I leaned closer.
“Two hundred a month for two years,” he told his shoes. “Figured she needed it. Wrong! By her second year in Sacramento, she was making more than I was. But I didn’t know that.”
Before I could stop myself, I shook my head. It was hard to say which amazed me more, Ott opting for legal marriage in the days when mere monogamy was considered selling out, or Ott paying alimony at a time when most child-free women would have been affronted by the offer. And yet there was Ott’s code. It was like Ott to do the decent thing when he felt he should, in this case the more than decent thing.
I looked back at the envelope on my lap. If Ott’s first two messages might have been considered innocuous, the third certainly could not. Cut from a movie ad for The Night of the Living Dead, it had the word “Life” stapled over “Night.” “The Life of the Living Dead. Have a Merry Christmas.” I looked questioningly at Ott. He shook his head. But there was none of the definiteness that had underlined his previous denials. Ott knew something. What I knew was that I wasn’t about to get that something out of him. But I might get another piece of information in its stead. “What does this message-leaver want from you?”
“Silence.”
“About?”
But Ott didn’t answer. Instead he said, “You’ve seen what I’ve seen. There’s been nothing else. Someone’s out to ruin me.”
“How?”
“By ruining my reputation.”
I felt a cold wave of fear. With Ott’s clientele his position was always precarious; his reputation was what kept him in business. And made him useful to me. And, well, I had to admit—to myself, never to anyone else, least of all Herman Ott—I did have a certain grudging fondness for the guy, like you do for the ugliest puppy in the litter, particularly if you know you won’t have to take him home.
Another chill shook me. What could this last threat be? What would be a greater blow than merely passing the word along the Avenue that Ott had ratted to the cops? My dealings with Ott were all within the law, but publicity about them wouldn’t do much good for either of us. It would hold the department up to question (the city of Berkeley expects a particularly high standard from their police), grease the already shaky ground on which Ott stood with his clientele (though Ott’s client pool had few other choices), and within the police department, it would make me the receptacle of every complaint every inspector, detective, or patrol officer had about Herman Ott. Which meant that I could plan on fielding five to ten calls a day for the rest of my career or Ott’s, whichever lasted longer.
I walked to the clean window and stared out. If I looked sharply to the right, I could make out a glimmer of light from Telegraph, and the one cafe open Christmas Eve. Despite my considerable hesitations about the whole setup (I could deal with those later) I said, “So what do you want from me, here, alone, all night? I’m not about to compromise a department case or find myself in one of those headlines that begins: Off-Duty Cop …”
“I just want you to stay here till the drop comes. ‘Have a Merry Christmas’: the last drop will be tonight. I’ll be across the street in the cafe. When the package comes through the door, don’t do anything but turn on the light. I’ll be watching. There’s only one way out of this building. The fire escape’s been sealed for months.”
“You can expect the building inspector Monday for that one.”
“Fine with me. So is that a yes?”
I glanced at my watch. It was just after nine o’clock. I could be sitting next to Ott’s mail slot till dawn, and dawn comes late in December. I walked slowly into the bedroom, glancing at bookcases that must have held every radical publication ever printed, through the cascades of blankets, taking quick, little steps like Ott’s. By the window (not cleaned) was a hot plate. Next to it was an empty pan, a can of coffee, two boxes of tea, and a jar of honey that was so thick and grainy that it might have been abandoned by the office’s original tenant between the Great Wars. There might have been milk in Ott’s fridge, but I doubted it. On the floor was a bottle of water, there presumably to save Ott from scurrying across the hall to the bathroom every time he wanted to make tea. I poured some in the pan and turned on the hot plate. Then I picked up a stained and chipped mug and walked back across the threshold into the orderly world of Ott’s office. Ott was still sitting behind his desk. It was like him to put out his offer, then just sit and wait. “Ott,” I said, “I know you’re not telling me everything. I’m willing to accept that. But you have to assure me that whatever I don’t know is not going to screw me. If it does I’ll call in every favor from every cop I’ve ever met, and I’ll get you.”
