Santa's Special Delivery
Lubrican
Santa’s Special Delivery
by Robert Lubrican
Bookapy Edition
Copyright 2010 Robert Lubrican
2nd Edition edited 2023
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Rights for use of cover art purchased at iStock.com
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Contents
Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine
Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Epilogue
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Chapter One
I always wanted to be a cop, from the time I was a little guy. When all my friends wanted to play cowboys and Indians, I wanted to be the sheriff. I was in Boy Scouts too, which eventually led to me being in an Explorer troop sponsored by the Crowley Police Department, or CPD as we called it. Of course I got a degree in Criminal Justice when I went to college.
So I always knew that law enforcement would have a big impact on my life. What I did not know was that something along the way to getting my degree would have an even bigger one.
What that was, was one of the many part-time jobs I had while I was in school. I had a small scholarship, but I still needed money for books and living expenses. One of those jobs was as the Santa at Burgdorf's Department Store, from Thanksgiving up until Christmas Eve.
It was the typical Santa gig, where kids came up and sat on my lap and told me what they wanted for Christmas. One of the things I learned early on was that not all kids are excited about a big guy in a bright red suit and all that facial hair, who have booming voices and move quickly. It scares the crap out of some kids. I also found out there are kids who don't really believe in Santa, but still want to hedge their bets. So they'll sit on his lap and ask for things, but they ask a lot of questions too. And then, of course, there are the kids who just want to make trouble. As a cop I deal with them when they're grown up, but I can tell you it starts much earlier than that. I've had my beard pulled off a dozen times, and some attempts made to uncover the pillows they know I'm stuffed with. I even had one kid stick a pocket knife in my fake belly and then jump off my lap, crowing that he proved Santa doesn't exist because it didn't hurt when he stabbed me.
But I was still hooked on doing it, and that's because of the kids who did believe. The hope in their eyes is something that still brings tears to my own.
Of course some of them ask for impossible things, and there's nothing you can do about that. "Please bring something that will cure my daddy's cancer," is an example. I mean it tears your heart out. Sometimes you can talk to those kids in a way that gives them a little hope without making promises you can't deliver on. Like with that last example, I told the little girl that I would try to help the doctors and researchers be as smart as they possibly could be, so they could find a cure if at all possible. It's not much, but it's better than lying or saying "Get off my lap, kid. I'm no doctor!"
Don't laugh. There are some guys who play Santa who don't give a shit. They're just there for the money, and if the pay you get as a Santa makes that much difference to you, then you're in a world of shit already.
But there are a few of us out there who become Santa when we put the suit on. It's hard to explain, because it sounds stupid, and "Santa" means many different things to different people.
Maybe by the time I finish telling this story, you'll understand what Santa means to me, and who I tried to become when I was wearing the big, red suit.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
First off, I spent the money to get a good wig and beard. I put the beard on with gum Arabic. When properly applied, it will withstand a pretty hard tug. And they look a lot more natural, of course. I also bought my own suit, but all that wasn't until years later, after I graduated from college.
It's still one of my hobbies, you see. I've been doing it now going on twenty years. Every winter I volunteer to work New Year's Eve in exchange for being able to take some vacation during Christmas time so I can be Santa someplace. It doesn't matter where, to me. It can be in a big store, though I don't like those as much, because they tend to try to get you to shill their own stuff. But I've done it in malls and smaller stores too.
The reason it doesn't matter is that I have an ulterior motive. No matter where I pursue this little hobby, I invariably meet some kid whose family could use a little help. And that's where the rest of the guys in the CPD come in.
I made Detective Sergeant after ten years on the force. I'm not being immodest when I say that I'm one of the most experienced men in the unit, and that I never miss the opportunity to train up patrolmen who look like they have promise. Doesn't matter whether they might go to some other department because there are no openings for detectives in ours. Good law enforcement is something you can't have too much of. We're all role models, whether we want to be or not. I've tried to make sure I was a good one.
Which is why some of the men noticed that I was buying presents for some of the kids who sat on my lap when I was Santa, and who weren't likely to get what they asked for any other way.
You can call it charity, or do-gooder stuff. A lot of men have called it stupid. I don't care. I know what a wish coming true can mean to a kid, even if it's only for a little while. And helping a kid feel good, even if it's for only a few days, is worth doing in my book.
I'm not talking about toys, for the most part, though I have gotten a few of them. But if a kid asks for some shoes, because his have holes in them, and more often if they ask for something for someone else in the family, that's where I try to put my energy and money.
