Mrs. Smith gave us a most curious look then. I hate those kinds of looks. She said, “That’s what’s so strange. Santa seemed to know the man who put him in the trunk of his car and he left his kettle full of donations standing right there on the corner. Right out on the sidewalk. It’s still there. And there was plenty of change and bills in it too.”
“Okay, Mrs. Smith, we’ll look into it,” I told her. Fats got the rest of the info from her. Before we left I said to her, “Why don’t you take little Bobby to see Santa at Thompson’s Department Store? They have an entire Christmas Land set-up with Santa, elves, and everything.”
Mrs. Smith grew quiet. She looked so sad. I noticed a tear streaming silently down her cheek but she ignored it. Tough broad.
Fats looked at her, said, “Ma’am, it’ll be all right. Everyone goes through hard times. Been through a few myself. It will all work itself out. You have to hold out, and have faith, for Bobby’s sake.”
Mrs. Smith nodded, then silently walked away with her son.
“Damnit!” Fats growled.
“What was that about, Fats?”
Fats looked at me, stone silent for a minute, “You never been poor, Griff. Let me tell you, poor is bad, but poor with pride is the damn worst. Griff, that woman’s got more guts, more pride in her than half the adults in this town. She’s so dirt poor she took her young son to see a drunk Santa on the street corner rather than go into one of them big fancy department stores like Thompson’s.”
“Why, Fats?”
“Because, Griff, when you’re that poor it breaks your heart to take your kid to see a department store Santa. You watch your kid all big-eyed looking at all the cool stuff you know you can never buy him. The stuff he knows he ain’t never going to get. The stuff his mom can never afford, because she’s too busy putting food on the table, clothes on their backs, and a roof over their heads. And there’s damn little left over, Griff, even for a Christmas toy.”
“I didn’t realize, Fats.”
“It’s okay, Griff. That’s just the way it is sometimes. For some people.”
* * * *
We were quiet as I drove off to Dumont and Sixth. It was just around the block and a few streets down, and there on the corner we saw the big black Salvation Army kettle, still sitting on its tripod. No Santa in sight. When we went over to the kettle, we saw it was still full of coins and bills.
There was a big sign there that said, “Donate to Santa for Xmas,” but there was no Santa anywhere in sight. And I got the feeling he wasn’t coming back any time soon.
But Fats and I, being the very excellent no nonsense coppers we were back then still did a check of all the local bars, strip joints that served booze, whorehouses, and gambling dens for any word on Jimmy McConnell. And, mind you, without accepting any graft, samples, free-bees, or any other ancillary tokens, services, gratuities, or Christmas-type bonuses.
“He’s a no-show, Griff,” Fats bellowed as we trudged back to our old Plymouth battlewagon.
I nodded. I didn’t like this one bit.
“Something funny going on here, Griff. I wish Mrs. Smith or Bobby would have got a plate number for us, or could describe the car other than just telling us the damn thing had four doors and was a dark color. Kinda limits our options.”
Then the call came in from downtown, Captain Landis on the horn, telling us, “Okay, fellas, it’s Christmas Eve and something’s up as usual. I got a missing persons report on Jake Stanton, fat old drunk playing the Santa gig at Thompson’s Department Store. The guy never showed up for work this morning. A black and white just checked out his place. His wife said he left for work this morning. Never got there. Like the guy just up and vanished.”
I told Captain Landis about Mrs. Smith and Bobby and what they saw regarding McConnell.
“Another damn Santa Claus?” Landis barked, as if he were really surprised—considering all the crap he’d seen and waded through over the years in this town.
Fats and I remained silent.
Landis’ voice came over the squawk box, “Okay, boys, it’s Christmas Eve and it appears we got a Santa snatching epidemic on our hands.”
Fats laughed. I could see that he wasn’t exactly taking this all that serious. No Santa Claus at Christmas was the least of the problems back then in a hell town like Bay City.
Landis didn’t appreciate the humor. “There’s one more, guys. This just came in. Hermitage House, that swanky joint on West Dumont, out in swell town? They had a guy playing Santa, giving out candy to the patrons and their kids in the lobby. He was one of the doormen. It appears he was snatched from there a few hours ago. No one saw a thing.”
