Santa 365

by Spencer Quinn

  “Much obliged, your honor,” Elrood said, at his very squeakiest. He bowed and tucked our cash in his pocket, beside the phone. We left the office, headed toward the front door. “That the facilities?” Elrood said, as we passed the bathroom door.

  Bernie nodded.

  “Mind if I . . .”

  Bernie nodded again. Elrood went into the bathroom, closing the door. Bernie and I continued into the front hall, where we waited for him. Suzie, Charlie, and Bernie’s mom were gazing at the tree. Bernie’s mom turned to Bernie, lifting the glittering strands of her new necklace off her chest.

  “Had no idea you were doing so well, kiddo.”

  “Um, kind of misleading,” Bernie said. “The fact is—”

  I never learned this particular fact, because at that moment Elrood appeared. He shook hands with everybody, except for Charlie, who got a head pat, said “Merrrry Chriiiistmas!” one more time, and was gone.

  “What a party!” Suzie said.

  Bernie smiled.

  “Count the spoons,” said Bernie’s mom.

  Everyone laughed, except for Charlie who went into the kitchen, came back and said, “Eleven.”

  The whole expression on Bernie’s mom’s face changed. For a tiny bit of time, she looked almost young, almost happy. Bernie gave Suzie a quick kiss on the cheek. I located a forgotten rib behind the tree. If this was Christmas, we were having a great one.

  * * *

  The next morning, not long after Suzie had to go to work, Charlie wanted to try out his new glove, so we played catch in the front yard: me, Bernie, Charlie, and—big surprise—Bernie’s mom. And here was an even bigger surprise: she could throw and she could catch. Zip zip zip went the ball, round and round. You’ll have trouble finding a better ball-playing family than ours. I myself don’t throw, of course, but I’m a good catcher. In fact, there’s probably no one in my class when it comes to snatching balls right out of the air.

  “Chet! Cool it!”

  Oops. Something wrong? I dropped the ball at Bernie’s feet. He wiped it off on his pants.

  “Chet reminds me of Gaylord Perry,” Bernie’s mom said.

  Bernie laughed.

  “Who’s Gaylord Perry?” said Charlie. Sounded like a perp to me. If so—heads up, Mr. Perry. Hope you’re good at breaking rocks in the hot sun.

  “Spitballer,” said Bernie, winging the ball to Charlie. “Won over three hundred games.”

  Charlie caught the ball in his new glove, gripped it, got set to throw to Bernie’s mom, and then paused. “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Elves make the presents, right?”

  “Uh, in Christmas theory.”

  “But Santa brings them.”

  “Yup.”

  “So how come Elrood brought the presents? He’s an elf.”

  “Well, in this case, Santa didn’t come.”

  “So Elrood knew Santa wasn’t coming?”

  Bernie went still. In a soft voice, maybe just meant for him—and me, goes without saying—he said, “Even though he said Santa would be along any minute.”

  Soft, but Charlie heard. “Yeah,” he said.

  Bernie gave Charlie a long look. So did Bernie’s mom. And me, just because they were doing it. No idea what they were seeing, but I saw a great kid.

  The next thing I knew we were all in the office. Bernie removed the waterfall painting, spun the dial on the safe, opened it up. The .38 Special was inside, but Bernie’s grandfather’s watch was not.

  “Last-minute pit stop,” Bernie said. “Quick but productive.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Bernie’s mom.

  Bernie stuck the .38 in his belt. “How about you two hanging out for a bit? Chet and I have work to do.”

  * * *

  “Never liked elves, myself,” Bernie said, as we drove off in the Porsche, Bernie behind the wheel and me in the shotgun seat, our normal seating arrangement, although once we’d gotten it reversed, meaning Bernie riding shotgun and me behind the wheel. What a night that was! No time to go into it now, and no point, either, since I doubt we’ll be visiting that part of Mexico anytime soon. “Always found them kind of creepy.”

