Never Fear (27 page)

“
So a push, then, as the
blackjack players say. It’s all relative. We tried to fight evil,
yet our enemies were nothing compared to the horrors that those
above us wrought in the name of supposed good. I tried to be useful
my whole life, but it just ended me up as another damaged face,
haunted every day about how I could have done better. But all that,
that was just history. History may be written by the winners, but
the future is written by the legends. And you, Mr. Claus, are
something straight out of legend.” Phuc nodded a bit sassily at me.
“I thought I couldn’t pay you back, but I can. Let me be of use to
you. You saved me, let me save you back. It’s the gift of a
lifetime.”

Giving a life… or taking
it?
I thought. I pictured Carson Carnahan
sitting in my Santa throne.
Gross.
But…

“
I just… I know that
meeting you has been a great stroke of luck, but I just can’t see
this ending well,” I admitted. “No matter how useful it’d be, for
both of us.”

“
It’s the greatest of
luck, and the greatest of Christmas presents. Feeling
useful.”

“
It’s not useful, Phuc,
it’s troublesome as hell. It’s
murder
.”

Phuc shook his head more
hyperbolically than necessary. “You need a mission. I need penance.
The world needs less evil. How is that not useful? To
EVERYONE?”

I sipped my French Hen.

“
You’re not
wrong.”

“
Just say it, you know I’m
right. People are ill at ease with the idea that there can be such
overt predators—like Carnahan, or anyone else coasting on
capitalist spoils - in the world. Because it’s definitely not just
an idea, it’s a reality - but it’s a reality that one never, ever
wants to experience. And ideally,
shouldn’t
experience. So, it takes
predatory measures of a different sort to combat them. Relatively
speaking, this isn’t even near the worst of what you or I have done
in life. But it might be among some of the best, if it works
right…”

“
Right and wrong are
relative, you just said that.”

“
They are. But heroic is
another level. The glory is yours. I’m just the middleman evening
out the push.”

“
I don’t know about this.
I’m no superhero. I’m just an average guy now.”

Phuc smirked at me. “Really? Sam, look
in the mirror. You might look like shit, but dammit, honey, you’re
Santa Claus. And it’s time you started cracking down on the naughty
list.”

“
Oh Jesus,” I
said.

“
Yeah! Do it as a birthday
present to him, if you have to.”

“
No, no. What you said…
cracking down on the naughty list. Jesus, Phuc, I’ve got
it.”

Phuc gave a demure grin and cocked a
dramatic, impeccably-groomed eyebrow. “Santa Claus is goin’ to
town!”

*

Three phone calls secured my idea. One
to Clara, one to Marcos’s bikini-bartender girlfriend Mariana, and
one to the lovely lady-voiced robot that electronically helmed The
Secret Service, the best drug-delivery operation in town.
Fortunately, thanks to my own habits and the frequency of those of
my friends, I was in very good standing with The Secret Service
“agents.” I have no idea who “them” is—the voice on the other end
of the phone is the perpetually-pleasant lady-robot, the
transactions are done exclusively via a secure online account, and
the deliveries of any weight are dead-drops in an impartial secure
location. But if it was good enough shit for Clara and her scores
of stripper friends, it was good enough for my plans.

I called requesting thirty six ounces
of cocaine—two point two pounds, one full kilogram brick—or, as
they are popularly known on the streets, a “bird.” Though the
volume was a bit ridiculous even by The Secret Service’s standards,
I was told my called-in bird would be ready tomorrow. Half of the
money was taken in deposit from an account I kept exclusively to
satisfy Clara. The rest would be provided at the pickup.

And just like that, I was dreaming of
a White Christmas.

The Fifth Day of Christmas.

Everyone knows that a drug deal isn’t
really a drug deal if you pay in funds appropriated from elsewhere.
It doesn’t count. It’s like how you’re never an addict if you only
smoke someone else’s cigarettes or snort their coke.

