Читать книгу The Christmas MEGAPACK ® - Nina Kiriki Hoffman - Страница 13

THE CHRISTMAS CRAZIES: A GRIFF & FATS STORY, by Gary Lovisi

For most people Christmas is the best time of the year. For Fats and me, on the job back in the old days—it was the worst. Christmas Eve, Christmas Day—a time of peace, joy, happiness, and love. It’s also a time when more people kill themselves, shoot their fathers, stab their mothers, beat their brother to death, or go out on some damn killing spree and murder their entire family. We called it the Christmas Crazies. It was true back then, it’s truer today.

Fats and I had our strangest case of the Christmas Crazies back on Christmas Eve in 1962.

It all began when the kid came over to our car. We were parked. The engine off. It was mid-morning, Christmas Eve. A slow time. I figured, okay it’s cool, we’ll have an early night. Boy, was I wrong.

I was sitting in the driver’s seat, trying to sip some of Jackie’s killer coffee. Fats was beside me, chomping down on a handful of donuts, guzzling a quart of real coffee from, of all things, a Thermos. I don’t know where he got a Thermos, I thought he loved Jackie’s old rot-gut brew. Meanwhile, my partner worked on his food like a bulldozer digging a trench. The donuts were soon gone and Fats began looking around with that hungry look upon his fat puss like he still had room in that big gut of his for more stuff to eat. Which I am sure that he did.

I don’t know how he could eat an entire box of those damn greasy things but I figured he was just about to ask me to take another trip to the donut shop when the kid came over to the car. He was a real little guy, just four or five years old. I figured he must have been lost, couldn’t find his mommy or something, but he wasn’t crying and then I noticed some woman standing behind him. Patient, and obviously his mom, but not in real great control of the boy just then. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew I’d find out before too long.

The kid tugged on my partner’s sleeve. Fats’ great ham of an arm rested on the open car window sill. The kid tried hard to get the Fatman’s attention.

I was certain that whatever the kid had to say, it did not concern food, which I knew at that point was uppermost in Fats’ mind, so I gently gave my large partner a sharp shot to the ribs with my right elbow saying, “Hey, you big lug, I think the kid’s trying to tell you something.”

Fats looked over at the kid with a blank look.

The kid looked at Fats hard.

It was stare for stare now.

I thought, now this might be interesting.

“You’re a cop?” the kid asked my partner. It wasn’t exactly a question. More like a statement of utter disbelief or astonishment. I couldn’t help laughing.

Fats laughed too, said, “Sure, kid. I’m a cop. Now what can I do for you?”

“It’s Santa Claus. He’s disappeared. My mom took me here to see Santa and now there’s no Santa. We looked all over. Do you know where he is?”

Fats burped, not even trying to hide the sound from the kid and his mother. “Ah, you mean Santa’s missing?”

They looked at Fats with incredulous eyes, and for a second I got the impression the wee tyke was thinking that my partner might have gobbled down Santa—red suit and all—in some kind of out-of-control eating binge. Fats was certainly big enough and hungry enough to eat a horse, so Santa wouldn’t be much of a problem. Fats was a giant-sized adult compared to the tiny kid. Lucky for the kid he’d never seen my partner on a real eating binge. It was not a pretty sight.

The mother came over. She was a worn-out, worked-out lady, thin, pinched face, nervous eyes. She’d seen hard days. “My name is Gwen Smith, and this is my son, Robert....”

“Bobby!” the kid corrected.

Fats nodded, “You can call me Fats, Bobby.”

Bobby smiled, said, “The name fits you.”

Fats just broke out in laughter, said, “See, Griff, what I gotta put up with from some wisenheimer kid?”

I nodded. I watched Bobby’s mother. She was concerned about something. Something that bothered her and didn’t seem right to her. I began to wonder about it, said, “So tell me, what’s the problem, Mrs. Smith?”

She looked at me closely, then back to Fats, then to her son, Bobby, and said, “Every Christmas Eve they have a Santa on the corner of Dumont and Sixth. The Salvation Army Santa, you know? He rings his bell by a big black kettle set on a tripod. You know, for donations?”

“Yeah, I know the corner,” Fats said. “I know the Santa there too.”

“Well,” Mrs. Smith blurted, “He seems to have.... He’s not there any more.”

I said, “You mean he walked off?”

Fats laughed, “That’d be Jimmy McConnell. Remember him, Griff? He’s got a serious jones for the sauce. He probably took some of the cash and walked off for a quick belt. Or ten.”

Mrs. Smith took Bobby aside, told him to wait for her at the other end of our car. Then she told us, “Santa was talking with a man. They had an argument. They went to the man’s car. The man’s car was parked a few spaces up the block and the man showed Santa something in the trunk. When Santa looked into the trunk, the man made a motion and Santa got into the trunk of the man’s car. Then the man closed the trunk lid on Santa and drove away. It was all very strange.”

“Did the man have a gun?” I asked.

“No, I don’t think so. I didn’t see one, but he could have had one in his pocket, I guess. His right hand was in his pocket,” Mrs. Smith added, remembering.

Fats said, “Did the man rob Santa?”

