Candy Canes and Criminals

by M E Harmon

  But Santa Doug was resistant. He stabbed an angry fist at the air. “No, this is mine. Phony! Fake! Charlatan!”

  Parents at the front of the line wrapped protective arms across their children. The ones closest to the stage backtracked a few steps.

  Doug ran to the edge of the stage screaming. “Poser! Vacate! Leave now!”

  The St. Nick outside the park was oblivious. The little bell continued to ring-a-ling.

  On stage, Joseph darn near tackled his brother. He had wrestled him half way off the platform when Doug fell to his knees in another coughing fit.

  I glanced behind me. Persimmons hadn't moved an inch. But he had stopped banging the stupid cane against the pole. The smug grin on his face said the damage was done. He watched Doug and Joseph fuss on stage. They almost looked like they were wrestling over something.

  Persimmons’ eyes met mine. He flashed a full out smile then and tipped an imaginary top hat.

  Movement behind him caught my attention. Three more men, dressed up as Santa Claus, crossed the threshold of the park.

  What was going on? A Kris Kringle convention?

  The sight of them finally got me into action. It was time for Doug to retire for the evening. I had to get to that stage quickly.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me.” I said, trying to squeeze past the throng of parents and kids mesmerized by the scene happening on stage.

  Too late. My attempt to help was too little, too late. Santa Doug was bent over, wheezing. I could hear him from where I was. Joseph was half supporting, half leading him off the platform. Doug stood up, seemingly to try to get a full breath. That's when he saw the three new Santas.

  Doug’s face, already red, darkened to scarlet. He whipped off the white beard, and the audience took a collective gasp.

  “You monsters! My park! My park!” Doug broke free of his brother and ran across the stage like a rampaging bull. An elf went sprawling. She tripped over Santa's magic sack. The bag fell open and presents spilled off the stage like a waterfall.

  It only took one little boy to scream, “Presents!” and the crowd was in motion like ants swarming a hill. People rushed the stage. Kids dove for the ground like miniature land sharks. Parents, at least the ones who weren't grabbing for gifts themselves, screeched to get their kids back under control or pushed to get their families out of the way.

  It was chaos–a complete Claus catastrophe of cataclysmic proportions.

  Kids, who’d been otherwise preoccupied in the ball pit or bouncy houses, were drawn to the anarchy. They rushed in from all corners of Magic Land. Bits of torn wrapping paper fluttered in the air like confetti. An unfortunately slow moving dude-elf with a plate of sugar cookies was swarmed by a mob of four-foot tall assailants. The poor elf went down bravely, the Troperman blue cookie plate held high like a final offering before he disappeared from sight.

  None of it fazed Doug. He only had eyes for the deviant Santas. He leapt off the platform like a gazelle managing to dodge the gaggle of kiddies scooping up freebies.

  When he darted past, I clutched at his coat my fingers digging into the velour. “Doug! No! Stop this now!”

  Doug slowed but didn't stop. He was wheezing, but I still got a full blast of his breath. He smelled like mouthwash, milk, and something else I couldn't quite put my finger on.

  He looked right at me and said, “I have to, Ali.” Then he shoved my hands away and was off.

  I followed dodging screaming kids and upset parents till I was clear of the fracas. Doug had a belly that jiggled like Jello, but boy could he move. He easily pulled ahead of me by several feet in a few seconds. Santa Doug ran full tilt up Magic Land's central lane. His words drifted back to me but were loud and clear.

  “Get out! My park! My park!”

  Joseph sprinted past. For a man in dress shoes, he could move, too. But something tripped him up, and he went sprawling onto the artificial grass.

  Doug didn't bother to run through the opening in the picket fence. Instead he ran full steam ahead and vaulted himself over the four-foot-high barrier. His pants snagged, and he flipped head over heels to the ground.

  The tumble didn’t stop Doug, nor did torn pants. He hauled at the caught-up cloth, but when it wouldn’t yield, he tugged at his belt.

  I had a brief glimpse at what was coming and shrieked, “Doug, don’t!”

