Never Look A Gift Wheelman In The Mouth
By Celeste Hotaling-Lyons
Author's Notes: This
story was written due to a challenge on DIEF: "Take a serious dS ep (eg.
JIB) and turn it into a rollicking farce (eg. like Starman)."
I'm not sure I'd
classify "Starman" as a rollicking farce...
more like "an occasionally amusing but mostly forced attempt at
humour" -- but I get the idea. I did something similar years ago when I
wrote "A Hawk & A Handsaw: Part Deux", which was meant as a humourous
sequel to "A Hawk And A Handsaw" (my favourite episode.) You can find
it at http://www.trickster.org/storybook
At any rate, here is
my off-kilter "challenge" humourous version
of the heart-ripping, tear-jerking Due South episode, "Gift of the
Wheelman"; plus I get bonus points 'cos it's
also a Christmas story.... Comments? Contact me at vecchio at trickster.org
Warnings and
apologies first:
Warning #1: This
story contains scenes of mayhem, violence, and whining.
Warning #2: This
story displays a certain lack of Ye Olde Christmas
Spirit. In fact, Dickens, O'Henry, and that sappy
newspaper editor who wrote "Yes,
Warning #3: I adore
Ray, but you gotta admit, sometimes he is a *tad*
cheap. No flames on the Cheap-Ray stuff that follows, please. A friend once
told me that if I was a guy and a cop, I'd *be* Ray, and I can be a little
cheap sometimes, so live with it. My friends do.
Warning #4: Elves
will be mocked.
Apology: Sorry about
the lack of sex, but it's a sweet, sentimental *Christmas* story, fer cripe's sake!. Show a little class! ;)
Chapter One:
"Silent Night, Bloody Night"
(All song titles
taken from Francis X. Cross' "Least Loved Christmas Carols")
It was cold, it was
wet, it was your typical horror of a
"one-shopping-day-before-Christmas" Christmas Eve morning. The clock
was ticking down to the big "CD" (that's "Christmas Day",
not compact disk or certificate of deposit, though either of those would make a
perfectly nice gift) and crowds of shoppers milled about on the icy streets in
the downtown shopping section of Chicago, tempers on-edge as they rushed from
Neiman Marcus to Carson Pirie Scott, to Filene's, and
back again, searching for the *perfect* shaving mug for Uncle Augie or slippers to fit Aunt Cookie's size 12 triple-Es.
Burdened as they were with packages and screaming children, no one noticed the
Santa standing on a corner next to a big bucket of cash hanging from a tripod,
soliciting donations for the poor; at least not much more than they might
notice any other Santa standing on any other corner, tolling his bell wearily.
This particular
Santa, however, did not toll his shiny brass bell in a particularly weary
manner. He tolled... meditatively. He tolled... thoughtfully. And from
time-to-time, his eyes would narrow under his bushy white brows, and he would
speak into the large, fluffy white pom-pons that were
tied in a bow around his collar....
* * *
"I'm tellin' ya, Benny; you got the
right idea," said Ray Vecchio, Chicago detective
and all-around nice (albeit generally crabby and somewhat cheap) guy. He had a Filene's Basement bag full of ear-muffs,
one size fits all, at the end of one arm, and a large box containing a rented
Santa suit under the other.
"Well, uh, Ray;
I'm not certain that I... that I quite... uh," Fraser usually liked it
those few-and-far-between moments when Ray agreed with him, but he wasn't so
sure about his friend's cheerful approval this time around.
"I mean, you
tie two popsicle sticks together, shove it in a used
orange-juice can, and toss some sphagnum moss on it, and there ya go! Instant hand-made, personalized, low-cost Christmas
present! Loaded with gobs of sentiment, but it set you back maybe twelve cents,
American."
"I believe you
are referring to the rosemary plant I raised from a seedling, Ray, and I was
merely recycling that orange-juice can! Waste not, want not, you know. And I'm
sure that your dear, sweet Aunt Serose will greatly
appreciate the gi--"
"What about
that hunk of knotty pine you pulled out of a trash barrel for Frannie -- sheer genius! Of course, she'd probably pretty
much love it if you were to gift her with a doodle drawn on one of those
Chinese restaurant flyers they're always leaving in our mailbox."
"Now, Ray; that
was a very fine bit of bird's-eye maple I found in that waste receptacle, it
didn't take much carving at all to coax a team of mares, manes flying, from it
with my pocket knife," Fraser said. He was beginning to worry that he
might actually be the skinflint Ray seemed to think he was.
"But the
piece-of-resistance has to be that rag-bag you're fobbing off on Elaine!"
chortled Ray as he caught sight of the Riv where he'd
parked it in a no-parking zone half an hour ago.
"But Ray, it's
a tea cozy... I followed an authentic Victorian
crazy-quilt cozy pattern I once saw in my
grandparents' library; and you know how Elaine loves tea, and...."
Fraser's plaintive attempt at self-defense trailed
off as Ray bounced ahead of him enthusiastically, popping the Riv's trunk and stacking his packages inside.
"...hope ya don't mind if I take a page outa
your book and personalize these earmuffs for the kids with a gold magic
marker," Ray continued, ignoring the Mountie's
protests. "We gotta stop at O'Henry's
stationery store, then I'll meet you later on at the old Vecchio
manse for one of my ma's famous Italian dinners, 'kay?"
The Mountie sighed. "Whatever you say, Ray."
* * *
O'Henry's
Stationery and Fine Pens had its share of Christmas shoppers, but it was a
higher class of customer who perused the hundred-dollar blank books, the sheets
of marbleized paper imported from Italy, and the glass cases of prohibitively
expensive gold-tipped fountain pens than could be found outside on the mean
streets of Chicago's downtown shopping district. Ray found the metallic markers
by the register. He picked up a gold one.
"Man!