  What was this? Elves? Was this a case about elves? I went over everything I knew so far, an excellent technique in our line of work, but was unable to come up with fact one. Did that bother me? How could anything bother a dude riding shotgun? I sat up tall and straight, a total pro, on the job.

  Bernie got on the phone, called Rick Torres.

  “Hey!” Rick said. “Mr. Christmas himself. I’ll be drinking off the top shelf for the foreseeable future.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t go aw-shucks on me, Bernie. I’m talking about that case of single malt.”

  “A whole—”

  “Best Christmas party I can remember, and I actually can’t remember much of it. Your mother is one tough babe, if you don’t mind me saying so. Is she dating anyone, by the way?”

  “You’re married, among many other things.”

  “I was thinking of my uncle Hector.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Better than he used to be.”

  “How about we aim higher?” Bernie said. “Meanwhile I need a favor—address for Norbert Norwood Bonaparte, a.k.a. Plumpy. Parole Board should have it.”

  “Yours for the asking, Mr. Christmas.”

  “Knock it off.”

  Rick called back almost right away with an address in El Monte, not far past the airport. Bernie calls it Subprimoville, for reasons of his own. Subprimoville is just about the biggest development in the whole Valley, detached and semidetached and not detached at all houses built in what Bernie calls faux adobe style—or sometimes faux-a-dough, when it’s only him and me in the conversation—going on and on to the edge of the desert. Soon we were stopping in front of a small, detached faux-a-dough with vacant lots on both side, the driveway already occupied by a small van. Bernie parked right behind the van, blocking it in. Just another one of our techniques at the Little Detective Agency. We’ve got many, one of the reasons we’re so successful, except for the finances part.

  We hopped out of the car, me actually hopping, and . . . what was this? Bernie hopping, too, despite his poor leg, wounded in the war? That lovely feeling of somehow being better than ever came to me again. What a life! And Bernie had the .38 Special in his belt. That made it even more better!

  A little path lined with wilted flowers led to the front door. We didn’t take it, instead walked around to the back. Fine with me. As for why, I had no clue. All I knew was that someone was moving around inside, either a woman or a small man. I listened more carefully: yes, a small man, men and women having different strides, no matter their size.

  A little lawn lay at the back of the house, the grass all brown, litter stirring in the breeze. We closed in on a window, peeked inside, me with front paws on the sill, Bernie looking over my head. On the far side was a living room, pretty much trashed: everything upside down, cushions slashed, holes poked in the walls here and there.

  We moved on toward a door, the glass kind with a metal frame. It led to a kitchen, also pretty much trashed, and in fact still being trashed at that very moment. The dude doing the trashing was small and thin, wore jeans and a muscle shirt that showed he had none. He looked like a lot of dudes, especially those of the short, brown hair and smallish features type. But was there something familiar about those close-together eyes? I sniffed at the door, but couldn’t pick up his scent, maybe overwhelmed by the powerful smell of pepperoni, coming from an open pizza box on the floor. Pepperoni in my near future? No one has it better than me.

  We watched the little dude. Trashing maybe wasn’t exactly what was going down, although things were getting trashed. Am I confusing you? That would be bad. The point is the little dude seemed to
be looking for something. He checked the cupboards, the fridge, the freezer, grabbing all sorts of things—ice cube trays, pickle jars, plates, and bowls—and tossing them aside in a big shattering mess, but not before first examining them for who knows what. Car keys? His wallet? Those were my best guesses.

  The little dude picked up a toaster, turned it upside down, and shook it. Crumbs fells out. He threw the toaster across the room, and on the follow-through I got a real good look at his skinny arm. And what was this? On his skinny wrist he was wearing Bernie’s grandfather’s watch, our most valuable possession! I barked a short, angry bark, couldn’t help myself. The little dude spun around in our direction. His mouth fell open and he bolted from the kitchen and out of sight. Bernie tried the door: locked.

  “Back, Chet.”

