, the competition was down to the Doc, Noah Gonzalez and me. I was feeling decidedly pun-chy.
    “I have a feeling this is going to be a good round Fermi,” the