Three-ninety-five! How come they can make a Bic for
fifty cents and I still got the one I bought three years ago, but this marker
that's gonna clog after one use costs almost four bucks!?"
"I don't know,
Ray," said Fraser, only half-listening. He was staring hard at a rack of
hand-made paper, trying to figure out how to duplicate the process in his
bathroom. "You know, Ray... we could recycle the lint from your mother's
dryer and create our own Christmas cards from scratch next year!"
"Yeah, sure,
Benny... *what*?" was Ray's less-than-cogent comeback. Benny would have
clarified his admittedly odd suggestion, but at that moment, a figure dressed
in a red Santa suit trimmed with white fluff burst through O'Henry's
front door.
It was manifestly
*not* Jolly Old Saint Nick, because the red suit hung from a youthfully skinny
body as opposed to being stretched across a belly as round as a bowl full of
jelly, and he wore a ski-mask pulled down over his face. Plus, he was waving a
gun.
"DON'T
MOVE!" the figure demanded through the ski-mask's mouth-hole, then,
"DROP TO THE FLOOR!"
Nobody did anything.
"WELL?"
the figure screamed. "I SAID, DROP TO THE FLOOR!"
"Ah, I think I
can explain our dilemma," said the ever-helpful Mountie,
drawing the thief's attention to himself. It worked, the skinny figure swung
around to cover him with the Saturday Night Special.
"You see, young man; first you told us not to move. Then you told us to
drop to the floor; i.e.,.'to
move.' We're in something of a quandary as to which direction to
follow...." So saying, Fraser's arm whipped out, his fore-arm (oooooh, yum; Fraser's *fore-arms*... oops, sorry, back to
the story) smashing heavily into the ersatz Santa's gun hand. The gun went
skittering across the freshly-waxed floor. Ray dove for it, knocking over a
stand of engraved greeting cards as he went sliding.
Unfortunately, he
didn't quite make it, his fingers snatching at, but missing, the
little gun by a mere half-inch. He lay there, blinking in dismay as a shower of
expensive bits of cardboard flurried down on him as if in a gentle snow-fall,
watching a pair of small, wrinkled hands pick up the weapon.
"You little creep!"
a now-armed, blue-haired, little old lady screamed. "Don't you got no Christmas spirit!?" She aimed the gun in the
thief's general direction and pumped out a few bullets, several of which hit,
and shattered, the front window. Fraser (and the rest of the store's customers)
had joined Ray on the floor by then, though the thief showed the presence of
mind to quit the establishment speedily by way of the broken window.
"Uh,
ma'am? ...ma'am? ...*ma'am*?
MA'AM!" piped up Fraser from where he lay huddled down by the little old
lady's tennis shoe-clad feet.
"Whaddaya want!" yelled the old lady, hyper on
adrenaline, as she swung around to cover the prone Mountie.
"Ma'am?
How do you do, I'm Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted
Police. Please, ma'am; might I, please, have that fire-arm now... please?
Please?"
The old lady
squinted down at him for a moment, then, one-handed, balanced the pair of
cat-eye glasses that hung around her neck on a chain on her nose. She stared at
him as if seeing him for the first time, and perhaps it *was* the first time,
then started to cackle. "That's how I like my men," she quipped. "At my feet and beggin'."
She held the gun out, essentially pointing the gun right at him as she did,
causing Fraser to scramble to his feet and relieve her of it quickly.
"Thank you
kindly, ma'am."
"Don't you
*dare* thank that crazy old bag!" said Ray, struggling to his feet.
"I'm gonna book her on a three-fifteen, a four-fifteen, and an
eighteen-eighty-three: carrying an unlicensed weapon, discharging a weapon in a
confined area, and *littering*!"
"Ray! It behooves us to show a little respect for those of advanced
years, for they possess a wisdom that will only be revealed to us in the
fullness of time!"
"But she let
the bad guy get away," Ray whined. In his heart, he knew he wasn't going
to arrest the old broad. No prosecuting attorney in his right mind would pursue
a case like this, especially during the holiday season; a cop would just find himself
getting yelled at, and if his ma caught wind of it, he'd *really* be in
trouble. Ray avoided looking the Mountie in the eye
and brushed at his wrinkled Armani pant-legs, muttering, "That's another
eighteen bucks at the cleaners down the tubes...."
Chapter Two:
"It Came Upon A
Blinded by tears,
the would-be thief ran down the slippery street, narrowly avoiding disaster as
he wove his way though the crowd, his Santa-sleeves flapping in the breeze.
He'd tried planning and executing a simple store-heist, and had failed to get
the cash, failed to keep his gun, in fact he's even failed to get anyone in the
store to do a single thing he'd ordered them to do, thus making him a text-book
example of an "F" for "failure." If only he'd had a little
help from his dear, old--
WHAM!
The young man
full-frontally crashed into another, rather larger and more solid, red-suited
figure who had similarly been running in panic-mode (but from the opposite
direction,) sending them both flying, ass-over-teakettle, into a snow bank.
"Hey! Can't ya see I'm walkin' here!"
the young man started to yell, but the words choked in his throat. The
collision had not merely caused incredible pain in certain unmentionable parts
of his body, but had dashed the tears from his eyes, and the metaphorical
scales having fallen, he could see who it was he'd full-frontally crashed into.
The Santa-suited crashee was none other than his
dear, old--
"DAD!?"
"*Sheee-it*," was his old man's only response before
lumbering to his feet and continuing on his journey.
"Awww, *man*," muttered the kid. It was the perfect end
to the perfect heist. Now he *really* felt lousy. He pulled himself wearily out
of the snow bank and hailed a cab, then remembered he didn't have his wallet in
the pocketless rented Santa suit. With a sigh, he
turned and shambled away from the cursing cab driver.
* * *
"I'm as mad as
hell, and I'm not gonna take it any more!" announced Ray, dropping heavily
into his office chair. He pulled up a crime form on his computer and began to
fill it out.