What I started doing was picking a kid or two and making his or her Christmas a little brighter. Over the years, some of the other guys got caught up in it and started donating a few bucks to me around Christmas time. Then, because some of the guys were helping get things, I had them deliver them, and that's what hooked them and some of their non-cop friends.
Now I have a whole network of people, probably fifty or sixty strong at any given time, who either collect stuff to give to needy kids at Christmas or donate money and time during the season. Last year we helped a total of twelve families.
So that's why, last December seventh, I was sitting on a big gold painted chair dressed as Santa when a little boy named Timothy climbed up on my lap and changed my whole life.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Timothy was seven when I first met him. I was forty-four and was about six months shy of having put twenty hard years into the cause of serving justice. Twenty years of dealing with the dregs of society changes a man, no matter how hard he tries to keep looking at the glass as being half full.
Doing the Santa thing kind of recharged my batteries. At least unless I got one of the future felons. But I had learned to spot them, and was usually ready for them. I had an elf with a "Naughty List" and I dictated the kid's name onto it, which then gave me an excuse to tell him to take off.
Anyway, Timothy wasn't one of those. He was one of the smart ones. They're the most interesting, but can be dangerous, too. I could see the intelligence in his eyes as he climbed up the steps toward me, leaving his mother behind. She was interesting too. I may as well go ahead and explain that now.
You get a feel for where people are on the socio-economic ladder. It's not profiling, exactly, but poor people wear their clothes a little longer before getting rid of them, whether they're of good quality or not. Poor women don't wear the kind or amount of makeup wealthy ones do. They don't have the same kinds of hairdos. There are hundreds of differences that suggest a man, woman or child comes from a family with few or many means. It's not a hundred percent accurate, but you get a feel for things when you deal with all levels of society like I had for so long.
Both Timothy and his mother were wearing quality clothing. Her jeans were well worn in that soft, many-times-washed way. She didn't abuse them by ripping them up to be fashionable. Her tennis shoes were Converse All-Stars, but not the most expensive kind. Her T shirt had a logo on it, but it wasn't one of the big fashion houses. She looked tired, but then traipsing around with a eight or nine year old - that's what range I put Timothy in - can wear anybody down. Her hair was blond, from a bottle, but not an expensive one, and short with enough unevenness to the edges that I suspected one of her friends cut it for her. Timothy had a home cut too. I put Mom in her early to mid-twenties. The only thing that looked odd about her was that her skin was just flawless, and creamy looking in a way that made you want to reach out and touch it. Things glinted from the edges of her ears, and she had a choker on, which made me uncomfortable because it made her look like a slave who had slipped away from her master and might be snatched up by some other monster at any moment.
I gave a few second's consideration to the possibility that she was Timothy's much older sister, but she turned just then and I saw an orange and yellow tattoo on her shoulder that had to be at least ten years old.
"Ho, ho, ho," I boomed as the boy approached. "And what is your name, young man?"
"I thought you knew the names of all the boys and girls in the whole world," he said, looking at me curiously.
"I have lists of their names," I said. I had faced this situation before.
"Oh," he said. "I'm Timothy."
"Glad to meet you Tim," I said.
"Timothy," he corrected.
"Absolutely. Why don't you have a seat on old Santa's lap, Timothy. How old are you?"
"I'm seven," he said. He looked back at his mother, who was looking our way. She smiled, and he got up on my lap. For some reason I let him do the work, instead of helping him, like I did with most kids.
"Seven year olds are my favorites," I said, my voice conspiratorial. He looked up at me.
"I didn't think Santa was supposed to have favorites."
That was one I had not faced before.
"Well ... er ... I guess that's right, really. I suppose I just have a soft spot in my heart for that age, because that was my favorite age to be once upon a time."
"You were seven?" he asked, clearly awed at the concept.
"Absolutely!" I said. "I grew up just like you are growing up. It just took me longer, that's all. I was seven for seven years, for instance." I grinned at the boy.
"You mean like dog years?" he asked, his eyes wide.
I laughed, and had to turn it into a ‘ho, ho, ho’.
"What can I bring you for Christmas, Timothy?"
He took a few seconds to answer, as if he was thinking hard ... maybe choosing between two or three wanted things, so that he wouldn't sound greedy by asking for them all. Some kids did that, which was interesting because some of them knew they were being greedy, but others were just talking about things they wished they could have. Some kids know the difference between fantasy and reality. Others don't. I saw Timothy's mother sidle closer to us, so she could hear his answer. Smart woman.
