The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories

by Christopher Bunn

  “I’m Detective Thurston. Come with me. I’ve got some questions for you.”

  The ambiance of interrogation rooms leaves something to be desired. Gray walls, steel table, concrete floor, one single light bulb. It made her look all the better—not that she needed any help. She stared at me for a moment, expressionless. I stared back, which I didn’t mind doing, as she was rather easy on the eyes.

  “All right,” she said. “How long have you been working for the Gambini family?”

  “What? The who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do. This morning, we received word a Matisse changed hands for something north of 1.2 million dollars. Supposedly, a Gambini fence did the sale. It was the same Matisse that went missing from the address you were arrested at last night. Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

  “The only thing obvious,” I said, “is that you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m Santa Claus. You know, the guy with the sack of presents. Surely you’ve heard of Christmas? Peace on earth and all that? By the way, you didn't get any presents for Christmas, did you? I can tell.”

  “That's beside the point," she said, looking irritated. "Your gang betrayed you. They left you to take the fall. Loyalty among thieves is one thing, but this is ridiculous. You’re looking at twenty years in the pen.”

  “Twenty years?” I gulped.

  That was a lot of missed Christmases. There were going to be a lot of unhappy kids next December. No Santa. No toys. No sack! The sack!

  “Uh, listen,” I said. “Maybe I can help a bit. I just need to know something first.”

  She didn’t speak, but her blue eyes were intent on mine.

  “Was there anything found, I mean, at the, whatever you people call it—”

  “The scene of the crime?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Did you find a, uh, sort of sack? Red velvet, gold drawstring, silver embroidery spelling out Santa? Maybe on the roof or down near the fireplace?”

  “Is this a confession?”

  “I’m not confessing anything.”

  She shrugged. “No. We didn’t find anything. Nothing on the roof. Nothing inside. No Santa sack. That’s because your partners in crime, no doubt, made off with your so-called sack, stuffed full of art and jewels.”

  I slept poorly that night. I dreamed that a whole bunch of Italian gangsters were zooming through the starry sky in my rocket-powered sled. They were pulling grenades out of the sack and tossing them down chimneys. Boom! There went another chimney. Boom! Some pigeons went flying. Boom! The grenades seemed to be getting closer.

  Boom!

  BOOM!

  It was almost as if the gangsters were tossing grenades into my cell.

  “Hey!”

  They were yelling at me now. My bed frame rattled and shook. It was enough to wake me up. I woke up. My bed frame was still rattling.

  “Hey!” someone hissed. “Hey, boss!”

  I opened my eyes. And screamed. A horrible, goggle-eyed monster stared at me out of the darkness.

  “Shh!”

  The monster flipped back its night-vision goggles to reveal the tiny face of Snix. He’s the head of my R&D department. He’s about three feet tall, which is pretty big for an elf.

  “Keep it down, boss,” he said. He scowled at me. “You owe me big time.”

  “Anything, Snix. Anything. Uh, where’s everyone else?”

  “Tahiti. They conga-lined their way to the airport. You only got me because I stayed behind to defrost the freezer. Come on,” he continued grumpily. “Let’s get out of here before they wake up.”

  “Before they wake up?”

  “I had to tase a couple of policemen to get in. Here, put this on.” Snix pulled another pair of night-vision goggles out of his backpack. “I cut the power main before I came in.”

  “You cut the power main? You’ve seen way too many movies. You didn’t, er, tase a Detective Thurston, did you?”

  “Maybe I did,” he said, looking irritated at the question. “I didn’t stop to ask their names.”

  “Well, at least you didn’t blow anything up. Or did you? Tell me you didn’t.”

  He seemed to cheer up at this idea. “Not yet, boss.”

  Snix had left his car parked in the back alley behind the station. A fire-engine red ’69 Camaro.

  “Nice and inconspicuous,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Snix. Elves don’t understand the concept of sarcasm. “Wait until you hear the engine.”

  “V8 big block?”

  He looked at me as if I was a moron. “Jet engine. How’d you think I got here so fast? This baby can do Mach 4 without breaking a sweat. Cold fusion power plant, radar cloaking, airbags, the works. It even has an espresso maker. What do you think we’re doing down in R&D all the time? Making toys?”