"No, Ray,"
said Fraser solemnly, easing himself somewhat more gracefully into the seat
next to the desk. "Hello, Elaine. Merry Christmas," he greeted the
civilian aide.
She dipped her chin
in recognition and smiled, then tilted her head in the direction of the
seething Vecchio. "What's with him?" she
asked her favorite Mountie.
"Ah," said
Fraser. "Earlier today, a young man attempted to hold-up at gun-point the
store in which we were shopping. We managed to dis-arm
the perpetrator, but he got away and about three-thousand dollars worth of
damage was done to O'Henry's Stationery and Fine
Pens."
Elaine's tongue
found a home in her right cheek for a moment as she looked the Mountie up and down. Then she said, "Wow, three
thousand dollars worth of pens and paper were trashed? This O'Henry
guy must be doing an awful lot of writing, or are we talking about valuable
antique pens?"
"No, no,
Elaine; 'O'Henry's Stationery and Fine Pens' is the
name of a store. Most of that figure is the cost of replacing a rather large
front window, which was shattered by gun-fire in the melee."
"Insurance will
cover it! Insurance will cover it!" said Ray. He hunched over his
keyboard, typing furiously. "...and I wouldn't call an old lady waving a
gun around a 'melee.' She's makin' fun of you,
Fraser; she knows it's a store."
The Mountie turned guiless blue eyes
on the civilian aide, looking not un-like a deer in the headlights.
Elaine snorted,
though in a lady-like manner. "I'm just teasing you, Fraser. I'm glad
you're not hurt. I know those little old ladies waving guns can be tough."
Fraser looked
grateful. "Thank you kindly for your good thoughts, Elaine."
Ray pushed the
button that filed his report on the mainframe and looked up from his computer.
"I hate you both," he said with great finality.
At that moment, the
Duck Brothers came into the precinct, dragging a hand-cuffed Santa Claus
between them.
Ray looked surprised
at this development. "Hey, what's with you guys? I filed my report on the
kid dressed as Santa attempting a heist at O'Henry's
less than a minute ago. You're gonna spoil your reps as the worst pair of
screw-ups on the force if you continue with this efficiency kick. And anyway,
that guy's not nearly skinny enough."
"Talkin' like a loser loonie as
usual, Vecchio," sniped Guardino,
shoving the cursing Santa into the chair by Huey's desk. "Don't
you know nothin' about the bank heist that went down
about an hour ago? A gang of Santas held up
The First National Bank of
Ray blinked in
surprise.
"I'm not
certain a collective of Saint Nicolases would be
termed a 'gang,' Detective Guardino; I believe a
'troupe' of Santas or perhaps a 'squad' might be more
nearly correct--"
Ray interrupted
Fraser in mid-monograph. "Jeez! What, was there a
movie or TV show about guys disguised as Santa Claus committing crimes? 'Cos I think we got a copy-cat crime wave going here."
And as the day wore
on, the precinct filled with more and more men dressed as Santa Claus;
holly-bedecked Santas filling out reports, roly-poly Santas standing in line-ups, white-whiskered Santas screaming at their lawyers on the payphone, sweating
Santas being grilled in the interrogation room. You
could term them a gang, a troupe, or a squad; whatever you called them,
collectively there certainly were a lot of them. But none of them were the bank
robbers, and none of them were Ray's skinny thief.
"...love me
tender, love me sweeeeet; never let me goooooo...."
"*Elves*!
I said *ELVES*!"
* * *
Chief Special Agent
Grumble-toes, bell clutched in one clammy hand, peered out of the dark
Much to his relief,
the special agents of Santa's Little Secret Service began calling in.
Fortunately, they'd all so far managed to evade the police roundup of
North-pole-related denizens that seemed so otherwise terrifyingly efficient.
Not so fortunately, this made their presence on the streets all the more
obvious: they stuck out like sore, red thumbs. Their mission was in serious
trouble. The chief special agent had a decision to make. He made it.
"Continue to
evade local police procedure as best you can and reconnoiter
at the safe-house. Repeat: reconnoiter at destination
Zero-zero-one." He dropped the pom-pon and
melted into the shadows. They were good agents, he had
faith in their training and fortitude. They'd reach the safe-house, dammit! They *had* to!
* * *
Happy sat, alone in
the dank little fourth floor walk-up he shared with his father, Willie;
grinding his teeth. In case you hadn't figured it out, Happy and Willie were
the two felons who had committed crimes that day dressed in Santa suits. Like
father, like son. Despite his given name, Happy was *not* happy. He sat in the
dark; a slight, blond youth radiating anger, waiting for his dad in order to
give him his Christmas present: a great, big, fat guilt trip.
Willie showed up,
panting from dragging his bulk up four flights of stairs, a large raincoat
covering his Santa suit. The first words he gasped, after he'd staggered over
to the sink and sucked down two glasses of water, were, "It ain't what it looks like!"
"Well, it looks
like you blew off your only son and went out robbin'
banks with your old San Quentin buddies, the Ferengi
brothers!"
"Okay, okay;
it's what it looks like. But I was doing it for you!" A large man, Willie
fell heavily into the only stuffed chair in the room. Springs twanged in alarm
and gouts of dust flew out of it on impact.
"Yeah,
right! And how is ditching my ass and doin'
crimes with your friends a good thing for *me*?" Happy's
lower lip stuck out and quivered. It was not a good look for him.
The older man
reached out a hand to his son, a touching entreaty in the near-dark. "It's
my last crime, Happy! My last and best! I'm setting it up in such a way that we
get the money, get out of the business, and fix it so the Ferengi
brothers never bother us again!"
Happy sat up at
that. "We gonna kill 'em, Pa? You
'n me, together? 'Cos I got a gun; you and me'll just up and shoot 'em when
they least expect it!"