Ott’s face relaxed. He looked as if I’d opened the door of the cage. “You got my word, Smith. And you’ll be off the hook for the two hundred you owe me.”
“Okay. I just hope this is a Christmas Eve, not a Christmas morning, Santa.”
“It will be.”
Holding out Ott’s cup, I said, “Here, wash this before you leave. I’m going to make tea, and I don’t want to face gastrointestinal collapse before Santa comes.”
Ott glowered. He really did hate it when I laughed at him. Even in the form of his mug.
In five minutes I poured the boiling water over a tea bag, and watched Ott turn out the lights and depart. I let the tea steep for another five minutes—it could be a long night and I wanted the tea strong.
Counting on Ott’s Santa’s perseverance and ingenuity, I taped the mail slot shut. Then I made one phone call, settled next to the door, on the cold wooden floor.
At nine-thirty the heat went off. Somewhere in Washington, D.C., was a woman who had changed her name back from Saffron to Helen or Barbara. While I was here shivering in Ott’s unheated office (and Howard was downing the champagne and sausage without me), she was asleep in a big bed, under a thick down comforter, dreaming of her fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year paycheck.
I leaned back against the wall, sipping my cold tea. From the hallway the only sounds were the dim rumble of televisions.
I’ve done my share of stakeouts, I know the games to keep boredom at bay. I can name all fifty states, alphabetically and geographically starting from Maine or Hawaii. I can name all the capitals without even the temptation to think of Louisville instead of Frankfort, or Portland instead of Salem (or Augusta, for that matter).
The games had become too easy. But that didn’t matter tonight. Ott had provided me with his own game.
I thought about the first two of those three messages again: 1971 Saffron Sacramento, $200 a month. Ott had divorced Saffron by the end of 1969. By 1970 she had moved to Sacramento and hadn’t needed his two hundred dollars. And the third message that threatened Ott with a living death. It didn’t take a detective to guess what would be death in life for him. For Ott his reputation was life. So whatever the Santa knew was enough to destroy it.
Half an hour later my tea cup was empty, and I regretted having poured that eight ounces of liquid from it into me. Stakeouts were so much easier for men. But during that hour in the dark, I had had time to guess the contents of the final message, as, clearly, Ott already had. For anyone who knew the Telegraph scene and Ott’s place in it, that message was contained in the other three. What I figured was the fourth message, the one that Ott would rather die than have circulated along the Avenue, would say that Ott had paid Saffron twenty-four hundred dollars in alimony, and it would announce exactly where Saffron had channeled that money, Ott’s money.
It was just ten when I heard the footsteps tap in the hallway. I stood up and moved beside the door and shifted my revolver to my left hand. The steps stopped outside. Knees cracked. Santa was bending down. The mail slot flap pushed against the tape. I could picture him stopping, staring confused at the unbudging mail slot, then angrily trying again, which he did.
The door was locked, but the dead bolt was off. The lock would take no more than a credit card. Which was what it sounded like he was using.
Holding my breath, I waited.
The door opened slowly.
Still, I waited, till a hand, bearing a small package, crossed the doorsill. The hand was twenty or so inches off the floor. Santa was still bending to put the package on the floor.
I grabbed the hand, yanked it back and up behind him, sending him forward, head down, into the corner of Ott’s desk.
I flicked on the light. “Freeze!” I yelled. “Police!”
He groaned. He was Angus Simpson, the con Ott had fingered for me. I wasn’t surprised. He was about to have his bail revoked. And since Simpson was even more rigid about stonewalling the police than Ott himself, he was about to spend some more silent time in stir. He would never even admit what he was holding over Ott.
“Spread your arms wide. Spread ’em! Now! And the legs. Move!” A package, wrapped in red Christmas paper, slipped out of his hand. I kicked it behind me.