"There's this girl named Julia in my school," said Timothy, looking at me as if he expected me to know who he was talking about. I nodded to play along. "Last year you brought her a baby sister."
"Oh." I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.
"So I want a little brother, so I have somebody to play with."
I glanced at the woman, who was shaking her head at me. Smart woman.
"That's kind of a hard one to do," I said softly. "I can't make babies in my workshop, and so the only ones I get to give away are the orphans, when something happens to their mommy and daddy. But we don't want that to happen to some little boy, right?"
His little shoulders drooped. "I guess not," he said. He thought some more, and then looked up into my face. "Can I ask for something for somebody else?"
I nodded. I could feel moisture building up in my eyes. I'm really an old softy at heart. At least when I'm not chasing some asshole down an alley.
"I don't know what it is," he said. "But I know you could bring my mommy something that would make her happy. She frowns a lot and has to work a lot. I wish she could be more happy."
"I'll see what I can do," I said. I had already decided this kid was one of the ones we'd pick this season. I reached into my pocket and hit the speed dial button on my cell phone. That would set things in motion. When they left, they'd be followed to a car, or even back to their house if they took public transportation. Once the residence was identified, there were any number of public records that could be used to ascertain who they were, and we could arrange for things to be delivered to them. We usually did that on Christmas Eve. I didn't ask any of the guys to give up Christmas morning with their families. I took care of that if it became necessary. I had no family. Before I let him go I got him to name one toy he thought might be fun to play with. Then he climbed down and skipped back to his mother. The photographer was talking to her but she was shaking her head.
Parents send their kids to Santa for different reasons. For some it's just a holiday custom they hope will be fun for the child. Or maybe fun for them. Who knows? Some make Santa into a baby sitter while they try to shop. I've even had a few come up to me before their kid does and try and tell me what to tell him I'll bring. They already have the presents, and don't want him asking for something he's not going to get. Then there is the occasional parent who actually wants to hear what he'll tell the Jolly Old Elf. Blondie was one of those.
She was slick about it. I heard her say "I want to go thank Santa for something he gave me a while back. I forgot to write him a thank you note. You wait here for me, all right?" He nodded and she came toward me. I didn't mind that a bit, because she was a looker. She had high, tight breasts that were obviously unfettered, based on the nipples making dents in her shirt. She had a smooth kind of walk, and for just a second I felt ill as I recognized some hooker attributes in her movements. Once she spoke, though, it was obvious she was well educated, and that meant if she was in the business she was a high priced call girl, and high priced call girls didn't have seven year olds and dress like that. I felt better already.
"Hi ... Santa," she said. Her voice was high. It made shivers go down my spine.
"Hello there, ho, ho, ho," I said. My ‘ho, ho, ho's’ were so ingrained by now that I could make a natural laugh come out that way. And my fake ones sounded natural.
"Thanks for being nice to him," she said.
"No problem." Our little game was over and now we were just two adults negotiating.
"The last thing I need is to be pregnant,” she said.
I waited.
"I couldn't hear him during the last part," she said. "What did he actually ask for?"
Now we were one adult and Santa, negotiating. She just didn't know that yet.
"I've got it covered," I said jovially. "Just get him something from yourself."
"I've saved a little up," she said, frowning. "If he doesn't want an X-box or something like that I can handle it."
"He asked me to bring you something to make you happy," I said softly. "Timothy is on my good list for sure."
"He can be so sweet sometimes," she sighed.
"So what would make you happy?" I asked.
She snorted. "Being able to get by on just one job would be nice."
"You'll have to take care of that," I said. "What can Santa bring you for Christmas that would make you happy?"
She looked at me guardedly. "I'll be happy if Timothy is happy," she said.
"Then you go on about your business and I'll take care of Timothy for Christmas. It's my job."
"That's not funny," she said, leaning back.
"It isn’t supposed to be funny," I said. "Do you believe?"
"Do I believe what?" she asked.
"In me, of course."
"In Santa?" She sounded incredulous.
"Believe," I ordered.
She backed up, her eyes guarded. It was obvious she had come to the conclusion she'd found herself a certified weirdo.
"Thanks," she said. "I'll do that." She didn't say it sarcastically. It was more like she was trying to placate the weirdo so he'd leave her alone.
