The Fat Man

Table of Contents

 

 

 

DUTTON
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Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

First printing, November 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Ken Harmon
Illustrations copyright © Andrea Tsurumi

DREGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
has been applied for

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-47502-7

 

 

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CHAPTER 1

T
he straight dope is that you don’t want to get on the Naughty List. It’s my job to make sure you don’t want your moniker anywhere near it. And brother, I like my job. I like it a lot. If you decide to pout, shout and cry, I’ll tattoo your mug with a rock that leaves a mark and stings all winter long. Lip off to parents and teachers, and I’m the one coming down the chimney, loaded for bear. Go ahead and roll the dice with lying, cheating and pitching hissy fits. I’ll be there Christmas Eve to make sure you take your lumps.

Of coal.

Don’t believe me? You should ask Raymond Hall Junior about his coal collection. Cain, Mordred, Lizzie Borden—none of these tykes could hold a sickle to Ray the Deuce. If little Ray had a guardian angel, we’d find her in a ditch, coldcocked by her own halo with Raymond’s prints all over the gold. The kid’s not completely to blame, I guess. Raymond Junior was an alum of the Naughty List, ignored and pushed down the primrose path by a dad whose own flaws launched more headaches than an ugly husband. I was never really able to get Raymond Hall Senior’s attention, and that stuck to me like cold on a Cratchit. I wanted to make up for it with Raymond Junior.

Plus the little punk had it coming.

I mean, cats aren’t supposed to be painted purple. Whoopee cushions have no business in a church pew. A kindergarten teacher shouldn’t limp and sleep with the lights on for the rest of her life because of a student. But Raymond Junior managed to pull off all those capers in just one week. And the bad news was that, according to the Naughty List, he was having a slow week.

Now, Raymond’s supposedly dreaming of sugarplums, but the smart money would be he’s dreaming of grenades or giving an old lady a spider. Even asleep, he has that smirk on his face, like he’s proud that he just made the Public Enemies list. We see him when he’s sleeping. We know when he’s awake. And we see that smirk a lot. Like father, like son.

From little Raymond’s room, I slipped down the hall to the den where the Christmas tree is battle-scarred and praying for January. Sleeping Beauty back there has used the once-proud balsam as an evergreen piñata since Thanksgiving. He’s swatted the red glass balls off the branches with a spatula. He pushed the tree over once so he could decapitate a gingerbread man and another time to give the angel topper a mustache. His last attack was flinging his dinner onto the tree and spaghetti tinsel is as ugly as it sounds. After all that, the little hoodlum still had the cheek to hang a stocking up over the fireplace.

To an elf with a sack full of coal, that kind of chutzpah is answered with a little rock and roll.

Later, I went back so I could be there when he woke up, because this year, Raymond Junior really thought he was going to beat the system. At first light, he roared down the hall, a tornado in footie pajamas, but he went silent as a grave when he came into the den.

The space under the tree was empty. There was no fire truck. There was no checkerboard or football. And you’d have to be a damn fool to give this kid the bow and arrow and tomahawk set he craved. He’d restage the Donner Party right there in the cul-de-sac.

Raymond Junior stared slack-jawed at the tree skirt, empty except for a few stray needles and spaghetti sauce stains. But he didn’t panic yet, not this kid. He looked to the hearth and could tell by the bulge that something was in his stocking. He ripped it off the nail and slammed his greedy little hand into the bottom of the sock.

I couldn’t help but smile a little when he fished out a grimy, messy, ugly lump of coal. Again.

Raymond was numb with disbelief. He turned the lump of coal over in his palm several times as if he wondered if it would change into something else. He rubbed it and mumbled a wish. But all he got for his trouble was two dirty hands instead of one.

And that’s when he started to cry. It was about time. At first, he just leaked a little, but then the pipe burst. Tears poured out of his beady little eyes and more liquid regret oozed out of his nose. A tissue was not going to do him any good. This kid was going to need a sponge. He cried and cried, choked a little on his tears and then,

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Finally, Raymond Hall Junior was experiencing heartbreak and the shame that it was all his doing. Maybe, just maybe, he might remember the next time he thought about doing something he shouldn’t. He’d remember this feeling and think twice about pulling the school’s fire alarm or bullying the scrawny kid with an overbite. Now he’d learn his lesson or it would be worse the next time. I knew this was true because he kept crying and crying and crying. It was a great day.