Chapter Text
It seems that more than half the stories at Callahan’s start on some themed night or other. Which makes sense considering how many of them we have. This one thought actually starts out pretty quiet.
Now I don’t mean to say that the mood was down or the place was dead. The Doc was still making puns, Fast Eddie was locked in combat with that old upright piano and of course glasses shattered in the fireplace as folk made toasts. But for once no one seemed to have much need to talk out the toasts. The place was still merry as hell, just a more peaceful merry than the average. To start with of course. I wouldn’t be telling you this if it stayed that way.
It was round about ten or so when things started to get screwy. No one had come into the joint in more than an hour, but this wasn’t all that noteworthy in and of itself. Callahan’s is the kind of place where some nights you just get regulars. No it really got strange when the girl walked in. From the door behind the bar. The one that lead back into Callahan’s… well I suppose I can’t call it Callahan’s Place, but his personal space, his bedroom and the storage rooms.
She was about average height, black hair hanging around her chin, dressed in business attire. But two things caught the attention of everyone in the room. First she was looking mighty confused and second she had one gun in her hands and another on her hip. Can’t say I’ve seen the like of either model before but that was rather secondary at the moment. She kept her back to the wall as she edged out. When no one made a move to rush her she seemed to come to some internal decision. She didn’t lose that sense that she was ready to spring but the gun made a small fizzing noise as she lowered it.
Callahan was closest by virtue of being the only one on the far side of the bar and he made it to her first. The brawny Irishman lifted one hand in a warding gesture as she half-heartedly started to raise the weapon. She calmed down again as he snagged a glass from under the bar.
“Now Lass. I don’t generally object to the way anyone comes into my bar. But I don’t remember seeing you in my room last night. And I don’t care for people waving weapons around in my place. So why don’t you put down that heater and tell me what you’re drinking.” She scanned the room again, looking for a trap or sign of trouble. Obviously there wasn’t one. Sure she had every eye in the place on her but not a one looked to give her any trouble. After another moment she holstered the weapon and circled round the bar, sinking into one of the bar height arm chairs that sat waiting. She sighed and finally spoke.
“I don’t know what kind of drink can make up for the afternoon I’ve had but I’ll try. Whiskey, please.” She pulled out a ten as Callahan slid a double Bushmill’s into her hand.
“Can’t use that sawbuck here I’m afraid.” Long Drink piped up without interrupting his own beer. The girl gave him a look.
“First off Sawbuck? Did I travel back in time again. Or is the whiskey that expensive now?”
“Don’t know about the time travel but for the rest: Naw.” The Drink countered. “Callahan here only takes singles. Easier to work out when you take the option.”
“Option?” the confused look was coming back into her face. I hurried to explain it before it turned back into being armed.
“Pretty simple option here. Every drink costs a buck. When you finish you give back your glass and take some quarters from the cigar box at the end of the bar. Or go up to the chalk line, make a toast and smash that glass into the fireplace.” I hesitated a fraction of a second and added “the second is somewhat more common.”
Fast Eddie piped up from the piano. “And if yous wanna talk about it after, you’ve got an audience. If not, I’ll take care of anyone who bugs ya.”
The change in her was instantaneous. There was still worry in those dark eyes but a smile crept across her face, lighting it up. “Dollar drinks and I get to smash things. Sounds like just the night I need.” she slapped a single on the bar,downed the rest of the whiskey in one gulp and practically flew out of her chair, landing neatly at the chalk line on the floor. Her arm flew up, the light catching on the large watch around her wrist. She paused at the top of the arc, seeming to consider what to say.
“To Mentors” she whispered, and let the glass fly. It sailed neatly into the back of the parabolic arc of the fireplace and shattered, the flames dancing from the disruption and remnants of alcohol. Eddie and I, remembering an old blues player who had taught us more than a little, followed suit. The Doc and a few others joined in and for a moment all was shattering glass and the echo of the toast. When everything had quieted down every eye in the place was on her and Callahan was already pouring another drink.
“My name is Wendy Watson.” She began. “But my roommate, Lacey, she always used to call me Dub Dub. And my Boss usually just called me Dubbie.”
“And which would you prefer we use Miss Watson?” Doc Webster asked. The Doc maintains that the name you get saddled with at birth doesn’t need to have anything to do with the name you call yourself, and we generally agree.
“Wendy works. Anyways I guess I should explain how I got here.” We all made polite noises of inquiry while Callahan made fresh drinks for those as needed them and she started to tell her tale.