"NO!" the
not-so-jolly fat man exploded. "Blast it, boy! What's
with you and your mind always on killin' and stealin' and doin' crimes!?"
Wordlessly, the boy
grabbed up his jacket from the back of a chair and slammed his way out of the
apartment. Willie could hear his son's feet beating an angry retreat down the
rickety wooden hall stairs.
"Somethin' about that boy ain't
right," he said to nobody.
Chapter Three:
"Jingle Hell Rock"
"I should
convert to Judaism," said Ray, totaling up his
check book and frowning at the figure he got. "No more Christmas
gifts." He was seated at the nerve center of the
Vecchio household, the kitchen table.
"You couldn't
hack the eight days of gifts for Chanukah, you cheapskate," said
Francesca. "Gimme a
finger."
"You remember
Marty Kimmelman, my best friend in high school? He
said it was eight days of socks and chocolate coins. I could handle socks and
chocolate coins, easy.... Uh, 'give me a finger,' Frannie?
You don't usually leave yourself open like that."
"*Here*, slime
ball, on the bow!" Frannie held out a gaily
wrapped package. She'd been struggling with the curling ribbon for the last
five minutes. "I'm wrappin' Ma's gifts to the
kids, 'cos she's been so busy baking." She
smiled at her mother, who was dropping dough into a pot of hot oil, making zeppoli.
"Too
late to change that 'naughty' into a 'nice' on Santa's list, babe."
Despite his sarcasm, he stuck out a forefinger, holding the ribbon down while Frannie tied the bow.
His mother kissed
him on the back of the head on his bald spot, saying, "Karo
mia, just what I like to see; my son helping his baby
sister."
"Don't get used
to it, Ma; it's just temporary Christmas spirit!" Despite her harsh words,
Frannie's tone was merely teasing, not angry. "Soooo... the Mountie
coming over tonight?"
"Yeah, Frannie; so don't be expecting any more gifts from me this
year."
"Ray, for you
to get off the hook for layin' out cash for a
present, you'll have to hog-tie him and stick him under the tree for me. Hey,
Ma; I'll hide these in my closet until tonight, okay?" She gathered up the
presents and left.
Ray totaled up the figures in check book again, and briefly
considered possible ways of maneuvering, finessing,
drugging, or blackmailing Fraser into a pair of handcuffs and under the Vecchio's tree, but dismissed the idea as the image might
be too disturbing for the Vecchio children to handle
at this point in their young lives, let alone Ma. Pity, it would have saved him
quite a bundle. Back to the drawing board.
* * *
Humphrey and
Wendell, a.k.a., "The Ferengi Brothers", were not a pair of happy campers by any means, both in general
and specific. Generally, they were a duo of evil, scheming, scamming Grinches all year long with no regard for anyone but each
other; the kind of creeps who wouldn't steal candy from a baby because they
liked the idea of a small child with cavities. In specific, they were
particularly ticked off because the recent bank heist they'd pulled off with
their old San Quentin buddies, Willie "The Fat Man" Loman and Sammy "The Tombstone" Spade, had not
gone off as planned... or, at least, not at *they'd* planned.
Sammy lay, supine
among a field of red-and-green bits of wrapping paper, oozing blood from
several small holes. It was the only movement anyone was going to see from
Sammy ever again, because Sammy was primed for a long stay under his cool mob
nickname. Moments ago, his last words had been, "How was *I* supposed to
know you was allergic to nuts, Wendell?"
A large,
genial-seeming, red-headed man, Humphrey had ripped open his box of Fannie
Farmer's Best Nutty Bridge Mix, and was enjoying it mightily. *He* wasn't
allergic to nuts, and knew he was going to get Wendell's prezzie
eventually, so he didn't mind chowing down his box of
chocolate-covered nuts straight off. "I don't suppose you might admit you
over-reacted a tad, Wendell?" he said, indicating the corpse.
His smaller,
feistier brother, dark hair slicked back from one, heavy uni-brow
over slightly mad green eyes, spat, "You saw, Humphrey! It was attempted
murder! He would have condemned me to death by asphyxiation!"
"I can scarce
believe, dear brother, that the gifting of a fine box of Fannie Farmer's Best
Nutty Bridge Mix would be interpreted by any but yourself
as attempted murder. Why, it's delicious. I thought it very sweet of him to
remember us this Yuletide season."
"You've never
experienced anaphylactic shock, old chum," Wendell said. He slumped, gun
drooping. "Oh, I suppose I did over-react. Ah, well; no use crying over
spilt milk."
"That's the
ticket, dear brother; what's done is done!" Humphrey pulled a red box with
a large, gold bow out from under his seat. "Can't have
you out of the holiday spirit! Here's my gift to you! All
the best felicitations of the day!"
Wendell actually got
misty-eyed. "Who's the best brother a lad ever had, then?" he asked
rhetorically. He pulled a box from his coat pocket, green with a silver bow. "For you! I do hope you will agree that good things
come in small packages!"
They ripped open
their gifts, more bits of red and green paper joining those with the corpse on
the floor.
"Why! As I live
and breathe! It's a hand-tooled shoulder holster for my nine-millimeter Glock!" said
Wendell.
"I know it's
your favorite gun," said Humphrey, beaming.
"And what a gift you've gotten for me! An elegant, slim silver case for my
lock picks! Now, go and get your Glock, I want to see
how it looks in the holster!"
"I... I must
confess, my dear brother; I hocked the Glock to buy
your lock-pick case. So you go and get your tools, I want to see if they all
fit in the case!"
"I, too, have a
confession, Wendell... I hocked my favorite lock picks
to buy you the shoulder holster!"
The two brothers
basked in the glow of a fraternal love that caused them to go out and sell the
things they held in highest regard in order to get the perfect gift for one
another.
