Oh Holy Knight

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “You really are my favorite uncle,” she exclaims as he leads her into the kitchen. I ignore the dig about him being her favorite uncle and focus on the basket. I’m about to dig into it when my cellphone rings. I lift it from the coffee table and glance at the screen.

  Pops.

  Great.

  Swiping my thumb across the screen, I accept the call and bring the phone to my ear, bracing myself for whatever hell he’s calling to deliver. Yesterday he called just to sing Dominick The Donkey to Anna. When he became a caroler, I have no idea.

  “Hello?”

  “Did you get it?” he asks.

  “Did I get what?”

  “The elf!”

  Ah! I should’ve known.

  “I take it you left this thing on the stoop?”

  “No, Santa Claus left it you dope.”

  “Right, well, does Santa want to explain what I’m supposed to do with reindeer food?”

  “Shove it up your ass for all I care, it’s the elf that’s important.”

  I look at the stupid doll. Do kids really like this thing? I mean, his eyes are creepy as fuck and what’s with the evil grin? It doesn’t exactly scream good cheer.

  “Are you there?”

  My dad’s boisterous voice startles me for a moment and I snap out of the elf induced trance.

  “Hello? Nico? Ah, for fucks sake! What’s wrong with this phone?”

  Crazy, I tell you.

  Fucking nuts.

  “I’m here,” I call. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

  He seems even more bizarre than usual.

  God help us all.

  “Never mind that,” he grunts. “Now, listen here, there should be a book in the basket. Do you see it?”

  Moving the coloring book aside, I pluck the story book from the basket and open it, flipping through the pages.

  Blah, blah, blah.

  “What about it?” I question.

  “Tonight, before Anna goes to bed, read the story to her. Then after she goes to sleep you have to make the elf do something.”

  I pause mid page turn.

  I really thought we’d have a couple more years before we’d have to send him to the funny farm. I guess time really isn’t on his side.

  “Come again?”

  “Something over the top,” he replies. “I saw some clever ideas on Pinterest.”

  I close the book and try to picture my old man—his glasses perched on his nose as he scrolls the internet—but it’s a stretch. The guy doesn’t even know how to work his phone much less a computer. I bet he doesn’t even know what a search engine is.

  “Hold the phone—you’re on Pinterest?”

  Oh, to be a fly on the fucking wall, man.

  “What’s next? You going to tell me you shop at Hobby Lobby too?” I tease.

  “Keep it up, kid, and Santa is going to bring you fucking coal for Christmas,” he grinds out. “Now, quit busting my balls and pay attention. Every night, after Anna goes down for the night, you’re going to move the elf around the house. The more pretend trouble the little fucker gets into the better. When Anna wakes up, she’s gonna go searching for the elf to see what kind of mischief he got into while she was sleeping. Then, the night before Christmas Eve the elf is going to make his journey back to the North Pole where he’ll report to Santa on whether Anna made the nice list or the not.”

  Like there’s a shot in Hell that Anna will ever be on the naughty list.

  “So, let me get this straight, this little bastard is a rat and I’ve gotta move him around the house every night?”

  Who signed me up for this gig?

  “Basically.”

  “What if I forget to move it?”

  The odds are great.

  “Set an alarm on your phone, write yourself a fucking note—whatever it takes. You fuck this up and I’ll kill you.”

  “Gee, who pissed in your cornflakes?” I mumble.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m the Elf Bitch, I got it. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, church tonight at eight. Be there.”

  Then he hangs up, making it clear there is no room for argument. Not about the little spy in the basket and certainly not about attending church. I toss my phone onto the coffee table and shake my head. I swear the man gets grumpier and crazier with age.

  I place the book next to the basket and slap my hands on top of my thighs. I’m about to join Anna and Enzo in the kitchen for some chocolate balls when the front door opens. Smiling, I turn my head just as a shopping bag comes flying through the doorway. The grin falls from my face and my eyes narrow as six more bags follow. When Carrie finally appears, she stumbles through the door carrying a fucking toy soldier that’s as tall as her.

