Saint Nicked (2 page)

“I wasn’t really talking on the phone at all. I was waiting for you to make your move, knowing you had decided that I was just another harried shopper. As I said, Mister Grimes, avoiding detection is important in my profession.”

George swore again. How could he have been fooled by such a transparent trick? He had learned how to deal with security cameras by carefully positioning himself so his movements could not be recorded. But cell phones were something new. He hadn’t considered their versatility. He hadn’t kept up with the times.

George sighed with resignation and sat down. “Eighty-twenty,” he said.

Another shake of the head.

“Let me keep the wallet,” George said.

“Wallet?” Pierce studied the list and frowned. “That’s not on my list. You must have taken that on a Tuesday—my day off.”

George thought fast. It had been Tuesday, the same day he had stolen the fire truck for Grover. How fortuitous! Trying to hide his relief, he shrugged.

“OK. You win.” He crossed to the bed in the corner of the room and removed the wrapped gifts from under it, careful to leave the fire truck back against the wall and out of sight.

“My family will be most grateful for your generosity, Mister Grimes.”

“Yeah,” George said. “Now. Get rid of the picture.”

Pierce paused and considered the request. Then with a shrug, he pushed a button and the picture was gone.

“Satisfied?” he said.

George grunted.

Pierce collected the gifts and placed them in a sack he had brought with him, tied it and flung it over his back. He grunted under the weight. “Now I know how you feel,” he said patting the sack. “Good night.” He paused in the doorway and turned to George.

“Merry Christmas.”

George shut the door hard, catching Pierce in the rear end. He locked it, took a swig of eggnog and sat down. Parasite! George, fuming over his misfortune, cursed the man.

“Needy family my arse,” George growled. He was willing to bet there wasn’t a family, that Pierce was keeping the loot for himself.

George glared at the TV, where another Christmas classic was now playing. The green creepy-eyed villain whose name George couldn’t remember—he was never good with names—was busy stealing Christmas from the villagers.

Then he smiled in spite of himself. At least Grover wouldn’t be disappointed. He was probably home this very minute trying to be good. Unsuccessfully, George was certain. But the effort was worthy of reward. Well, he would have his fire truck, thanks to George’s good fortune.

And tomorrow George would start his Christmas shopping all over again. But not at Holman’s Mall. Walmart was just down the street. And George knew all the security guards by name. He would steer clear of shoppers with cell phones, too. Of course, he would have to limit the size of the gifts to fit his pocket, no longer having the benefit of Santa’s sack. Ah, well. Such is life. He held the glass of eggnog up to the TV in a salute. After all, they had a lot in common. They both stole for Christmas, and they both gave it back.

“Skoal,” he said cheerfully. He didn’t know what it meant, but he meant it. Every word.