"Don't worry,
Wendell; when we catch Willie and extract our ill-gotten gains from him, we'll
both immediately go and redeem our belongings from the pawn shop. These fine
gifts will gain a great deal of use in the coming years!"
"Yes, the
future truly is bright with promise," Wendell agreed with his older
brother. "First we catch Willie. Then we get our belongings out of hock.
Of course, before we go to the pawn shop, we kill Willie."
"Oh, killing
Willie goes entirely without saying, yes!"
The two nodded in
brotherly agreement over their List of Things To Do
Today.
Chapter Four:
"Santa Claus Is Coming To Town... And He's Gonna Get Ya!"
Fraser sat at his
kitchen table, wolf snoring gently at his feet, wrapping presents. True to his
frugal upbringing, he was wrapping them in all sorts of recycled materials:
construction paper the Gamez children had drawn on,
foreign language newspapers, the bags his vegetables from
Thump! Wooga-wooga-wooga! Rrrrrr... rrrrrr.... ding-ding-ding-ding....
Fraser sighed...
perhaps the unusually jubilant Ray had been right. Was it possible that he,
Benton Fraser, was fooling himself that a hand-made gift, bespeaking of thought
and time spent, not money, was the best present? Was he nothing less than a
tightwad, a miser, a pinch-penny... a "chuff."
(He'd looked up "cheapskate" in the coverless Roget's Thesaurus he'd
bought in a used-book store for fifty cents, then created and stitched on an
attractive new book-jacket made from a pair of old leather pants discarded by
the drag queen in apartment 5J as a gift for the young writer who lived in
apartment 2A.)
Thump!
Ratchet-ratchet-ratchet! Ta-pocket-ta-pocket-ta-pocket....
Fraser had been
hearing all sorts of odd noises from the apartment above since last Monday,
when the new occupants had moved in. He hadn't wished to intrude on their
privacy, but perhaps Christmas Eve might be a good time to bring them a jar of
the preserves he'd made in August (using recycled jars and perfectly good, if
bruised, cast-off peaches from the Fruit Mart, of course), giving him an excellent
chance to do a little neighborly snooping. He went to
put on his dress reds.
Thumpity-thump-thump!
Whirrrrr, whirrrrrrrr, rrrrrrrrrrrr....
Consumed by
curiosity, the Mountie took the stairs two at a time, a large jar of "Preserving the Peace Peach
Preserves" tucked under one arm. He and the Gamez
children had spent a jolly rainy November Sunday afternoon drawing all the
labels; Mario had come up with that one. (Do I have to tell you that the labels
were from Ray's precinct, and came from the label sheets that were half-used
after running them through a computer printer?)
He knocked at the
door to the apartment above his, trying to listen to the noises without giving
the appearance of listening. The noises stopped. The door cracked open about an
inch and an eye, located roughly half-way up the door, peered
out at him.
"Well, hello
there, young man. Is your mother or father home? I'm your neighbor
from downstairs and I'd like to wish you all a Merry Christmas, or give you my
general good wishes for the holiday season if, indeed, Christmas is not a
holiday you and your family celebrate...," Fraser trailed off.
The door had swung
all the way open, revealing a little man, not a boy. He was dressed in short
green pants, red shoes with curling toes with bells on the tips, a striped
peaked cap, a red-and-green doublet over a white shirt
with rolled-up sleeves, and he needed a shave. A stub of a cigar stuck out of
his mouth. He eyed the Mountie up and down, then spoke around his cigar. "Hey, kid. I know you. I
remember you from Santa's 'Nice' list!" He turned and called over his
shoulder, "Hey, guys! Benton Fraser's here. Yeah, *that*
Suddenly the doorway
was crowded with a whole gang, er, I mean,
"troupe" of little men, all dressed like Santa's elves, and, indeed,
that is exactly what they were. They stared at Fraser as if he were some sort
of celebrity, and to them, he was. Santa's Naughty and Nice lists were taken
very seriously by these professional elves and, as a child,
Benton Fraser had topped the Nice list longer than anybody else ever had.
"
"Santa?
Santa... you... you're *really* Santa Claus?" sputtered the Mountie. He looked around. Good heavens, there were one,
two, three, four, five... *six* Santas
ringed 'round him, staring at him. "You're all Santa? Is that how you make
it down every chimney on Christmas Eve? Dividing up the territory amongst yourselves?"
The first Santa who
had spoken bowed to Fraser. "No, young man; I'm very sorry to say we are
none of us Santa. We are the unusually tall, fat elves who make up Santa's
Little Secret Service! This my crack team of Special Agents! Allow me to
introduce Agents Fuzzy-chin, Works-with-wood, Hobby-horse, Mamma-doll, and
Shiny-button-eyes; I am Chief Special Agent Grumble-toes. We are in a spot of
bother and would appreciate the help of the young man who was so good, he was
at the top of Santa's "Nice" list eight years running -- a world
record! Only a small girl, later canonized by the church, was able to knock you
off the very top of the list that ninth year, though you were a close second,
my boy!"
"You're Santa's
Little Secret Service... and you're on a... what, some sort of mission? And you
need my help?" Fraser looked around the circle of hopeful faces.
"Well, my goodness; by all means, tell me about it...."
* * *
"Ray. Ray.
*Ray*... RAY!" the Mountie called to get his
best buddy's attention. Ray was up on the roof of his house, fixing a string of
lights that had come loose.
"*FRAY*-sier! You trying to kill me? Fer Christ's sake, I'm on top of a freakin'
house here!" Ray called down. The Mountie's head
popped over the side of the roof: he'd been climbing while Ray'd
been crabbing. "JEEZ, Benny!"
