Callahan's Lady by Spider Robinson

Author:Spider Robinson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: &WORKING
Published: 2011-06-22T21:54:23+00:00

CHAPTER 7 THE PARANOID

In retrospect I’m surprised I didn’t freeze instantly, and fall on my face. My brain must have been a strict constitutionalist, and decided that that moves least which comes to a safe smooth stop: I got to complete my stride before turning to stone. I wished I hadn’t had that inspiration about firing off both weapons close to my ears: they were going to get mighty heavy by and by.

I was absurdly put out with Diana. What the hell had she put that there for? Didn’t she trust Ruth, for Christ’s sake? But then I stopped thinking even silly thoughts, because by then I was becoming aware of my surroundings.

Lady Sally’s wonderful Parlor had become a carnival of horror.

And perhaps the most horrible part was how funny all of it might have been under other circumstances. Even as I cursed Diana’s sign for preventing me from shooting, I blessed it for preventing me from breaking into an involuntary grin for which I could have never forgiven myself. Whatever else you could fault Diana for, she had a literally diabolical sense of humor. I’ve already said I don’t much care for rubber-crutch jokes-but some of hers were inspired.

Not everyone was naked. Johnny Rats, for instance, was wearing a bra and panties that must have belonged to big Mary, and Father Newman was wearing a teddy and hose in addition to his scapulars. Juicy Lucy wore most of the whipped cream that was intended for Irish coffee, sculpted into a bikini; two Maraschino cherries had been strategically and whimsically placed. Tim wore a fetching little blue ribbon, whose tails fluttered gaily. A client named Willa, who always overdressed, was wearing nothing except what appeared to be every piece of jewelry in the room. Most upsetting to me, Lady Sally wore a great deal of lipstick, almost none of it on her lips or even her face; several people had apparently been playing tic-tac-toe on her.

As near as I could see, every person in the room except Diana was doing something embarrassing or grotesque, and in several cases she seemed to have tailored her requests to the victim’s personality for maximum degradation. Mistress Cynthia was licking Master Henry’s boots, looking as angry as a person can look with their tongue out. Robin, her pet houseboy, was using Cynthia’s own quirt on her while she worked, his face flooded with tears. Even Henry looked unhappy: one of his secret fantasies, no doubt, yet it was ashes in his mouth because the commands had not been his. Ralph the talking dog was trying to extricate himself from some client’s large white Angora (a cat, not a sweater), swearing in German. Father Newman was pop-eyed, sweating, monotonously blessing the room with his rosary over and over again. Brandi, a good Catholic, was kneeling at his feet, looking for all the world as if she were praying, and perhaps she was, too, for all I know. Johnny Rats was noisily kissing one of his

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