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Christmas Eve at Harvey Wallbanger's: A Harry the Book Story

Written by Mike Resnick

Illustrated by Laura Givens

So we are sitting around Joey Chicago’s 3-Star Tavern, with the wind howling outside the front door and sounding just like Velvet Voice Vinnie singing off-key. I am nursing an Old Washensox, minding my own business, which of course is dependent on whether Aqueduct comes up muddy on Christmas Day. Gently Gently Dawkins has been studying the crossword puzzle in the newspaper for the past twenty minutes, trying to come up with a four-letter word for “stupid,” when Benny Fifth Street suddenly remembers what night it is.

“Hey, Joey!” says Benny. “Did you ever patch that hole in your roof?”

“It ain’t snowing on you, is it?” shoots back Joey Chicago from behind the bar.

“That’s good,” says Gently Gently, looking up from his puzzle. “I wouldn’t want no reindeer falling on top of me.”

“Right,” agrees Benny. “Then it’d be ‘Off, Dancer! Off Prancer! Off all you other horned nags!’ instead of ‘On, Dancer! and so forth.’”

“Are you sure there was a Prancer?” asks Gently Gently.

“Absolutely,” says Benny. “There’s got to be, if it’s going to rhyme with Dancer.”

“That is all very well and good,” says Gently Gently, “but I don’t remember nothing rhyming with Cupid or Rocket.”

“There ain’t no Rocket,” says Benny.

“Sure there is,” says Gently Gently. “There’s Dancer, Prancer, Donner, Vixen, Cupid, Cupcake, Dandy and Rocket.”

“I got a double sawbuck that says some of them are not in the sleigh-pulling business, and that I can name more of Santa’s reindeer than you can,” says Benny.

Gently Gently slaps twenty dollars on the bar. “Okay, wise guy,” he says. “You’re faded.”

Benny frowns, trying to remember his childhood, when he probably knew the names of the reindeer as well as I know the morning line at Santa Anita. Finally he clears his throat and says: “Dancer, Prancer, Donner, Vixen, Buster, Blitzen, Gemini and Comet.”

“I don’t remember no Blitzen,” says Gently Gently.

“Of course not,” says Benny. “That’s why you are losing the bet.”

Gently Gently turns to me. “Boss, who’s right?”

“Neither of you,” I tell him.

“Put in your twenty bucks and take your best shot,” says Benny, who is getting more than a little warm under the collar.

“I do not make bets,” I said. “That is for suckers. I book bets, which in case it has slipped your mind is how I pay your salaries. But I will name the reindeer anyway: Groucho, Harpo, Chico, Gummo, Zeppo, Curly, Moe and Larry.”

“You’re all wrong,” says Joey Chicago. “You’re forgetting Rudolph—though I cannot imagine his nose gets much redder than Gently Gently’s after he has downed a couple of Old Peculiars and a chaser.” He grabs the forty bucks and sticks it in his pocket. “Anyway, I guess that makes me the winner.”

Benny holds out an empty glass. “If you’re going to keep the money, I should at least get a free refill.”

“Check the walls,” says Joey. “Do you see any signs posted to the effect that this is a charitable institution?”

“Where is your Christmas spirit?” demands Benny.

“I left it in my other suit,” says Joey.

Just then, before they can come to blows, or more likely curses, Dead End Dugan walks through the door. I don’t mean through the doorway; I mean through the door. We have to make allowances for Dugan, who is a little more powerful and a lot less noticing since he became a zombie.

“I been looking all over for you, Harry,” he says.

“That is probably why you haven’t found me until now,” I reply.

“Bet-A-Million McNabb owes you a lot of money, doesn’t he?” says Dugan, and I notice that Benny and Joey have backed away, because when you’ve been dead and occasionally buried for the past five years you just naturally are not about to put any perfume companies out of business, or even any cologne companies for that matter. Gently Gently, who is rarely operating on more than two or three of the eight cylinders God gave him, keeps sniffing his drink, trying to figure out where the smell is coming from.

“Yes,” I say. “He drops ten large betting on Horrendous Howard to knock Kid Testosterone out by the fifth round.” I shake my head sadly. “Horrendous Howard might pull it off, too, if he doesn’t trip and fall on his head going back to his corner after the first round. Last I hear, he still thinks he is King Arthur and he will not eat off any table that has corners on it.”

“This is all no doubt very interesting,” said Dugan, who as far as I can tell has not recently been interested in much besides visiting Madame Bonne Ami’s House of Exotic Comforts for the Recently Departed, “but you should know that even as we speak he is playing five-card stud with Loose Lips Louie.”

I do not need to hear what Dead End Dugan will tell me next, because like almost everyone else except maybe Bet-A-Million McNabb, I know that Loose Lips Louie acquires his name by beating every member of a battleship’s crew out of their savings in a single night, and his specialty is five-card stud, which indeed he has used to sink more than one ship’s crew.

“In fact,” Dugan is saying, “he is taking such a bath that about twenty minutes ago he has to change his name to Bet-A-Thousand McNabb.”