  Christmas, man.

  It brings out the crazy in everyone.

  Sighing, I rush to help her, taking the life size thing from her hands. Where we’re putting this, I have no fucking idea.

  “Um, Carrie, babe, what is all this shit?” I ask, setting the soldier down next to the stairs. She kicks the bags out of her way and closes the door. Turning to face me, she inches up on her tip toes and presses a kiss to my lips. I forget all about the shopping bags and the larger than life solider and wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her close.

  Now, this is more like it.

  Fuck the elf.

  And the toy soldier too.

  She brings her hands to my cheeks and breaks the kiss before I can really turn things up and slide my tongue inside her mouth.

  Well, that was short lived.

  A groan sounds from the back of my throat and I open my eyes. My gaze wanders to her swollen lips and I silently wonder if she’d mind prolonging the tree trimming escapades. Enzo seems to be doing a good job at occupying Anna and it would take hardly any effort to throw Carrie over my shoulder, carry her upstairs and bury my face between her legs.

  I’m about to suggest just that when she shrugs her leather jacket off and turns to enter the living room. She stops suddenly and a yelp sounds from her mouth. Spinning around to face me, she points toward the coffee table.

  Why does she look horrified?

  I touch the top of my head to check if I’m still wearing the tiara.

  “What in God’s name is that thing doing in this house?” she shrieks.

  Confused, I take a step closer and glance over her shoulder. The only new addition since she left to go shopping is the elf basket. I look back at her.

  “You mean that?”

  She nods and I shrug my shoulders.

  Even she thinks it’s a creepy looking thing.

  I go to wrap my arms around her waist again, but she side-steps out of my reach.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  What the hell does a man have to do to get some action around here?

  “Why is there an elf in our living room?” she presses.

  “I don’t know,” I mutter, snatching her by the waist and pulling her into my arms. I bend my head and press my mouth to her neck. “My father dropped it off for Anna.”

  She pushes me back and wriggles out of my arms again.

  Fucking hell.

  “Nico, that thing has been torturing parents for years. We’re doomed,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Clearly.

  “I’m not moving that thing every night,” she declares. “I love you and I love Anna, but I’ve seen what that thing can do to mothers and I like my sanity. The elf is all you, babe.”

  Great.

  Apparently, the little fucker isn’t just a rat, he’s a cockblock too.

  Tis’ the fucking season.

  Chapter Three

  Wolf

  I throw my leg over my Harley and reach into my back pocket for my to-do list. Don’t fucking laugh—there’s a lot of moving parts when it comes to Christmas and lists keep me on track. I pull the pen tucked behind my ear and cross out a few things. But then I remember thr
ee more things that aren’t on the list and add them to the bottom.

  “Is that a notepad?”

  I lift my head and look at my vice president, Pipe, who does a shit job at trying to hide his smirk. He elbows Parrish, who stands next to him and my jaw ticks. If they’re not busting my balls, they’re not happy.

  “Look, Parrish, he’s got a notepad.”

  Shoving the pad back into my pocket, I cross my arms against my chest and glare at the two men who have made my life hell for the last thirty years. They are the two biggest pains in my ass and yet I’m certain I couldn’t live without either of them.

  “Laugh, motherfuckers, but remember I’m the guy who keeps all you people in line.”

  “With your trusty notepad?” Parrish quips. “I never needed a notepad to keep everything afloat,” he continues, pausing to tap a finger to his temple. “My head got us through.”

  His head.

  For years his fucking mind was our biggest enemy.

  “If that isn’t an oxymoron, I don’t know what is,” I grunt. “And I hate to break it to you, Parrish, but you didn’t need a notepad because you had me.”

  And I had the notepad.

  He spits his toothpick onto the gravel and turns to Pipe.

  “Did this old fuck just call me a moron?”

