Lone Star Santa

by Heather MacAllister

  He enjoyed sitting in the dark, watching the light and shadows play across the faces of the actors as their characters made really poor life choices. Mitch didn’t know why all this doom and gloom appealed to him, only that it did.

  His parents arrived home midway through the third video.

  “Mitch?” They appeared in the doorway.

  “Are you alone?” his mother asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Because of The Electric Santa truck blocking the drive way,” Robert reminded him.

  It was the first time he’d driven the truck home since he’d started working there. “Oh, sorry. I’ll move it.” Mitch paused the movie, stood and dug in his pocket for the key.

  His father was staring at the red hoodie Mitch had left on the sofa and his mother had bent to pick up the empty popcorn bags. She straightened, compressing the bags. Both his parents gazed at him silently.

  “Hey, I was going to pick those up.”

  “Really?” Patsy nudged the empty two-liter Coke bottle with her toe.

  Mitch picked up the bottle. “Um, yeah. After the movie.”

  They glanced at the frozen image on the screen. Or maybe they were looking at the DVD player he’d set on the floor and the VCR that he’d propped precariously on the shelf above the TV, a shelf that had previously held a silver-framed wedding photo of his sister flanked by an engraved silver tray given to his father when he was salesman of the year and an engraved silver bowl presented to his mother by the City of Sugar Land. Everything was on the floor now.

  “The video rental place didn’t have copies of the movies I wanted on DVD.”

  “Okay,” said his mother without expression.

  Mitch could tell she was holding back.

  “And the truck?” asked his father.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m working for The Electric Santa again.”

  There was silence. Mitch figured that was probably for the best, but if he thought about this situation from his parents’ point of view—and he didn’t really want to—he would want an explanation. Only Mitch knew they wouldn’t like the real explanation and he certainly didn’t want them to worry. “These movies are a nice contrast,” he said to fill the silence. “You know flashing lights, bright colors and Christmas frenzy during the day, bleak people with doomed lives in black-and-white at night.”

  His parents looked at each other and seemed to communicate in that mysterious parental way. “We’ve had a lot of Christmas frenzy today, ourselves,” his mother said.

  His dad reached down and shook the bag Mitch had left on the coffee table. “Got any more popcorn?”

  “Yeah. I bought two three-packs.”

  “Lite, or with butter?” Robert asked.

  “Butter.”

  Mitch’s dad inhaled and closed his eyes. “Real butter or movie butter?”

  “It said real butter on the package.”

  “Robert,” Mitch’s mother warned.

  “Patsy?” he pleaded.

  “I give up.” She shook her head and laughed. “You two go shuffle the cars and I’ll pop the popcorn. Then we’ll watch the end of the movie together.”

  “Works for me.” Could it be that Mitch had escaped an inquisition?

  “Yes! Real buttered popcorn!” His father pumped a fist as they walked toward the driveway.

  “Dad.” Mitch grinned.

  “Oh, you don’t know what it’s been like. No salt, no bacon, no butter, no carbs—except she’s kind of over that—but no sugar and no egg yolks. I put my foot down about the herbal tea. She’s gonna kill me with all this healthful eating.”

  Mitch still grinned, even though he was aware that his father was filling the silence to keep from questioning him. He touched his father’s arm when they got to The Electric Santa truck. “Thanks.” He figured his dad would understand.

  Without looking at him, his dad asked, “Are you okay?”

  Mitch thought of Kristen’s skepticism. “I think so.”

  “You should know so.”

  “You’re right.” Mitch nodded. “I should.”

  “Need help finding out?”

  Again he thought of Kristen. “I’ve got help.”

  “THANKS SO MUCH for all your help.” Kristen’s mother hung up the telephone and called to Kristen’s father. “The code is RE6SL94PDOR and the year you’re looking for.”

  “What if I don’t know what year I’m looking for?” he bellowed from his office.

  Everyone was getting a little testy, Kristen thought. Low blood sugar, no doubt.

  Her parents had commandeered both computers, which left Kristen sitting in the waiting area trying not to bite her fingernails. She hadn’t had an urge to bite her nails in years and now, even faced with her perfect and difficult-to-do-by-herself manicure, she felt like nibbling a red thumbnail.

  Maybe she should offer to make a hamburger run.

  Maybe she’d make a hamburger run and swing by Mitch’s house and bring him back to the office to see how totally messed up his life was. Or was about to be. Depending.

  Carl Zaleski had returned from following Nora Beckman, who had resisted temptation, bless her heart. Then he’d pretty much taken over from Kristen. With Barbara interpreting a lot of the real estate info, they’d found that essentially, Mitch’s company had funneled substantial investment money from clients into companies that turned out to deal primarily with, or were owned by, Jeremy Sloane’s father.

  But that made it sound so much simpler than it was. Getting to that info had been tedious and difficult, as it was meant to be. Connections were tangled and obscured and it was only by luck—pure luck—that anything suspicious had been uncovered. Luck that Kristen had time to keep poking around because her parents were running late. Luck that her mother knew real estate and was able to connect the pieces and fill in the gaps. And if Barbara couldn’t fill in the gaps, then she’d contacted colleagues who could.

