by Alan Russell
When she finished with the dog’s transformation, Angie stepped back and whistled softly. Beauregard perked up, and Darcy got the shot. Moments later everyone was looking at the digital display.
“Perfect!” said the owner. “Why, he looks better than Rudolph!”
Nick thought the dog looked more like a jackalope—a taxidermist’s union of a jackrabbit with horns—than he did a reindeer, but in the picture Beauregard did look like a happy jackalope.
As their shift was ending Angie approached Nick. She had let Darcy leave early, so no one else was around.
“How is Raymond?” Angie asked.
Nick didn’t think he had told her the boy’s name, but then again, maybe he had. “He was feeling better yesterday. I’ll be stopping by to see him later.”
“Take him a candy cane,” said Angie.
The Elf seemed to think candy canes could solve all the ills in the world. “Sure,” he said.
Angie surprised Nick by holding out two closed hands. “Pick a hand,” she said, “any hand.”
To humor her, Nick tapped her right hand. She opened it up, and he saw a folded scrap of paper. Nick lifted it out of her hand and began to unfold it. The process took longer than he expected; what appeared to be a scrap of paper eventually unfolded into a full page of Angie’s unmistakable calligraphy. With her usual flourishes, and some new touches, including snowflakes, she had written the words “Igloo Ice” and a telephone number.
“What’s this?” Nick asked.
“They’re a company in town that makes snow scenes,” Angie said.
“Snow scenes?”
“They make snow, Nick.”
She extended her other hand towards him; Nick took the hint and tapped it as well. In one motion Angie opened her hand and then blew. Snowflakes suddenly dropped out of the air, covering Nick’s face and beard. How in the world? The flakes dissolved on his face and left a wet trail. He caught a flake on his finger, and watched it disappear in front of his eyes.
He wondered how the snowflakes hadn’t melted in Angie’s hand, but like any good magician she hadn’t hung around to answer questions. She was skipping away, singing, “Glad tidings of great joy I bring, to you and all mankind.”
Snow, thought Nick. Raymond’s Christmas wish had seemed the most impossible of pipe dreams before, something so far removed from San Diego’s climate that Nick had never even considered his request.
Nick finally recognized the Christmas carol playing over the mall’s music system. The tempo to “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks” was more upbeat than he was used to hearing, but that was the way with most Yule songs these days.
His daughter Corinne had been about Raymond’s age when she and her Sunday school classmates had practiced that song. One of the kids had taught them alternate lyrics, much to the displeasure of the choir director. Nick remembered how Corinne had thought the new lyrics were so funny. His little girl had sung to him while sitting in his lap. She said it was the version all the kids wanted to sing. It took Nick a minute, but finally he remembered the first lyric.
While shepherds washed their socks by night, and hung them on the line, the angel of the Lord came down and said, “Those socks are mine.”
On the day of the recital Nick remembered there had been a bit of tension. Would the kids sing the funny lyrics they liked, or would they go with the traditional lyrics? With big smiles they made their choir director happy, but it was clear what they were really thinking as they sang.
Nick found himself smiling, remembering Corinne’s big smile as she stood in front of the church singing.
The mall’s loudspeakers started playing a new song, and Nick’s thoughts returned to Raymond, and snow. He took what he heard as a good omen. Dean Martin was singing, “Let it Snow.”
Chapter 15
Away in a Manger
December 5
Where had all the payphones gone, Nick wondered? It had taken him fifteen minutes to find one that was working. The day before, he had told Charlotte he currently didn’t have a cell phone, and she’d been shocked. If he’d told her he had two heads, she probably wouldn’t have looked as surprised.
“You must be the only person on the planet without a cell phone,” she said.
“I had one,” he said, “but I lost it a few months ago and decided it wasn’t worth replacing.”
“That means you can’t text or tweet.”
“Anyone who would want to get my texts or tweets, I wouldn’t want to know.”
She thought he was being funny, and had laughed.
Charlotte answered on the second ring. Nick was glad he didn’t have to leave a message. He never quite knew what to say and hated leaving messages. Maybe that was why he didn’t even have a message machine. That would be something else Charlotte would find hard to believe.
“This is Nick,” he said. For a moment he considered saying he’d had a good time last night, but he was still coming to terms with the reportorial divide and wasn’t convinced she could be trusted. Instead, he said, “I spent my morning on the Laura trail. Based on her drawing, I’m pretty sure she lives in Southeast San Diego. By the looks of it, her drawing was a composite of the Euclid Avenue and Sixty-second Street Trolley Stations.”
“Maybe I could make a few discreet flyers and post them at those stations.”
“That’s kind of what I was thinking.”
“I know a few relief agencies in that area,” said Charlotte. “Tomorrow I’ll bring Laura’s note and suss them out.”
“Suss?”
“I once had an English news director and that was his favorite word. In British parlance it means to investigate.”
“I’ll spare you police parlance.”
“Why is that?”
“Because most of it violates obscenity laws,” he said. In a British accent Nick added, “Anyway, while you suss the relief agencies, I’ll suss the recreation centers and the Boys and Girls Club.”
