Fats was getting talky again. I just told him, “Come on, let’s get this creep in the car and run him downtown. And when the hell are you going to take off that stupid Santa suit?”
“Hold it, Griff,” Fats said, handing off our prisoner to me. “Take this louse to the car, I gotta make a stop on the 4th floor.”
“Fats?” I asked, but he was gone so fast I didn’t get a chance to get any answer. I knew he’d missed a meal or two. I just hoped he wasn’t stepping out for an emergency bite to eat. Fats was like that. However, I didn’t remember Thompson’s Department Store with counter service on the 4th floor.
I took Thompson to our car. A prowl car was outside and had just pulled up and I passed Thompson off to the uniform guys. They’d bring him downtown.
I sat in our car and waited for Fats.
It was already beginning to snow. Never seen snow in Bay City before. It was most unusual. It was really coming down too. Big flakes, already covering everything. It looked kinda nice.
Fats walked over, threw something heavy in the trunk, then jumped into the driver’s seat beside me like the whale he was. I wondered if he had snuck off for a snack or two. He had no food in his hands. He was also still wearing that damn Santa suit.
It was getting chilly. The snow really coming down now. I turned up the heater but it didn’t work. Fats lit up a smoke and looked out the window at Bay City. We watched the snow coming down. It had begun to cover everything.
I watched the snow fall and wondered what Fats was thinking about. He was unusually quiet.
He started up the car, and I wondered where he was going.
“City looks nice with the snow, Fats,” I said.
Fats shrugged, “You know how it is, Griff. The Christmas Crazies. We’ll read about it all in tomorrow’s papers—but right now, right this minute, I guarantee you, somewhere some cop is eating his gun, some kid’s spiking his arm full of dope, some father’s beating his wife and kids, some mother is plunging a steak knife into her husband’s back while he sleeps, some pimp is cutting some whore on Dumont Avenue, some slime is robbing and raping some eighty-year-old lady in some run-down SRO apartment somewhere in this town.”
“My, my, you’re just bursting with Christmas cheer, aren’t you?” I said, feigning laughter. Trying to lighten the old walrus up a bit, but I knew Fats was dead right.
Fats did not reply but got quiet. He kept driving. He was going into a bad part of town. The snow was coming down hard now but plenty of people were out and on the corners, whores making that final Christmas Eve date, drug dealers selling that last fix for the holiday, bums and winos passing a bottle as they warmed themselves at old oil drums stuffed with wood and set ablaze for heat. That was their Christmas present. Maybe they wouldn’t freeze to death out on the street tonight.
“You gonna take off that silly Santa suit?” I asked.
Fats ignored me, he didn’t even pay any attention to me, so I shut up about it.
Fats turned down a street without any lights. I didn’t see any street sign. I didn’t know where we were. Fats didn’t say a word. Then he parked. He looked at me hard. His face was like.... It was so damn angry, like a damn killer. It scared me. It was like he was a different person, not the often grumpy, sometimes cheerful fatman I knew, but like I was looking down into his soul. It was not a pretty sight. It was all there for me to see plain as day, for just that one second—then it was gone. Fats’ face softened, he laughed and said, “It’s okay, Griff, I got one last call to make tonight.”
Before I knew it he opened the door and was out of the car and in the back opening up the trunk. He took out a huge sack. It looked pretty heavy. I just hoped that he didn’t have a body in it. Things like that were done all the time in Bay City in the old days, and the cops were the worst offenders. Fats walked off. I got out of the car and followed Fats as he trudged through the snow to a run-down rat-trap apartment building. There was no number on the building, no lock on the outer door. Fats walked in. I followed behind him, a little ways back. I saw Fats walk down the hall, the stink of urine and stale booze heavy in the air like smog. A drunk was sleeping it off on the floor at the end of the hall.
Fats gave him a hard kick, growled, “Get the hell outta here!” The wino looked up, did a double take saw Fats dressed as Santa. Got another boot in the ass, then said, Santa? Is it really you? You know what I want for Christmas...?”
“I know what you want and you’re not getting it! Now get the hell outta here!” Fats barked.
The wino knew better than to remain in the Fatman’s way. He got up, backed off wobbly, “Okay, I’m going! I’m going!”
Fats walked to the door the wino had been blocking. There were ten names listed around the bell. All of them were crossed out. The door bell didn’t work. I watched from the end of the hallway.
Fats knocked softly upon the door.
There was a muffled voice from inside. Nervous.
All of a sudden I heard a loud voice boom out, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!”
It was Fats!
“Who’s there?” I heard a female voice whisper fearfully from behind the apartment door.
“Open up, it’s me. It’s Santa Claus and it’s Christmas Eve. I’ve come to pay a call.”
There was silence, then the door opened slightly, held back on a chain. I knew that could never keep Fats out. I was still wondering what the hell he was up to when I saw the woman’s face. Then I knew.
Fats let out another, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas, Bobby! Come on, Bobby, say hello to Santa Claus. I got some goodies for you and your mom, special delivery from my workshop all the way up at the North Pole.”
I was astounded. Fats never failed to do stuff I would have never figured a guy like him would do.
I watched from the end of the hall as Fats stood by the door, Ho-Ho-Ho-ing his fat red Santa ass off, digging into the big sack he had in front of him and taking out all kinds of stuff he’d filched from Thompson’s—clothing and small appliances for Mrs. Smith, and all kinds of really neat expensive toys and clothes for Bobby.
The kid was absolutely going nuts, happier than any kid I’d ever seen at any Christmas, while his mother stood by quiet, thankful, tears of joy making their way down her glowing cheeks.
Fats finally emptied the sack and said, “Have a Merry Christmas Mrs. Smith. And Merry Christmas to you, Bobby!”
“Thank you, Santa!” Bobby shouted with glee, as Fats got ready to leave.
“Yes, thank you so much, you’ve made this our best Christmas ever. God bless you...,” Mrs. Smith said with a smile, “...God bless you, Santa.”
She winked.
Fats just smiled back at her. Ho-ho-ho-ing like a pro as he got ready to leave.
“Anything we can give you, Santa?” Bobby asked, as Fats walked off down the hall.
“Nothing, Bobby, I get my Christmas present by giving presents to good people like you and your mom that deserve them,” Fats said. He laughed then, turned and said, “Ah, well, on second thought, if you must do something, you could leave a glass of milk and a few chocolate chip cookies out for when Santa comes next year. I got a lotta stops to make and I can get powerful hungry.”
Bobby