The Santa Caper

by Philip J. Lees

I was looking forward to a quiet evening. In the week between Christmas and New Year there’s not too many folks get mugged, conned, or bumped off, and if they do, they or their nearest and dearest are usually too busy putting their feet up, sinking a noggin or two of Christmas cheer, and counting their days off work—too busy, that is, to bother making the trip downtown to consult a private sleuth. They’d sooner just leave the whole thing to the cops and forget about it.

So when the guy hit the buzzer and waltzed into my office on the third floor at the unfashionable end of 29th and Winos I was just about ready to close up shop and trudge my way down to Sam’s jazz bar for a nightcap or six, after which I’d trust Sam or his assistant bartender, Rudy, to roll me into a cab with a driver who knew my way home better than I would by that time.

My camera outside was off, so I’d had no warning. But I could tell at a glance—telling things at a glance being one of my specialties as a gumshoe—that this was not one of my regular kind of clients. For one thing, his suit was bright red and fringed with white fur. For another, as soon as he saw me he walked right up to the chair across the desk from me and sat down in it, not waiting for me to wave him to the saggy armchair off to one side, which is how I generally put potential customers ill at ease until I can soften them up in advance of asking for my advance, if you see what I mean.

He was young-looking, but big and round. Round head with big round eyes, round red cheeks, round shoulders and a big round potbelly straining the buttons down his front. I couldn’t see any lower, but my finely honed detective’s instincts told me he probably had round thighs too, and I would’ve bet 100-8 odds that his boots had round toes, not pointy. He had curly silver-blond hair and a beard and mustache out of the same page of the design catalog. He was clutching a cap that looked like it came from one of Ma’s home made Christmas crackers (I still miss Ma pulling those crackers).

It seemed a good time to take my feet off the desk, so that’s what I did, parking them in the well underneath, close to the Ruger .357 Magnum I keep there on a magnetic clip in case of surprises. I slid my glass of Jackie D into a drawer and stubbed out my hand rolled stogie in the almost empty pizza box. I’d turned off everything earlier except the hooded desk lamp—we PIs like our ambience—and the flash of the neon signs across the street reflected through the blinds across the last uneaten slice of mozzarella with extra anchovies: yellow, blue; yellow, blue. I was ready for business.

“Evening,” I said. I knew he couldn’t argue with that. It was almost 9 pm.

“Mr. Candlemaker?” I nodded. That’s what it said on the door.

“My name is Claus. I have a problem.”

“Surprise me,” I said. I was trying to get him off balance but he beat me to it.

“My reindeer are dead. Slaughtered. I want you to find out what happened.”

“Why me?”

“It’s your neighborhood.” He shrugged. On him, a shrug was like an earth tremor that took a few seconds to settle down. “There’s also been a murder.”

“A hundred a day plus expenses,” I said. “Two days minimum in advance.” I’m no saint, just a guy trying to make a living.

He didn’t seem to care about the dough. He pulled out a roll of fifties, thumbed four onto the desk and stowed the rest away. Then he told me the rest of the story. The night before, after his job was done, he’d parked his sleigh, reindeer attached, in Sam’s private parking lot and slipped in for a snifter. He’d overdone the Christmas cheer and woken up in the back lot with a dead Sam and a pile of reindeer carcasses. So he’d wandered around town in a daze for a day and then come to me.

I understood immediately—understanding things immediately is another thing I’m good at. The trouble was, he’d reckoned without Sam’s security measures. Nobody went near Sam’s after he closed up shop. Other bars had a watchdog: Sam had a watchwolf, a snow wolf. He brought it back from Alaska after his work on the oil pipelines made him enough to stake his own business. Sam loved that wolf like some men love the wives they’ve never had. He named him Bo.

And nobody parked in that back lot without paying for it. “Rent,” Sam used to call it. But there was something in his eyes when he said it that told you not to mess with him.

You don’t spend as many years as I have being a private dick without learning to solve crimes instantaneously. But telling wasn’t good enough. I had to show him.

“Let’s go,” I said.

It was only two minutes walk to Sam’s bar. Rudy was serving. Rude was a quiet guy who never sampled his own wares. It had been drink that laid Rudy’s Ma low, so Rudy himself was sober as a monk and picky in his habits. He looked subdued and tense as he brought our drinks, a JD for me and a port for Claus. “Poor Ru,” I thought, but really he didn’t deserve much sympathy.

I had it all figured out now. In fact, you could say I had a sure lock on it. I stared Claus in the eye.

“What, son?” I said. “You still don’t know who killed your reindeer?”

Claus shook his head.

“It was Rudy here,” I said. “He let Bo loose on them. Sam got in the way and the wolf lost control.” In my mind I could see the column Bo would have in the next day’s paper.

“What?”

“Never get too near a wolf,” I said archly, “especially when it’s got the taste of blood. Sam’s paid for it. You could have, too.”

I was trying to let him down gently, but I could see he still didn’t understand.

“Rude offed the rent-owed reindeer,” I said. I tossed back the last of my bourbon and walked out into the cold, foggy night.

The Santa Caper

by Philip J. Lees

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