  The engine fired up as smooth as buttered caramel. “All right,” said Snix. “Tahiti, here we come!”

  “There’s just one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I think the Mafia has my sack.”

  His jaw dropped. “The Supreme Santa Sack Version 3.0 with fifth-dimensional sourcing!” Snix breathed. “There isn’t another in the world like it. Your old pop is going to kill you. I’m going to kill you!”

  “And my sled’s gone too,” I added.

  He seemed to go into catatonic shock at that. I had to slap him a few times.

  “The sled!” he managed.

  “Yes, the sled. They must’ve stolen it after they hit me on the head and threw me down the chimney. That was a real Merry Christmas. They definitely qualify for the naughty category.”

  “I wish they’d hit you a lot harder!” he shouted. “That sled is my pride and joy!”

  “Calm down. You’re going to hyperventilate. All we need to do is look up the Gambini family in the telephone book, pay them a visit, and get my stuff back. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

  Snix gripped the steering wheel. “More firepower,” he muttered. “We need more firepower. All I have is a Taser and some exploding toffee. We can’t take on a bunch of Mafia thugs like this. I’m not a magician, you know. You’ve ruined my vacation!”

  “Well, let’s get this baby in the air,” I said, patting the dashboard. “A quick dash home, grab a few supplies, zip back, and drink some eggnog with the Gambinis. Ho, ho, ho, and all that. Maybe we could stop in and see that Detective Thurston. She’s probably rather concerned about my whereabouts. She struck me as having a sympathetic soul underneath all that Kevlar and whatnot.”

  Snix just snorted and stepped on the gas. Elves aren’t known for being sympathetic souls. His soul was probably made of Kevlar, if he had one to begin with. Despite these very fascinating theological musings, we were back at the North Pole in a jiffy. It was good to be home, but there was no time for sentiment. Snix rushed around like a madman. He packed the trunk of the Camaro full of all sorts of interesting stuff. I checked my e-mail. Then we hopped back into the Camaro and took off.

  We made a stop in Hawaii on our way back to Manhattan. It was dusk. The Camaro settled onto the sand with a muffled roar. The wings slid back into the side panels. Someone was having a real bender of a party in a house on the edge of the beach. Light and music streamed from the windows. The door was open. Snix and I walked in. The place was packed with people. Everyone was dancing like crazy. I could hardly hear myself think.

  “Look!” shouted a girl. “Another little person!”

  “Eeek!” screamed another girl. “He’s so cute! I could eat him up!”

  Several girls started dancing around Snix. He looked rattled. I had to crouch down to hear him.

  “Gotta find Jerzy and Herk!” he yelled in my ear. “They rented this house for the month!”

  I nodded. I figured we’d better find them fast. Snix looked like he was about to start tasing people. I tapped the nearest dancer on the shoulder.

  “Hey!” I shouted.

  “Wanna dance?” she yelled.

  “No! Are there
some more little people around here?”

  “Down in the basement! Let’s go! I love little people! Oh, wow! You’ve got your own little person! How cool is that?”

  Snix tried to hide behind me. We somehow made it down to the basement. The place was even more packed than upstairs. Music boomed from speakers. A tremendous cheer went up from the room. I wormed my way through the crowd so I could see. There was an open space in the middle of the crowd. I spotted the two elves right away.

  “Who’s next?” shouted Herk. He had a huge wad of cash in his hands. Jerzy was wearing boxing gloves. He strutted around, waving his fists in the air. After some heated discussion, a burly guy stepped forward. He was built like a refrigerator. Someone handed him a pair of boxing gloves.

  “Excellent! Thank you, sir! 10 to 1 odds, ladies and gentlemen. I’m giving 10 to 1 odds. Any takers? Any takers? Thank you, thank you.” Herk made the rounds, scribbling in his notebook and stuffing cash into his pockets.

  A bell gonged. Jerzy danced around, bobbing and weaving. The refrigerator lumbered forward. He threw a punch that missed Jerzy but connected with about five or six people in the front row. They went down like bowling pins. I shook my head. Elves are as strong as steel, quick as fireflies, and as bouncy as a rubber ball. Herk and Jerzy were making easy money. On slow days at the Pole, I’ve seen them go box with the polar bears. The bears are stubborn enough to keep on trying, but they never win.