"I'll see you Christmas Eve," I said.
She scooped up Timothy's hand and hurried off. I saw Tom Black watching from his position over by the perfume kiosk and pointed. He nodded and picked them up. I turned back to the line and motioned the next kid, a girl who had to be twelve if she was a day, on up. She was rattling off her list, and it was a long one, before she even got all the way to me.
Chapter Two
Charlie came in and sat down in the chair beside my desk. He had a manila folder in his hands. He flipped it open and recited. "Eva Sinderson, twenty-seven year old, no priors, but was identified as the victim of domestic assault three times before she got a restraining order against one Wallace Gardner, who is a piece of work. Got a rap sheet as long as my arm, including assault, theft, extortion, criminal threats, weapons violations and criminal damage to property. Seems to have a taste for various controlled substances too. He's currently in the slammer for resisting arrest and assault on a police officer, doing eighteen months to two years. Eva Lives at 2206 Maple. Has one known child, Timothy Daniel Sinderson, seven years old, who is popular and, according to the principal, very deserving of our attentions. Mom is involved and helpful whenever the school needs her to be. School records show permission for Carla Hernendez to pick Timmy up at school. We don't have much on Carla yet."
I sat back. "Employment?"
"Waits tables at Angelino's. Cleans rooms at the Ramada on the weekends. Has a license to perform as a clown when juveniles are present, but I don't get any sense she's worked the clown angle for a while. Hard to do when you don't have wheels."
"No vehicle?"
"One older Ford that's been parked for quite a while. It could use tires, turn signals and some glass, according to Black. He says it looks like somebody worked it over with a ball bat. The only reason it hasn't been towed is because it's in the driveway instead of on the street."
"When was the restraining order?" I asked.
He looked through the file. "Looks like it was about a week before he went into the slammer. Latest domestic was the same date he was busted for resisting arrest, but the assault charges were dropped."
"So he got out on bail and convinced her not to press charges," I said. "But he didn't count on the cops pushing their part, and ended up in jail anyway."
"Back in jail," said Charlie. "He's been in and out since he turned eighteen.”
"Sounds like she could use a little happiness," I said.
"Damn straight," said Charlie.
"Okay then," I said. "She and Timothy are confirmed on Santa's list."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
On the recommendation of Timothy's teacher, who was sworn to secrecy, it was determined that Timothy would enjoy a good set of artist's pencils, because he liked to draw and, according to the teacher, was good at it. Tanya, Charlie's wife, is a painter, so I asked her if she'd choose the right stuff. She got him a case that had a couple of hundred pencils in it, along with chalk and who knows what else. It was a nice set, just the thing for Santa to bring him.
It wasn't possible to get good info on Eva without risking her finding out what was going on. The people she worked for are the kind of people who get hinky whenever they're contacted by the cops, and would warn her we were asking questions because they would never believe somebody would do what we do at Christmas. So I winged it, as usual, and got her a gift card charged up with 250 dollars. I figured that would widen those lovely eyes. It was a starter VISA card that one of the local banks worked with us on. Once the money was gone, she could actually open an account and deposit money into the card balance, or just toss it.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Our little group has its own tradition. If it's adults we're helping, we usually just send them things in the mail, with a note that it's from Santa. If kids are involved, we try to deliver everything on Christmas Eve. But that's also a time for family, so we have a get together the evening of the 23rd, have dinner. It's always a pot luck kind of gathering, and people expect more desserts than actual food, but that's part of the fun. While we eat, we make the final arrangements for everything. It sounds like it's a big operation, but it's really not. Before last year, the most we ever did was six kids, and that year two of them were siblings, so there were only five deliveries. We don't have the same players every year either. Some years some people in the group can participate, and other years give other folks a chance. But the dinner is for everybody in the group, which is comprised of about twenty-five people in all. That doesn't count donors who don't want to be a member of the actual "Santa team."
During this year's pre-Christmas Eve gathering, we had eighteen people, which was a good crowd. A lot of the wives like to be involved in the deliveries, most of which are very straightforward. The "spiel" is personalized by each "elf" but it generally goes something like this:
"Hi. I'm one of Santa's helpers, and he's got a runner problem on the sleigh tonight, so we've been drafted to deliver some of the presents. These are for you."
It's that short and that sweet. It's in and out, without answering questions, if possible. Usually people are stunned, and you can get out before they gather their wits. If there are kids present, they pretty much freak out, which also distracts the adults. I think the women just like being mysterious, and seeing the excitement on the faces of people who thought Christmas was going to be pretty thin.