  Yes, Mitch was oh, so very lucky that he’d confided in Kristen and she could hardly wait to tell him and show him how clever she—and her parents—had been. She’d succeeded at something for a first time in a long while and success felt good.

  Kristen was still in the throes of self-congratulation when both parents gasped in unison. That couldn’t be good.

  Her father came out of his office to stand behind her mother and stare at the computer monitor as though he couldn’t believe what he’d seen on his.

  “What?” Kristen got to her feet.

  Her parents just looked at her.

  “What?” She headed toward the desk as her mother clicked off the screen.

  “Barbara,” Carl Zaleski murmured.

  “What did you find?” Kristen demanded.

  “She can’t handle it.” Her mother spoke without moving her lips.

  “I heard that. What can’t I handle? Scratch that. I can handle it. I can handle and have handled more stuff than you might guess.” What could they have found? “I’ve handled rejection. Lots of rejection. And bad news.” They weren’t looking at her. “Weird stuff.” That got their attention. “Yeah, really weird stuff that we don’t have in Sugar Land.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Barbara murmured, again without moving her lips.

  “I can still hear you. Now come on.”

  “What do you think, Barb? Should we tell her Mitch owns GBE?”

  “GBE? What’s GBE?”

  “Nice one, Carl.” Barbara’s lips were moving plenty now. To Kristen she said, “GBE is Golden Boy Enterprises.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Mitch. Besides, his hair is brown.”

  “She does have a unique take on a situation,” her father commented.

  “Maybe if I knew what the situation was, I could be less unique and more relevant.”

  “No, you misunderstand. I like your fresh eyes. You bring a new interpretation to the facts.”

  Barbara gave him a puzzled look. “But facts are true by definition. You don’t interpret truth.”

 
; “You do,” Carl scoffed. “Truth: a tiny poorly maintained shack becomes a charming fixer-upper. Or a handyman’s special starter home. Or a prime lot with a tear down. Or a property with investment potential.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve actually been listening to me all these years! Why, Carl, you sweetheart.”

  “Hey!” Kristen made the time-out sign with her hands. “Nice attempt at distraction, but it didn’t work. What is Golden Boy Enterprises and why is it bad that Mitch owns it?”

  Her mother made a face and switched the monitor back on. “GBE owns Anderson Personnel.”

  Something about that name seemed familiar. “A personnel company? Wait a minute.” Kristen ignored the spreadsheet she’d spent the last couple of hours typing on and looked at her notes. “That’s the company I started with. The one that owns companies that own companies.” Her eyes widened. “That means Mitch owns those strip clubs!”

  FRIDAY AND PAYDAY couldn’t come soon enough, as far as Mitch was concerned. It wasn’t the kind of paycheck he was used to, but as long as Kristen didn’t go for vintage champagne, he had enough for dinner and whatever.

  It was the “whatever” that he dwelt on. He hoped there would be a “whatever,” but the scope of it would be entirely up to Kristen.

  He knew she was thinking about him. He’d installed lights on the outline of the Noir Blanc building and The Electric Santa had booked the rest of the little shopping area as well, so he was on outlining duty this week. He’d fill in the rest of the decorations next week.

  He might have taken a little too much time with Noir Blanc, but it was all those windows he had to outline. The angle of the partially opened blinds gave him a perfect interior view from his vantage point on the ladder.

  And Kristen, well, Kristen had a habit of swiveling in her chair and watching him when she was talking on the telephone.

  Mitch pretended he didn’t notice at first but she’d give him these speculative up-and-down looks that weren’t ignorable. That look was straight out of the old film noir movies and, having watched about a dozen of them now, he knew what happened next.

  The woman of the world drew the man in to do her bidding, that’s what happened next.

  Mitch made several unnecessary trips up and down the ladder to mitigate the effects of that look. Honest to Pete, that woman could make his blood run hot and cold at the same time. She distracted him and when a guy was working with a staple gun and wires as he stood on a ladder, he didn’t need distractions.

  Kristen got up from her desk and Mitch breathed easier as he watched her walk over to the coffee pot. She’d removed her jacket and was wearing a white blouse and a skirt that molded to her body. Any tighter and she wouldn’t be able to sit down. He didn’t know how she was able to sit now.

  The women in the movies wore those skirts, even the ones without money. They’d sit and cross their legs, just like Kristen. Mitch had never noticed the whole leg crossing thing before. And they looked classy, just like Kristen. And worldly, just like Kristen. And knowing, just like Kristen.

  And he was becoming obsessed, just like the helpless men.

  Mitch stopped stapling and lowered his arms to let the blood flow back into them.

  He needed work. His real work. He needed to fill his mind with numbers and percentages and interest rates. That was all that was wrong with him.

  There was nothing particularly obsession-worthy about Kristen. A tight black skirt and a pair of red lips. Big deal.

  At that moment, the door opened and she came out onto the porch. “Hot chocolate?”

  He shivered. He’d forgotten The Voice.

  “You’re cold. Take it.”

  She reached up and he automatically took the heavy white china mug even though he wasn’t a fan of hot chocolate and he certainly wasn’t cold.