  I don’t bother waiting for Pipe’s response. Instead, I leave them bickering like a bunch of broads at a beauty parlor. The Satan’s Knights have seen a lot of change over the years, but some things remain the same and those two old goats are set in their ways.

  I climb the steps leading to Kate’s and pause midway when I notice Bishop holding a ladder. My gaze travels to the roof and I spot Riggs and Bash fighting as they try to set up the inflatable Santa.

  Those two on the roof haven’t changed either.

  We still need a translator to understand the shit that comes out of Bash’s mouth and Riggs—well, he’s dry humping a plastic Rudolph while poor Bash sits there trying to blow Santa.

  I shake my head and bring my gaze back to Bishop.

  “How long have they been at that?”

  “Too fucking long,” he grunts. “I could’ve sent Connor up there, not only would it be done already but I bet you he’d do a better job.”

  No arguments here. Bishop’s kid is smart as a whip and a damn good boy.

  Cupping my hands around my mouth, I divert my attention back to the roof and holler for Dumb and Dumber to get down. When I fucking say church is at eight, church is at fucking eight. The rest of the hoodlums better already be seated at the table.

  I make my way inside of Kate’s and am immediately blasted by the Christmas music playing overhead.

  Santa Claus is coming to town, alright.

  Let’s just hope he gets here before I have another heart attack.

  My gaze cuts to the bar where Bash’s girl, Lydia, stands talking with a man I’ve never seen before. Narrowing my eyes, I take in the lanky guy who towers over our best bartender. Standing tall at around six feet, he’s thin—so thin that his clothes appear three sizes too big. His hair is on the longer side too and he’s in need of a shave. A shower probably wouldn’t hurt either.

  I tear my eyes away from him and spot Blackie sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a soda. How do I know it’s a soda? Well, for one the thing is loaded with Maraschino cherries. Apparently, Lydia makes a mean cherry coke and since Blackie’s gotten clean and sober, the man has a fucking sweet tooth. The other day he went to pull out his pocketknife and a Tootsie pop fell out of his kutte. I bet you anything he’s the reason my Dum Dum supply has diminished.

  I meander over to him and clap him on the back.

  “Black,” I greet, but he doesn’t take his eyes off our new bar hand. He may be knocking back sodas and hoarding suckers, but the man is perceptive as fuck. He brings the straw to his lips and sucks down some cola. After a few slurps, he sets the glass back on the bar and turns his gaze to me.

  “New hire,” he says flatly and looks back at the guy. “Riggs says he’s alright, but something about him rubs me the wrong way.”

  “Well, he’s gunning for your hairdo,” I deadpan.

  Blackie’s hair is the envy of nearly all our women. He cut it once and broke the hearts of all his admirers—his wife included.

  “Gunther,” he grunts.

  “Say what?”

  “His name.”

  I scratch my beard and look back at our new employee. We’ve never had a Gunther before, I suppose that’s mainly because everyone in Staten Island is either named Anthony or a Nicky. There’s a reason they call this place Staten Italy.

  “Where’d Riggs find him?” I ask, knowing damn straight he didn’t put an ad on Craigslist. He’s a computer geek but when it comes to hiring, he pulls people of the street and fits them for a Big Nose Kate’s t-shirt without giving them a background check. That’s Riggs’ biggest flaw—his good heart.

  It makes him trust too easily.

  “He’s a dishwasher at the catering hall next door,” Blackie supplies.

  Keeping my eyes trained to the guy, I lift an eyebrow.

  “The Old Bermuda Inn?”

  “You know another catering hall we share a dumpster with?” he volleys, popping a cherry into his mouth.

  “Smartass,” I grunt, watching as his lips quirk. The faint grin doesn’t last long, though, and he schools his features before continuing.

  “Riggs says he’s got two small kids and that he’s looking to make extra money for the holidays.” He pauses and his brown eyes lock with mine. “Can’t knock a man for trying to make his kids have a good Christmas, but I don’t know, man, I can’t shake the feeling that something is off with him.”