I do know that excitement is contagious. I know this because the guys tell me how the women act when they get home, all flushed with that excitement. To be honest, I think that's why more than a few of the guys joined the group - to tap into some of that ecstatic Christmas Eve sex they heard about from the early members.
Anyway, this year we had adopted seven families and one elderly woman who had no family. I volunteered to do somebody, and the rest of the group assigned me to Eva and Timothy. If there's a single woman they always assign me to her. There are matchmakers in every group, and the fact that I had never been married and wasn't dating anybody seriously just drove some of the wives loco. I suppose it's a compliment, what with them thinking what a fine catch I'd be, but I work a lot, and that's tough on any relationship, much less law enforcement which, along with firefighting, has one of the highest divorce rates in the world. The military is catching up with us fast since the wars in the Middle East.
So the next night I, being one of the hams in the group, put my Santa suit back on and, using one of my smaller bags (it looks more full with fewer boxes in it), drove over to Eva's house. I timed it to arrive at eight, which is usually after dinner and before most kids have to go to bed, but the windows were all dark. I saw the car parked in the driveway. The cracks in the windows reflected the street lights, giving the car a vaguely icy appearance. This was the wrong neighborhood to put the presents blocking the door. And, to be honest, I wanted to see her again. Besides, I didn't have anything better to do, so I just waited.
It's pretty difficult to be inconspicuous when you're dressed as Santa Claus and sitting in a four year old Subaru. I've had people come up to me and say things. The getup attracts them. One guy tried to joke around that the Subaru made a lot more sense than a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer. I was thinking about going somewhere and getting a cup of coffee and a donut (lots of people like them, you know!) when a cab arrived and an adult and child got out. In the light of the street lamp I saw her aquiline nose and pale skin under a stocking cap. Timothy was bare-headed and active, like a lot of seven-year-olds, running toward the house only to dart back to the cab while Eva paid the driver. He seemed to be in a hurry to get inside the house. I saw a shopping bag in her hand, and figured there was some Christmas treat in it he wanted to get to.
I gave them time to get into the house, and get their coats put away. Then, bag in hand, I got out of my car and went up the walk.
I knocked.
I heard a high pitched "Wait!" and the door was thrown open by Timothy. Eva was hurrying toward the door, looking worried. I could understand that, based on this neighborhood and the lateness of the hour. I didn't blame her for assuming that caution was advisable. Timothy, as yet unjaded by the world, had no such reserves. He just wanted to see who was there.
His reaction was most interesting.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, looking puzzled. The mere fact that Santa was standing on his doorstep didn't seem to be odd.
"It's Christmas Eve," I said, and smiled. My beard was made so that you could see my lips and teeth. Smiles on Santa's face often terrify a small child, but a looming mug that is a mass of white hair with a small dark hole in it is even worse. I've learned to take my chances with my own face.
His eyes widened and he sucked in breath. I watched those wide eyes shift to the bag I was carrying.
"You put him in there?" he squeaked, sounding outraged.
"I'm sorry, Timothy," I said. "The little brothers were all taken when I got back to the nursery. All that were left were twin girls, and I didn't think that was what you were looking for. Maybe next year?"
He blinked. "What will happen to the twin girls?" he asked.
This kid had a habit of coming at me from an unexpected direction. Thinking on my feet I said "If we don't get any late requests, which we usually do, then they'll become elves and live with me at the North Pole."
"That's not true," he said firmly. "You don't really live at the North Pole. People have been there and seen it."
"How about we debate all that later," I said, making it an order rather than a question. "I've got a lot to do tonight. Do you want your presents or not?"
"I get more than one?" He looked excited.
"You want your mother to go without?" That time it was a question.
"No sir!" he said immediately. He turned to look at his mother, who had an odd look on her face, having overheard our conversation. "Can he come in?"
Apparently he did listen to her, occasionally.
She hesitated, but only for long enough that an adult would notice, and then said "Yes. From what I hear it's hard to keep him out." Her face was straight, showing no emotion. "At least on this particular night," she added.
Once in, I just invited myself to sit on the couch and put the bag on my lap. I rooted around in it. There were only two things in it, so it was obvious I was just moving air. But it was all part of my act.