  “Thanks.” He took a sip. “Good.” In a powdery, too diluted, instant kind of way.

  Kristen smiled and hugged her arms. Mitch, who had considered descending the ladder and joining her on the porch stayed right where he was because, from his vantage point, her modestly unbuttoned blouse wasn’t so modest.

  Ignoring the undissolved cocoa lumps floating in the foam, he took a swallow and burned his tongue.

  That was quick karmic payback. Now he wasn’t going to feel guilty for taking in the view.

  “I realize you’re the professional and all, but should you really be using a staple gun with wires and electricity?” she asked.

  “No.” He worked a lump of cocoa mix against the roof of his mouth with his tongue. He didn’t want to chew his cocoa in front of her since she’d been so thoughtful to bring it to him.

  “And yet, you are stapling. Are you always such a rule-breaker?”

  Mitch gestured with the staple gun. “You’ll notice the plastic, building-friendly clips I’ve already installed.”

  She stepped forward and craned her neck. “Oh.”

  “They won’t work like that on the porch ceiling, so as a Christmas light professional, my choices are to drill holes, use adhesive and chance peeling off paint, or finesse with this nifty, low-powered staple gun made especially for installing Christmas lights.”

  “Oh.”

  “Not to worry.” He took another sip. “You’re not expected to know all the ins and outs of such a complex business.”

  She gave him the strangest look. She had to know he was kidding, right?

  “Do you use that line on your financial clients?”

  Where had that come from? “Of course not. In fact, the more my clients understand about their own portfolios, the easier it is for me.”

  “Hmm.” Arms still crossed, she gazed up at him. “I would have thought it would be easier the other way around.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The clients who don’t know anything—the ones who leave everything up to you. I’d think those would be your favorites.”

  How did they get from hot chocolate and Christmas lights to his clients? “I don’t ever make decisions about a client’s portfolio without conferring with that client. The less they know, financially, the more time it takes to explain and answer questions.”

  “But the less-savvy clients might not know to ask questions.”

  Mitch chugged the last of the cocoa and climbed down the ladder. “What’s this about?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. Elegantly. Even though he was suspicious, Mitch noticed.

  “Just talking to you about your work. Though I must say if this is your reaction to questions, if I were a client, I wouldn’t feel very encouraged to ask any.”

  “If you were a client, I wouldn’t be standing on a ladder installing Christmas lights.” He handed her the mug. “I’d be answering your questions.”

  She swirled the dregs of the cocoa. “Questions like, oh, say, what’s Golden Boy Enterprises?” Her gaze latched onto his. She didn’t smile.

  “How did you find out about that?”

  “Not an answer.”

  “Golden Boy Enterprises is our retirement account,” he explained. “Jeremy and I set it up when we first got started.”

  “And conveniently located it offshore.”

  “Yes. To get experience with offshore accounts.” He held her gaze so she’d know he was telling the truth. “We have clients who travel overseas and who have second and third homes in other countries. Having accounts outside the United States is convenient for them. And we have clients who want the privacy. GBE is one of several accounts we’ve set up over the years. Jeremy and I won’t do business with an unfamiliar bank or corporation until we first give it a trial run with our own money.”

  “So you’ve got accounts all over the place.”

  So that’s what this was about. She’d investigated him, which had to mean she was interested. Mitch grinned. “Don’t sound so suspicious. We close them out once we’re satisfied with the service, unless there’s a reason to maintain an account in the country. We do have international clients.”


  “Oh.” But she looked as though she had something else to say.

  “Are we okay?” Mitch asked softly.

  “Why Golden Boy? Why not Sloane and Donner?”

  “It’s our personal account. The name was Jeremy’s idea.”

  “I should have guessed that.”

  “Also, we wanted to go through the process of filing a DBA—that’s—”

  “Doing Business As. I know.”

  He nodded. “Anyway, we wanted the experience of filing as a foreign business. That’s all. If we’re going to make a mistake, we’d rather keep it in house.”

  “Makes sense, I guess.”

  Mitch tried to read her expression, but she was staring into his mug again. “I take it you’ve been investigating me.”

  “Well, duh.”

  “Find anything other than our offshore retirement account?”

  A corner of her mouth crooked upward. “You have led a depressingly uneventful life.”

  He laughed. “It’s hard to get into trouble when you spend all your time playing computer games. And then I went to college and studied. Okay, and played more computer games. And then Jeremy and I started our business—no more time for computer games—and I’ve been working ever since.” That sounded pathetic. It was pathetic.

  “When do you play?”

  “I…” Don’t. That was the truth. Honestly, he’d rather get all the long hours out of the way now so he could guarantee a more reasonable work schedule in a few years. “Getting established takes a lot of hours up front. Basically, I hit the gym to stretch out the kinks, grab something to eat, watch a little TV, sleep and start all over again. Not a whole lot of time for play.” He gestured with the staple gun. “This is play.” Could he possibly sound more like a drudge? Judging by Kristen’s expression, no.

  He tried to salvage the situation. “But hey, I’m taking a break on Friday when we’re going out.” He hoped they were still going out on Friday. “I’ll pick the restaurant and you be in charge of the entertainment.”