“That makes three Santas missing,” I said quietly.
“That sound ominous,” Fats laughed.
“It’s not funny, Stubbs,” Landis growled impatiently, going serious on us, not even calling Fats by his first name.
“So what you want us to do about it? There aren’t exactly any leads on this,” Fats offered, “and before we find out anything, Christmas will be all over.”
“Then make your own leads,” Landis replied.
“And what exactly does that mean, Cap?” I asked.
“Griff, I want you and Fats to get to Thompson’s Department Store. They’ll be needing a new Santa, and Fats is a natural to play the part.”
I heard the Fatman moan and groan but Landis and I paid him no mind.
I said, “Yeah, I get it. When the guy tries to snatch this Santa, he’ll be in for a big surprise.”
“Let’s hope so,” Landis agreed. He signed off and I gunned our old battlewagon down to Thompson’s, an elegant old building that housed one of the city’s last great department stores. Even back then, in the early 1960s, it was a relic of an earlier and more elegant era. Or so they say. An era also of robber baron monopolies and trusts, company towns and corrupt politicos. Hey, maybe things haven’t changed all that much after all.
* * * *
We got to Thompson’s, set everything up with Mr. Smathers the General Manager who ran the place for the owner, Gerald Thompson. He was said to be some weirdo recluse and grandkid of the famous founder, Tobias Thompson. Smathers got things all set up for us, got a Santa suit for Fats—he didn’t need no padding—and in no time at all we had my partner’s large red-suited butt firmly planted on a big ornate throne in a special section of the store called “Christmas Land”. It was stocked with lambs and a couple of tough-guy midget ex-cons we knew who were dressed up as Santa’s elves.
“Fats just smiled at me, winked, and said, “With helpers like those, its no wonder Santa is missing, Griff.”
I don’t think the midget ex-con elves heard him.
Once we were set up the moms brought up their little darlings to tell the jolly fat man in the red suit and long white beard what they wanted for Christmas.
I warned, “Now, Fats, try to be pleasant to the kids.”
Fats just growled, “I hate this, Griff,” but when that first big-eyed tyke came up to him towing his mother behind, Fats’ whole disposition suddenly changed. He showed a big smile and gave out a few jolly Ho-Ho-Ho’s and said joyfully, “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Now tell me, what can Santa do for you, young man?”
I was hanging on the side, talking the ponies with one of the elves, while watching Fats do his Christmas magic. And it was magic. He’s such an amazing fellow, he really did the Santa gig like a true pro. Really made the kids happy. I was sure he was giving them a wonderful memory they’d remember for the rest of their lives. You could see that a lot of the kids actually believed. It was a sweet thing to see. I can still remember back that far these days. They called it innocence in the old days. They call it being stupid or naive today. Times sure change. And kids are all the poorer for it I think.
It was when Fats got up for his noon break and to take a trip to the bathroom that I noticed a guy walk off behind him. I didn’t think too much of it then, but I watched just the same. Then it became apparent that
we had what might be—or might not be—a coincidence here. Both guys having to take a whiz at the same time. I moved in. I wondered about the guy who had followed Fats. Was he just a customer who needed to take a leak, some kinky perv, or the Santa-napper we were looking for?
The store was crowded, there were a lot of kids and slow-moving old people in my way, bunches of avid shoppers loaded down with boxes and gifts, a crowd that slowed me down and separated me from Fats for a moment.
By the time I got into the men’s room, I saw a very angry Fatman, still in his Santa outfit, jamming the guy that had followed him up against the tiles by the sink. Then hitting the guy’s head against the wall.
“Try to mug Santa! You thieving little shit! You got no class! No class! And on Christmas Eve, no less! I’m telling you, I’m the last Santa you’re ever going to mess with, Jonesey.”
“I’m sorry! Really I am! I didn’t know it was you!” Jonesey begged, but Fats still held him pinned to the wall. Now I recognized him. Jonesey was a petty crook and small-time scam artist who Fats knew from the old days.
Fats banged the man’s head against the wall for emphasis as he barked, “Santa’s making a list. I’m checking it twice. I’m gonna find out who’s been naughty or nice. You dig? And you’re not nice, Jonesey!”