  Jerzy moved in with a one-two to the jaw. The refrigerator shook his head, looking perplexed. Jerzy hopped up and down like a pogo stick. His boxing gloves moved in a blur. The refrigerator toppled over with a crash. Cheers and wild applause. Herk collected more money. He strutted past me.

  “Herk,” I said.

  “Hi, boss,” he said. Then his jaw dropped.

  It took the promise of an extra month off for both of them, as well as Snix reluctantly allowing Jerzy access to the Prototype.

  “The Prototype?” I said, as I clicked my seat buckle closed.

  “Uh, just something,” mumbled Snix. “One of those things.” He fired up the Camaro and we did a quick vertical lift-off. Sand billowed up on the beach below us.

  “Let’s buzz the house!” yelled Jerzy.

  “And kick in the afterburner!” hollered Herk. “Pump up the stereo! Gimme an espresso!”

  “Shut up,” growled Snix. “I’m flying this thing.”

  We flew back into Manhattan as the sun was setting. It was beautiful. One of those Hollywood shots with the waning light gilding the skyscrapers, the water on the Hudson, the Statue of Liberty. A flock of birds—pigeons, I guess—fluttered up like doves of peace, and Snix blew right through them. I could smell burnt feathers. He landed in a back alley somewhere and killed the engine.

  “All right, men,” I said. “I can ask nothing of you but your courage, your honesty, your very lives. We ride forth into the valley of—”

  “Okay,” said Jerzy, huddled over his laptop. “There are thirty-seven different Gambinis listed in Manhattan. However, I hacked the NYPD’s mainframe and I think I got the Gambini we want. Figgy Gambini. Morningside Heights Avenue, number 1400. Yep. That’s gotta be the one. The guy’s been in and out of jail since he was a kid.”

  “Good work,” said Snix. He stomped on the gas and swerved out into traffic. I could hear a lot of cheerful honking and hollering from other drivers and pedestrians. New Yorkers sure were a friendly lot. The way Snix drove, we turned the corner at Morningside Heights before I had finished my third espresso.

  “That’s some building,” said Herk, staring down the street at the mansion. “You ever delivered presents there, boss?”

  “I think so. Yes, I have. If I remember correctly, young Figgy Junior wanted a Garganto-Nuko-Blaster with accompanying spacesuit. I gave him a jigsaw puzzle instead. Four chimneys in this place. Nice, wide, marble ones.”

  “That’s it, then,” said Snix, nodding his head. “We’ll infiltrate through the chimneys.”

  He engaged the cloaking device and did a fast vertical takeoff. The Camaro zoomed up into the sky and ghosted over a few roofs to the top of the mansion. He put her down as light as a feather. From our vantage point on top of the roof, I could see the entire grounds. The mansion was surrounded by an immaculately kept garden. A circular drive swooped by the front door from a high iron gate at the street. Several large men in black suits stood on the front steps. A friendly welcoming committee, no doubt, for an afternoon of bridge or canasta. Perhaps with some cannoli or biscotti, or whatever Mr. Gambini preferred to serve his guests.

  “Ready, team?” said Snix.

  He and Herk and Jerzy were all toting black backpacks they had taken from the Camaro’s trunk.

  “Ready!” barked Herk and Jerzy. Maybe it was my imagination, but they both seemed to be quivering so fast that they were slightly blurry. Then again, they’d been downing espressos ever since we left Hawaii.

  “Stay in radio contact,” said Snix. “Avoid detection. Reconnoiter the place and neutralize any imminent threats. Find the sled and the sack, secure them, and then call for backup. Got it?”

  “Got it!”

  “Seems overly complicated,” I said. “Why don’t we just find Mr. Gambini and ask him to return my things?”

  The elves gave me a withering look, as if to say that I was a fathead. Then they each dropped down a chimney. I sighed and jumped into the last chimney. It was a long trip down. That mansion had five stories. I landed in a pile of ashes on a marble hearth. I poked my head out and took a look around. Whatever anyone had to say about this Gambini fellow, he really knew how to decorate in velvet. Mostly red velvet.