“I’m regretting using that word already.”
“I was kind of hoping you would.”
“You’re not the only one who’s been working the case,” she said. “This morning I put in some calls to the new underground railroad, but my contacts didn’t remember a girl named Laura. They promised to make some calls on my behalf, though.”
“What is the new underground railroad?”
“Women assisting other women in getting away from abusive husbands,” said Charlotte. “Often families are involved. The mother and her children get relocated to safe houses. But based upon the people I talked to today, I’m fairly sure if Laura and her mother escaped from an abusive household, they did it on their own.”
Nick heard something in Charlotte’s voice. These trips down memory lane weren’t easy for her.
“And when I get a minute I plan to start calling schools in and around Southeast San Diego,” she continued. “I know one administrator who might be able to help.”
“We’ll find her,” said Nick, trying to sound confident.
“Thanks for spending time looking,” she said.
“It made me feel like a cop again. I didn’t realize how much I missed that.”
In the background Nick could hear how busy Charlotte’s workplace was. The news was getting ready to go on air. It probably wasn’t a good time for her to be talking with him, even though she hadn’t said anything to make him think that.
“So,” said Nick, “tomorrow I’ll call some contacts at Child Protective Services.”
“That sounds great,” said Charlotte. “And I’ll spend the morning talking with some church relief agencies that help undocumented workers.”
It was the children of immigrants, Nick thought, who often spoke for their parents. On many occasions Nick had done his field interviews with children translating for their mother or father.
“Lots of immigrants around here,” said Nick. “They come from around the globe. There are storefront signs in languages I can only guess at. From what I can
tell these people have two things in common: many are poor, and all of them are suspicious of cops.”
“How do they know you’re a cop?”
“It must be the doughnut in my hand.”
In the background he heard someone say, “Charlotte, we need you in editing.”
Nick didn’t wait for her to tell him she had to run. “Better hang up before the talk box asks for more money.”
“Call me when you can,” she said.
“Sure,” said Nick.
He slowly hung up the pay phone. Did she mean call him later? He wondered if their relationship extended further than the hunt for Laura. When they had dinner, he had sensed there was something between them, but maybe he had just been reading things into the conversation. To be safe, he figured he would wait until tomorrow to call her. His search for Laura would at least give him a reason.
Nick invested some more change in the pay phone, dialing up the number for Igloo Ice. He had their number memorized; it was the third time he had called that day.
“Is Manuel Cruz in?” he asked.
“Mr. Cruz is out in the field,” said the receptionist.
“Is Mr. Cruz ever in?” asked Nick.
“This is a very busy time of the year for him,” the woman said. “I can connect you with his voice mail.”
“I’ve already left two messages. Does anyone else there schedule snow scenes?”
“No, I’m sorry. Only Mr. Cruz does that.”
“Maybe third time will be a charm,” said Nick. “Let me try his voice mail again.”
The toy train, with Santa acting as its conductor, was going round and round the lobby of the pediatric oncology ward. Nick stood at the reception desk, not quite comprehending what he was being told.
“I’m sorry, Nick,” said Easy. “This afternoon Raymond became sick and he needed to be taken to the ICU. It was more precautionary than anything else.”
“But he seemed fine yesterday,” said Nick. “I mean not fine, but as fine as could be expected.”
Easy nodded without making any comment, but her eyes were saying something.
“I told him I’d be coming by,” said Nick. “I don’t want him to think I pulled a no-show or anything.”
“I’ll make sure he knows you stopped by.”
“I appreciate it.”
Nick began to turn around, but then did an about-face and looked at the nurse again. “Can you do me a favor, Easy? I’ve got something in the works and I need to take a look at Raymond’s room.”
Easy left him at the threshold of the door, saying she’d be back in a few minutes. The lights were on in Raymond’s room. Nick knew that was a sure sign the boy wasn’t home.
The room felt cold and empty. The bed was made, and there was a strong disinfectant smell lingering in the air. Nick wondered if the room was already being prepared for someone else.
He sat on Raymond’s bed and looked at the ceiling. The mobile turned slow circles, but with the lights on, the stars and planets looked lifeless and cast no glow. Not stars you could wish upon, Nick thought. Though Raymond had lived in the room for two months, his stay was marked by very few personal items. There was only one framed picture. Nick reached for it. Raymond had been at least two years younger when the picture was taken. The younger Raymond had rosy cheeks and a child’s eyes. He was sandwiched between two older children, and behind them were two smiling adults. Siblings and parents, Nick decided, noticing the resemblance. It was a winter shot. All the children were standing on a sled. Raymond would have looked at that picture countless times. He would have remembered the good old days, and dreamed of how things had been. Maybe that’s why he wanted it to snow so much. Maybe he thought that snow could bring back that little boy in the photograph.
Nick replaced the picture on the bed stand. It was sharing the space with the Advent calendar. Nick examined the calendar, scanning for the opened flaps. Before he had taken sick, Raymond must have opened that day’s door.