“Jonesey Jones?” I said walking over quietly to Fats and his prisoner. I could see that he had everything well in hand.
“Freakin’ little turd tried to take me off while I was busy taking a leak, Griff. Very inconsiderate. Damn nervy little bastard.”
Jonesey moaned. Denied everything.
“Think this is our guy, Fats?” I asked, almost certain he wasn’t.
“Nah, Griff. Just a petty ex-con looking for an easy score. Boy, did he make a big mistake!” Fats laughed, then cuffed Jonesey and handed him over to me.
“Come on, Jonesey,” I said, dragging the wily ex-con to the door. “I got some uniform cops sitting outside in a car with nothing to do tonight but take you to a nice private room downtown.”
Fats said, “Griff, take this scum-bucket out to the boys in the car, I’ve gotta get back to work. The kids’ll be growing impatient waiting for Santa. I don’t wanna let them down. You know how it is?”
I didn’t, but what the heck, “Okay, meet you back by the throne in Christmas Land in a few minutes.”
And that was the last I saw of Fats.
* * * *
I’d been gone only ten minutes, ten lousy minutes; dumped off Jonesey to the uniform guys. When I got back to Christmas Land and the throne, there was no Fats. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and the Fatman in a bright red Santa suit with red hat and long flowing white beard was not exactly difficult to miss. I asked around. The two midgets were still out on lunch break, a few of the moms and kids waiting in line knew nothing. Apparently Santa had never returned since he’d taken his break.
I retraced my steps. Checked the Men’s Room. Checked the Manager’s office, spoke to Smathers, he called in store security, his department heads. We searched each floor of the huge store, the various departments and sections and found no Fats. The loudspeaker blared Fats’ name like he was a special offer.
Will Detective Sergeant Herman Stubbs please report to the Manager’s Office right away.
There was no response.
There was no Fats.
He was gone. Like he’d disappeared into thin air.
At first I hoped it might be Fats just wandering around the store and losing track of the time, maybe talking with a kid, or maybe he’d stepped out for a quick bite to eat. Fats was always eating. Or maybe he was playing a practical joke. I knew he was still pissed at me for the whole Santa suit thing. But as time passed I began to have a very bad feeing about this.
I called in my report to Captain Landis. He told me he’d have the boys sweat Jonesey, see if the little turd knew anything, then I’d know it soon enough. I guess Jonesey coulda been a shill, but I didn’t think he had the guts for it. Anyway, Landis and the boys downtown would sweat it out of him if he knew anything.
I stayed at Thompson’s, hoping for some word. Why was someone going to all this trouble to abduct Santas on Christmas Eve? Hostages? It didn’t make any sense that I could see. I began to interview everyone who’d seen Santa before he’d disappeared.
First off I questioned Santa’s little helpers, the two midget ex-cons dressed as elves once they got back from lunch. They said they didn’t know a thing. I believed them. They laughed and thought the whole thing was funny, figuring Fats was playing a joke on me. I told them it was no joke. I asked other shoppers.
One woman and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Page from Plainview told me they’d seen Santa walk off with a short fat bald man.
“They got into the elevator,” the woman told me, “the doors closed and that’s the last I saw of them. Will the store be getting a new Santa?”
“I don’t think so,” I told them. I wasn’t in the mood to tell them that Thompson’s had lost two Santa’s already today.
I got a call from Landis. They’d sweated Jonesey like a boiled lobster but he didn’t know a thing. He was just a small-time thief. His tailing Fats was all coincidence. The real abductor must have been watching, saw Jonesey make his move. Saw me leave Fats alone to take Jonesey out to the car. Then took his chance. There was something else. I was sure Fats had left with the guy willingly. I figured he’d done it to get a lead on the Santa-napper by allowing himself to get taken. Good idea, in theory, bad idea in fact. By allowing the guy to kidnap him, Fats was now at the mercy of God knew what kind of lunatic. It was not any kind of good position for Fats to be in. My secret fear? I hoped his abductor wouldn’t find out Fats was a cop. That might turn things in a very negative direction real fast.