  I backed up the tiniest bit. Bernie kicked at the glass, shattering it in the most exciting way, and the next moment we were racing side by side through the kitchen, me a little in front, my MO when it comes to racing side by side. Did I slow down slightly in the vicinity of the pizza box? Possibly, but I made such quick work of that slice—or two—that you wouldn’t have noticed. And here was something interesting: as we left the kitchen and entered the hall, leaving the zone of pizza smell, I picked up another scent, namely that of earwax. For a moment I thought I understood the entire case, if this was a case. But how could it be? Was anyone paying? I forgot the whole thing, charged down the hall and out the open front door.

  The little dude was sort of hopping up and down in what you might call fury beside the van, so nicely blocked in the driveway. Perps—the little dude had to be a perp, no doubt in my mind—hopping up and down in fury was just one of the fun things you get to see when you work at the Little Detective Agency. But we’re not hiring, so don’t even think about it.

  * * *

  Do you ever get so full of life you can hardly keep it all inside? That was me chasing down a perp, the situation we had going on now. The little dude shot us a fearful glance—actually closer to terrified, always a gratifying sight—and booked. What a fast runner he turned out to be, at least for a human! He was almost clear out of the driveway before I grabbed him by the pant leg.

  He did some kicking and screaming. I—how would you put it? Urged him to put a lid on it? Something like that. He went quiet. Bernie came over, looked down, and said, “Merrrry Chriiiistmas.” The little dude called Bernie a name I’m sure he didn’t mean. “Is that any way for an elf to talk?” Bernie said.

  Elf? That earwax smell? Yes. Those close-together eyes? Yes. But what about the strange pointy ears and the long, droopy nose, no and no? I was a bit lost. Lucky for me, I had Bernie.

  * * *

  First off—all of us back in the kitchen of what I had a notion was Plumpy’s crib, but don’t ask me to explain how—Bernie examined the little dude’s phone. After a few moments he nodded, held up the phone so I could see. What was this? A video of Bernie spinning the dial on our safe, real close up so you could see the numbers?

  “You’re a quick thinker, Elrood.” Bernie laid the phone on the counter. Elrood! I’d almost gotten there on my own! Was I on fire or what? “So you already know how this is going to play out,” Bernie went on. “Start by telling us what you’re looking for.”

  “Don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Bernie—now wearing his grandfather’s watch, actually the very first time I’d seen him do that—smiled a quick little smile, one of my very favorites of all his smiles. It meant we were winning. I eased over toward the pizza box, still on the floor. Empty. Elrood sat on a chair by the table, per Bernie’s orders; Bernie himself leaned against the wall.

  “Got any ID on you, Elrood?”

  “Nope. And you can’t keep me here—you’re not the law. This is kidnapping.”

  “Call the cops,” Bernie said.

  The call-the-cops technique! One of my favorites. Bernie was on fire, too. Elrood glared at him, said nothing.

  “Chet? Elrood’s going to give you his wallet.”

  What was this? Something about Elrood? Time to grab him by the pant leg again? Why not? I hurried across the room. Elrood’s eyes opened wide in alarm. He whipped out his wallet. I grabbed it in a flash and trotted over to Bernie.

  “Good job.” Bernie wiped the wallet on his pants—not sure why—and went through it. Not long after that, he was on the phone. “Rick? Need another favor.” He listened. “My mother’s age? Not sure I’m at liberty to reveal that.” He glanced at a plastic card he’d taken from Elrood’s wallet and said, “Run Roland Y. Blum.”

  Bernie waited. I rechecked the pizza box. Still empty. Was there any reason not to lick it? Time passed, time of the well-spent sort, and then Bernie said, “Thanks, Rick.” He put the phone away. “Elves on parole, huh, Elrood?”

  Elrood did some more glaring.

  “And what we have here—breaking and entering—would be a parole violation, not to mention the theft of the watch. So it’s back to Central State for what Rick Torres tells me would be the remaining three years of an eight-year stretch for embezzlement. Plus whatever the judge hands down on the new charges.”

  Elrood glanced down at his feet: small feet in dirty tennis shoes.

  “Doing the math, Elrood?”

  Elrood didn’t answer.

