The Trib office has cubicles lining both walls. All of them were empty, except for Suzie’s at the back. Her fingers were tapping away at a keyboard so fast they were a blur. She looked up from her computer and smiled at us, fingers not even pausing. What more do you need to know about Suzie?
“Well, well,” she said. “What did I do to deserve this treat?”
Treats were in the picture? She had my attention from the get-go, although I smelled no treats on the premises, a bit of a puzzler.
“Maybe this isn’t a good time,” Bernie said. “You look busy.”
Her fingers went still, hovering over the keyboard, nails kind of poised like . . . like the claws of some dangerous creature you might find out in the desert. Was Suzie some sort of dangerous creature? What a crazy thought! I told myself to get a grip, stood absolutely still, facing a blank wall.
“Never too busy for this particular trio,” Suzie said, whatever that might mean.
“How does lunch sound?” Bernie said.
Whoa. A stunner, and just when I was in the middle—actually more toward the beginning—of getting a grip. Lunch had a sound? Food makes a sound when you’re chewing it, of course, and there’s a snapping, crackling, popping cereal that gives my ears a funny feeling, but other than that I was lost.
“Sure thing,” said Suzie. “Want to give me a hand, Charlie?”
“Okay,” Charlie said. “Like, um, how?”
“You could help me finish up this piece,” Suzie said.
“Yeah?” said Charlie, moving toward Suzie’s desk.
“Your job’s to type the very last word. Step up to the keyboard.”
Suzie shifted her chair aside. Charlie stepped up.
“Know the letters?” Suzie said.
“Some of them,” Charlie said.
“Got a favorite?”
“C.”
“No Cs in this one,” Suzie said. “The last world is ‘jail.’ ”
“Oh?” said Bernie. “What are you working on?”
“Normal statehouse fare.”
The keyboard was shoulder level on Charlie. He raised his hands and said, “L at the end?”
“Exactly right,” said Suzie. “J-A-I-L.”
Charlie ran his gaze over the keys, pressed them one by one with a single kid-type finger, meaning not too clean.
“Good job!” Suzie said.
“Is someone going to jail?” Charlie said.
“I sure hope so,” said Suzie, starting to rise.
“Speaking of jail,” Bernie said, “have you got a file on Plumpy Bonaparte?”
“The Ponzi schemer? What do you want to know?”
* * *
“So,” Bernie said, running his eyes over a printout Suzie had given him, “his restitution amounts to one thousand fourteen dollars and eighty-one cents?”
Suzie leaned closer for a better look. Their arms touched, then pressed together in a way that seemed . . . urgent; hard to describe and sort of strange. We were at a table outside Burger Heaven, Charlie and me on one side and Bernie and Suzie on the other. The burgers at Burger Heaven are the best in town. Charlie is a messy eater. Those two—facts, would you call them?—came together nicely for me.
“Plus this putter,” Suzie said, pointing out something on the page.
“ ‘Putter once owned by Tiger Woods,’ ” Bernie read, “ ‘signed ‘To Tiger with big big kisses, Jayne Mansfield.’ Value ten thousand dollars, paid to Ms. Becky Simms of Ocotillo Springs in lieu of liquid assets.’ ”
Suzie laughed. “What fun!” she said.
“Way overvalued, huh?”
“Considering there’s no possibility Tiger and Jayne were alive at the same time.”
Now Bernie laughed, too, and looked at Suzie in the nicest way, almost as nice as how he looks at me. Meanwhile Suzie took out her phone and tapped at the screen. “Jayne—died 1967. Tiger—born 1975.”
“I think you’ll enjoy the party,” Bernie said.
“What party?”
“You’re first on the list.” And then he started telling her all about our Christmas party, Plumpy’s red van, elves, and a lot of other stuff that Suzie seemed to enjoy.
“So the putter is about making people holistically whole?” she said. “I can’t wait.”
Bernie took another look at the sheet of paper. “Even with the putter, Ms. Becky Simms is still owed over four hundred grand. She tops the list.”
“I hope she likes golf,” Suzie said.