"Now, let's see here," I said, mumbling to myself. "Timothy Daniel Sinderson ... seven and a half years old ... firmly on the good boy list ... I know it's in here somewhere ... Ahhhh, here we go!"
I pulled out the artist's kit. It wasn't wrapped. We spent all our money on presents, not momentary glitter. Having practiced doing so, I opened the case with a flourish and displayed the bewildering array of pencils and other supplies inside.
"Wow!" he gasped.
Score one for Santa. Not that that's what it's all about, but you always feel good when you know it was the right gift.
"Will you leave me a picture with my milk and cookies next year?" I asked.
He froze, looked up, blinked twice and then his head swiveled. "We don't have milk and cookies!" he gasped. It was obvious this was on par with a national emergency.
"I just had some," I said, holding my belly and ho, ho, ho-ing. "And I'm about to go have more at my next stop. You can leave me extra cookies next year," I said.
He sat down with his artist's set and started touching everything in it. I got the card out of the bag and handed it to Eva.
"Eva Marie Sinderson, twenty-seven and seven months, firmly on the good girl list. You can open an account with it if you like. Otherwise it has two hundred and fifty dollars on it you can use for whatever you need."
Her eyes did, in fact, widen.
"Well ain't that sweet!" came a grating voice from the door Timothy had, in his excitement, forgotten to close ... and lock.
Eva's head whipped in that direction. "Wallace!" she gasped. "I thought you were ..."
"In jail?" The man grinned.
He was, as most witnesses would describe him, of average height, average build and indeterminate age. His hair was brown and greasy looking. He had the face that cops recognize almost anywhere, a face that is almost always tense, because the man who owns it lives a tense life. He's either hungry, scared, wired, worried or elated at pulling something off. He hasn't had a chance to really relax and take it easy for as long as he can remember. It makes a man old before his years, which is one reason people have a hard time estimating his age. In short, Wallace Gardner was a punk. He had never been anywhere, and wasn't likely to go anywhere other than back to jail. Unless he wised up. But they rarely wised up. Punks like Wallace thought they were smart already.
The trouble was that he had those bright eyes and trembling hands that told me he was on something. And I don't mean caffeine.
"I got out early on good behavior," he said, swaggering a bit. Being able to say his behavior was good was a big deal to this man.
"There's a restraining order, Wallace," she said, firmly but not in an inflammatory way. "You're not supposed to be here."
"Yeah," he said, looking around. "I know. I am here, though, and I'm broke, and that card will spend for me just like it will spend for you. I'll take the fancy art stuff too. That little shit is too young for an expensive set like that. You can get him some sharpies or something."
"They're not yours to take," I said.
"Shut up, old man," he said, swaggering more. "You don't want to get that pretty red suit all bloodied up and torn ... now do you?" He tried to leer threateningly and I almost laughed. Like most petty criminals, he saw what he wanted to see.
"Timothy," said Eva softly. "Go to bed now."
Timothy did exactly as he was told, closing the set and getting up.
"Don't you move, boy!" snapped Wallace, "Unless you want your ass beat too!"
I got up then, and bent over to Timothy.
"Do as your mother told you," I whispered.
"What else you got in that bag, fat man?" said Wallace, coming for me. "And who the fuck do you think you are anyway, giving stuff to my old lady and kid? You been tapping that gash while I was gone?"
I let him get close enough to grab me and brought my right knee up and between his thighs. I actually saw him lift an inch or two upwards.
Now, that knee is not padded. And I've used that move before, so I know what crushed testicles feel like against my knee. And, while everything felt just like it should ... he didn't go down.
That's when I decided it was PCP he was high on ... and knew I was in trouble.
"Call 911!" I yelled to Eva. "Tell them an officer needs assistance!"
"You a cop?" Wallace's eyes widened as he swayed. His body was trying to tell him to drop to the ground, helpless, but his brain wasn't listening. "I've always wanted to fuck up a cop."
He pulled a folding lock-blade knife and flicked his wrist. The blade came half open, suggesting that he hadn't had the knife for long and hadn't had a chance to practice opening it one-handed. I swept his ankles with my right foot, taking him down and managed to roll him over, getting one of his wrists behind his back and pinning him down with my full weight on one knee in the middle of his back. I was grabbing for his other hand - the one with the knife in it - when he realized it was time to fight. He started yelling and cursing. Some of it was nonsense, but it was all loud.
