The Fat Man (13 page)

“All for a story?” I asked. Despite the ache in my jaw, I leaned back toward Rosebud and took a swim in her eyes.

She smiled and leaned forward herself. “It’s a big story, Coal. I think the Fat Man’s in real danger and somehow you and Cane are in the middle of it. If I can break the story and help save Santa, I’ll be swimming in gravy.”

Every time someone mentioned Santa getting the bump, I got a bad case of heartburn. Was this really what all this was about? “So you’re playing Cane,” I said. “How do I know I’m not just another road to your story?”

In her own ladylike way, Rosebud Jubilee spit out the peppermint stick, slung an arm around my neck and kissed me. She kissed me like we were both meant for this one moment, and my hunch was she was right. After a few minutes of pure heaven, she pulled back and gave me a smile. “Because I love ya, you big lummox. Well, little lummox.”

“Seems kinda quick. On the record?”

“And on the level,” Rosebud said in a way that made me want to believe her. “Don’t let your head swell, but I’ve been watching you for a while because Cane has been pulling strings for months. At first, I just thought you were kind of a lovable jerk, but when I saw that you were being set up, I kinda got a soft spot for you. I still think you’re a jerk and stupid, but I’d wager there’s more to the story of Gumdrop Coal.”

“And you want to write the sappy ever after,” I said.

“Something like that, yeah.”

“So instead of going to Santa or Bert the Cop and telling them that I am innocent in all this, you send me to the mistletoe forest, where I almost become a botany buffet? You then rescue me by sending me on a joyride with a crazed reindeer rocket. Then you throw a rock at my lip and smack me hard enough to take plaque off my teeth. That’s how you let a guy know you’re interested?”

“You’d rather have a card with kittens on it?” Rosebud said.

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“Apparently, your tinsel doesn’t go all the way to the top,” Rosebud said. “First, I wasn’t completely sure you were innocent until I knew that Hall’s eye had been shot out. I was there, Gumdrop, invisible and standing right beside you. I don’t think you’re clever enough to come up with something so subtle. If you were going to ice someone, you’d be all tough about it and use your fist or a piece of lumber. Second, I could tell by the look on your face that you were innocent and that you knew you were being set up. I’ve been studying that mug of yours for quite a while and can read you like a
By George
comic book. I followed you to Ralphie, honey. I stayed invisible because if Cane had any idea we were together, he’d clam up and torpedo my story. When you started to head to Whoville, I was able to put some pieces together. Cane took a call from Lou Who a couple of weeks ago when we were having dinner. I went to talk to Lou Who but found him knocked out.”

“The sugar coma,” I said.

“Yeah, all the clues point to Cane,” she said. “But something is not right.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Your boyfriend sugar talks to Lou Who to keep him quiet.”

“Only I don’t think he did it,” Rosebud said. “Cane talks good, but he doesn’t close any deal. I’ve been alone with him, you know? He just can’t seem to bring himself to kiss me. He’ll spew hearts and flowers ’til pigs fly, but he never brings home the bacon, if you know what I mean? No killer instinct. Something told me to get you out of the way to give me a little more time. I led you to the mistletoe forest for safety and slipped Comet some dough to keep an eye on you.”

“Ukulele Who said a dame took care of Lou,” I said in a way that let Rosebud know I still wasn’t convinced. “And a duck told me he saw an elf and a good-looking honey go into the mistletoe forest the other day.”

“I don’t know who Ukulele is talking about, but the duck’s on the up and up, and he has good taste,” Rosebud said. “That was me and Dingleberry.”

“You got Dingleberry mixed up in all of this?” I asked.

“Oh, sweetie,” Rosebud said. “This is where it gets good.”

CHAPTER 15

I
could tell Kringle Town was in a dark mood when we found Dingleberry Fizz up to his elbow in the cookie jar. I hope you won’t lose any sleep when I tell you that Santa doesn’t eat all of those cookies you leave for him. He just can’t. First, there’s the whole “Naughty Cholesterol” issue. Second, most of your cookies are inedible, merciless, granite globs of sugar and lard, a kind of cookie jerky whipped up at the last minute before bed. Elves use those cookies for roof shingles and patios. Of the thousands and thousands of good cookies, Santa will take a nibble just to be polite, but then brings the rest of the batch back to the North Pole and puts them in the elves’ huge cookie pantry. Most of you cubicle convicts serve your time with the help of a java or a soda pop. Elves are fueled by sugar. Cookies, candy, cakes, pies—an elf’s sweet tooth is primal and not picky. Need six million Poopy Droopy Diaper Dolls with Wipe-Away Rash by sundown? Toss a handful of elves a couple of sleeves of chocolate chip cookies and get out of the way. During the Christmas of ’88, when it seemed like every tyke in the hemisphere was clamoring for the Z-Box’s
Grandma Hostage Ninja Rescue
, Santa stepped up production with a few dozen rhubarb pies and a turbocharged hot chocolate. Because Santa brings back thousands of sweets every Christmas morning, elves are able to snag a bite of some sugar goodness whenever we want. Of course, Dingleberry is also a stress eater. The pile of crumbs told me Dingleberry was in a dither. He burst into tears when he saw me.