Mrs. Smith gave us a most curious look then. I hate those kinds of looks. She said, “That’s what’s so strange. Santa seemed to know the man who put him in the trunk of his car and he left his kettle full of donations standing right there on the corner. Right out on the sidewalk. It’s still there. And there was plenty of change and bills in it too.”

“Okay, Mrs. Smith, we’ll look into it,” I told her. Fats got the rest of the info from her. Before we left I said to her, “Why don’t you take little Bobby to see Santa at Thompson’s Department Store? They have an entire Christmas Land set-up with Santa, elves, and everything.”

Mrs. Smith grew quiet. She looked so sad. I noticed a tear streaming silently down her cheek but she ignored it. Tough broad.

Fats looked at her, said, “Ma’am, it’ll be all right. Everyone goes through hard times. Been through a few myself. It will all work itself out. You have to hold out, and have faith, for Bobby’s sake.”

Mrs. Smith nodded, then silently walked away with her son.

“Damnit!” Fats growled.

“What was that about, Fats?”

Fats looked at me, stone silent for a minute, “You never been poor, Griff. Let me tell you, poor is bad, but poor with pride is the damn worst. Griff, that woman’s got more guts, more pride in her than half the adults in this town. She’s so dirt poor she took her young son to see a drunk Santa on the street corner rather than go into one of them big fancy department stores like Thompson’s.”

“Why, Fats?”

“Because, Griff, when you’re that poor it breaks your heart to take your kid to see a department store Santa. You watch your kid all big-eyed looking at all the cool stuff you know you can never buy him. The stuff he knows he ain’t never going to get. The stuff his mom can never afford, because she’s too busy putting food on the table, clothes on their backs, and a roof over their heads. And there’s damn little left over, Griff, even for a Christmas toy.”

“I didn’t realize, Fats.”

“It’s okay, Griff. That’s just the way it is sometimes. For some people.”

* * * *

We were quiet as I drove off to Dumont and Sixth. It was just around the block and a few streets down, and there on the corner we saw the big black Salvation Army kettle, still sitting on its tripod. No Santa in sight. When we went over to the kettle, we saw it was still full of coins and bills.

There was a big sign there that said, “Donate to Santa for Xmas,” but there was no Santa anywhere in sight. And I got the feeling he wasn’t coming back any time soon.

But Fats and I, being the very excellent no nonsense coppers we were back then still did a check of all the local bars, strip joints that served booze, whorehouses, and gambling dens for any word on Jimmy McConnell. And, mind you, without accepting any graft, samples, free-bees, or any other ancillary tokens, services, gratuities, or Christmas-type bonuses.

“He’s a no-show, Griff,” Fats bellowed as we trudged back to our old Plymouth battlewagon.

I nodded. I didn’t like this one bit.

“Something funny going on here, Griff. I wish Mrs. Smith or Bobby would have got a plate number for us, or could describe the car other than just telling us the damn thing had four doors and was a dark color. Kinda limits our options.”

Then the call came in from downtown, Captain Landis on the horn, telling us, “Okay, fellas, it’s Christmas Eve and something’s up as usual. I got a missing persons report on Jake Stanton, fat old drunk playing the Santa gig at Thompson’s Department Store. The guy never showed up for work this morning. A black and white just checked out his place. His wife said he left for work this morning. Never got there. Like the guy just up and vanished.”

I told Captain Landis about Mrs. Smith and Bobby and what they saw regarding McConnell.

“Another damn Santa Claus?” Landis barked, as if he were really surprised—considering all the crap he’d seen and waded through over the years in this town.

Fats and I remained silent.

Landis’ voice came over the squawk box, “Okay, boys, it’s Christmas Eve and it appears we got a Santa snatching epidemic on our hands.”

Fats laughed. I could see that he wasn’t exactly taking this all that serious. No Santa Claus at Christmas was the least of the problems back then in a hell town like Bay City.

Landis didn’t appreciate the humor. “There’s one more, guys. This just came in. Hermitage House, that swanky joint on West Dumont, out in swell town? They had a guy playing Santa, giving out candy to the patrons and their kids in the lobby. He was one of the doormen. It appears he was snatched from there a few hours ago. No one saw a thing.”

“That makes three Santas missing,” I said quietly.

“That sound ominous,” Fats laughed.

“It’s not funny, Stubbs,” Landis growled impatiently, going serious on us, not even calling Fats by his first name.

“So what you want us to do about it? There aren’t exactly any leads on this,” Fats offered, “and before we find out anything, Christmas will be all over.”

“Then make your own leads,” Landis replied.

“And what exactly does that mean, Cap?” I asked.

“Griff, I want you and Fats to get to Thompson’s Department Store. They’ll be needing a new Santa, and Fats is a natural to play the part.”

I heard the Fatman moan and groan but Landis and I paid him no mind.

I said, “Yeah, I get it. When the guy tries to snatch this Santa, he’ll be in for a big surprise.”

“Let’s hope so,” Landis agreed. He signed off and I gunned our old battlewagon down to Thompson’s, an elegant old building that housed one of the city’s last great department stores. Even back then, in the early 1960s, it was a relic of an earlier and more elegant era. Or so they say. An era also of robber baron monopolies and trusts, company towns and corrupt politicos. Hey, maybe things haven’t changed all that much after all.