* * *
The morning of the party we woke up to find a Christmas tree lying in the front yard, like it had been dumped any old way.
“Accounts for the nominal cost part of the genuine personally hand-cut Christmas tree offer,” Bernie said, as we dragged the tree inside, me, Bernie, and Charlie all pitching in. The whole house smelled like a forest right away. We got the tree set up on a stand in the front hall and decorated it with stars Charlie cut out of construction paper, Bernie discovering that our old store-bought decorations had gone with Leda in the divorce. It ended up looking great! We high-fived each other, Bernie and Charlie doing the high-fiving part and me sort of leaping over their hands. Did the tree wobble a bit? Maybe, but Bernie caught it before it fell, if falling means actually hitting the floor, and it was soon up and straight again, even better than before. What a beautiful tree! I had a sudden and irresistible urge to mark it. And then I was out on the patio, taking five.
During that little time-out, the phone rang in the house and I heard Bernie pick up.
A voice came over the speaker, powerful and somewhat harsh. “Hi, kiddo.” Only one person in the world calls Bernie kiddo.
“Ma?”
“You sound surprised.”
“Didn’t expect to hear from you, that’s all. Aren’t you and Hax on a cruise to Jamaica?”
“Antigua. And you can call the mainland from a cruise ship. This is the twenty-first century. But as for Hax, don’t mention him ever again.”
“Uh, why not?”
The back door opened and out came Bernie. He shot me a look you hardly ever see from him, a look that says Save me. I went over and sat on his feet.
“I caught him red-handed,” Ma said.
“Doing what?”
“Packing his Viagra on a business trip. A business trip that didn’t include me, if I have to spell it out.”
“Oh,” said Bernie. And then, “Ah.” Followed by, “I thought he was retired.”
“He still consults,” Ma said, “but is that the point?”
“Maybe there’s some explanation that doesn’t involve . . . you know.”
“Hell’s bells! What kind of detective are you? There’s no goddamn explanation that doesn’t involve you know. Probably not ever about anything, but I digress. Just come get me.”
“You—you’re not on the cruise?”
“Haven’t you been listening? You’re too young for dementia. Why would I go on a cruise by myself? Would you want a herd of old duffers hitting on you twenty-four/seven?”
Bernie shook his head. He was as scared as I’d ever seen him.
“Bernie? You still there?”
“Yes.”
“Then come get me.”
“I don’t understand,” Bernie said. “You want me to come to Miami?”
“Miami? Who said anything about Miami?”
“It’s . . . it’s where you live.”
“What’s happening to you? Why would I want . . . for God’s sake, I’m at the airport!”
“The M . . . M . . .Miami airport?”
Ma’s voice rose. A bird took flight in a hurry from a nearby tree. “Your airport! Valley International! Terminal C!” Click.
Charlie came out. Bernie still held the phone. He gazed at it like he’d never seen one before.
&nbs
p; “C’s just C, right, Dad?”
“Huh?”
“Like for spelling.”
Bernie nodded slowly, a faraway look in his eyes.
“Who’s Hax?”
“Your granny’s latest boyfriend, now ex.”
“She doesn’t like getting called Granny.”
“I forgot. What does she want you to call her?”
“Last time she said she hadn’t made up her mind yet.”
Bernie nodded again. Yes, a faraway look. You could almost say lost.
* * *
“And this,” Bernie said, “is Suzie. Suzie, my mom.”
Suzie held out her hand. “So nice to meet you, Ms. Little.”
“Ms.?” said Bernie’s mom. “I don’t care for that at all. And my most recent married name is Levine.”
“Mrs. Levine, then,” said Suzie.
“Make it Minerva.”
“Minerva it is.”
They shook hands. Suzie wore just one ring, small and green. Ma wore lots, all big, with many colors going on.
“I’ve heard nice things about you,” Bernie’s mom said. “Insofar as I can get any actual information out of kiddo here.”
“Uh, thanks,” said Suzie.
“But I also heard nice things about Leda, back in the day.”
“Ma?” said Bernie.
“Just sayin’,” said Bernie’s mom.