"Ray, I had a
most remarkable afternoon!" said Fraser, beaming as he hauled himself over
the gutter. "Santa's Little Secret Service has a safe-house in the
apartment over mine. Apparently Kris Kringle had a
heart attack last week -- well, for goodness' sake, the poor man was almost
five-hundred years old, he was quite obese for four-hundred-fifty of them --
and the elves are on a mission to find a replacement Santa Claus before
"I *told* you
not to touch my Aunt Ginny's whiskey balls. They are *not* candy! She really
means business with them things."
"No, really --
Ray, I told them you wouldn't believe me! They told me to tell you that if you
hadn't used your sister Maria's training bra to launch water balloons in the
sixth grade, you would have gotten that bike you'd asked Santa for... um, Ray?
Wouldn't Maria have been awfully young for a training bra when you were in the
sixth grade?"
"She was an
early bloomer. Hey! Where'd you hear about that!"
"As I said,
Ray; Santa's Little Secret Service told me. They're the ones who know if you've
been bad or good."
"...one of the
kids must have told you...."
"No, Ray! It
was Santa's Little Secret Service! They also told me...," and here,
Fraser, afraid someone else might hear the terrible thing he was about to say
to and about his best friend, leaned forward and whispered in Ray's ear....
...well, there just
had to be a Santa's Little Secret Service because there was no way anyone but
Santa's Little Secret Service could have known about *that*.
"Oh. My.
God," said Ray, "I believe. I believe in Santa's Little Secret
Service. I believe they came to you for help in finding a new Kris Kringle. I also believe in Zuzu's
petals and the Easter Bunny; and in The Great Pumpkin, while I'm at it."
"That's just
silly, Ray; Charles Schultz invented The Great Pumpkin."
"Benny, we're
on a roof. With one shove, I could find myself permanently on Santa's Naughty
list. I *believe* you... but don't push it."
"No, Ray. Could
you drive me to a warehouse out on Route 34, Ray?"
"Sure,
Benny."
Chapter Five:
"Hark! The Herald Angels Scream Bloody Murder"
Willie Loman was a clever man if ever there was one, if not about
people, at least about physics, geometry, and wood shop. In fact, those were
the only three courses he had passed in high school. He was using everything
he'd learned about all three subjects in his current endeavor.
He sat on one of the rafters in a drafty old
warehouse, looping a chain attached to a barrel through a pulley. First he'd
rid a grateful world of the Ferengi brothers, then he'd mend his relationship with his only son, stop him
from embarking on a life of crime like his father. He'd have all the time in
the world to make sure his kid grew up straight and clean -- *after* he did
this dirty deed. He tugged the chain gently, attaching the end to a garage door
opener-engine so that so that a quick jab of a button would bring the contents
of the barrel down on whoever stood underneath, then
shinnied down a rope to the ground. He really was quite graceful for such a
large man. He looked up and what he saw was good....
"Excuse me,
sir?"
"*What*!?"
Willie nearly jumped out of his skin.
A
tall, good-looking young man with an open, honest face, wearing a doorman's
uniform, stood before him, blue eyes wide with good humor
and friendliness. Somehow he'd gotten into the warehouse without Willie
hearing him. "Are you Mr. Willie Loman?"
"Er, ye-- uh. Maybe. Who's
asking?"
The polite door-man
smiled. "If I'm not mistaken, you *are* Willie Loman.
I understand what they see in you, sir. I'm here to represent a company that
would like to hire you on as... well, as its CEO, you could say. Have you ever
seen 'Miracle on
*CRASH*! The back
doors flew open, and a pair of forbidding silhouettes appeared, back-lit in the
doorway. The Ferengi brothers! Half an hour early!
*DAMN*!
"Kid!
Get outa here, quick!"
The door-man only
looked grim and shook his head. "Why, I don't believe I will leave you,
Mr. Loman. I suspect you're in trouble, and I'm going
to help you any way I can."
"You can help
me by getting the *hell* out of here!" ...but it was too late for that!
Humphrey; broad,
genial face masking a black heart; heavy winter coat masking a sawed-off
shotgun; spoke first. "My dear friend, Willie! How nice of you to invite my brother and myself to this holiday
shin-dig of yours!" He pulled out the shotgun and primed it.
"Yes,"
Humphrey's idiot brother, Wendell, agreed, as usual concurring with any opinion
his older brother might express, "Yes, indeedy-dumpling;
it *was* nice of you to think of us. And I suppose you have a prezzie for us this lovely Christmas Eve? I believe the
papers said some half-million dollars was taken from the bank this
morning?" He clutched a crowbar in his grubby paws.
"You'll never
see a penny of it," said Willie, stepping in front of the mad doorman as
if to protect him.
"Oh, but
Willie, my dear old friend! 'Tis
the season for giving...." Humphrey took a step forward, a very important
step that placed him directly under a barrel. "...don't make us
*take*!"
A tall, bald man in
a nice Armani winter coat came in through the back door behind the Ferengi brothers, waving his arms and saying,
"Frasier! I'm out in the Riv, coolin' my heels; what gives?! Does the guy want the job or
not! Hey, did you notice it smells like a donut shop blew up in here? C'mon,
Frasier; you know I gotta be back to the house before
the kids go to b--"
Willie pushed the
button on the garage door opener and *SPLASH*! The delicious contents of six
barrels of brandy-soaked plum-pudding came crashing down on the Ferengi brothers and the tall, bald man. So
much for the nice Armani winter coat.
"What
the--" "Willie, you son of a--" "JEEZ!"
"Don't anybody move," warned Willie, lighter held high.
"I think you know what will happen to all this alcohol if I were to toss
this flame on it?" It was all going wrong -- terribly, horribly wrong --
with the introduction of these two innocents into the situation, but he didn't
see any other way out of it than to continue with the plan....
"You're not
going to do anything foolish, Mr. Loman," said
the doorman behind him.
The hand that held
the lighter shook, but Willie said, "Don't interfere! They'd just as soon
kill us as look at us!"
"He's right,
you know--"
"Hush, Wendell!