* * * *

We got to Thompson’s, set everything up with Mr. Smathers the General Manager who ran the place for the owner, Gerald Thompson. He was said to be some weirdo recluse and grandkid of the famous founder, Tobias Thompson. Smathers got things all set up for us, got a Santa suit for Fats—he didn’t need no padding—and in no time at all we had my partner’s large red-suited butt firmly planted on a big ornate throne in a special section of the store called “Christmas Land”. It was stocked with lambs and a couple of tough-guy midget ex-cons we knew who were dressed up as Santa’s elves.

“Fats just smiled at me, winked, and said, “With helpers like those, its no wonder Santa is missing, Griff.”

I don’t think the midget ex-con elves heard him.

Once we were set up the moms brought up their little darlings to tell the jolly fat man in the red suit and long white beard what they wanted for Christmas.

I warned, “Now, Fats, try to be pleasant to the kids.”

Fats just growled, “I hate this, Griff,” but when that first big-eyed tyke came up to him towing his mother behind, Fats’ whole disposition suddenly changed. He showed a big smile and gave out a few jolly Ho-Ho-Ho’s and said joyfully, “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Now tell me, what can Santa do for you, young man?”

I was hanging on the side, talking the ponies with one of the elves, while watching Fats do his Christmas magic. And it was magic. He’s such an amazing fellow, he really did the Santa gig like a true pro. Really made the kids happy. I was sure he was giving them a wonderful memory they’d remember for the rest of their lives. You could see that a lot of the kids actually believed. It was a sweet thing to see. I can still remember back that far these days. They called it innocence in the old days. They call it being stupid or naive today. Times sure change. And kids are all the poorer for it I think.

It was when Fats got up for his noon break and to take a trip to the bathroom that I noticed a guy walk off behind him. I didn’t think too much of it then, but I watched just the same. Then it became apparent that we had what might be—or might not be—a coincidence here. Both guys having to take a whiz at the same time. I moved in. I wondered about the guy who had followed Fats. Was he just a customer who needed to take a leak, some kinky perv, or the Santa-napper we were looking for?

The store was crowded, there were a lot of kids and slow-moving old people in my way, bunches of avid shoppers loaded down with boxes and gifts, a crowd that slowed me down and separated me from Fats for a moment.

By the time I got into the men’s room, I saw a very angry Fatman, still in his Santa outfit, jamming the guy that had followed him up against the tiles by the sink. Then hitting the guy’s head against the wall.

“Try to mug Santa! You thieving little shit! You got no class! No class! And on Christmas Eve, no less! I’m telling you, I’m the last Santa you’re ever going to mess with, Jonesey.”

“I’m sorry! Really I am! I didn’t know it was you!” Jonesey begged, but Fats still held him pinned to the wall. Now I recognized him. Jonesey was a petty crook and small-time scam artist who Fats knew from the old days.

Fats banged the man’s head against the wall for emphasis as he barked, “Santa’s making a list. I’m checking it twice. I’m gonna find out who’s been naughty or nice. You dig? And you’re not nice, Jonesey!”

“Jonesey Jones?” I said walking over quietly to Fats and his prisoner. I could see that he had everything well in hand.

“Freakin’ little turd tried to take me off while I was busy taking a leak, Griff. Very inconsiderate. Damn nervy little bastard.”

Jonesey moaned. Denied everything.

“Think this is our guy, Fats?” I asked, almost certain he wasn’t.

“Nah, Griff. Just a petty ex-con looking for an easy score. Boy, did he make a big mistake!” Fats laughed, then cuffed Jonesey and handed him over to me.

“Come on, Jonesey,” I said, dragging the wily ex-con to the door. “I got some uniform cops sitting outside in a car with nothing to do tonight but take you to a nice private room downtown.”

Fats said, “Griff, take this scum-bucket out to the boys in the car, I’ve gotta get back to work. The kids’ll be growing impatient waiting for Santa. I don’t wanna let them down. You know how it is?”

I didn’t, but what the heck, “Okay, meet you back by the throne in Christmas Land in a few minutes.”

And that was the last I saw of Fats.

* * * *

I’d been gone only ten minutes, ten lousy minutes; dumped off Jonesey to the uniform guys. When I got back to Christmas Land and the throne, there was no Fats. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and the Fatman in a bright red Santa suit with red hat and long flowing white beard was not exactly difficult to miss. I asked around. The two midgets were still out on lunch break, a few of the moms and kids waiting in line knew nothing. Apparently Santa had never returned since he’d taken his break.

I retraced my steps. Checked the Men’s Room. Checked the Manager’s office, spoke to Smathers, he called in store security, his department heads. We searched each floor of the huge store, the various departments and sections and found no Fats. The loudspeaker blared Fats’ name like he was a special offer.

Will Detective Sergeant Herman Stubbs please report to the Manager’s Office right away.

There was no response.

There was no Fats.

He was gone. Like he’d disappeared into thin air.

At first I hoped it might be Fats just wandering around the store and losing track of the time, maybe talking with a kid, or maybe he’d stepped out for a quick bite to eat. Fats was always eating. Or maybe he was playing a practical joke. I knew he was still pissed at me for the whole Santa suit thing. But as time passed I began to have a very bad feeing about this.