I wasn’t about to spend a whole bunch
of my actual cash on the sizeable coke score, but getting rid of
some excess crap lying around never hurt. The thing is, sometimes
people hold onto bad memories just because they’re valuable. Not
valuable in a learning way, valuable in a greedy way. I had a few I
could easily hock to help set things right. Anyway, maybe it’d make
some poor slob’s Christmas, scoring some bling on the relative
cheap.

The Sanitation Department provided me
with a healthy pension. My apartment had been rent-controlled for
decades now. On paper, I wasn’t doing too badly. And I was somehow
adept at spreading seasonal joy in ways few others can. This time,
I was just going to do it a little differently.

I dug the rings out of the old
Macanudo cigar box that I kept a few important documents and things
in. I had six rings that I took to the pawn shop. The guy behind
the bulletproof-glass didn’t even bother scrutinizing the stones
with his loupe, at first. He just scratched the rings across a
sandpapery pad in front of him, testing quality.

Only one came up fake. My ex had given
it to me. No wonder that evil bitch hadn’t tried to claw it off of
me in the divorce. The rest were not only real, but infused with
decent diamonds that I had been assured the quality of, long ago in
a war-torn nation where barter could win violent favors and nightly
poker games were easy to rack up high pots, when your day-to-day
existence was always a gamble.

The total haul got me over half the
cash I needed for the bird.

The rest I wrote off from my savings
account as my Christmas present to the city of New York, and to all
of effort-promoting, forward-thinking, non-hip humanity in
general.

Meanwhile, Phuc had been working on
some stocking stuffers.

That had been his cheesy code-phrase
to me for his work stalking Santastic. “Stalking” stuffers. As dumb
as the code was, the results were impeccable. I got a text reading
“Got the BEST stocking stuffers, will be great to hang over the
fire!” I left immediately to meet Phuc at the bar for more
details.

I stopped by the bank and deposited
the five rings’ worth of money. Then I went straight to Trooley’s
to drink off my doubts.

The Sixth Day of Christmas.

Trooley’s was swinging that night, as
the house band was sinking their teeth into a set, and their livers
into the usual copious whiskey. Tonight they were blasting out
perverse versions of holiday classics, which of course felt like
serendipitous sound-tracking.

Onstage, beneath the taxidermied
moose-head covered in long-liberated bras, the rocking quartet
known as U™ wailed out a different version of their favorite
things…

Bongrips and booty and big
drug collections

Bright flaming cocktails
and armed insurrection

Whiskey so strong that
your throat fucking stings

These are a few of my
favorite things…

Phuc was sitting in one of the booths
near the black-lit pool tables. His wide, blue-white smile shone
out like the Cheshire Cat as I approached. Sinking into the leather
banquette and plunking my pint of French Hens down on the tabletop
(this one bearing a collection of ski mountain trail maps that had
been immortalized under half an inch of bar-top epoxy sometime in
the 1960s), I simply smiled back, effectively tipping over the
veritable Christmas stocking of informational goodies.

“
Santastic is even more of
a fraud than you think,” Phuc gushed. “It’s ridiculous. I followed
him to some shitty hipster bars after their final ‘show’ in Times
Square yesterday, and I made sure I was the one who he hailed when
he left. God-
damn
, Sam.”

I hadn’t yet known him for more than
forty-eight hours, but I could tell Phuc was being more effusive
than usual. He was obviously very proud of his intelligence
gathering score.

“
Alright?”

“
I totally had him figured
for one of my team, but he gets on the phone, and his whole damn
demeanor changes. Seriously, like taking off a coat that doesn’t
fit. He starts talking in this
deeper
voice
”—Phac did the impression of it—“and
I could tell it was way more natural. But what killed me is what he
was talking
about
.”

Sam, none of that money is
going to AIDS charities. He’s taking all of it. The production
of
Santastic
is
barely more than some singing and dancing once a week in the
Obscene Caffeine coffeehouse down in St. Mark’s. It’s not just
off-Broadway, it’s off-off-off Broadway. And it is
definitely
off the
books.”