  But before I could take two more steps, Doug ripped the pants off. He bolted from the ground and took off at top speed sporting the red, fur-lined coat and… floral Bermuda shorts. “You! Out! Out of my park!”

  Thank the heavens. He’d kept the shorts on. I breathed a brief sigh of relief even as I dodged around parents and children. Doug’s strip-down could’ve been worse. A lot worse.

  The three new Claus imitators had paused near the park's entrance with other spectators to watch the spectacle happening in Magic Land. But when it was clear that Santa unhinged was aiming for them, they fled.

  “You! My park! My park!”

  I too was running at this point. “Doug! Stop!” I grabbed an elf with a walkie-talkie. “Call security. Get them to the park's side entrance.” I didn't wait to hear the guy's response.

  Joseph sprinted past me. He made it through the gates of Santa's Magic Land seconds before I did. However, all of the noise had attracted looky-loos. After a few feet, I was blocked in and couldn't get past. I did my best to elbow my way through the crowd but it was very, slow going.

  When I reached the side entrance to the park, the Great Santa Claus Royal Rumble was on.

  By the time security intervened, the cops had arrived, and the Santas were separated—

  Doug Troperman had taken his last sleigh ride into the afterlife.

  Naughty List

  An hour later, I stood outside the gates of the park. The crowd had been cleared, the side entrance shut, and Doug's still form had been loaded into an ambulance. The scene had been contained and cordoned off really fast once the police arrived. I guess it would've made really bad press to have a body laying away steps from City Hall.

  Now I stood with a host of other people waiting to give an account of what had happened to the police. We were about twenty feet away from where the body had been found. Yellow and black police taped blocked off the area. Fragments left over from the fight littered the ground; scraps of red velour, bits of ivory imitation fur, loose change, a baseball cap, and a lone sneaker. A Santa's collection pot tripod lay in a mangled, crumbled heap.

  More and more police officers in NYPD's dark blue kept materializing. Some were directing foot traffic away from the park. Others were milling about, as if waiting for orders. Several spoke to spoke to individuals waiting to give a statement about what happened.

  With the exodus of people, it was going from chilly to downright frigid. I stamped my feet to get the circulation going. My toes were like petite, hard sausages inside my sneakers. Something crunched underfoot. I looked down to see a hard plastic orange-yellow, rectangular, box-like thing. It had cracked when I’d stepped on it. Even after nudging it with the toe of my sneaker, the thing didn’t look remotely familiar. Maybe it was part of some kids' toy.

  “I hope they let us go soon.” This came from a man standing next to me. A large brown shopping bag rested between his feet.

  I kicked the bit of plastic aside. “Were you inside the park or out when the fight happened?”

  He turned blue eyes to me. “Outside. The Santa in the shorts ran right past me and tackled those other ones. Then it was like a scene from an old Flintstones cartoon, nothing but arms and elbows coming out of a huge kicked-up ball of dust. At first, it was just the Santas but then the guys who tried to break it up got pulled into the fight, too.”

  “Who tried to break it up?”

  “One of the security guys, and that man over there in the coat.” He pointed toward a cop car where Joseph Troperman spoke with a uniformed police officer.

  I'd wondered what happened to Joseph. His face was red across the cheek, as if a fist
had found its mark. The collar of his shirt was torn and dangled at a weird angle. Despite his coat hanging open, he'd donned light brown gloves as if only his fingers were cold.

  So, Joseph had jumped in once again to save his brother. I watched him. He was one of those people who spoke with his hands. He gestured toward Magic Land, just on the other side of the gate. I guessed he was giving his version of what happened.

  “Oh, and that guy up there in the front with the cane,” the guy next to me said, “he jumped in at one point, too.”

  “The guy with the cane jumped in to help?” I pointed at Persimmons. He along with one of the bazaar's security guards spoke to another officer.

  “He was in the middle of the fight at some point. I don't know if he was helping or not.”

  That was interesting. Why would Persimmons be anywhere near the fight? It's not as if he was coming to assist his employee. And there was no way that finicky man would've risked soiling his clothing unless he had good reason.

  Did he have a good reason?