I called in my report to Captain Landis. He told me he’d have the boys sweat Jonesey, see if the little turd knew anything, then I’d know it soon enough. I guess Jonesey coulda been a shill, but I didn’t think he had the guts for it. Anyway, Landis and the boys downtown would sweat it out of him if he knew anything.

I stayed at Thompson’s, hoping for some word. Why was someone going to all this trouble to abduct Santas on Christmas Eve? Hostages? It didn’t make any sense that I could see. I began to interview everyone who’d seen Santa before he’d disappeared.

First off I questioned Santa’s little helpers, the two midget ex-cons dressed as elves once they got back from lunch. They said they didn’t know a thing. I believed them. They laughed and thought the whole thing was funny, figuring Fats was playing a joke on me. I told them it was no joke. I asked other shoppers.

One woman and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Page from Plainview told me they’d seen Santa walk off with a short fat bald man.

“They got into the elevator,” the woman told me, “the doors closed and that’s the last I saw of them. Will the store be getting a new Santa?”

“I don’t think so,” I told them. I wasn’t in the mood to tell them that Thompson’s had lost two Santa’s already today.

I got a call from Landis. They’d sweated Jonesey like a boiled lobster but he didn’t know a thing. He was just a small-time thief. His tailing Fats was all coincidence. The real abductor must have been watching, saw Jonesey make his move. Saw me leave Fats alone to take Jonesey out to the car. Then took his chance. There was something else. I was sure Fats had left with the guy willingly. I figured he’d done it to get a lead on the Santa-napper by allowing himself to get taken. Good idea, in theory, bad idea in fact. By allowing the guy to kidnap him, Fats was now at the mercy of God knew what kind of lunatic. It was not any kind of good position for Fats to be in. My secret fear? I hoped his abductor wouldn’t find out Fats was a cop. That might turn things in a very negative direction real fast.

I was stalled for leads. I questioned everyone again. I looked over my notes. The guy I was looking for, this Santa-napper; well, I had two semi-decent I.D.’s on him. One from Mrs. Smith and Bobby, the other from the Pages. All of whom agreed the man was short, fat, and bald. Nice I.D. That could just about be anyone. It could be Captain Landis, it could be the Mayor, if could be half the businessmen in Bay City and all the old retired guys, including half the cops I knew. It could be anyone. None of this helped me at all. Yet.

I had a hunch though. I requestioned the Pages. “So let me get this straight. You saw Santa get into the elevator with this short, fat, bald guy?”

“Yes. Yes we did.”

“No struggle?” I asked.

“No. They seemed to be getting along fine. Almost like they knew each other.”

“Did you ever see this man before?” I asked.

Mr. and Mrs. Page shook their heads no, just as they had when I asked them this same question before.

“Did this guy have a hand in his pocket?” I asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Mrs. Page said.

“Not at all,” her husband added sure-fire.

I nodded. I thought, okay, so maybe no gun. Leastways, not visible. Couldn’t rule it out though. Which meant Fats might not have gone along willingly to get close to the kidnapper as I had first thought. In fact, it could be that he might not have suspected the guy at all! That put a different slant on things.

I tried to figure how the guy could get Fats—still wearing that damn red Santa suit—out of a store full of shoppers without anyone seeing anything. Thompson’s Department Store was huge and full of people. It seemed impossible. Then I thought about how huge the store actually was, recalling it had to have a basement, and probably a sub-basement. A lot of the older stores had them. There were also a lot of back stairs, service elevators, old unused exits, fire doors, truck bays, storage areas, all throughout the store. Plenty of places to hide.

I looked back to the Pages, “Do you remember anything about that short, fat, bald man that could help me? Any distinguishing marks? Tattoos? Was he wearing a hat? A suit? A uniform? How long did you get a look at him?”

Mrs. Page just shook her head.

Her husband said, “I don’t know how long we waited. It wasn’t long. We’d missed that elevator so we had to wait for the next one. It came pretty soon.”

“They have five of them in Thompson’s,” Mrs. Page added proudly, as if she was part-owner of the store. “Fancy new ones, that don’t even need operators.”

“That’s wonderful. So you were just standing there, waiting for the next car?”

“Yes,” they both chimed in.

“Did you see where that elevator went? Did it go down to the first floor lobby and stop?” I asked, adding, “or did it go down to the basement or sub-basement and stop there?”

Mr. and Mrs. Page looked at me, then at each other. Mrs. Page said, “Oh, no, officer....”

“Detective, ma’am,” I corrected.

“...Ah, yes, well, they didn’t go down at all. Right, Roger?” She looked over to Mr. Page and he nodded like a pro.

I felt the earth shake beneath my feet. I asked, “You sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure,” Mrs. Page continued. “The elevator car they were in didn’t go down. It went up.”

“That’s right,” Mr. Page added, in total agreement with his wife. “We were going to the basement sale, but we missed the car because it went up.”

“Up?” I said softly to myself, wondering what it might mean. And then I knew. I asked the Pages, “So it went up, all the way to the tenth floor?”