He remembered his reason for coming to the room, and walked over to the lone window and looked out. The boy liked to look up in the clouds, but Nick turned his head downwards to the ground four stories below. It was by no stretch of the imagination a scenic view, not one of San Diego’s memorable beach vistas. On the horizon was Interstate 805. The closer view took in the parking lot, but directly below Raymond’s room was a grassy area interspersed with pine trees that stretched from the building to the sidewalks.
There, thought Nick. It would work just fine right there.
The door to the room opened and Easy walked in. She saw Nick peering through the window to the ground below. He motioned with his hand. She came over and looked to where Nick pointed at the patch of grass.
“I don’t see anything,” she said.
“You will. That’s where Raymond’s going to get his Christmas wish.”
“What wish is that?”
“The snow he asked for,” said Nick. “Raymond wanted Santa Claus to deliver him snow on Christmas Day, and that’s what going to happen.”
Nick was too busy checking out the view to gauge Easy’s expression. “There’s an ice company in town that does these snow scenes, and it seems to me that the lawn down there is just begging for a blizzard.”
This time Nick looked at Easy. Although she was smiling, he sensed her enthusiasm was tempered. “It’s a great idea, Nick.”
Nick said the word she hadn’t: “But?”
“But, I am not sure about your timeframe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Raymond’s entire immune system is compromised. His cancer has metastasized. We’re fighting it every inch of the way, and there’s always a chance for some sort of remission, but I’d think about having that snow delivered soon.”
Nick suddenly realized what Easy was telling him. “You don’t think Raymond will live to see Christmas?”
Easy sighed and said, “The cancer …”
She shook her head and didn’t say anything else. She didn’t have to.
Nick found himself driving back to the Plaza Center. He hated not being able to do anything about Raymond’s situation. When his kids had been growing up, Nick had never felt worse than when they were sick and miserable. As a parent, he would have rather taken on their illness than see them suffer. It was the same thing with playground politics. Nick wanted to confront whoever was giving his kids a hard time. Since he couldn’t help Raymond, he could at least focus his attention on two bullies.
He parked at the outer lot, and slowly worked his way around the mall. Sharks can sniff blood from miles away. Human predators were like that, too—they could sense weakness.
Nick didn’t see any sign of his bad guys, but inside the mall he kept up his surveillance, continuing to walk and observe even when nothing stirred his antennae. When he was ready to give up for the night, he strolled behind the scenes and ended up at the security offices. Forster was working late.
“I hope you’re getting overtime,” said Nick.
“The security director says it’s not in the budget.”
“There are a few things that should be in the budget. Some copcycles would be good, especially in the parking lots.”
“Asked for and denied,” said Forster. “But I did call in some favors at SDPD and was promised they’d be sending around more flattops to patrol the area.”
“That’s a start. We could use some stealth patrol cars without the telltale lights to creep up on our creeps.”
“They couldn’t hurt,” said Forster. “Hey, I got something for you.”
“Why do I get a tug in my prostrate when I hear those words coming out of your mouth?”
“I guess your guilty conscience has a funny way of showing itself.”
Forster handed him a folder. Inside it were pictures taken from CCTV footage. Nick started thumbing through the printouts. The quality of the pictures was so-so. Most showed boys and girls placing letters in Santa’s Mailbox.
“Angie helped me
match up the letters with the senders,” said Forster. “She studied all those notes you got hanging on the sleigh. We’re pretty sure Laura didn’t deliver her own letter.”
“Who did?”
Forster tapped one of the printouts. “We think it’s this lady. There are a few shots of her from different cameras.”
Nick thumbed through the pictures and shook his head. “I’ve had DMV pictures that looked better.”
“We figure her for about twenty, maybe five foot four, probably a buck twenty, with dark hair.”
“You can’t even tell her race from these pictures.”
“She’s dark complexioned if she’s white; she’s light complexioned if she’s black.”
“Or she could be a Latina or Filipina.”
“There is that.”
“She’s not Laura’s mom.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’d bet this one has never had any kids. She’s not much more than a kid herself. I’m thinking she’s some friend or neighbor that Laura asked to deliver her note. She might even be Laura’s babysitter.”
“How did Laura know that Santa had a mailbox?”
“She could have seen it last year or this year.”
“So you’re still without a face to your letter.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Where do you go from here?”
“I look for the postscript.”
“You do what?”
“I find the postscript on Laura’s letter.”
“She probably doesn’t even know what a p.s. is.”
“That doesn’t mean she didn’t leave one.”
Forster nodded approvingly, and said, “The frog is back.”
“What frog?”
“One of Aesop’s Fables tells about a frog that fell into this half-filled pail of milk. And the pail’s too big for this frog to jump out, so it looks like he’s going to drown, but the frog keeps moving his legs, and moving them—almost dancing, if you will—really putting on the twinkle toes just like you. And then the magic happens: all of the frog’s kicking churns the milk into butter, and the frog escapes drowning. The moral of the fable is to never give up. That’s how you used to think. You’ve become the old you, Nico.”