  I didn't know.

  Ali, don't find trouble where there isn't any, I said to myself.

  Yet despite my scolding, my brain started to look for evidence that things weren't as they seemed. Doug, due to his own deluded behavior, started a fight and suffered a fatal blow. That made sense. Right?

  But I didn't know the facts. Not all of them.

  I felt a familiar itch, the one I get when I need to snoop—er, I mean, when I feel compelled to discover the truth.

  But no, no. I should stay out of this. Doug was a nice guy, but he had problems. Problems that had nothing to do with me. I should mind my business.

  Even as my head was saying nay, my feet were moving toward one of the ambulance technicians.

  Her arms were folded as she leaned against the door of the ambulance. I could hear the squawk of a radio through the open window of the cab.

  “Hi,” I said, “you waiting for the cops to get themselves together, too?”

  The EMT had coffee-colored skin that looked pretty even in the dim glow of the streetlights. “You have no idea. My shift ended a half-hour ago.”

  I nodded. “I'm waiting to give my statement, but I have to close up my shop.” I gestured over to the HoneyBun, which was a half-block away. When I’d realized I wouldn’t be back anytime soon, I had called Al and given him a quick rundown. Fortunately, Oscar, was able to stay late to help with the evening’s cleanup.

  “Oh, that's your spot? I love those morning cinna-mini rolls so much I gave up on my diet.”

  I laughed. “You don't need to be on a diet. Men like hips.” I slapped my own. “Size twelve and rocking it.”

  This time she laughed. “Well, size twelve, if you had the mother I did, you'd always be on a diet, too.”

  “You know you have to love yourself first. Forget what anyone else says.”

  She paused and looked at me. “Easier said than done.”

  “So say it and be done, and then come get some sweets at the HoneyBun,” I said, realizing I’d unintentionally put together a little rhyme. “Cranberry crumbles and peppermint scones are on the menu this week. You should come by. I'll hook you up with a dozen of the cinna-mini rolls. But listen, the guy who died tonight, he was friend of mine. A new one.” I paused waiting to see what she would do. When her face didn't change I continued. “Could you tell me how he died?”

  “I can't release any information,” she said without any hesitation. “The cops told us to keep things on the hush with this one. But I did hear someone posted a video already. Maybe there’s something on there that could answer your question.” She tapped her lips three times.

  Hmm. I pulled out my phone. “Thanks, anyway. Next time you come by, ask for Ali, and I'll give you the hook up.”

  Her partner, a dude with a crew cut, walked up just then. “Oh, what are we getting?”

  “I'm getting cinnamon rolls. You're getting mind your own business, nosey.”

  I walked off half-listening to their banter. I strolled back to the general area where other eyewitnesses were waiting to give statements.

  I really hated how people were always on their phones. But jeez, the stupid things came in handy. I opened a browser. It took all of five seconds to find the video on YouTube. All I had to do was punch in the keywords ‘Santa, fight, NYC,’ and just like that eight results popped up.

  Turned out, I wasn't searching for one video but two. The first one captured Doug ranting onstage and his Olympic-like sprint out of the park. Then it filled in what I hadn't been able to see myself. The second he cleared the black iron park gates, Doug executed a spectacular flying tackle. He didn't topple all three of the interloping Santas, but he did manage to snag the leg of one.

  My new friend was the first to get to his feet. He nabbed the coat collar of the other smaller Claus, and tossed him like a bale of hay. The smaller Santa landed dead smack on top of another St. Nick who'd been foolish enough to solicit donations outside of the park. That St. Nick had been the one I heard ringing the bell just before Doug's breakdown.

  The three of them crashed into the tripod that was holding a red collection pot. Once on the ground, the brawl became less of a contest between dueling combatants and more of a rolling, shoving, cussing match with an occasional punch. The video cut off just as Joseph ran into the view-frame.

  The second video showcased the cops and park security breaking up the fight. Doug never made it off the ground. Once untangled from the other Clauses, he crawled over and propped himself up against the gate. When a cop approached him asking if he needed medical attention, Doug was unresponsive.