“
Awful Broadway,” I
smirked, sipping my beer.

“
So then, he tells me to
stop, and this girl gets in the car. Some horrible hipster chick.
They start making out, totally grossly, he’s got one hand inside
her ironic ugly Christmas sweater, but she pulls away and asks if
he’s holding. He pulls out a folded fifty and half a cocktail
straw, and they start hooting it up right there in my backseat. I
dropped them off at Obscene Caffeine—he barely tipped, of
course—and there was a whole posse of other losers there. Sam, our
work is cut out for us.”

“
Us?” I asked. “I’m just
putting up the capital.”

“
Well,” Phuc said. “Your
investment is going to pay off bigtime. This kid is a scumbag. You
pick your enemies well!”

“
I’ve had enough enemies
for this life, Phuc. I shouldn’t even care enough to hate him.” The
moment I openly elucidated this thought, I began feeling curiously
bad.

“
Well, you care enough to
make this city better for the people who can’t do it by themselves.
And not by some crappy show-and-dance cash-grab or CHEATING
CHARITIES. You’re having an actual initiative get undertaken. It’s
inspiring.”

“
I’m glad. Because you’re
the one who’s got to be inspired here.”

The band, behind us, continued
fervently.

Anarchy, nihilists, coups
in each nation

Watching the world burn to
man’s decimation

Demons descending from
bomber-planes’ wings

These are a few of my
favorite things…

Phuc took a hearty slug of his
martini. “There’s more,” he enthused. “This should buck you up.
Santastic might not be batting for my team, but you’ll never guess
who is.”

“
I don’t give a fuck
about…”

“
Carson Carnahan,” Phuc
cut me off. I struggled not to spit out my beer.

“
Carnahan? Isn’t he… I
mean… don’t you guys pride yourselves on being… you know,
super-handsome and muscular and all that?”

“
Indeed we do, Sam, indeed
we do. And he’s holding us all back. And the bears of power are NOT
happy about it.”

“‘
Bearers.’ The word is
‘bearers’ of power, not ‘bears’,” I noted.

Phuc raised the eyebrow
over his eye-patch. “Honey, you tell me which of the two of us took
college-level English classes. I know the word is ‘bearers.’ The
BEARS of power
hate
Carnahan. For several good reasons.”

I gave an open-handed shrug. “Enter
through the Hate Entrance.”

Phuc’s eye and teeth gleamed in the
blacklight. “Okay. So, there’s this club in Chelsea… SUPER
exclusive, completely amazing. It’s for larger, more hirsute
gentlemen with a proclivity for leather, and the means to enjoy
only the finest of things. It’s called RareBear. Only the most
distinguished of Daddies hang out there.”

“
Okay?”

“
Anyway… Carnahan, with
his legacy of loot from Percy’s, thirsts for the attention of these
guys. Like, Sahara-desert thirsts. It’s hard to watch.”

“
I take it you’ve seen
this firsthand?”

Phuc straightened his
posture mock-haughtily. “It should go without saying that my exotic
appeal and exceptional bearing are more than welcome there. There’s
lot of Asian twinks in the world, but considerably fewer Panda
Bears.
Anyway
.
These guys, they’re big, but it’s muscle-big. Or maybe just
too-many-fine-steaks-and-whiskies big. Not slovenly, hate-weight
big, like Carnaham.”

“
So they hate him for
being fat?” I said. “Who cares? I hate
me
for being fat. Carnahan fucking
sucks, but at least he’s sucking in Santa servitude. He’s not on
the level of real rich guys.”

“
Exactly.” Phuc shook his
head, nonplussed. “His outward appearance is just a hint of the
mindset that goes along with being an indentured servant of the
Percy’s empire, working as a damn Santa to look good for mommy
because he can’t cut it behind the scenes in the business, but
still needs to show up at the store to score any of the family
loot-cake. He’s the living embodiment of entitled sloth, and now
he’s trying to act like he’s important because he has a
super-special job.”