Now, Willie -- dear *friend* Willie! We can work this misunderstanding
out!" Humprey's phony
placating smile was out of place, on that face it
looked positively ghoulish.
"Somebody is payin' for the dry-cleaning bill and this time, Frasier, it
*ain't* ME!"
Suddenly, under the
sheen of the brandy that stained his face, Wendell went ashen. He dropped the
crowbar with a soggy clatter, then fell to his knees,
clutching at his throat and gasping. It was as if invisible hands were
throttling him.
"WENDELL!"
screamed Humphrey. He, too, dropped to his knees, but it was to loosen his
brother's collar. "Omigod!
Wendell! Somebody help my brother, Wendell!"
Willie found the
hand that held the lighter was suddenly cupped by the rather large hands of the
doorman, the lighter was then gently removed from his
grasp, to disappear into the fellow's pocket. Across the room, by the stricken
brothers, the tall, bald man had his cell phone out; he was calling for an
ambulance.
"Whatever is
wrong with that man?" the doorman asked.
"Aside from
being a psychotic sociopath with murderous tendencies, I have no idea,"
said Willie.
"I'm not a
doctor, but he appears to be going into anaphylactic shock."
"NUTS! Wendell
is allergic to nuts!!!" screamed Humphrey.
"Good
lord!" said Willie. "You know, when my mother made her traditional
brandy-soaked plum pudding, she always added plenty of crushed walnuts! And
so... so did I."
"Yeah, well;
that would explain it, wouldn't it? Jeez, Benny; the elves want *this* guy to
be Santa Claus? They got a whole five hours 'til
Chapter Six:
"Away In A Manger... Somebody Appears To Have
Hidden The Murder Weapon Under The Straw"
The EMT guys had
taken care of Wendell Ferengi, a shot of epinephrine
handling most of the symptoms of anaphylactic shock. He was carried off in an
ambulance, hand-cuffed to the gurney, and would be booked for armed robbery
later. Humphrey was dragged off by the uniforms, protesting his and his
brother's innocence, and blaming Willie for the Santa Claus bank heist earlier
that day. "I had nothing to do with that," said Willie. "I have
an alibi. I was with my son at the time."
"Come, Ray; we
must transport Mr. Loman to Santa's Little Secret
Service as quickly as possible. There's not a moment to lose."
Ray shook his head
and *tsk*ed at Fraser.
"See, what I'm findin' hard to believe here, Fraze, is that you -- YOU of all people -- are willing to
let this guy Loman walk, not only for this morning's
bank heist, but for the attempted murder of those two garbonzo
beans."
"Look at it
this way, Ray;" said Fraser, "Mr. Loman is
about to be taken away, separated from society as it were; removed to a frozen
wasteland where he will spend the rest of his life working diligently for the
good of mankind. True, he won't be making license plates; but making toys for
children is a worthwhile cause that will keep him busy and out of
trouble."
"You know, I
hadn't thought of it that way, Benny."
They bundled the
soon-to-be-Santa into the Riv, where Willie borrowed
Ray's cell phone to call Happy, begging him to meet them at the safe house
above Fraser's apartment. Grudgingly, the boy agreed.
The elves were
overjoyed to meet the new boss' son and totally missed Happy's
bad attitude in their enthusiasm. They escorted him to the same comfy chair
Fraser had sat in, put a hassock under his feet, and a cup of hot chocolate in
his hands; then sang Christmas carols at him until his father, Ray, and Fraser
got there.
"So, you're the
next Santa Claus," sneered the surly youth when his father appeared at the
door, the two policemen in tow. "Guess that explains why you named me
after a freakin' Dwarf."
"*Little*
person!" said Grumble-toes. The kid's 'tude was
beginning to sink in.
Ray had stiffened,
recognizing the kid's voice as the voice of the skinny Santa with the gun in O'Henry's that morning, but Fraser put a hand on Ray's arm,
gesturing him to silence.
"Ain't it business as usual, Pops," Happy continued
bitterly. "You ditchin'
me to take off for some sweet gig. Typical!"
"Oh, well if
*that's* the problem, why don't you just come along!" said Grumble-toes,
relieved.
"Of
course Happy's coming along! He's my
*son*!" said Willie. "You know I'd never leave without you, even for
the honor of becoming Santa Claus, Happy. You'll come
with me to the North Pole, won't you?"
The kid sniffed and
rubbed an arm across his teary eyes. "Depends, old man.
Are there chicks at the North Pole?"
Grumble-toes looked
confused. "Well, yes. There are chicks at the North Pole. But I fail to
understand...."
"...then, yeah;
I'm with ya, Dad! I'll come with ya
to the North Pole. My old man! Santa Claus!"
Father and son hugged in a manly fashion, pounding one another on the back as
they did so.
"I didn't see
any chick elves around here, so I gotta admit I was
wondering," Ray said quietly to Fraser, not wanting to intrude on the
touching moment.
Grumble-toes heard
them. "'Chick... elves'? I don't understand. We
do have a fine chicken coop with many eggs and chicks at the Pole. But we don't
have chicken-elves. How bizarre."
Fraser nodded
knowledgeably. "Ah, I understand; it's a problem of terminology. Common
street parlance has the definition of 'chick' as 'a young woman, generally of
an attractive mien.' Are there no female elves in Santa's Workshop?" he
asked.
The tall elf
shrugged. "Why, no. Elves reproduce by
parthenogenesis as needed."
"Now, *there's*
a nice little surprise for the whiney little creep on Christmas mornin'," Ray chuckled. Then he was struck by a
thought. "Fraser, would you go and... oh, I don't know, go and help the
elves clean the joint up or somethin'. I gotta talk to this guy here in private for a sec."
Fraser looked mystified, but nodded and walked away to tidy up a toy table.
