woman’s got more guts, more pride in her than half the adults in this town. She’s so dirt poor she took her young son to see a drunk Santa on the street corner rather than go into one of them big fancy department stores like Thompson’s.”
“Why, Fats?”
“Because, Griff, when you’re that poor it breaks your heart to take your kid to see a department store Santa. You watch your kid all big-eyed looking at all the cool stuff you know you can never buy him. The stuff he knows he ain’t never going to get. The stuff his mom can never afford, because she’s too busy putting food on the table, clothes on their backs, and a roof over their heads. And there’s damn little left over, Griff, even for a Christmas toy.”
“I didn’t realize, Fats.”
“It’s okay, Griff. That’s just the way it is sometimes. For some people.”
* * * *
We were quiet as I drove off to Dumont and Sixth. It was just around the block and a few streets down, and there on the corner we saw the big black Salvation Army kettle, still sitting on its tripod. No Santa in sight. When we went over to the kettle, we saw it was still full of coins and bills.
There was a big sign there that said, “Donate to Santa for Xmas,” but there was no Santa anywhere in sight. And I got the feeling he wasn’t coming back any time soon.
But Fats and I, being the very excellent no nonsense coppers we were back then still did a check of all the local bars, strip joints that served booze, whorehouses, and gambling dens for any word on Jimmy McConnell. And, mind you, without accepting any graft, samples, free-bees, or any other ancillary tokens, services, gratuities, or Christmas-type bonuses.
“He’s a no-show, Griff,” Fats bellowed as we trudged back to our old Plymouth battlewagon.
I nodded. I didn’t like this one bit.
“Something funny going on here, Griff. I wish Mrs. Smith or Bobby would have got a plate number for us, or could describe the car other than just telling us the damn thing had four doors and was a dark color. Kinda limits our options.”
Then the call came in from downtown, Captain Landis on the horn, telling us, “Okay, fellas, it’s Christmas Eve and something’s up as usual. I got a missing persons report on Jake Stanton, fat old drunk playing the Santa gig at Thompson’s Department Store. The guy never showed up for work this morning. A black and white just checked out his place. His wife said he left for work this morning. Never got there. Like the guy just up and vanished.”
I told Captain Landis about Mrs. Smith and Bobby and what they saw regarding McConnell.
“Another damn Santa Claus?” Landis barked, as if he were really surprised—considering all the crap he’d seen and waded through over the years in this town.
Fats and I remained silent.
Landis’ voice came over the squawk box, “Okay, boys, it’s Christmas Eve and it appears we got a Santa snatching epidemic on our hands.”
Fats laughed. I could see that he wasn’t exactly taking this all that serious. No Santa Claus at Christmas was the least of the problems back then in a hell town like Bay City.
Landis didn’t appreciate the humor. “There’s one more, guys. This just came in. Hermitage House, that swanky joint on West Dumont, out in swell town? They had a guy playing Santa, giving out candy to the patrons and their kids in the lobby. He was one of the doormen. It appears he was snatched from there a few hours ago. No one saw a thing.”
“That makes three Santas missing,” I said quietly.
“That sound ominous,” Fats laughed.
“It’s not funny, Stubbs,” Landis growled impatiently, going serious on us, not even calling Fats by his first name.
“So what you want us to do about it? There aren’t exactly any leads on this,” Fats offered, “and before we find out anything, Christmas will be all over.”
“Then make your own leads,” Landis replied.
“And what exactly does that mean, Cap?” I asked.
“Griff, I want you and Fats to get to Thompson’s Department Store. They’ll be needing a new Santa, and Fats is a natural to play the part.”
I heard the Fatman moan and groan but Landis and I paid him no mind.
I said, “Yeah, I get it. When the guy tries to snatch this Santa, he’ll be in for a big surprise.”
“Let’s hope so,” Landis agreed. He signed off and I gunned our old battlewagon down to Thompson’s, an elegant old building that housed one of the city’s last great department stores. Even back then, in the early 1960s, it was a relic of an earlier and more elegant era. Or so they say. An era also of robber baron monopolies and trusts, company towns and corrupt politicos. Hey, maybe things haven’t changed all that much after all.
* * * *
We got to Thompson’s, set everything up with Mr. Smathers the General Manager who ran the place for the owner, Gerald Thompson. He was said to be some weirdo recluse and grandkid of the famous founder, Tobias Thompson. Smathers got things all set up for us, got a Santa suit for Fats—he didn’t need no padding—and in no time at all we had my partner’s large red-suited butt firmly planted on a big ornate throne in a special section of the store called “Christmas Land”. It was stocked with lambs and a couple of tough-guy midget ex-cons we knew who were dressed up as Santa’s elves.
“Fats just smiled at me, winked, and said, “With helpers like those, its no wonder Santa is missing, Griff.”
I don’t think the midget ex-con elves heard him.
Once we were set up the moms brought up their little darlings to tell the jolly fat man in the red suit and long white beard what they wanted for Christmas.
I warned, “Now, Fats, try to be pleasant to the kids.”
Fats just growled, “I hate this, Griff,” but when that first big-eyed tyke came up to him towing his mother behind, Fats’ whole disposition suddenly changed. He showed a big smile and gave out a few jolly Ho-Ho-Ho’s and said joyfully, “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Now tell me, what can Santa do for you, young man?”
I was hanging on the side, talking the ponies with one of the elves, while watching Fats do his Christmas magic. And it was magic. He’s such an amazing fellow, he really did the Santa gig like a true pro. Really made the kids happy. I was sure he was giving them a wonderful memory they’d remember for the rest of their lives. You could see that a lot of the kids actually believed. It was a sweet thing to see. I can still remember back that far these days. They called it innocence in the old days. They call it being stupid or naive today. Times sure change. And kids are all the poorer for it I think.
It was when Fats got up for his noon break and to take a trip to the bathroom that I noticed a guy walk off behind him. I didn’t think too much of it then, but I watched just the same. Then it became apparent that we had what might be—or might not be—a coincidence here. Both guys having to take a whiz at the same time. I moved in. I wondered about the guy who had followed Fats. Was he just a customer who needed to take a leak, some kinky perv, or the Santa-napper we were looking for?
The