  A wide shot spanned the entire scene. It was still pandemonium as the police worked to keep spectators at bay and figure out what had happened. As an officer put one of the other Santas in a squad car, something glinted on the concrete not far from Doug. The video was shaky, as if the videographer was being jostled. I paused the vid and enlarged the shot. The thing resting there, near his body, was metal, like silver. The more I stared, more details came into focus. There, the curve of a beak. And there, the arc of a wing. It was a silver handle shaped like a bird. No, not just a bird, a hawk. A cane. It was Persimmons' cane.

  Once the fight was over, the rest of the video didn't show much, or so I thought. I watched as the amateur cameraperson focused on the cops talking to the other Santas. Once it was clear no police brutality was afoot, the person filming the video did a brief scan of the crowd. I didn't see Joseph or Persimmons. I was already thinking the EMT led me astray, but then in the last five seconds, the video zoomed in on one person.

  Suddenly Doug's face filled my phone's screen. Thankfully, he was still breathing, but it was slow and shallow. A horrible gash dented his temple. Doug's entire face was puffy. And his lips were tinged blue. The shot pulled slowly back until it showed his full body lying against the gate.

  Blue. Blue?

  That's what the EMT had been hinting at. Toes and fingers were known to turn that color from a lack of oxygen. Doug had died from asphyxiation before the ambulance could arrive. But did it happen because of something that happened during the fight?

  I wasn't sure.

  And why was Persimmons’ cane next to Doug's body? It was time to find out. I scanned the area around me. The bazaar's manager wasn't hard to spot. He was still ranting to a police officer, who took notes on a pad.

  As I crossed over to them, Persimmons' voice reached a crescendo. “I have spent enough time on this nonsense. He ruined my bazaar and I'll be lucky if I have a job tomorrow morning. Now unless you need a pint of blood, I implore you to stop leeching my precious time so I may return to my duties.” He tapped the metal cane-tip against the concrete for emphasis.

  The walkie-talkie radio clipped to Persimmons’ belt erupted with a loud burst of static. The bazaar manager twisted a knob on the top of the device and the noise silenced. “See, that was likely someone who needs to consult with me .”

  I recognized the cop. It wa
s Officer Wierzbowski. He'd been the first one to question me when an upcoming reality star had died after eating my mini-cakes a few months back.

  “Hello, Officer Wierzbowski,” I said.

  Wierzbowski slowly rolled his eyes in my direction. I got the sense he didn't like being interrupted. The cop gave me a quick scan, and seemed about to dismiss me, when a glimmer of recognition crossed his face. “I do know you. The Chak-something case over in the Chambers building.”

  “Chakiris,” I finished for him.

  He looked as if he'd lost weight, but his gray eyes were still cold. “Yeah, you were cleared. Goodie for you. Now, you come over just to say hello? What do you want?”

  “It sounded like you were finishing up taking Mr. Persimmons’ statement.”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  Good question. I blabbed the first thing that came to mind. “Did he say he was involved in the fight?”

  Persimmons, who'd been staring daggers at me, snorted. “I certainly was not one of the ruffians involved. My role was strictly limited to spectating. And like I was saying, officer, I was saddened Doug couldn't control his actions.”

  He was saddened? That was a huge lie. Yeah, something was going on here. “I see you have your cane, Mr. Persimmons. When did you get it back?”

  The show manager peered down his nose at me. “What are you speaking of, young lady? This cane is an antique, it rarely leaves my hand.”

  “On the video I just watched, it was laying near the body. Why did you move it from a crime scene?”

  Wierzbowski, whose scowl indicated he was about to yell for me to get lost, paused.

  The cop said, “Oh, really? Is that right, er,” he glanced at his pad, “Mr. Persimmons?”

  Persimmons sputtered. “I-I-I may have strayed too close to the violent kerfuffle and my walking stick was knocked into the fray. I assure you, sir, I do not engage in fisticuffs.”

  I whipped out my phone and showed Wierzbowski the close-up frame from the video. “That gash is pretty deep. Think he was bashed over the head with something?” I asked.