  If we’ve learned anything through the years, it’s been to always trust Blackie’s gut. It’s very rarely steered us wrong. That being said, it’s fucking Christmas and at one time or another, we’ve all struggled around the holidays. Hell, when Nico was a baby I worked three jobs just to keep the electric on, if it wasn’t for the few scores me, Parrish, and Pipe did around the holidays, there wouldn’t have been a single present under the tree for my boy.

  I reach behind me and pull out my notepad.

  “Keep an eye out and find out what ages his kids are,” I say, flipping the page. I add Gunther’s name to the list before diverting my attention to the back of the bar where the Toys For Tots box sits. “Any donations?”

  Blackie shakes his head.

  “Someone dropped off a basketball last week but that’s about it.” He pushes back his stool and stands. “Still early, though. If the box doesn’t fill, me and Lacey will be happy to fill it up.”

  “We’ll all chip in,” I reply.

  “Nah, Wolf, I mean it. The club does a lot with the toy run, and you got a full plate with the kids at Frankie’s House. It would be mine and Lacey’s honor to help out.”

  A couple of years ago, after Bishop retained full custody of Connor, we reached out to the social worker in charge of Connor’s case and started doing a toy run for the kids in the system. Now, every year, the night before Christmas Eve, we dress up as a bunch of Santa’s, fill our red sacks with the toys on the kids wish list and ride.

  If someone would’ve told me the guys who once rode their Harley’s through the front windows of a Chinese restaurant and shot up a fish tank would be riding to deliver presents to kids in need, I’d have told them they were crazy. But we don’t ride to serve the Devil as much as we ride to serve the community these days and I’m okay with that.

  “Appreciate it, brother,” I say, pocketing my notepad.

  “What’s with the pad?” Blackie questions.

  “Don’t ask,” Parrish says, walking up behind us. “He gets offended when you talk about the Holy Grail.”

  Ignoring him, I walk down the hallway and make my way to the back room that serves as our chapel, finding Stryker, Deuce, Cobra and Linc all gathered around the table waiting for me to declare church is in session.

&nbs
p; A sense of nostalgia fills me as I stare at them. It seems like just yesterday I was riding my Harley across state lines in search of men who would join our chapter and now here they are—a drifter, a wanderer, a roamer and a loner. Four men who swore they’d never park their pipes in one place. Stryker’s married with a baby on the way. Cobra finally married Celeste and when they’re not busy chasing their two little girls, they’re working on adding a boy to the mix. Deuce and Ally are engaged and Linc married my niece Kelly. I also can add Great Uncle to my list of titles.

  The door closes behind me and I watch as Riggs, Blackie, Bas, Parrish, Pipe, Bash and Bishop all take their seats at the table. That’s when I notice Nico is missing. Muttering a curse, I reach for my phone, but before I can call the little shit and hand him his ass, the door storms open and he comes barreling through.

  “Why do you have white shit all over you?” Riggs asks him. “You look like you plowed through a mountain of cocaine.”

  Nico shakes the fake snow from his hair and shoots me a glare.

  “Your fucking hazmat suit didn’t work out too well,” he grinds out.

  “Do I want to know what you were doing that required a hazmat suit?” Riggs asks.

  “He was putting up his new Christmas tree,” I say, leaning my back against the chair. I fold my hands behind my head and smirk at my son. “A flocked special.”

  “Fuck this flocking crap and while we’re at it…” His voice trails as he shakes more snow from his hair. “…fuck your elf too. Carrie nearly died when she walked in the door and spotted that thing.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Pipe questions.

  I tell them about the basket, and they all start ripping on Nico. It’s the end of life as he knows it, they say. From this point forward he’s a prisoner to the elf. Little do they know they’re all about to become a bunch of elves themselves.

  I take the meat mallet and slam it against the grain of the table. One of these days I’m going to trade this kitchen utensil for a real fucking gavel. “

  “Alright, shut the fuck up and settle down,” I call, lowering the mallet again. “Church is in session.”