I was lucky. He tried to stab me by putting his arm behind him. He got my belly padding, but that put his wrist right where I needed it and I bore down on it, pressing it against his body. He still had the knife, but I didn't care. I concentrated on holding him down and controlling his wrists. I had at least three inches and fifty pounds on him, but even with my weight, he almost threw me off. I realized Eva was dancing around beside me, trying to help. I turned my head.
"Velcro along my right side!" I gasped. "Handcuffs on my belt!"
I felt her hands on my back and had to tell her to move forward. She found the seam and ripped it open. The first thing her hand hit when it darted inside was the grip of my Sig Sauer, in its holster.
I went cold. More than a lot of times a cop has found himself attacked by a beat up wife while he's trying to take the man who beat her into custody. Psychologists can explain it to you, but for cops ... well, we know that a domestic disturbance is more deadly than dealing with gang members. Statistically, at least. And Eva had dropped charges against this guy in the past. If she chose this puke over me, I was going to be in a very bad way.
"Further back," I gasped, and her hand moved. I almost wept with joy.
She found the cuffs and jerked on them. The case was made for that and they came loose smoothly. She held them in front of my face.
"Do you know how they work?" I panted.
"I've seen it done on TV," she said.
"I don't want to let go of him," I grunted. "He's on PCP or something, and I can barely control him as it is. Can you put them on him?"
"Do I have to?"
"No. But I'm not sure I can keep doing what I'm doing until the police arrive and they help me."
"I thought you were the police," she said.
"Eva, put the fucking cuffs on him!" I shouted.
"Okay, okay," came her voice in my ear. "You don't have to yell at me."
She got the first cuff on and I saw her close it tight, much more tightly than procedure allows. It would cut his wrists if he struggled at all, once I let his arms loose. I didn't really care. As she snapped the second one on, I relaxed a little. At least he couldn't fling his arms around any longer.
"You wouldn't believe how many times I've wanted to do that," she said, leaning back.
"What, cuff him?"
"Yes," she said. She didn't look happy, though.
His hands were starting to move again, so I took the knife away from him before he harvested his own kidney. He was thrashing, and I knew he'd get worse if I didn't hold him down. I didn't want him tearing up her living room, so I sat on him. That's not procedure either. Perps are known to die if you sit on them and they can't breathe. I could hear him breathing, though, between every stream of curses and epithets.
"Wally!" I said, leaning down and shouting in his ear. He froze.
"He hates it when somebody calls him Wally," said Eva.
"Oh," I said. "Well, Wally, you're under arrest for burglary, attempted theft, assault on a police officer in the commission of his duties, resisting arrest, and being an asshole out of season. You have the right to remain silent -"
That's as far as I got. He unfroze and started howling and cursing again, trying to thrash around. Two uniformed cops came through the door, guns drawn. I recognized one of them as a patrolman named Franklin. The other one was a rookie I had seen around, but hadn't met yet.
"I'm a cop, Franklin!" I shouted.
"He is!" yelled Eva, trying to help.
"Is that you, Detective Carson?" He asked.
"Got it in one," I said. "Can you give me a little help here? I think he's on PCP."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It took all three of us to get him out into the yard, whereupon Franklin - the one Wally had bitten and drawn blood on - got on his radio and requested an ambulance.
Franklin had one of the old stun guns. There weren't enough tazers to go around yet. So they basically stunned him into submission. That wasn't procedure either, but when a man like Wally bites you and draws blood, there's an AIDS test in your future, and you don't get to cheat on it. I went back to the house to see if Eva was okay. She was in one of the bedrooms, holding Timothy and telling him everything was all right. He looked a little dazed. And a little scared still. That bothered me.
"Sorry about that," I said, standing in the door. The only thing that had come loose was one side of my mustache, and that wasn't too bad. I was going to have to write a testimonial for the theatrical products company that sold the gum Arabic I used. I wanted to laugh at the thought, imagining them open that letter.
"Thank you," she said. "Could you wait out there?"
I nodded. "Good night, Timothy," I said.
"Good night, Santa," he said softly.
Chapter Three
The younger of the two cops came back in while I was sitting on the couch waiting for Eva.
"Are you really Kit Carson?" he asked. All the rookies do that. The older guys put them up to it because they know it drives me nuts. They claim it's a mark of respect, because of my record and solve rate, but they don't call me that themselves. They just get the rookies to say it.
I sighed. "In the flesh. I'll come down to the station and fill out a report as soon as I'm finished here.
"I'm supposed to interview you," he said.
