St. Nick

by Alan Russell

  “Maybe I should get me one of them outfits,” Henry said with a wink. “Women loves a man in a uniform.”

  “You got a uniform.”

  Henry shook his head from side to side in one long, slow movement. He was totally bald, but his head had a shine to it, as if waxed.

  “Not like yours, young fellow,” he said. Henry’s wistful smile showed several gold-plated teeth. “The ladies, I see how they pay to sit in your lap.”

  “Not my lap. Santa’s. There’s a difference.”

  Henry did another round of head-shaking, this time more vigorous. “Didn’t you get deputized, young fellow?”

  “Deputized?”

  “Yeah, Santa deputized you. Made you one of his helpers. You’ve earned the perks, boy, and perks is perks.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Suppose? S’posed to be the season to be jolly.”

  Henry sat down on the bench with a satisfied sigh. “And you got a sit-down job too, with banker’s hours. Can’t beat that. When I retire, I wants to be Santa Claus.”

  “When are you going to retire?”

  “Thinking about four years from now, young fellow. I’ll be eighty then. But could be I’ll wait until I’m eighty-five.”

  Nick had the distinct feeling that everyone was “young fellow” to Henry, and that he was of an age where remembering names wasn’t one of his priorities. He introduced himself anyway: “Nick Pappas,” he said, extending a white-gloved hand.

  Henry took the hand. “Henry Ragsdale. Now’s Nick your name for real?”

  Nick nodded.

  “Nick, Saint Nick.” Henry looked pleased with himself. “Don’t that beat all, we got us a real Saint Nick.”

  “Better not expect any miracles.”

  “I’m not expecting no miracles, Saint Nick, but I won’t say no to none neither.”

  “That’s two of us.”

  Nick finished with the final touches on his uniform, and Henry nodded his approval. “Go get ’em, Saint Nick.”

  “On Dasher, On Dancer,” said Nick.

  Henry clapped his hands.

  There was no Angie waiting to walk with Nick to his post. It felt a little bit like going solo on patrol for the first time. He tried to remember the other reindeers’ names. The line, “Up Comet and Up Cupid” came to him, and he remembered Rudolph, but he blanked on the other names.

  On Dummy, Nick thought.

  For the second day in a row the utility tunnel was deserted. The side lighting on the walls made his shadow huge, big enough for the Saint Nick of legend. Like most shadows, it lied. But he had to think big, as big as the shadow. Saint Nick was even bigger than that. As a cop, Nick had learned to always act as if he was in total control. Stepping from the tunnel into the spotlight of the mall, he called out, “Merry Christmas!”

  The shoppers greeted him with smiles. Fingers pointed his way, and hands started waving.

  “Merry Christmas!” Nick called out again. But what he was thinking was “eight hours.” In eight hours he could hang up his Santa suit. Soon, it would be all over.

  Nick didn’t have any candy canes to hand out, so he just offered waves. He was already sweating. Christmas in Southern California was as much an oxymoron as jumbo shrimp. He’d lived in San Diego long enough to know there were more hours of sun breaking through the clouds in November than in any other month of the year. And this November had been particularly warm, with the thermometer consistently hitting the 70s. He wiped his forehead. There should be a different uniform for Southern California Santas—red tank tops, red running shorts, and sandals were in order. And as for the long beard, that definitely didn’t work. In SoCal, it would be more in keeping for Santa to have a trimmed goatee.

  He shouted out another rousing “Merry Christmas!” and the words were returned to him by all the shoppers in his vicinity. They didn’t know, thought Nick, that he was the Emperor with his new clothes. It would serve him right if some little kid pointed out that he was no Santa, no Santa at all.

  As he rounded the corner to the North Pole, he was glad to see there wasn’t much of a line waiting. Angie was the first to spot him.

  “Look! It’s Santa Claus! Good morning, Santa.”

  Some of the kids echoed her words; some clung that much tighter to mom or dad. At least no one started crying—yet. Nick tried not to be self-conscious. He knew that all the young eyes were on him as he made his way to the throne.