She turned to Charlie. We were in the hall, standing around the tree, and the party was just getting started, Suzie the first guest to arrive. Bernie’s mom was staying with us, meaning she’d taken over the office, where she slept on the pullout couch on special sheets she’d had Bernie order on the drive back from the airport.
“I didn’t know you could pay five hundred bucks for sheets,” Bernie had said.
“Stinginess is unattractive,” she’d told him.
Whatever that meant. But back to the beginning of the party, Bernie’s mom turning to Charlie.
“And that goes for you, too, young man.”
“Huh?” said Charlie.
“Minerva,” Bernie’s mom told him. “Call me Minerva. It’s my name, after all. Do I call you grandson?”
“Huh?”
“Try not to say huh so much. It’s unattractive.”
“Ma?” said Bernie.
“Just sayin’,” said Bernie’s mom, and opened her mouth to say more, but at that moment there was a knock on the door. A knock on the door and I hadn’t even heard anyone coming! That was bad, what with me in charge of security. I hurried over, got there ahead of Bernie, was ready for anything by the time he opened the door.
Ready for anything, but maybe not this. Yes, a human male—no doubt about that, on account of the smell. A human male, on the small side, with big pointy ears and a long pointy nose. He was dressed all in green, a strange, tight-fitting outfit that included a cone-shaped hat with a red ball on top, and very long shoes that ended in curled-up tips. He carried a bulging sort of bag over one shoulder and his breath was somewhat boozy. The fur on the back of my neck began to rise. That had to mean something.
“Bernie Little?” he said. He had a squeaky little voice that bothered my ears.
“Uh, that’s me,” said Bernie.
“Merrrry Chriiiistmas,” the . . . scary, that was it. My fur rising up meant the little dude was scary. Not that I myself was scared. No way. That was just my fur talking. Does that make sense to you? If only you were furry, it would. “Merrrry Chriiiistmas,” the scary little dude said, smiling a big yellow smile. “I’m Elrood, earl of the desert elves, at your service.” He looked around. “Where’s Santa 365?”
“Not here yet,” said Bernie.
Elrood the Elf’s eyes—active little eyes, perhaps a bit too close together—went still for a moment. “Held up by a blizzard, sure as you’re born,” he said. “How about we get this party started without him? I hear we have a pro-elfer name of Charlie among us.”
Charlie changed his position slightly, moving from just about beside me to just about behind me. Meanwhile I picked up a strong scent of earwax coming off Elrood the Elf—like in waves! Way more powerful than your normal human earwax, although nothing like we rock in the nation within, which is what Bernie calls me and my kind. Were elves somewhere in between when it came to earwax? That was as far as I could take it.
“Nothing to be afraid of,” Bernie’s mom said. She gave Charlie a bit of a forward shove. He dug in his heels—a move I’ve got myself—and did a nice job of it. “He’s just an actor pretending to be an elf.”
Elrood put his hand to his chest. “How hurtful. I happen to be a real elf and very friendly.” He whipped the bag off his shoulders and dumped out the contents: brightly wrapped presents, a whole big jumble of them. Elrood stooped down, scooped one out, and held it in Charlie’s direction. Charlie resisted for a moment or two, then took it. I recognized that move as well.
“Open it,” Elrood said.
“But it’s not Christmas yet,” Charlie said.
“That’s the whole point,” Elrood told him, his voice for a moment deeper and unsqueaky. He cleared his throat and went on, his voice back to high and squeaky. “None of those technicalities matter at Santa 365.”
Charlie turned to Bernie. “Can I open it?”
“Don’t see why not,” Bernie said.
Charlie started opening the present. “Not like that!” Bernie’s mom said. “That’s nice wrapping paper. It can be reused.” She did a careful job with the wrapping paper, folded it up nicely, then handed the box inside to Charlie.
Charlie lifted the lid off the box. “Hey! A baseball glove!” He put it on, made a fist with his free hand, smacked the pocket. Lovely leather smells came wafting my way. Plans for that glove began forming in my mind. I did my very best to smother them.