"You're supposed to interview witnesses, not the cop who made the bust," I corrected.
"You mean the woman?"
"I'll take care of that too," I said.
"Oh." He looked nervous and started shifting around on his feet. It was obvious he didn't know what to do now.
I helped him.
"This is where you say 'Have a nice night, sir,' and then walk confidently out the door to take your perp down to the station and book him," I said.
"Oh ... right. Have a nice night, sir," he said. He turned and left.
I looked around and saw Eva peeking at me from where the rookie wouldn't have been able to see her. She stepped into the room.
"Kit Carson?"
I groaned. "You weren't supposed to hear that. You okay?"
She let her head fall to one side, roll forward and then back up, like she was stretching it.
"Actually, compared to last time he was here, I'm doing wonderful ... fantastic, even."
"I'm glad I was here," I said. "Unless I'm the one who brought him."
"How could you be responsible for that?" she asked.
"I don't know. I sat watching your place for an hour before you got back. Maybe he saw me and would have left you alone except for me coming to your door."
"I don't think so," she said. "After I got the restraining order he stalked me every chance he got. He made sure to stay far enough away that I couldn't do anything about it, but he wanted me to know he was watching. And taking things from us to sell is something he would do anyway, whether you were here or not. He's done it plenty of times before this."
"Then I'm glad I was here," I said again.
"Me too."
"But I am sorry that Timothy had to see all this," I said. "This was supposed to be a quick in and out, brighten his day - yours too, by the way - and be on my way kind of deal."
"It was very thoughtful," she said. "And it did brighten my day. But it's an awfully lot of money to spend on a stranger."
"I can't take all the credit," I said. "There's a group of us who kind of get together to do something like this every year around this time."
"It's still a lot to offer to a stranger," she said. "Though you do seem to know a lot more about us than the average stranger would. It was a little creepy when you knew his full name and all that. You're really a cop?"
"Guilty as charged," I said. "Thanks for not shooting me, by the way."
"Shooting you?" She frowned. "I don't understand."
"It's a police thing. Sometimes a woman gets upset when you're trying to arrest her man. Never mind."
"He's not my man," she said firmly. "He gave me a big tip one time and asked me out and I was stupid enough to go out on some dates with him. He decided he was my man, and it all went downhill from there."
"Oh," I said. "I thought he was Timothy's father."
"Now you're just being stupid," she said firmly. "I have better sense than to let a man like Wallace Gardner into my bed. That's one of the reasons he beat me up so many times. He said he would convince me that I loved him and wanted him between my legs if it killed me. I believed him, and that's when I got the restraining order."
"So where's Tim's father?" I asked. I'm a cop. I'm used to asking personal questions that people think are none of my business.
"Dead," she said. She looked away. "He had a defect in one of the blood vessels in his brain and he had an aneurism out of the blue one day. One minute he was making toast, and the next minute I was freaking out. Timothy was only four at the time."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Not as much as I am," she replied.
"I'll be honest," I said. "I've never lost anybody that close to me before. I've been around a lot of people who have, but I still can't imagine what they're going through."
"I'm glad you're honest. The people I can't take are the ones who claim they know how I feel."
I stood up. "This was supposed to be a merry Christmas. I wish there could be a do-over."
"You did a nice thing," she said. "Go on home to your family. You can give them a merry Christmas."
"Haven't got one," I said.
"Why on Earth not?" She was pretty good at asking personal questions too, as it turned out.
"Law enforcement doesn't lend itself to having happy families. Too much time on the job, too much stress at home about whether you'll come home or not ... stuff like that."
"So you're divorced?"
"I never wanted to inflict that kind of life on a woman," I said. "I tell myself I'm a confirmed bachelor."
"I see," she said. "Maybe Timothy and I could have a merry Christmas after all."
I was always a sucker for a comment like that.
"Oh?"
"If you're telling the truth - if you have no family - then you have no one to spend Christmas Day with," she said. "We would be honored if you'd spend it with us."
"What if I have plans with friends, or other confirmed bachelors?" I suggested.
"Do you?"
"Well ... no, actually."
"Please come," she said.
I looked at her. I managed to keep my eyes on her face, and let me tell you that took some control. She was a nice looking woman, and right then I wanted to look at all of her. But I controlled the urge. I didn't know if this was a good idea. They frown on you dating victims and witnesses and all that. But it was only one day, and Christmas at that, so nobody would even know about it.