  “Your cookies and milk, Santa Claus,” announced an elf, and with a flourish brought him a mug and a plate full of cookies.

  In a voice that no one but Nick could hear, she quietly introduced herself as Darcy. Like the other elves that Nick had met, she seemed entirely too young, and too full of energy.

  Nick took a sip of his milk and a bite of cookie, and then the show began.

  It wasn’t as much of a madhouse as the day before, but it was still busy. Every kid was a different challenge. If Nick didn’t get sick it would be a miracle. Half the children seemed to have runny noses and coughs, and they could have used a full-time makeup artist getting them ready for pictures.

  “Twins, Santa!” Darcy’s enthusiasm sounded a little off, and her smile looked strained. “Meet Sean and Dawn.”

  “Me first,” said Sean.

  “No, me.”

  The twins pushed and shoved; Sean ended up on Nick’s right leg, Dawn on his left. The twins wore identical outfits of red short sleeve shirts and green shorts.

  “Santa, I want a Barbie for Christmas …”

  “You don’t need another stupid Barbie. What I want is a …”

  “No, me first,” said Dawn.

  “No, me.”

  “Ladies first,” said Nick.

  “She always goes first.”

  Dawn looked smug. “I was born eighteen minutes before you were.”

  “Were not.”

  “Was so.”

  She made a face at her brother, and then started reciting her list: “I want Playhouse Island …”

  Dawn ignored Sean’s raspberry and kept talking.

  “… and my own iPod so my stupid brother can have the old one and play his stupid songs in his stupid room …”

  Sean razzed her again, even louder. Nick wished he could do the same to both of them, but he held up his hands.

  “I’m disappointed in both of you,” he said, his voice severe, his white eyebrows knit. “This is the time of year for goodwill, for kindness. If brothers and sisters can’t get along, how can we expect peace on this earth? Santa is going to be watching the two of you between now and Christmas and if your behavior doesn’t improve …”

  Nick let his threat hang in the air. Both twins seemed to take it seriously.

  “I’m sorry,” said Dawn.

  “I’m sorry too,” said Sean.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Nick said. “Now what else is on your list, Dawn?”

  In a meek voice, Dawn did her asking. Her brother refrained from interrupting her. Then Sean told Santa what he wanted. When it came time for their picture, the twins smiled for the camera like little angels.

  Nick handed each of them a candy cane, feeling pretty good about himself. Almost smug. That was before the twins examined the digital proof.

  “I have a bigger smile than you do,” said Dawn.

  “Do not.”

  As Darcy helped the twins’ mother decide on the appropriate picture package, Nick looked at Angie. Both of them shook their heads. “My headache is bigger than yours,” Nick said.

  “Is not.”

  At three o’clock, Nick was thinking, “One more hour.” All day he had been itching. He would have given anything for a back-scratcher. Angie had been right about the need to air out the batting. He’d done his best to hide his scratching from her, but she seemed to see everything. It didn’t matter. In sixty minutes he’d be free of his Santa hair shirt forever.

  As he finished talking with a little boy he felt sorry for—the kid’s mother had dressed him
up like Little Lord Fauntleroy for his picture with Santa—he scanned the upper levels. Mall patrons were always leaning along the railings, pausing in their shopping to watch Santa. Their smiles weren’t only for the children, but for themselves. In their faces, Nick could see their trips down memory lane. But nostalgia didn’t seem to be on one viewer’s mind.

  He was probably twenty-five, with a body that looked as if it had been sculpted in a prison weight room. He had long hair, dark and unkempt, that was at least a week overdue for a shampoo. His eyes were brown and predatory, and he was searching for something: prey.

  Nick saw the man’s eyes alight on something, and then start tracking it. Nick followed the direction of his gaze and saw a woman loaded down with packages leaving a jewelry store. His suspect continued to follow her with his eyes, and then he pulled out a cell phone and punched in a number.

  Nick’s every instinct was to follow the guy, but his Santa outfit wouldn’t exactly be inconspicuous. He reached into the candy cane bag, digging for the two-way radio and hoping Angie had remembered to pack it. In his haste he spilled half the candy canes into the sleigh. Finally he found the walkie-talkie.