“Why, yes,” Mrs. Page replied. “It went all the way up to the top.”

“What’s up there, detective?” Mr. Page asked me.

“The penthouse,” I said softly. Trying to think it through. That’s where Gerald Thompson, the kooky, reclusive owner lived—and now I knew, that’s where Fats and the other snatched Santas were probably being held. Gerald Thompson, a short, fat, bald man with a bad attitude and a worse temper who was a reclusive crackpot. Why the hell was he abducting Santas all over Bay City?

I thanked the Pages, said good-bye, then sent them on their way. They said they had a lot of shopping to do. I went on my way too.

* * * *

I checked my gun. Took a deep breath, Took the elevator up to the tenth-floor penthouse. Thompson’s Department Store was an old building, but it was full of the new electronic automatic elevators that didn’t need a human operator. You just had to have faith the thing wouldn’t jam, and that if it did, that someone would come and get you out before you turned old, like some rotten sardine trapped in a tin can. Elevators did that a lot in the old days. It was lousy to be trapped in one.

Once the elevator hit the tenth floor, the doors opened and I found myself in a plush lobby. Expensive paintings of old bearded guys were hung all over the walls. Obviously earlier Thompsons—the founder, his sons, brothers—as grim a looking bunch of angry curmudgeons as you’d ever want to see. Not a smile or friendly look among any of them.

There was a curvy receptionist behind a desk. She had a red Santa elf cap on her head. The end came to a point with a little red ball. She looked cute as hell. I figured she was there for window dressing and didn’t know anything about any of this. I showed her my badge, gave her the shush sign and put her back into the elevator and then pressed Lobby. “Stay there until I tell you that you can come back up. Now go!”

I figured there had to be another elevator, a special private elevator somewhere in Thompson’s suite. I’d find that, but first I’d find Fats. And the others. If they were really here. Which I hoped to discover for sure soon enough.

It was near dinner time. I knew Fats would be getting mighty hungry real soon now. The thought of that mighty appetite of his running wild chilled me and at the same time it brought a smile to my face. Fats hadn’t missed a meal in ten years, I sure didn’t want him to start now.

There was a door behind the receptionist’s desk. No doubt it opened into Gerald Thompson’s private suite of offices, and his own personal apartment. He had the entire tenth-floor penthouse. It was a huge area. I’d read where the rich and well-connected had some mighty fine parties up here in the old days. I could see it was the hot party type of place, where anything went, and did. The kind of place guys like Fats and I would never be invited to. I could not see it as the focus of a lot of sex and sin but not the center of some crazy Bay City Santa Claus-napping scheme. It didn’t make any sense to me at the time—but there wasn’t any kind of prerequisite for crime back then in Bay City. Or for that matter, for a lot of crime today either.

So I opened the door, stepped into the huge room, and stood there amazed as I looked upon the damnedest situation I’d ever seen in my entire life!

I had my gun drawn as I entered Thompson’s private suite of luxurious rooms. It was a magnificent area, lavishly furnished. There was a gorgeous Persian rug that ran the entire expanse of the room. The rug must have measured fifty feet by a hundred. Upon it were five guys all in full-dress Santa Claus outfits: baggy red trousers, thick black belt and ankle-high black boots, bright red shirts, white suspenders, thick long white beards, funny little pointy red caps with the traditional snowball at the point. The really weird thing was that these five Santas were all on the floor in a general wild melee—each one beating the living crap out of the other! They were punching, kicking, biting, pushing, cursing, growling, screaming, crying, jumping, hitting, and falling all over each other. It was a mess.

It took me a minute to pick out Fats from the pack of brawlers. Once I did, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Then I picked out McConnell. Drunk as a skunk and giving Fats a hard time as usual. I noticed the original Thompson’s Department Store Santa, a guy named Jake Stanton, and another fellow named Davis, who I knew played Santa at the Hermitage. Then there was the remaining Santa, and they all seemed to be fighting him. More or less. At least Fats was fighting. The others didn’t seem to know what they were doing or care who they were doing it to. It was a general punching, kicking, biting melee of incredible confusion, a totally out of control free-for-all with the drunken McConnell hitting wildly at everyone.

I could see Fats was having a hard time of it. That last Santa, who I figured had to be Gerald Thompson himself, was hitting on Fats pretty good, while McConnell was interfering by lashing out drunkenly at anyone. Including Fats—who’d gone in there risking his life and was trying to rescue the idiot, by the way. I could see McConnell was so damn drunk he had no idea who was who, so in a general fit of rage he was just swinging out at everyone. It didn’t make things easy for Fats but it was sure funny to watch. I was amused. I couldn’t help laughing, once I realized there was no real danger to my partner.

I mean, watching five fully-dressed Santas beating the living crap out of each other seemed pretty funny to me just then. It kinda ignited my Christmas spirit, in a weird way. I don’t know how. Maybe it was just the season. None of the Santas held a gun or any weapon, which was good. I figured Fats had somehow gummed up Thompson’s works, caused himself and the other abducted Santas to try an escape, and I’d walked in when Thompson was trying to prevent that escape.

“Hey, Griff!” Fats bellowed, finally noticing me as he pushed McConnell off of him again, only to receive a hammer-punch to the bread basket from Thompson that set him down a bit.