  “Did you meet Plumpy inside, by the way?”

  “Goddamn loser,” Elrood said.

  “Pot calling the kettle,” Bernie said, which zipped right past me. “Doing an unnecessary three years plus spells loser to me. Right now the loser play is to keep your mouth shut. The winner play—meaning there’s a chance I let you walk out of here—is to start talking now.”

  Elrood’s eyes did some shifting around. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

  “Let’s skip this part,” Bernie said.

  Elrood did some licking of his lips. He had a yellow tongue, kind of pointy. Was he an elf or not? I was kind of confused on that.

  “One point two,” he said at last, nothing at all elfish about his voice.

  “You’re talking about Plumpy’s Ponzi scheme haul?”

  Elrood nodded.

  “Of which he’s paid restitution of one thousand fourteen dollars and eighty-one cents,” Bernie said.

  “That much?” said Elrood.

  Bernie started to laugh. Then he stopped abruptly, and gave Elrood a long look.

  “Plumpy said he pissed it all away,” Bernie said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But no?” Bernie said.

  “He had to do time anyway,” Elrood said, “whether he coughed up or not.”

  Bernie glanced around the wrecked kitchen. “What makes you think it’s here?”

  Elrood shrugged.

  “Don’t tell me you killed him?”

  “Do I look like a killer?”

  “A bit,” Bernie said. “Or maybe you beat it out of him.”

  “I didn’t,” Elrood said.

  “Meaning someone else did?”

  “We didn’t have to—” Elrood shut himself off. His eyes seemed to get even closer together, something I’d never seen before. That and the powerful earwax smell added up in my mind: Elrood couldn’t be human—he had to be an elf.

  Bernie unfolded Suzie’s printout. “This is a list of Plumpy’s victims. You’re not on it.”

  “Why the hell would I be?” Elrood’s voice, sort of human since our meet up here at Plumpy’s, was now squeaking back up into elfish territory. Chet the Jet, way ahead of the curve! No time now for the story of the night Bernie and I for a longish moment on a mountain curve were actually ahead of the Porsche, driverless behind us but coming up fast.

  Bernie nodded. “That would be too convenient. But who’d have it in for Plumpy the most?”

  Closer and closer together came Elrood’s eyes. I couldn’t bear to watc
h.

  “Someone on this list, correct? And here you are going over Plumpy’s crib. So is it possible there’s some connection between you and any of these people?” Bernie gave the printout a little wave. “How about I start at the top? Four hundred thirteen thousand seven hundred one dollars—less ten thousand for a putter we won’t go into now—owed to Ms. Becky Simms, Two Bar Ranch, Ocotillo Springs. Know her?”

  There was a long silence. Then Elrood said, “You’re the relentless type. The world would be better off without your kind.”

  Which made less sense than anything I’d ever heard coming out of a human mouth. I reminded myself that Elrood wasn’t human, and got right back in the picture.

  “I’ll watch my back when you’re around,” Bernie said.

  Which also made no sense. Bernie never had to watch his back: he had me. A whole lot of nonsense was suddenly going down in Plumpy’s kitchen. I edged a bit closer to Elrood, got him within prime lunging distance.

  “Meanwhile,” Bernie went on, “what’s your connection with Becky Simms?”

  Elrood gave a long sigh and rubbed his face with both hands, rubbed it hard like he was trying to rub it away. Was that possible? Could he maybe rub his whole self away and pull off an escape? I let him know I was real nearby.

  “What the hell! Is he going to bite me again?”

  “Can’t think why,” Bernie said. “And I wouldn’t call what happened outside an actual bite.”

  “No?” said Elrood, raising his pant leg. “Then where did this blood come from?”

  Bernie peered at Elrood’s leg. “You shouldn’t scratch mosquito bites.”

  “We don’t have mosquitoes out here.”

  “All the more reason,” Bernie said. “Back to Becky Simms.”

  Elrood sighed again. “She’s my batty old aunt. Lives with Shirley, my other batty old aunt.”

  “They found out you were doing time with Plumpy?”