  “Dispatch,” he said, “North Pole here.”

  The reply crackled through the speaker. “Go ahead, North Pole.”

  “I think I got a line on a Grinch.”

  “I copy.”

  “He’s on the second floor walkway overlooking the sleigh. Suspect is a white male, six foot, with dark hair, around twenty-five. He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt with no lettering. Suspect is on the horn tracking a red-haired female exiting northwest from Luna Jewelers.”

  “I copy. Security is on the way. Ten-four.”

  As Nick clicked off, he looked up and was taken aback by the presence of a delighted-looking boy and his startled parents. Darcy mouthed the word “sorry” to Nick, and then overenthusiastically said, “Hi, Santa, this is Jason.”

  “That was so cool,” said Jason.

  Nick wondered how long they’d been standing there. “I suppose you heard me talking to my North Pole operator.”

  The boy nodded.

  “Well, Jason, unfortunately, I was discussing the behavior of some boys that aren’t good like you. I’ll let you in on a little secret; they’re going to be getting coal in their stockings.”

  Jason nodded very seriously.

  When Nick finished with Jason there were several other lap-sitters waiting. He wondered if the bad boys had been apprehended. So this is what a retired fire dog feels like, Nick thought—useless. As much as he wanted to deny it, he was a cop to the bone. That’s why he couldn’t stand the thought of being booted off the force. Even his Union Rep hadn’t been blowing his usual smoke the last time they’d talked. He had told Nick that he was working to save his benefits. That wasn’t what Nick wanted to hear. It was his job he wanted, not the benefits.

  For half an hour the children kept coming, but as soon as there was a lull in activity, Nick surreptitiously picked up the walkie-talkie and called security for an update.

  “We tracked the woman to her car and watched her drive off,” said the dispatcher. “There was no sign of your suspect following her.”

  The unsaid insult came through loud and clear: You wasted our time on a wild goose chase.

  “That guy wasn’t here doing Christmas shopping,” said Nick. “He was scouting out targets.”

  The dispatcher clicked off without answering.

  The last few minutes of the shift were slow and anticlimactic. Nick was sorry he wasn’t leaving the job with one last bust. It surprised him that he cared enough to want to go out with a bang.

  It was time for the changing of the guard. Darcy put up the “Santa Is Feeding His Reindeer” sign, and Angie turned the display clock to 4:10.

  Angie went off to hand out a few candy canes to children, returning to Nick’s side on their walk back to the locker rooms.

  “I think your time as a police officer helped to make you a good Santa,” she said.

  “I’ll use you as a reference on my resume.”

  Angie seemed to think that was funny and Nick didn’t feel the need to add that his Santa days were over. When they reached the utility tunnel, he took off his cap and wiped his forehead. He moved his wig to the side, and fanned his head while waving away steam. As they walked, Angie took off her own cap and used it as a makeshift fan to send a breeze Nick’s way.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen any other Santa sweat as much as you do,” she said.

  “I’m Greek,” Nick said. “Hot blooded, you know. And let me tell you, this costume’s designed for sinners, not saints.”

  Angie looked at his sweat-stained costume. “Maybe you can do me a favor,” she said.

  “Shoot.”

  “There’s a one-hour cleaners in the mall. It would be a big help if you could drop off your uniform there.”

  “No problem. I’ll do it on my way out.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you could keep the Santa suit hidden from little eyes.”

  Nick saluted. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said. “Don’t worry. Santa’s secret is safe with me.”

  Chapter 6

  For Unto Us a Child Is Born

  When Nick walked into the locker room, he found another Santa sitting there. The second shift Santa was wearing earbuds and moving his head to the beat of the music. His headset muted most, but not all, of the heavy metal sounds.

  Nick wondered if it was bad luck for two Santas to be in a room at the same time. But the second-shift Santa apparently didn’t believe in some great Brotherhood of Claus, and didn’t even bother to acknowledge Nick’s presence. He pulled a cigarette from a pack, lit it, and then inhaled deeply.