“Having fun?” I asked, moving in closer. My weapon was drawn and ready, just in case anyone did something stupid—like pull a gun, or really try to hurt Fats—but the damn scene was so funny to me, so downright ridiculous, I couldn’t help but watch and enjoy it. It surely was some show.

“Damn moron Santa Clauses! I’m never gonna play Santa again!” Fats promised loudly, deftly knocking Thompson out of his way, then pulling the man’s fake white beard off his face. Which got Thomspon even more angry.

“Ain’t exactly the Christmas spirit,” I said to Fats, laughing. “By the way, you okay?”

“Sure, Griff, doing fine, having a ball, actually, but ain’t this the damnedest thing you ever seen?”

I said yes, let Fats bang a few more heads together in his inimitable style, then asked him, “Ah, would you like a hand? I kinda hate to break up the entertainment and all since it looks like you and the boys here went to such pains and are obviously having so much fun.”

“Nah,” Fats growled, getting Thompson in a headlock.

“Figured I’d ask. Just to let you know I’m still on the job and paying attention.”

“Yeah, Griff, that’s right nice of you. This crap is kinda dampening my usual cheerful Santa Christmas spirit, you know? You think you could do me a favor and get this drunken bastard McConnell off me long enough so that I can cuff this moron Santa-snatching fool Thompson?”

“Sure, I can do that, Fats. All you had to do was ask.”

Fats growled, laughed, said, “Thanks, Griff.”

I didn’t play it cute, I just came up behind McConnell and slugged him hard with my gun butt, which sent him immediately into dreamland. Then I pulled the other Santas off Thompson, and pushed them to the side. Fats grabbed Thompson, got him down, cuffed him and finally stood up, took a deep breath and said, “Getting too old for this crap, Griff. Santa, Christmas, man it’s been a long, rough year!”

I laughed, nodded. I got Thompson to his feet, dragged him over to a chair and plopped him down into it hard.

“Don’t you move, if you know what’s good for you!” I told him sharply. Then to Fats, I said, “So what the hell is all this about?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” Fats replied. Fats was wearing his street clothes under his Santa outfit, but he still kept on the Santa outfit.

I couldn’t figure that out and told him, “So, ah, you gonna keep the Santa suit on?”

Fats just gave me a wry smile, “Yeah, Griff, just for a while. I got an idea. I’ll let you know about it in a bit.”

“Well, don’t get too many ideas, Fats, that can be dangerous,” I laughed.

He nodded, said, “It’s okay, Griff, you’ll like this idea.”

I frowned. I knew Fats. That did not sound reassuring. I decided to change the subject to the immediate situation. “So what’s the story with Thompson?”

“Guy’s got a real bad thing for Santa and Christmas,” Fats told me, frowning as he looked over to our prisoner. “He was gonna go out tonight dressed as Santa, take all our places, and then start shooting shoppers. He planned to do this the damn night before Christmas! It would have been a blood bath.”

I looked at Gerald Thompson. He was a wealthy guy, the son of priviledge and well-known as a wacko, but not really known to be dangerous. Inherited wealth can do that to some people. It can give them a screw loose. Or, in Thompson’s case, if you were already inclined in that direction, big money will give them the opportunity to indulge themselves in all kinds of stupid or weird crap they’ll think they can get away with. And usually do.

“He did it!” Jake Stanton shouted, standing there in his Santa outfit in red rage. “Kidnapped me right out of the locker room! Imagine, the bastard kidnapping Santa Claus!”

“Ah, you’re not really Santa Claus,” Fats spoke up, but Stanton did not seem to hear him.

The guy from the swanky Hermitage joined in almost immediately, “That madman, he also abducted me! Me! Of all people. Reginald Davis! I want you two to do something about it. You’re police officers, aren’t you?”

He looked at me, then towards Fats and shook his head. Fats and I weren’t impressed with his haughty airs. Fats just barked, “Take it easy, Reggie!”

“So what’s the story, Fats?” I asked.

“Gerald here, caught me by the elevator when I was going back to do my Santa thing after our little encounter with Jonesey in the men’s room. He said he wanted to talk to me about the kidnappings, said he thought he had some information on who the guy might be.” Fats laughed, “At least he was telling me the truth about that, Griff. He just didn’t tell me he was the guy. Until it was too late. He jumped me, gave me a nasty crack on the head when I wasn’t looking, then put me on ice up here in a back room with his other Santas.”

I nodded. What I’d figured.

“Gerald’s a severely disturbed guy. When I escaped and tried to free the other Santas, Gerald saw me and jumped me again. This time though, he was dressed as Santa himself, and he had a shotgun, Griff. I think he was gonna go play Santa and use that gun. I grabbed it from him and tossed it out the window before he could use it, then that drunken fool McConnell jumped me. He thought I was Thompson! That’s where you walked in, Some fun, eh?”

I smiled at Fats, “You always seem to get into these interesting situations.”

“Don’t I though. Well, all this fighting was damn uncivil of Thompson, Griff. When he came at me dressed in a Santa outfit carrying that shotgun, I damn near wet my pants. I mean, I seen weird stuff, but this boy could have a monopoly on crazy.”