I didn’t pocket the package until the backup arrived. Ott was not going to be pleased I’d called to alert the beat officers. For the moment Ott would be in the cage of one of the patrol cars, no doubt squawking up a storm. It was for his own good, but I’d never get him to believe that. Were it up to Herman Ott, I could expect a load of coal in my stocking.
But Ott of all people would understand that I, too, had my code. And he would have to be satisfied with my Christmas present to him: no one would see this last package and no one on the Avenue would ever know the threat of the Life of the Living Dead, the revelation that would make him the laughingstock of the Avenue. The message said, “Sacramento 1971, Saffron received $2400 from Herman Ott and donated it to the Ronald Reagan for Governor campaign.”
ISAAC ASIMOV
HO! HO! HO!
When I sold my first mystery novel, I was lucky enough to be assigned the same editor as the writer of this story. In her office stood two tall bookcases, one to hold all the books of all but one of the authors she handled, and the other one crammed full with the works of Isaac Asimov. As almost everybody who’s ever read a book must know by now, this ultra-prolific author has an analytical mind. Once Isaac gets started thinking about anything at all, there’s no telling what may come of it. Not long ago, Isaac got to thinking about Santa Claus’s whiskers …
Baranof entered the somnolent precincts of the Union Club library with a most offensive air of cheer and jubilation.
“Me-e-e-erry Christmas,” he said.
To which Jennings and I responded, in perfect unison, “Bah! Humbug!” while Griswold snored very softly in his huge, winged armchair.
“No, really,” said Baranof. “There’s even a chance of snow predicted for Christmas Day. We may have a white Christmas.”
“Goody,” I said sourly. “All the little kiddies can take their new sleds and go belly-whopping in New York traffic.”
“I wonder,” said Jennings, “if any New Yorker gives his children a sled for Christmas.”
“What,” said I, “and expect them to go out in the cold when they can stay home and watch a nice warm television set?”
Baranof said, “You two disgust me. I have half a mind to ask Griswold for a Christmas story. He’s bound to have something heartwarming.”
I don’t think Baranof was serious there, but Griswold began the process of rumbling to life.
His eyelids opened, and the ice blue of his eyes penetrated us one after the other. He took a prolonged sip at the scotch and soda he was holding in his hand, and said, “Actually, I do have a Christmas story about a friend of mine who had a particularly unpleasant Christmas season.”
“Oh, well,” said Baranof, “if this is going to be something dreary, no thanks. We’ll talk about something else.”
Since you insist [said Griswold] I will tell you the story of a friend of mine, whose name was Dan Arbutus, and who worked for me in Intelligence in the days before I was fired for the crime of being intelligent. We stayed friends, of course, when he was sure no one was looking, and then eventually, he retired on a good pension, which was more than I did, and amused himself by taking on little jobs, just to keep himself busy.
He came to see me immediately after Christmas about ten or twelve years ago, shaking his head and with a look of deep trouble on his face.
“That’s it, Griswold,” he said, “I’ll never be able to look into the face of a Santa Claus again. Of all the bloopers I ever pulled—”
We shared a drink, then I said, “What kind of a blooper, Dan? You used to be pretty fair in the old days for someone who wasn’t me.”
“Those were the old days. Would you believe it, Griswold? Someone walked off with an expensive necklace from the jewelry department right under my nose, and I think they’re suspecting me.”
“What jewelry department is this?”
“Well, I’ve been doing little jobs. Just keeping my hand in. So I’ve been serving as a private detective at the Goodwell Department Store on the East Side. They’re victimized by shoplifters, you know, especially over the Christmas season.”
“And someone shoplifted a necklace?”
“Yes, but after hours.”
“And this has something to do with Santa Claus? You said you’d never be able to look into the face of a Santa Claus again.”
“Well, yes.—Look, Griswold, let me tell you the whole story. I’m not expecting you to supply me with an answer. There are no answers, believe me. I just want to get it off my chest and then maybe I can forget it.” He hesitated. “But first, can I have one more small slug?”
I pushed the bottle in his direction and waited.
