He’d floated the word that if anyone wanted a deep discount on a bunch of new Xmas toys, wrapped and ready to go, the Nail was the man. Word had floated back that a fence who was a friend of a friend of a friend wanted the whole truck load. Yes!
He exhaled and peered down the alley, looking for headlights. Lots of wheels rolling by out there, heading for the nearby Manhattan Bridge. He wished the right set would roll in here so he could get this deal done.
His contact hadn’t said so, but The Nail figured the fence was bringing his own truck. Had to be. How else was he going to cart the stuff out of here?
Better not have any ideas about taking this truck, man. He patted the little .32 automatic in his belt. Better not be thinking of anything beyond passing the cash and off-loading the stash.
Hey, that rhymes.
Passin’ the green and splittin’ the scene.
The Nail smiled and took another toke. Too bad he wasn’t with the band anymore. Maybe him and the drummer could’ve like worked that up into a song or something. That’d be cool.
He missed Polio. Best damn punk thrasher band in the world, man, and he’d played bass for them. Well, for a few months, anyway. Until they kicked him out for not showing up.
But it’d been a good few months. That was when he’d picked up the name The Nail. Well, not picked up, actually. That was when he’d started calling himself The Nail. You needed a name like The Nail if you was playing for Polio. Like who’d want a bass player named Joey DeCiglia?
And The Nail was such a cool name, having like a double meaning and all.
But even with a handle like The Nail and having gigged with Polio, there wasn’t no work out there. Least not for him. Shit, yeah, he got auditions just by name-dropping Polio, and everybody was real interested in hearing him . . . until they heard him.
Then it was like, don’t call us, man . . .
Yeah, well, like fuck you too.
He sucked the joint down to his fingertips and tossed the roach out the window. Not worth saving, man.
After a bunch of wasted auditions, The Nail said good-bye to the music scene. He had his pride, man. As a lark, he started boosting stuff and selling it off. Wound up making more that way than from what he’d’ve been paid by any of the nowhere, no-name thrasher bands that never called back.
But then Tina goes and gets herself knocked up and tries to tell him the kid’s his. Sure. Right. Like with the way she jumps on anything upright and hard, he’s gonna believe that shit? No fucking way.
Then she gets all fucked up in the head and won’t have an abortion. Nah. She’s gonna have the kid and be a mommy.
Right. Mommy Tina. Sure.
But surprise, surprise. She’s goes through with it. And of course the kid’s born like totally wasted. And then the word comes down that it’s got fucking AIDS, man. AIDS!
That meant Tina had the bug, and that blew The Nail’s mind. Fuck, he could have it too, what with screwing Tina all the time and sharing needles. He should’ve gotten tested right then, but he was too scared, man. Like he didn’t want to know.
But for Tina, it was like she wasn’t even sick and like the kid wasn’t sick either. Her head was royally fucked. So she was all broke up when they took the baby away from her.
And she kept telling him it was his kid. Kept saying how it looked just like him. So one day last week she finally hounded him into going over to this place where they keep the kid and look after it. The Nail didn’t know what had gotten into him—maybe that Ceylonese brown they’d been using had got him over-mellowed—but he was glad he’d given in. Because as he was hanging around the place he saw people carrying a bunch of Christmas gifts through this doorway. He took a peek figuring he might be able to make off with something small, but he saw a whole room filled with toys. Whoa.
Merry Christmas to me.
He did the place two nights later.
And the coolest part of the whole thing was the news coverage. Shit, man, last night you couldn’t turn on a radio or TV without hearing about “the AIDS baby Christmas toy theft.” He’d spent hours hopping from channel to channel, one news show after the other, grinning like a total asshole.
That was him they was talking about. The Nail.
The only bad thing was, he couldn’t tell anyone. At least not until he’d sold off the stuff. After that he could talk all he wanted because the toys would be gone and no one could prove nothing.