  As he blew out the smoke he said, “The local Gestapo’s looking for you.”

  “What?”

  “The big, bad mall sheriff said he wanted you to go to his office.”

  Nick figured that this other Santa couldn’t be older than twenty. Punk Santa, he thought. The kid’s eyes were shut again, and he was lost in his heavy metal. Nick walked over to where he was reclining and tapped him on the shoulder. Punk Santa reluctantly removed his earbuds.

  “I think Santa’s supposed to be back from feeding his reindeer by now,” Nick said.

  “Yeah, well, I’m waiting to make an entrance.”

  He went back to his music. Nick yanked the earbuds out of Punk Santa’s ears, and then pulled the cigarette from his lips, dropped it to the floor, and ground it into the cement.

  “Hey,” said Punk Santa, standing up. For a moment Nick thought they might come to blows. Beard to beard, gut to gut, they stared at one another like two aged and costumed Sumo wrestlers. Great, thought Nick. In the spirit of Christmas two Santas were ready to duke it out. But something about Nick’s calm, and the way he was holding himself, must have spooked the younger man.

  Punk Santa shook his head and sneered. “Fine,” he said, his tone mocking, “for the sake of the children I’ll lose my tunes and smokes.” Then he offered up a last display of sarcasm: “Anything else, grandpa?”

  Nick nodded. He tossed him a candy cane and said, “For your breath.”

  Punk Santa walked over to a garbage can, tossed the candy cane into it, and then sauntered out of the locker room without saying another word.

  In some ways Nick knew that he’d picked the fight. Lots of kids that age just postured for the sake of posturing. It was possible the kid would act differently when he was around the children. Maybe he wouldn’t be so flippant. Maybe he would even care. Not that it was Nick’s business anymore.

  He popped off his cap and wig, pulled off his beard, then heaved a sigh of relief. He wondered what Forster wanted him for, and whether it could wait until after he changed. No, he decided. Maybe it had to do with those two lowlives he’d spotted.

  Forster was in his office doing paperwork. “What’s up?” Nick asked.

  “Crime,” said Forster.

  “I’m not surprised
. Your dispatcher pretty much blew me off. Did anyone even try and follow up on my potential suspect?”

  Forster nodded. “We made sure your suspect wasn’t following the woman that came out of the jewelry store.”

  “He targeted her and then he made a call,” Nick said. “Anyone stop to think his partner might have been outside in the parking lot waiting for that woman? Instead of trying to take her down there, and being on candid camera, he might have decided the best thing to do was follow her home. I wouldn’t be surprised if he rolled her in her own driveway.”

  Forster sighed. “I suppose that’s possible. Normally we would have done a better job of following up, but right after your call came in we got pulled every which way. We had to call the EMTs for what looked like a heart attack, and we were in the middle of taking down a shoplifter.”

  “I’m betting the guy I spotted is one of the muggers. I know he’s bad news. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “And don’t say I’m not listening to your vibe. I was just on the way to the control room to get a printout of your suspect. Care to join me?”

  Nick pretended it didn’t matter to him, but he followed Forster into the next room. A security guard, another Jarhead, was sitting at a desk studying two monitors with split screens. In Nick’s time in the Navy, all Marines had been called “Jarheads,” and all sailors had been called “Squids.”

  “We got CCTV security cameras throughout the mall,” said Forster. “Everything you see on the monitors is going on in real time.”

  The eyes in the sky had views inside and outside the mall. Nick could see the food court, walkways on all three floors, and the parking lot.

  “Did you queue up that film I wanted?” Forster asked.

  The Jarhead nodded and hit a button. They watched the tape. “There,” Nick said, “that’s the guy.”

  They watched as the suspect kept moving his predator eyes. “He’s checking out all the security cameras,” said Nick. “He knows where every one of them is. And right there he sees our shopper leaving the jewelry store. He’s all eyes now. She looks ripe for the picking, and that’s why he’s calling his partner now. He’s got him on speed dial.”