“Damn dangerous too,” I added.

“He could have really ruined Christmas for a lot of people,” Fats growled.

“You did good, Fats,” I said. I was proud of my partner.

“I still don’t know the motive, Griff. The guy’s got a serious problem with Christmas, and he down-right hates Santa Claus. I don’t understand this warped mind stuff. Did you ever heard of such a thing?”

I shrugged. Things were a lot more simple in the old days but we still had our moments. I said, “What does it matter, Fats? One thing you can always count on with a crazy person—you can never really figure out what they’ll do next. And you’ll be damn lucky if you can figure out why they do what they do. Otherwise, Fats, they wouldn’t be crazy. Now would they? They’d be normal and not doing crazy violent stuff.”

Fats nodded. He looked over at Thompson. The guy had some kinda weird smirk on his puss. The kind of twisted grin I knew Fats would just love to knock off the guy’s face.

I sent the other Santas on their way. Then Fats and I brought out Gerald Thompson, still dressed as Santa, but now in cuffs, slightly battered and bruised.

“You’ll be changing that Santa suit for one with prison stripes soon enough,” Fats told him.

Gerald Thompson just gave us that insipid grin again, the kind of crazy-man, I-ain’t-really-home look that can get cops nervous. I figured that he’d lost it all now and that his mind was shot. That’s when the bad guys couldn’t be reasoned with, which is when they could be most dangerous.

“It’s the Christmas Crazies, Griff. Lotta lonely people. Lotta bitter people. Lotta crazy people. It all kinda jells on Christmas for too many of them. Failure, loss, pointless people living pointless lives. It’s one day out of the year when a lot of people can get too thoughtful, they reassess their miserable lives, and they always come up short. It’s a time when they see the truth clear for some reason, maybe the only time of the year they’ll take a real hard look, and that cruel truth is not anything pleasant for them to see. It all bubbles to the surface on Christmas, Griff.”

Fats was getting talky again. I just told him, “Come on, let’s get this creep in the car and run him downtown. And when the hell are you going to take off that stupid Santa suit?”

“Hold it, Griff,” Fats said, handing off our prisoner to me. “Take this louse to the car, I gotta make a stop on the 4th floor.”

“Fats?” I asked, but he was gone so fast I didn’t get a chance to get any answer. I knew he’d missed a meal or two. I just hoped he wasn’t stepping out for an emergency bite to eat. Fats was like that. However, I didn’t remember Thompson’s Department Store with counter service on the 4th floor.

I took Thompson to our car. A prowl car was outside and had just pulled up and I passed Thompson off to the uniform guys. They’d bring him downtown.

I sat in our car and waited for Fats.

It was already beginning to snow. Never seen snow in Bay City before. It was most unusual. It was really coming down too. Big flakes, already covering everything. It looked kinda nice.

Fats walked over, threw something heavy in the trunk, then jumped into the driver’s seat beside me like the whale he was. I wondered if he had snuck off for a snack or two. He had no food in his hands. He was also still wearing that damn Santa suit.

It was getting chilly. The snow really coming down now. I turned up the heater but it didn’t work. Fats lit up a smoke and looked out the window at Bay City. We watched the snow coming down. It had begun to cover everything.

I watched the snow fall and wondered what Fats was thinking about. He was unusually quiet.

He started up the car, and I wondered where he was going.

“City looks nice with the snow, Fats,” I said.

Fats shrugged, “You know how it is, Griff. The Christmas Crazies. We’ll read about it all in tomorrow’s papers—but right now, right this minute, I guarantee you, somewhere some cop is eating his gun, some kid’s spiking his arm full of dope, some father’s beating his wife and kids, some mother is plunging a steak knife into her husband’s back while he sleeps, some pimp is cutting some whore on Dumont Avenue, some slime is robbing and raping some eighty-year-old lady in some run-down SRO apartment somewhere in this town.”

“My, my, you’re just bursting with Christmas cheer, aren’t you?” I said, feigning laughter. Trying to lighten the old walrus up a bit, but I knew Fats was dead right.

Fats did not reply but got quiet. He kept driving. He was going into a bad part of town. The snow was coming down hard now but plenty of people were out and on the corners, whores making that final Christmas Eve date, drug dealers selling that last fix for the holiday, bums and winos passing a bottle as they warmed themselves at old oil drums stuffed with wood and set ablaze for heat. That was their Christmas present. Maybe they wouldn’t freeze to death out on the street tonight.

“You gonna take off that silly Santa suit?” I asked.

Fats ignored me, he didn’t even pay any attention to me, so I shut up about it.

Fats turned down a street without any lights. I didn’t see any street sign. I didn’t know where we were. Fats didn’t say a word. Then he parked. He looked at me hard. His face was like.... It was so damn angry, like a damn killer. It scared me. It was like he was a different person, not the often grumpy, sometimes cheerful fatman I knew, but like I was looking down into his soul. It was not a pretty sight. It was all there for me to see plain as day, for just that one second—then it was gone. Fats’ face softened, he laughed and said, “It’s okay, Griff, I got one last call to make tonight.”