The only thing he didn’t get was how pissed off and disgusted all the news geeks acted. Like it really mattered to them. Bullshit. Everybody knew how stupid it was to waste presents on those AIDS kids. Really, how long were they gonna live anyway? Weren’t gonna be around long enough to appreciate them. Total waste, man.
Leave it to The Nail to put the stuff to good use.
And it’d been so fucking simple. All he’d had to do was–
The Nail jumped as he heard a skree-eek behind him. He twisted in his seat. That sounded like–
It was! Shit, some asshole had opened one of the truck’s back doors. And now he was flashing a light inside.
His first thought was cops, but he hadn’t seen a fuzzmobile pull up. And The Nail knew cops had to follow certain rules about searches.
The buyer? Maybe, but he didn’t think so. More likely some strung-out junking trying to boost his stuff.
The Nail pulled out the automatic and chambered a round. He’d put an end to that shit real quick.
He jumped out and ran around to the back of the truck.
“Hey, man. What the fuck you think–?”
Nobody there. And both rear doors closed. The Nail scanned the alley up and down: not a fucking soul in sight.
He couldn’t have imagined it. The weed hadn’t been that strong. And he’d heard the noise. He’d seen the light.
Better check to see if anything was missing.
But as The Nail reached for the handle, the door sprang open and slammed into him, knocking him flat. He landed on his back, rolled, and popped to his feet, the gun stuck out ahead of him. He saw the open door of the truck, but no one there.
And then he heard a deep voice.
“Ho-ho-ho!”
The Nail looked up and saw this fat guy with a white beard in a red suit standing on top of the truck.
The guy did his ho-ho-ho thing again, then shouted, “So you’re the one who stole the toys I was putting aside for the AIDS babies! No one steals Santa’s toys and gets away with it!”
Aw, man. This asshole thinks he’s Santa Claus!
The Nail raised the pistol and plugged a round into his heart.
Santa fucking Claus flew backward off the top of the truck like someone had yanked a leash wrapped around his neck.
No one steals Santa’s toys and gets away with it?
Shit, yeah. I steal anybody’s fucking toys and do what I damn well fucking please, asshole!
The Nail hurried around the side of the truck. Time to put another slug in Santa Hole . . .
But he wasn’t there.
“What the fuck?” The Nail said aloud.
And then something red and white popped up from the shadows behind a garbage can and slammed a white-gloved fist into his face.
The Nail had heard about seeing stars, but he’d never believed it. Now he did. He heard his nose go crunch as his face erupted in a star-studded explosion of pain. He staggered back, caught the heel of his shoe on some alley shit, and felt himself falling backward.
He windmilled his arms, trying to keep his balance, but he was out of control. He went down hard.
And when he looked up, Santa was leaning over him.
“You think you can stop Santa Claus with a bullet? A mere bullet? Think again, sonny!”
The voice wasn’t quite as deep and strong as it had been a moment ago, but the guy was still standing. And there, not two feet from Nail’s face, was a bullet hole in the red fabric of his suit. Right over his heart.
Shit! What was going down here? The fucker should be
dead, man.
Unless of course he really was Santa Claus.
But that was crazy.
But so was the guy in the red suit. The Nail saw his eyes gleaming between his white beard and the furry brim of his hat. Whoever he was—hell, maybe he really was Santa Claus—he was pissed. Royally pissed.
The Nail started to raise the pistol for another shot, but Santa stomped a foot down on his arm.
“Don’t bother trying again, sonny! You can’t kill Santa Claus!”
The Nail levered himself up and reached across, trying to grab the gun with his free hand, but Santa clocked him again with a brain-jarring right, rocking his head back against the pavement.
Santa had a punch like a fucking mule kick.
The Nail felt the gun ripped from his hand, heard it skitter across the asphalt. After that, things got fuzzy.
And painful.
The Nail remembered getting flipped over onto his belly, grabbed by his collar and his waistband, and hauled off the ground.
“I checked my list,” Santa said. “Checked it twice, in fact. It says you’ve been naughty, sonny. Very naughty!”