When they were
alone, Ray put a conspiratorial arm about the shoulders of the tall elf and
said, "I got a quick question for you; Grumble-toes, was it? Grumble-toes,
Fraser said he was at the top of Santa's Nice list
for, like, most of his childhood, izzat true?"
"Why, yes! Your
friend Fraser is quite the famous boy up at the North Pole, having achieved an
accomplishment no other child has ever approximated; we're all quite enthu--"
"Yeah,
yeah," Ray interrupted the elf in mid-gush. "So here's the thing: if
Young Benton Fraser was Tops of the Pops in Santa's Workshop all that time, how
come he never got anything but *books* for Christmas?
Grumble-toes turned
an attractive shade of vermilion that almost matched his Santa-suit. "Um... well... yeah, about that. See, we just didn't
believe it. I mean, it was eerie. He was *too* good, it was unreal. He creeped us out. We figured he'd
figured out some way to beat the system, that he was
cheating. So all those books were something in the nature of
a lesson to teach him the error of his ways. By the time we realized he
was on the level, we felt really bad, but it was too late to make it up to
him... he wasn't a child anymore. Y'know?"
Ray smiled that
luminous Ray Vecchio smile, the one that turned him
from a frog into a prince. "Grumble-toes, m'man...
we need to talk about those nine years of presents you owe Fraser."
* * *
Ray was in his
element that night. By breaking a few speed limits, he and Fraser had gotten to
the Vecchio home before the children had gone to bed,
and he'd been able to sneak up to his room to change into the Santa suit he'd
rented that morning.
"Ho,
ho, ho!" Ray cried through the cotton-wool beard. The children
clustered around him enthusiastically, laughing, screaming with joy, and
crabbing (they *were* Vecchios, after all.) After
handing out the presents in his red velvet bag "From Santa", he began
to pull out presents from under the tree.
"Here's a gift
for little Maria from your Uncle Ray, there ya go,
sweet-heart; and one for Danny, also from your Uncle Ray... your Uncle Ray is a
great guy, isn't he, Danny? And here's a gift for sweet little Camilla, who was
a particularly *good* girl this year. It's also from your Uncle Ray. Pasquale!
Here's *your* gift from your Uncle Ray...."
There were quite a
few presents that Christmas Eve from Uncle Ray for the kids under the tree...
and, much to Fraser's surprise, none of them were one-size-fits-all earmuffs.
Instead, there was a fuzzy polar bear with a carved wooden face and paws, a
train set, several wooden puzzle-boxes, a delicate tea-set, lovely porcelain
dolls and doll clothing, dollhouse furniture; all manner of fine hand-made
gifts that the children crowed over with joy.
"...and here is
a gift for you, Vito, from your Uncle Ray. You're gonna like this one, it's a
fake badge, a police whistle, finger-print set, and a set of hand-cuffs with a
key, so you can make like you're a cop, just like your Uncle Ray! I know you're
a big boy and won't get ink all over your grandma's house, or she'll kill you
where you stand."
Vito took the box
and ripped it open enthusiastically, then attempted to arrest his little sister
"for being a big, fat dork."
While the children
played with their Christmas Eve presents, so happy they weren't even thinking
about the stash they'd be ripping open first thing tomorrow morning, Santa-Ray
slipped away, Fraser following close behind.
Two ghosts had
watched it all, from Ray's entrance as Santa Claus, to his exit.
"I didn't bring
my son up to be a jerk," muttered the first ghost. It was the ghost of
Carmine Vecchio, comb-over, cheesy leather jacket and
all. "But, ya know; he turned out to be a
first-class jerk anyway. Go figure."
"Excuse me?
What are you talking about?" said the second ghost. "I'm sorry, I
haven't introduced myself properly -- the name's Bob Fraser, RCMP, at your
service."
The first ghost
ignored the proffered hand. "I blame that big jerk he hangs around with. Jumpin' around like an idiot in a Santa suit. You wouldn't have never caught me lookin'
like an idiot jumpin' around in a stupid red
suit." He eyed Fraser Sr. meaningfully.
Bob Fraser
straightened, the smile gone from blue eyes. "There's only one idiot in
this house, and it's you, Yank."
"Yeah?"
Carmine's lip curled. "You wanna rumble... Canuck?"
"Royal Canadian
Mounted Police *don't* 'rumble.'" So saying, Bob Fraser hauled off and
landed a very nice, regulation Mountie right jab,
smack on Carmine's chin. Carmine keeled over backwards, crashing right through
the Christmas tree... or at least, he would have crashed through the tree if
he'd been at all substantial. He flew backwards through the wall, right out of
the house.
Upstairs in his
room, Ray brightened. "Fraser. Suddenly I feel really, really
*good*!"
"Well, of course,
Ray. You just played Santa. You're filled with the joy of giving."
"I don't know
about that, but I'll tell ya, it's definitely got
something to do with Christmas spirit."
"Whatever you
say, Ray. But where did you get those toys for the children? When did you shop
for them?"
"Oh, those were
the equivalent of nine years of toys the elves owed you instead of all those
books you got."
"Ah. So in a
manner of speaking, those toys were *not* from Uncle Ray, they were from Uncle
Benton."
"Hey, what does
it matter, Benny? The kids got the toys, they're happy, that's what matters,
right?"
"If
you say so, Ray."
"Um...
hey, Benny. One of those gifts wasn't from the elves. I think Vito is
interested in someday growin' up to be a cop, so I
got him that play-cop set up. So, if he should ask you to
play bad guy for him, I'd really appreciate it if you'd be a real good bad guy,
and let him arrest you and stuff. And don't worry,
I have an extra key for that set of hand-cuffs, so if Vito's don't work, I can
get you out of them in no time."
"Why,
certainly, Ray! Anything to encourage a young man into a
career of law enforcement!"
If Ray worked it
right, he could have Fraser in handcuffs and under that tree about the time Frannie got home from late
THE END!
"God Bless Us, Every One!"