I was stalled for leads. I questioned everyone again. I looked over my notes. The guy I was looking for, this Santa-napper; well, I had two semi-decent I.D.’s on him. One from Mrs. Smith and Bobby, the other from the Pages. All of whom agreed the man was short, fat, and bald. Nice I.D. That could just about be anyone. It could be Captain Landis, it could be the Mayor, if could be half the businessmen in Bay City and all the old retired guys, including half the cops I knew. It could be anyone. None of this helped me at all. Yet.
I had a hunch though. I requestioned the Pages. “So let me get this straight. You saw Santa get into the elevator with this short, fat, bald guy?”
“Yes. Yes we did.”
“No struggle?” I asked.
“No. They seemed to be getting along fine. Almost like they knew each other.”
“Did you ever see this man before?” I asked.
Mr. and Mrs. Page shook their heads no, just as they had when I asked them this same question before.
“Did this guy have a hand in his pocket?” I asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Mrs. Page said.
“Not at all,” her husband added sure-fire.
I nodded. I thought, okay, so maybe no gun. Leastways, not visible. Couldn’t rule it out though. Which meant Fats might not have gone along willingly to get close to the kidnapper as I had first thought. In fact, it could be that he might not have suspected the guy at all! That put a different slant on things.
I tried to figure how the guy could get Fats—still wearing that damn red Santa suit—out of a store full of shoppers without anyone seeing anything. Thompson’s Department Store was huge and full of people. It seemed impossible. Then I thought about how huge the store actually was, recalling it had to have a basement, and probably a sub-basement. A lot of the older stores had them. There were also a lot of back stairs, service elevators, old unused exits, fire doors, truck bays, storage areas, all throughout the store. Plenty of places to hide.
I looked back to the Pages, “Do you remember anything about that short, fat, bald man that could help me? Any distinguishing marks? Tattoos? Was he wearing a hat? A suit? A uniform? How long did you get a look at him?”
Mrs. Page just shook her head.
Her husband said, “I don’t know how long we waited. It wasn’t long. We’d missed that elevator so we had to wait for the next one. It came pretty soon.”
“They have five of them in Thompson’s,” Mrs. Page added proudly, as if she was part-owner of the store. “Fancy new ones, that don’t even need operators.”
“That’s wonderful. So you were just standing there, waiting for the next car?”
“Yes,” they both chimed in.
“Did you see where that elevator went? Did it go down to the first floor lobby and stop?” I asked, adding, “or did it go down to the basement or sub-basement and stop there?”
Mr. and Mrs. Page looked at me, then at each other. Mrs. Page said, “Oh, no, officer....”
“Detective, ma’am,” I corrected.
“...Ah, yes, well, they didn’t go down at all. Right, Roger?” She looked over to Mr. Page and he nodded like a pro.
I felt the earth shake beneath my feet. I asked, “You sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure,” Mrs. Page continued. “The elevator car they were in didn’t go down. It went up.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Page added, in total agreement with his wife. “We were going to the basement sale, but we missed the car because it went up.”
“Up?” I said softly to myself, wondering what it might mean. And then I knew. I asked the Pages, “So it went up, all the way to the tenth floor?”
“Why, yes,” Mrs. Page replied. “It went all the way up to the top.”
“What’s up there, detective?” Mr. Page asked me.
“The penthouse,” I said softly. Trying to think it through. That’s where Gerald Thompson, the kooky, reclusive owner lived—and now I knew, that’s where Fats and the other snatched Santas were probably being held. Gerald Thompson, a short, fat, bald man with a bad attitude and a worse temper who was a reclusive crackpot. Why the hell was he abducting Santas all over Bay City?
I thanked the Pages, said good-bye, then sent them on their way. They said they had a lot of shopping to do. I went on my way too.
* * * *
I checked my gun. Took a deep breath, Took the elevator up to the tenth-floor penthouse. Thompson’s Department Store was an old building, but it was full of the new electronic automatic elevators that didn’t need a human operator. You just had to have faith the thing wouldn’t jam, and that if it did, that someone would come and get you out before you turned old, like some rotten sardine trapped in a tin can. Elevators did that a lot in the old days. It was lousy to be trapped in one.
The Christmas Megapack Page 8
