“Well,” Mrs. Smith blurted, “He seems to have.... He’s not there any more.”
I said, “You mean he walked off?”
Fats laughed, “That’d be Jimmy McConnell. Remember him, Griff? He’s got a serious jones for the sauce. He probably took some of the cash and walked off for a quick belt. Or ten.”
Mrs. Smith took Bobby aside, told him to wait for her at the other end of our car. Then she told us, “Santa was talking with a man. They had an argument. They went to the man’s car. The man’s car was parked a few spaces up the block and the man showed Santa something in the trunk. When Santa looked into the trunk, the man made a motion and Santa got into the trunk of the man’s car. Then the man closed the trunk lid on Santa and drove away. It was all very strange.”
“Did the man have a gun?” I asked.
“No, I don’t think so. I didn’t see one, but he could have had one in his pocket, I guess. His right hand was in his pocket,” Mrs. Smith added, remembering.
Fats said, “Did the man rob Santa?”
Mrs. Smith gave us a most curious look then. I hate those kinds of looks. She said, “That’s what’s so strange. Santa seemed to know the man who put him in the trunk of his car and he left his kettle full of donations standing right there on the corner. Right out on the sidewalk. It’s still there. And there was plenty of change and bills in it too.”
“Okay, Mrs. Smith, we’ll look into it,” I told her. Fats got the rest of the info from her. Before we left I said to her, “Why don’t you take little Bobby to see Santa at Thompson’s Department Store? They have an entire Christmas Land set-up with Santa, elves, and everything.”
Mrs. Smith grew quiet. She looked so sad. I noticed a tear streaming silently down her cheek but she ignored it. Tough broad.
Fats looked at her, said, “Ma’am, it’ll be all right. Everyone goes through hard times. Been through a few myself. It will all work itself out. You have to hold out, and have faith, for Bobby’s sake.”
Mrs. Smith nodded, then silently walked away with her son.
“Damnit!” Fats growled.
“What was that about, Fats?”
Fats looked at me, stone silent for a minute, “You never been poor, Griff. Let me tell you, poor is bad, but poor with pride is the damn worst. Griff, that 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