  I strolled through the mansion, admiring the antiques and the many fine paintings. There were quite a few Matisses. I suppose Gambini, in addition to red velvet, really liked Matisse. In fact, he had five of the same exact Matisse hanging right next to each other in one room. I stopped to admire them. Forgeries, obviously, but whoever had done them had managed to make them look exactly alike. I peered closer. Precisely one hundred percent alike. Even the old wooden frames were exactly the same. Right down to the chip in the lower right-hand corner.

  I froze.

  The sack! Someone had figured out how to use the Supreme Santa Sack Version 3.0 with fifth-dimensional sourcing. Someone had cranked out these Matisses. And not just any old someone. A Mafia don.

  That’s when someone stuck a gun in my lower back.

  “Reach for the sky!” growled a voice.

  I about jumped out of my shoes. But then I realized there was something odd about the voice. It was high and squeaky. I risked a look over my shoulder. Oddly enough, there was no one in sight. But then I looked down and saw him. Gambini Junior. He had an Acme Super-Duper-Fun Machine Gun in one hand and a chocolate bar in the other.

  My job takes me all over the world, and I encounter a lot of children. All sorts of different children. Gambini Junior, however, was in a class by himself. He only came up to my knee, but he was built on overly generous lines, sort of like a tank. He scowled up at me and bit into the chocolate bar.

  “You’re a thief,” he said.

  “No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m Santa Claus. I don’t take, I give.”

  “Then gimme your wallet.”

  “I don’t carry a wallet.”

  “No ID? Then you can’t prove you’re Santa. You must be a thief. I think I’ll have Uncle Guido kneecap you.”

  Gambini Junior prodded me in the knee with his gun as if to test the resilience of my leg. That was when Snix peeked around the corner and shot him in the back. Granted, it was with a Taser, but he still shot him. Gambini Junior twitched a few dozen times and then flopped over.

  “What are you doing?” I snapped. “You can’t shoot kids.”

  “Says who. Look at the size of this lunk. He’s bigger than me. C’mon, boss. Let’s get out of here. There’s no one here except this kid and those goons out front.”

  “Look at this, Snix. Someone figured out how t
o use the. . .”

  “. . . Supreme Santa Sack Version 3.0,” gulped the elf, staring up at the Matisses. “Boss, we’ve gotta stop them before they start pulling out things they shouldn’t be pulling out.”

  “Things like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Intercontinental ballistic missiles, death rays, atom bombs? There’s a hot market for that sort of thing.”

  Snix’s radio crackled with Jerzy’s voice. “Behind the house, now! They’re getting away!”

  We made it out the back door just in time to see my sled go sputtering across the lawn. It was filled with whooping and hollering Mafia thugs. An older, fatter version of Gambini Junior was at the controls. He must’ve finally figured it out because the sled suddenly shot up into the air with a roar.

  “We’re too late!” said Herk, dancing around in a frenzy of rage.

  Snix whipped something out of his backpack. It looked sort of like a shotgun, except the barrel was made out of quartz. He swung around, aimed at the top of the mansion, and fired. A black rope with a grappling hook on the end shot up into the air.

  “The Prototype,” breathed Jerzy, his eyes wide.

  “Quick!” said Snix. “Grab hold!”

  “What?” I said.

  “It’s a reverse bungee.” His expression implied that only idiots and concrete garden gnomes didn’t know what a reverse bungee was.

  “Oh, right.”

  I grabbed hold along with the three elves, right as the rope contracted. It sent us sailing up into the air, right up to the top of the roof and right next to the Camaro. We piled in and Snix gunned the motor. We blasted off the roof with a roar.

  “At your nine o’clock!” yelled Jerzy.

  Snix pushed it over into a dive and the sled hissed by overhead. Gambini and his goons stared down at us goggle-eyed as they zipped past. They must’ve seen me, because one of the goons started waving his arms around. He got out a blackjack and did a pretty good imitation of whacking someone over the head. His little Marcel Marceau impersonation must’ve worked, because they all got pretty excited at that point. Several of them even drew their guns and began firing in our direction. Gambini was wrestling with the controls. He wasn’t having a lot of luck, and the sled went corkscrewing up into the clouds.