Before I knew it he opened the door and was out of the car and in the back opening up the trunk. He took out a huge sack. It looked pretty heavy. I just hoped that he didn’t have a body in it. Things like that were done all the time in Bay City in the old days, and the cops were the worst offenders. Fats walked off. I got out of the car and followed Fats as he trudged through the snow to a run-down rat-trap apartment building. There was no number on the building, no lock on the outer door. Fats walked in. I followed behind him, a little ways back. I saw Fats walk down the hall, the stink of urine and stale booze heavy in the air like smog. A drunk was sleeping it off on the floor at the end of the hall.

Fats gave him a hard kick, growled, “Get the hell outta here!” The wino looked up, did a double take saw Fats dressed as Santa. Got another boot in the ass, then said, Santa? Is it really you? You know what I want for Christmas...?”

“I know what you want and you’re not getting it! Now get the hell outta here!” Fats barked.

The wino knew better than to remain in the Fatman’s way. He got up, backed off wobbly, “Okay, I’m going! I’m going!”

Fats walked to the door the wino had been blocking. There were ten names listed around the bell. All of them were crossed out. The door bell didn’t work. I watched from the end of the hallway.

Fats knocked softly upon the door.

There was a muffled voice from inside. Nervous.

All of a sudden I heard a loud voice boom out, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!”

It was Fats!

“Who’s there?” I heard a female voice whisper fearfully from behind the apartment door.

“Open up, it’s me. It’s Santa Claus and it’s Christmas Eve. I’ve come to pay a call.”

There was silence, then the door opened slightly, held back on a chain. I knew that could never keep Fats out. I was still wondering what the hell he was up to when I saw the woman’s face. Then I knew.

Fats let out another, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas, Bobby! Come on, Bobby, say hello to Santa Claus. I got some goodies for you and your mom, special delivery from my workshop all the way up at the North Pole.”

I was astounded. Fats never failed to do stuff I would have never figured a guy like him would do.

I watched from the end of the hall as Fats stood by the door, Ho-Ho-Ho-ing his fat red Santa ass off, digging into the big sack he had in front of him and taking out all kinds of stuff he’d filched from Thompson’s—clothing and small appliances for Mrs. Smith, and all kinds of really neat expensive toys and clothes for Bobby.

The kid was absolutely going nuts, happier than any kid I’d ever seen at any Christmas, while his mother stood by quiet, thankful, tears of joy making their way down her glowing cheeks.

Fats finally emptied the sack and said, “Have a Merry Christmas Mrs. Smith. And Merry Christmas to you, Bobby!”

“Thank you, Santa!” Bobby shouted with glee, as Fats got ready to leave.

“Yes, thank you so much, you’ve made this our best Christmas ever. God bless you...,” Mrs. Smith said with a smile, “...God bless you, Santa.”

She winked.

Fats just smiled back at her. Ho-ho-ho-ing like a pro as he got ready to leave.

“Anything we can give you, Santa?” Bobby asked, as Fats walked off down the hall.

“Nothing, Bobby, I get my Christmas present by giving presents to good people like you and your mom that deserve them,” Fats said. He laughed then, turned and said, “Ah, well, on second thought, if you must do something, you could leave a glass of milk and a few chocolate chip cookies out for when Santa comes next year. I got a lotta stops to make and I can get powerful hungry.”

Bobby smiled, and he and his mom waved, shouting, “Goodbye Santa! Thank you!”

Fats smiled, rubbed his ample belly, gave out with a few more ho-ho-ho’s. Mrs. Smith closed her door and Fats walked back down the hall to where I stood waiting.

He stopped by me for a moment, smiled said, “Hey, it’s Christmas, Griff.”

“I know.”

“It’s been a tough year, but this makes it worth it.”

I nodded, “You did real good, Fats.”

“Yeah, I guess it kinda makes it like Christmas means something.”

“It does,” I told and I thought I noticed a tear on the Fatman’s cheek. He rubbed his eye, making like he’d had something in it, but I knew better. It was nothing. No big deal.

We walked back to the car and got in. I drove. I shot a look at Fats as he sighed and pulled a bagel stuffed with baloney and cheese out of the glove compartment. It must have been half frozen from the cold. I laughed and shook my head.

“You missed a meal,” I told him. Fats never missed a meal.

“Yeah,” Fats admitted between bites. He offered me a bite. I tried to take a chunk out of the other end. It was impossible.

I handed him back the bagel uneaten. “Damn thing’s froze solid.”

Fats just laughed between bites. He said, “yeah, cold as hell but it’s still pretty good.”

I stopped the car and looked at him, sitting there stuffing his face, still dressed as Santa Claus, his .38 laying in his lap. I just shook my head. He was a sight.

I said, “Merry Christmas, Fats.”

He just looked up at me and smiled between bites and said, “Griff, same to you and yours, my man.”

I started up the car and kept on driving. Through the white blanket of snow that was covering everything in Bay City with a clean blanket of pure white. Covering all the dirt. Covering all the hate and greed. For a while at least, things were quiet. Peaceful, at last. I looked at my Timex. It was just past midnight, turning into Christmas morning. A new day. A very special day. I smiled. Those were the old days. Fats and me in old time Bay City. We’ll never see their like again.