Callahan's Place 07 - Callahan's Legacy (v5.0) Read Online Free PDF Page B

yet, but you were born to find this place.   That’s why I couldn’t help laughing.   It’s not your name, so much as the appropriateness of it.   I’ve actually heard much worse names.”
    “Name two,” he challenged me.
    “Well, I know of a guy in Yaphank named Bang who actually named his daughter Betty.   Swear to God.   And a friend of mine, a sci-fi movie buff named Ted Leahy, got himself married to a fellow fan, an Asian-American feminist named Susan Hu, and of course they both really idolized George Lucas, so—”
    His face was pale.   “Oh God, no.   Tell me they didn’t—”
    “Afraid so,” I said sadly.   “Mr. and Mrs. Leahy-Hu named their firstborn son ‘Yoda.’   Lad’s about three years old now, and he’s already learned to fight.   Dirty.”
    Buck shuddered.   “You win,” he said.   “Betty and Yoda have me beat by a mile.   Suddenly I need a drink.   So what do you say?   Will you let me open up a line of credit with one of these bills?”
    I shook my head.   “Your money’s no good here.   As you seem to feel yourself.   I’m having too much fun to charge you for it.   Name your poison.”
    “You did speak of Irish coffee?”
    “We call it ‘God’s Blessing’ here.   Sugar in yours?”
    “Please.   One standard glop.”
    I turned, adjusted the settings on The Machine, took a mug from the rack and set it down upright on the conveyor belt.   The mug slid away into The Machine, small sounds began, pleasant smells occurred, and in less than a minute the mug emerged at the far end wearing a cap of whipped cream.   I placed it before him.
    He had watched the entire procedure carefully.   “That’s some machine,” he said respectfully.
    “The only one in the world,” I agreed, “more’s the pity.   Drink up—it ain’t much good cold.   Well, not as much good.”
    He lifted it and took a careful sip.   The instant he did his face changed.   He had been under some well-controlled strain; now he began for the first time to truly relax, and seemed pleasantly surprised that nothing bad happened when he did.   “The coffee is Celebes Kalossi…” he said slowly.
    I nodded.   “Lately it’s considered more polite to call it ‘Sulawezi,’ though.”
    “…but what is that whiskey ?   It’s like Bushmill’s Black Bush, only better…”   He shook his head.   “…only that’s impossible.”
    I nodded again.   “Ain’t it?   They call it ‘Bushmill’s 1608’—in honor of the year Mr. Bushmill started distilling.   As I get the story, the progression goes like this: ‘plain’ Bushmill’s is of course ambrosia, the water of life itself; the Black Bush, which they’ve only just started selling outside of Ireland, is that ambrosia mixed with some that’s been in the cask a dozen years.   But the1608, presently available only on the Emerald Isle, is just the twelve-year-old stuff.   Beyond describing, isn’t it?   Long-Drink McGonnigle over there smuggled a case back with him from a vacation in An Uaimh, his family’s ancestral home.   It just seemed perfect for the occasion somehow.”
    He was already three-quarters of the way through, sipping slowly but repeatedly.   “Almost a pity,” he said between sips, “to mix it,” sip, “even with coffee,” sip, “even coffee like this.”   He was done.   He paused to savor the sensations he was experiencing, then smiled broadly, set the mug down and said, “Would your hospitality extend to another, Jake?’
    But I had already started it working, the moment I saw his reaction to that first taste; in moments it was ready.   I put another mug on the belt for myself, and brought his to him.   “Here you go.”
    He had gone back to making money airplanes, but he paused again to drink half of his second cup.   “Better get back to work,” he said, setting it down.   “I’ve got a lot of it ahead of me, and the night is middle-aged.”
    “I’d be glad to give you a