Then Santa started using him like a battering ram.
Slam! Head first against the bumper of the truck:
“Know what happens when you steal from Santa Claus? This!”
Slam! Head first into a bunch of trash cans lining the alley.
“If I decide to let you live, spread the word: Don’t mess with Santa Claus.”
The Nail was spun around and flung face first against one of the alley’s brick walls.
He let out a puny groan of agony as he slid down the wall, feeling like a splattered egg oozing toward the ground.
But it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. The Nail felt his consciousness fading over the next ten minutes as Santa used him like some sort of rag to wipe up the alley.
Finally Santa released him. The Nail dropped to the ground, a puddle of agony on the broken pavement. He felt his breath bubbling through his bloody mouth. He was sure his jaw was broken. And his ribs—every breath was a dozen stab wounds. Was it over? He hoped so. He prayed it was over.
Just leave me be, he thought. Just take the toys, take the whole damn truck and go. Hitch your fucking reindeer to the bumper and you and Rudolph take off. Just don’t mess me up anymore. Please.
But just as he finished the thought, he felt hands go under his armpits and lift him.
“No,” he managed to groan past his shattered teeth. “Please . . . no more.”
“Should have thought of that before, sonny. Stealing from defenseless little sick kids puts you on Santa’s ultra-naughty list.”
“I’m sorry.” It came out a faint whine. Totally wimpy.
“Well, good. I’m glad to hear it. And I’ll take that into consideration next Christmas. But you complicated things by trying to kill Santa. That’s very naughty. Santa doesn’t like to be shot. It makes him cranky. Very cranky.”
“Oh, no . . .”
Something rough and long slithered past The Nail’s cheek, and true panic set in. Rope! Oh, fuck no. Santa was going to string him up!
But then he felt the rope snake under his arms instead of around his neck. That was a relief. Of sorts. It still hurt like all hell when the rope tightened around his shattered ribs. He was lifted and seated on the truck’s rickety front bumper, then tied there.
“Wha–?”
“Quiet, sonny,” Santa said in a low voice that had lost all its heartiness. “Don’t say another word.”
The Nail looked up. Everything—Santa, the alley, the whole fucking world—was mostly a blur . . . except for Santa’s eyes. He’d always thought Santa had blue eyes, but these were brown, and The Nail shriveled up inside when he saw the rage bubbling behind them.
Santa wasn’t just pissed. Santa was bugfuck nuts.
The Nail closed his eyes while Santa taped something to his head. By the time it squeezed through to his battered brain that he shouldn’t let Santa—even this homicidal psycho Santa—tie him to the front of a truck, it was too late. He tried to wriggle free but the rope that lashed him to the grille crisscrossed his body around the shoulders and between the legs. His legs and his arms were free, but all the knots were somewhere behind him.
With a cold sick certainty, The Nail realized he wasn’t going nowhere. Not under his own steam, anyway.
He stiffened as he heard the old engine rumble and shudder to life against his back. He began to blubber as the truck lurched into motion.
Santa was going to run him into the wall!
But no. The truck bounced out of the alley onto the street. After that it was a nightmare ride through the Lower East Side with people staring, pointing, some even laughing, then crosstown on Fourteenth with the truck swerving from lane to lane, running lights, screeching to a halt inches—inches!—from rear bumpers and fenders, then roaring into motion again.
All that was bad enough, man, but when the westbound lanes weren’t moving fast enough, the truck swerved into the oncoming traffic and played chicken with a banged-up yellow cab. The Nail knew fuck sure ol’ Santa wasn’t going to back down, and for the few screaming, terror-filled heartbeats it looked like the cab wasn’t going to either, The Nail lost it. Literally. Warm liquid spilled down his left leg.
But the cab lunged out of the way at the last second and the truck got back on the right side of the street and began accelerating.
A cop! The Nail had never dreamed he’d be in any situation when he’d want to see a cop on his tail, but here it was. And where were they? Why wasn’t there ever a fucking cop around when you needed one?