“I have to get to him and collect my ten thousand dollars before he loses it all to Loose Lips Louie,” I say. “Where is this game going on?”

“At Harvey Wallbanger’s Social and Sporting Club for Gentlemen of Quality,” says Dugan.

“Isn’t that where Morris the Mage hangs out?” says Benny.

I frown. “Come to think of it, yes, that has become his home away from home.”

“Do you suppose he is helping Louie to win?” continues Benny.

“I don’t know, but we might as well play it safe and take our own protection along.”

“Where is he?” asks Benny.

“In the men’s room, where he always is,” says Joey Chicago. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed."

“He will have to live with it,” I say, heading off to the men’s room, where I find Big-Hearted Milton seated on the floor as usual, surrounded by five black candles and reading a book.

“Why are you bothering me when I am studying the ancient grimoires?” he says, slipping the book into a suit pocket.

“Come on, Milton,” I say. “I see the title before you can hide it, and it is Meter Maids in Bondage.”

“Some grimoires are less ancient than others,” he says defensively.

“Get up,” I say. “We have work to do.”

“Obviously someone has welched on a bet,” says Milton as we emerge from the men’s room and rejoin the others. “Who was it?”

“Bet-a-Million McNabb,” I answer.

“Bet-a-Million McNabb always makes good his losses,” Milton assures me.

“Even as we speak, he is playing five-card stud with Loose Lips Louie over at Harvey Wallbanger’s establishment,” I tell him.

“A taxi will not do,” says Milton suddenly. “We need a nonstop jet plane.”

“It is only three blocks,” I point out.

“Do you know how much he can lose to Loose Lips Louie in three blocks’ time?” says Milton. Then he adds: “Has Louie got a protector in his corner?”

“I do not know for sure,” I answer, “but if so, there is every likelihood that it is Morris the Mage.”

“That twerp?” laughs Milton. “Why, he couldn’t put a spell on his own mother!”

“I would not be too sure of that,” says Joey Chicago. “The last I hear of her, she is in a cage on the moon.”

“Maybe McNabb put the money aside,” suggests Benny hopefully. “No one will ever bet with him again if word gets out that he won’t make good his marker and pay his bookie.”

“How much do you think he will have left to bet after Loose Lips Louie gets done with him?” I shoot back. “Come on! We are going to Harvey Wallbanger’s!”

“And a Merry Christmas to you, too,” mutters Joey Chicago as the five of us walk out through the space where the door used to be.

****

Harvey Wallbanger’s Social and Sporting Club for Gentlemen of Quality manages to put three lies in a single title, because it is not a social club unless you are of a mind to pay fifty dollars or more for a very short term date, it is not a sporting club because all of the games are rigged and the drinks are watered, and the only gentlemen of quality are those who give the place a wide berth.

We walk in the door, and suddenly I think maybe the place is on fire, because there is so much cigar smoke that I can barely see my hand in front of my face, and finally I realize that it is not my hand but that it belongs to something that is sort of green and kind of scaly but is mostly big, and when the smoke clears a little I realize that it is attached to Gregory the Gorgon, who is the muscle that protects Harvey Wallbanger’s establishment from unwanted intruders, which is to say from those who can spot a crooked deck or a rigged roulette wheel.

“Hold it right there,” says Gregory. He points to Dead End Dugan. “No zombies allowed.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“What if I have to chastise him?” says Gregory. “What can one do to a malingerer who is already dead?”

I turn to Dugan and tell him to wait outside.

“Can I just stand here in the doorway?” asks Dugan. “The smoke keeps the flies away.”

“This is not in the playbook,” says Gregory. “I shall have to get a ruling from the Supreme Authority,” which could be Harvey or God, but by the strictest interpretation of the term is probably Mrs. Wallbanger. “You may stand here until I return.”

“Thank you,” says Dugan.

“Just don’t start doing a bunch of dead things until I get back,” says Gregory as he shuffles off, and I can tell by Dugan’s puzzled expression that for the life of him—or maybe it is for the death of him—he cannot think of any dead things to do, other than standing there without breathing.

“Come along,” I say to Milton and Benny and Gently Gently. “We must collect from Bet-a-Million McNabb while he still has something to collect.”

We begin walking through the many rooms of the establishment, each of which features a contest that under other circumstances might be called a game of chance. There are a number of lovely young ladies selling drinks and cigarettes and occasionally themselves, and what they lack in clothing they more than make up for in personality.

I hear a bunch of jolly laughing up ahead, and who should I run into but Nick the Saint, who is decked out in his Christmas best.

“Hi, Harry,” he says. “Merry Christmas, ho ho ho.”

“Hello, Nick,” I reply. “Are you not supposed to be making your rounds this evening?”

“Yes,” he says. “This is my night, ho ho ho. I just thought I’d stop off for a drink first, and see if there were any elves to recruit.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” I say, “but the young lady you are resting your hand upon is probably not an elf.”

“You never know,” says Nick. “But just the same, I trust news of this will not make its way up North?”

“My lips are sealed,” I say.

“Mine, too,” adds Big-Hearted Milton.

“I owe you one, Harry, ” he says, and then