Finally, he said, “The job’s routine, but I like to watch the crowds and keep my eyes open for the wiseguys who manage to slip things into their pockets or bags. I give the high sign to the store personnel who are strategically placed, and the lifter is quietly followed till he or she is just outside the street door. Then we whirl them around, bring them back and search them. You can’t stop them before they leave because then they always claim they were going to pay and start raising a fuss about their good name and how they’re going to sue.
“But sometimes, the department store asks me to take on something outside the shoplifter watch. For instance, a couple of weeks ago, they asked me to help out after hours during their training program for Santa Clauses.”
I stared at him, “They train Santa Clauses?”
“Well, of course. Department stores have Santa Clauses in the Christmas season, and they have to have them in shifts and with replacements, because it’s a tiring job, so they need quite a few and they change around. The kids don’t care. With the Santa Claus suit, one person looks like another. Even if the kid comes back and there’s another Santa there, he doesn’t know. Neither do the parents. Neither do I, for that matter.”
“What is the training about?”
“A lot of things actually. They can’t eat onions or garlic, or anything too darned spicy on the job, and they can’t drink or smoke, either. That’s no kidding. If their breath is offensive, they’re out on their ears. And they’ve got to learn how to hold kids. They’ve got to learn how to tell if the child wants to sit on their lap. If the kid is bashful, the kid just stands there. If you can get the parent to put it on your lap, that’s better than doing it yourself.
“Then, too, you’ve got to ask the right things, and you don’t make any suggestions yourself, you don’t push any products, because that gets parents mad. You’ve got to repeat everything the kid says and you’ve got to be cheerful and you’ve got to ‘ho, ho, ho,’ a lot.”
“Ho, ho, ho?” I said.
Dan said, “Oh, yes, that’s essential. Santa Claus is very jolly. Even aside from his costume and all the stuffing to make him look fat, his face, what you can see of it, is pink, especially the tip of his nose, and he’s got to smile a lot, which means that good teeth are essential, and he has to go ‘ho, ho, ho.’ He says, ‘And what is your name, little boy? Joey? That’s a very nice name, ho, ho, ho. And have you been a good boy this year? You have? Wonderful. Ho, ho, ho.’ And they’
ve got to make that ‘ho, ho, ho’ good and deep. Believe me, after two hours of that, a Santa Claus needs a replacement.”
“I can see that,” I said.
Dan said, “The training is done after hours. It would upset the kids to see a number of Santa Clauses walking about the store. I sometimes wonder how many kids really believe in old S.C., but the store has to assume they all do.
“Anyway, it was only a few days till Christmas and there were four Santa Clauses being trained for last-minute replacements and shifts. They had on their costumes. That’s necessary, you know. Those costumes, combined with the padding, are not exactly comfortable and they don’t feel natural. The Santa Clauses have to get used to the feel of it as much as possible, and for that matter, they have to be able to get into them and out of them quickly. Believe me, I learned more about Santa Clauses than they did.”
I said, “Look, Dan, since this was after hours, and there weren’t any customers, why did they need your services?”
Dan said, “They didn’t exactly tell me. Just asked me to be there and keep my eyes open. After all, the four Santa Clauses weren’t the only ones in the store at the time. There were various minor executives in charge of the training and personnel and there were other employees working after hours. It was hinted, without actually being said, that there had been some petty losses that might be inside jobs, so to speak, and I was there to keep an eye out for funny stuff, while pretending to watch the Santa Clauses.
“That particular night, the woman in charge of the jewelry department showed up suddenly, all flustered. She was a tall woman, skinny, with a very high-pitched voice. Everyone called her Mamzelle, but she didn’t sound French to me. Anyway, she came in and said, ‘There’s something wrong with the warning system in my depart—’
“I glared at her, and she stopped short and turned a mottled red. There was nothing wrong with her intelligence and I suppose she realized that if there was something wrong with her warning system, she shouldn’t be announcing it to the whole world. She scuttled away, whimpering, and I thought, well, I’d better take a look at her department after a while.
Mistletoe Mysteries Page 22