The truck fishtailed into a wide, screeching turn onto what The Nail thought might be Seventh Avenue, but he couldn’t be sure because he closed his eyes as they scooted within a hair of a horn-blaring bus. Then the truck jumped the curb and scattered terrified pedestrians before skidding to a halt on the sidewalk.
As the engine cut out, The Nail whimpered and waited in terror to see what Santa had planned for him next. But Santa said nothing, did nothing. The Nail twisted and looked through the windshield. Santa was gone.
But The Nail wasn’t alone. A crowd of gawkers was gathering, forming a semicircle around him and the truck, staring, pointing at his bloody face, his pee-stained pants, and whatever it was Santa had taped to his head. Someone laughed. Others joined in.
The Nail wanted to die.
And then he heard the sirens.
SUNDAY
“Oh, no,” Alicia said as she rounded the corner and saw the police cars in front of the Center. “What now?”
She had her donut and coffee from the hospital caf in one hand, the fat Sunday Times in the other. She usually spent the rest of Sunday morning at the Center. They still had kids coming in for their treatments, just like every other day, but it was lot less intense than the rest of the week—nowhere near as many phone calls, for one thing—so she used it to catch up on her paperwork.
But now . . .
Just inside the front door she nearly collided with two cops, one white, one black, talking to Raymond. Raymond. He was devoted to the Center but he rarely if ever showed up on Sunday.
“Oh, Alicia!” he said. “There you are! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Isn’t what wonderful?”
“Didn’t anyone tell you? The toys! The toys are back!”
Suddenly Alicia wanted to cry. She turned to the pair of policemen. Raymond introduced her. She wanted to hug them.
“You found them? Already? That’s . . . that’s wonderful!” Better than wonderful—fantastic was the word.
“I guess you could say we found them,” the black cop said, scratching his bald head. His name tag read, Pomus. “If you can call opening up a truck parked on the sidewalk by your front door ‘finding’ them.”
“Wait a minute. Back up just a bit. What truck?”
“A panel truck, Alicia,” Raymond said. “Filled with the toys. The police think it was the same one used to h
aul them away. Someone drove it up on the sidewalk last night and left it there.”
“Any idea who?” she asked, although she had a pretty good idea.
The white cop—Schwartz on his tag—grinned. “According to the guy tied to the bumper, it was Santa Claus himself.”
“Guy tied to what?”
They went on to explain about the man they’d found lashed to the front of the toy-filled truck. Someone had “knocked the crap out of him,” as Officer Pomus put it, and taped some rubber antlers to his head. The battered man admitted to the theft and swore that his assailant had been Santa Claus—even admitted to shooting Santa, rambling on about shooting him in the heart without killing him.
“But of course, you can’t kill Santa,” Officer Schwartz said, grinning.
“He’s obviously a user and he sounds like an EDP, so we don’t know what to believe,” Officer Pomus added. “We’ve got him up on Bellevue’s flight deck now, under observation.”
“Flight deck?”
“You know—the psych ward. Sooner or later, we’ll get the straight story out of him.”
“And throw the book at him, I hope.”
“Oh, yeah,” Pomus said. “No question about that. But he’s already had worse than a book thrown at him.” He grinned. “A lot worse.”
“Yeah,” Schwartz said. “Someone worked him over real good before dropping him here. The creep seemed almost glad to be arrested.”
After they were gone, Alicia and Raymond went to the storeroom and inspected the gifts. Except for a little wrinkling of the paper and an occasional bumped corner, most were in the same condition as before the theft. She told Raymond to get hold of a locksmith—she didn’t care that it was Sunday—and have him secure that door, even if it meant putting a bar across it.
Then she went to her office and sipped her coffee, lukewarm by now, and thought about that nothing-special looking man named Jack—”Just Jack” Niedermeyer.
On Friday afternoon he’d said he’d see what he could do. Thirty-six hours later, the gifts were back and the thief in custody.
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