Read Callahan's Place 09 - Callahan's Con (v5.0) for Free Online

the government who could offer info or advice.   So your optimum move right now is…what, again?
    Well, I have a default answer for that question.  
    I turned to The Machine, and found that Long-Drink McGonnigle was way ahead of me.   While I had been staring into space, he had come around behind the bar and taken over for me.   A whipped-cream-capped mug was already emerging from the right side of The Machine, the air above it shimmering slightly; he picked it up and handed it to me.   The first sip told me that he’d gotten my prescription right: Tanzanian Peaberry coffee, the Black Bush, two sugars and 18% cream.   “Thank you, Drink.”
    “My pleasure,” he said, dialing a different prescription.   His own empty mug was just disappearing into the left side of The Machine.   The barely audible sound of the conveyor belt stopped, and was replaced by the gurgle-bubble sound of magic taking place inside.   When it emerged, I knew, it would contain New Guinea Peaberry, Tullamore Dew, three sugars and whipped Jersey cream.   “As your physician, I prescribe intoxication,” he told me.   “Why don’t you let me take the stick awhile, so you can focus?”
    “ I’m Jake’s physician,” Doc Webster said from his seat behind us.
    “As your attorney,” Long-Drink told him, “I advise you not to contradict me.   Do you dispute my diagnosis?’
    “No, no,” the Doc said.   “You’re quite right: she heeds to get nitfaced.”
    Long-Drink and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.   Spoonerisms—in a company that included Walter and Bradley.   The Doc was slipping.
    Nonetheless he constituted a qualified second opinion, so I allowed Long-Drink to take over as bartender, found an empty chaise longue near the pool, and consented to the course of treatment he had prescribed.   It was delicious.
     
    *   *   *
     
    An hour or so later, Erin came back outside, again walking rather than teleporting since there was no need for haste.   I was sitting beside Fast Eddie’s piano, holding my guitar on my lap, helping Willard and Maureen Hooker put the finishing touches on their fond desecration of Johnny Burke’s lyrics and Jimmy Van Heusen’s tune:
     
    A duck is animal that flies around town
    Try him if you’re looking to get down
    Named after champagne in a paper cup
    When he flies upside down he sure quacks up
    And if you don’t mind how badly things will suck
    You might grow up to be a duck
     
    Our listeners liked that one.   Three puns in one verse made it their kind of lyric.   When the applause had faded, Erin put a hand on my arm to get my attention.   “I think I’ve found the problem, Pop,” she said.
    “I’m not sure you should call him that,” Willard said.   “While I’ve never been sure what to call the kind of music your father plays,   it’s definitely not Pop.”
    She gave him deadpan.   So did his wife Maureen, whose distaste for puns rivals Erin’s.   No accounting for distaste.  
    Willard grinned at both of them.   “Folkaoke, maybe?”
    I was suddenly too agitated for repartée.   “You’ve found the problem,” I prompted Erin.
    She nodded, and offered me some printout.   I glanced at it, but one glance was enough.   “This is in Bullshit.”
    “You can say that again,” she said, “bearing in mind that if you actually do, I’ll bite you.   And don’t call me Shirley.   I’ll translate the important bits into Human for you.”
    “Wait,” I said, holding up a hand.   “Hey, Drink—hit me again, harder.”   Behind the bar, Long-Drink waved acknowledgment and turned to The Machine.   If I had to be exposed to Gummint Regulations, I wanted fortification.   “Okay, honey, go ahead,” I said bravely.
    “The Home Education Program comes under Florida Statute 232.0201.   It says that parents who choose to teach anddirect the education of their own children at home must notify their district school superintendent, and, quote, ‘…meet