I imagine that I was quite a sight. Not taking a chance with her big story, Rosebud snuck me back into Kringle Town through a hopscotch of other holiday worlds. You’d think Halloween Town would be the worst, but, believe me, you don’t want to spend any more time than you have to on the
Pinta
in Columbus Day City. Scurvy will be the least of your problems. Dingleberry rushed over and soaked my shoulder with a fresh spring of tears and mucus. “What have they done to you?! I’m so sorry I said those things, Gumdrop,” he said. “You’re my best friend and I doubted you. You really are good, better than George, even. Well, almost. You can hate me the rest of your life if you want, but I’ll still be your best friend.” Dingleberry cried some more while I patted his shoulder.

“Doesn’t anybody want to talk about football?” Rosebud asked. “Or trucks?”

After a few minutes, I got Dingleberry to cork the waterworks so he could tell me what I had missed.

“Tell him what you told me,” Rosebud said like she didn’t have all day.

Suddenly, Dingleberry looked scared to death and he swallowed hard to keep from coming unglued all over again. He looked at me with big eyes and a lip that wouldn’t sit still and whispered, “Gumdrop. Mr. Cane is stealing
toys
!”

It sounded daffy. “Toys? Why would any elf steal toys?” I said. “They play with them all day long! Dingleberry, you’re one of the few that isn’t sick to death of toys.”

“Cane’s not playing with toys, tough guy,” Rosebud said. “Finish it, Ding.”

Dingleberry slowly pulled a folded piece of paper from inside his shirt. He held it gently like it might explode. “It’s the Misfit Mafia.” Dingleberry said the name quietly, as if he would actually summon them if he said it any louder. “I came back the night of our fight, but you were gone. I found this on your doormat. The note was open, but it was wrong of me to peek. I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying you’re sorry, Dingleberry.” I read the note:

“Did you read this?” I asked Rosebud.

“You bet your buttons I did, my vittle Gumdrop. Please tell me you didn’t jingle all the way with Frau Floozy,” Rosebud said. “It would break my heart and I’d have to burn my lips off.”

“No presents were unwrapped,” I said. “I wasn’t even curious enough to peek. But what does Sherlock’s note have to do with Cane stealing toys?”

“Cane is part of the Misfit Mafia,” Dingleberry said. “He’s stealing toys for them. I know he is!”

“But why?” Rosebud said. “That’s what I don’t understand. There’s never been any proof that the Misfit Mafia existed, much less this organized. Why would Cane get Gumdrop out of the way and frame him for a murder just to steal toys? I can only think of one reason, but I hope I’m wrong. What do you think, Coal?”

I let Rosebud’s question chase an answer around in my noggin, but I didn’t like what I kept catching. The only thing I could figure was a lot worse than I could ever imagine. A lot worse. And it made me mad and sick to my stomach.

“Cane wants to be Santa Claus,” I said like it was a curse. Dingleberry started crying again and Rosebud shook her head no.

“That’s what I thought too, but Cane doesn’t have it in him, I tell ya,” she said. “Make your case.”

“He who has the most toys wins,” I said. “Cane wants to be liked, to be beloved. Who’s more loved than Santa? Cane wants the power to make children happy and for them to love him. The Misfit Mafia is a fake. Like Santa, Cane’s not going to unload a lot of junk on kids. They wouldn’t adore him and that’s what Cane wants. But the difference between Cane and Claus, or Santa and anybody really, is that Santa really and truly cares about the kids, not the adulation. In fact, caring so much about the kids’ happiness is what is killing Santa, wearing him out. The only thing standing in Santa’s way of doing more for years has been . . .”

“Gumdrop Coal,” Dingleberry said.

“Bingo,” I said. “As long as there was a Naughty List, Santa would not have to worry about giving something to every single kid in the world. But get me and my old-fashioned notions out of the way, and the Fat Man’s got a ton of toys to make.”

“And he wears himself out doing it,” Dingleberry said with a sniffle. “You should see him too. He looks like he could fade away any second!”

“There wouldn’t be a drop of blood on Cane’s lily-white hands.” Rosebud said the last part, and, for the first time since I’d known her, she looked scared. “And then Cane just slithers on in, tells Santa he’ll take care of everything while the old man naps or—” Rosebud stopped breathing.

“Or the Fat Man goes beard up,” I said, finishing her awful thought. All of us were quiet for a bit after that. We were trying not to imagine a world without Santa Claus. Santa was the only goodness some kids knew. Once a year, hope came in the form of a toy truck or teddy bear. Santa made it possible for kids to understand the true meaning of Christmas. To a kid, the gift the Child gave the world is a little too much to understand. Everlasting life doesn’t mean much when you’re six. But as kids get older, and they hear Christmas’s old, old story, they start connecting that toy that made them feel special to the Child in the manger—the gift that lets us know that we are all special. Like clutching that teddy bear, the Child gives us peace, a presence, a feeling to cling to in the dark. His gift is wonderful, made just for you and your happiness. Going from believing in Santa to believing in the Child is an easy step because Santa shows us that we can all reflect the light of the Child if we try. Even if we’re naughty, Santa finds a way to forgive and give. How could I forget that? Santa shows the joy that comes with giving. Take the bridge from Santa to the Child away and the road to believing in anything good is a dead end.