“Nice glove,” said Bernie, taking a close look. Bernie knows baseball. He pitched for Army, back before his arm blew out. Even so, he can still throw tennis balls a country mile, which is the kind of mile we have here in the desert.
“Finest in its category,” Elrood said. “Comes with our platinum package.”
“Platinum package?” Bernie said.
Elrood took a phone from a pocket in his green jacket and checked the screen. “Yup, you took the platinum package.”
“I thought it was the entry-lev—”
“Lookin’ right here at Plumpy’s—er—Santa’s deal memo.” Elrood flashed the screen at Bernie and stuffed it back in his pocket.
“What’s in all these?” Bernie said, gesturing at the presents scattered around the tree.
“Why, platinum-level gifts chosen in the spirit of the season,” said Elrood.
Bernie gave Elrood a look that might not have been too friendly. “Where are the other elves?”
“Other elves?” said Elrood. “That would be platinum plus.”
Yes, an unfriendly look, no doubt about it. “And where’s Plumpy?”
“You mean Santa,” Elrood said. “Santa 365. He should be ho-ho-hoing his way in here any second.” He laughed a squeaky laugh. No one joined in. Except for Bernie’s mom. She had maybe the loudest laugh I’d ever heard. It made me yelp, and I’m no yelper.
* * *
Plumpy never showed, but lots of other people did. We had dudes from Valley PD, like Sgt. Rick Torres and Lieutenant Stine. We had Suzie’s friend Carla from the Trib, our mechanic Nixon Panero, plus some of our experts—Prof, our finance guy from the college, and Otis DeWayne, our weapons guy, who brought Bernie a genuine poison-tipped dart from the Amazon, wherever that happened to be. Livia Moon dropped by, although without any of the staff from her house of ill repute over in Pottsdale, business being too hectic at this time of year. Janie the groomer, Amy the vet, and don’t leave out my buddy General Beauregard, a real heavy-hitter who lived with Otis. We did us som
e heavy-hitting, although not much, the General waiting out the remainder of the party in their pickup, and me having some recess on the patio.
The platinum-level presents went over very well. “Bernie! So generous of you!” I heard that a lot. Especially from some perps we knew, like Lumpy Flanagan and Boodles Calhoun and Whizzer Dupuis and Nuggets Bolliterri. “Havin’ the time of our lives!” said Nuggets, chowing down on ribs that Cleon Maxwell had brought over by the truckload from Max’s Memphis Ribs, best ribs in the Valley, no one else close. Don’t let me forget the boozing, of which there was plenty. Although not by Bernie. Did he even have one single glass of bourbon? Not that I saw.
Plus there was Charlie’s friend Esmé. A fine kid with a fine way of slipping me ribs behind her back.
“Told you there’s no Santa Claus,” she said to Charlie.
“He’s coming,” Charlie said.
But he never showed.
* * *
After everyone had gone, we went into the office—me, Bernie, Elrood the Elf—to settle up. Bernie gazed at the bill, his eyes widening.
“Five percent off for cash,” Elrood said. “Meaning actual currency of the realm.”
“What about the fact that Plumpy didn’t appear?”
“There are many demands on Santa,” said Elrood. “But I’ll see if I can shake out a ten-dollar coupon good for next year when I see him.”
“Doesn’t get jollier than that.” Bernie went to the waterfall picture and took it off the wall. We’ve also got ocean and lake and river pictures in the house, water being one of Bernie’s biggest worries. I’ll get to the aquifer issue later on, if there’s time. But the point is that behind the waterfall picture is our safe, containing Bernie’s grandfather’s watch—our most valuable possession—plus the .38 Special and sometimes, actually hardly ever, a roll of cash. Bernie spun the dial. At the same time, Elrood took out his phone, checked the screen, then laid the phone in his lap.
The safe opened and Bernie took out a . . . a roll of cash? When had that gotten in there? Were our finances looking up? My mood brightened, and it was pretty much blue skies already. Bernie closed the safe and rehung the waterfall picture. Elrood rose from the guest chair, tucking the phone in his pocket. Bernie counted out most of the roll and handed it over.
Santa 365 Page 2
