Santa 365

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Contents

Author's Note

Santa 365

Scents and Sensibility
Excerpt

About the Author

About Atria Books

“
T
here's no Santa Claus,” Charlie said.

“Who told you that?” said Bernie.

“Esmé.”

“Who's Esmé?”

“At school.”

“Well,” said Bernie, “everyone has their own opinion.”

“It's not an opinion, Dad,” said Charlie. “It's a scientific fact.”

“Oh?”

“From a scientist.”

“Any scientist in particular?”

“Groucho Marx.”

“Esmé told you that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Know much about Groucho Marx?”

Charlie shrugged his skinny little shoulders. “He was a scientist and he said there ain't no Santa Claus.”

“What do Esmé's parents do?”

“Drive her to school. Pick her up.”

“I meant for a living.”

“Like you're a private eye?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

“I don't think they're private eyes,” Charlie said.

“Why not?”

“They're rich.”

We turned a corner and drove down our street, namely Mesquite Road, the best street in the whole Valley, which may be in Arizona—but don't count on me for details like that. Our ride—mine and Bernie's—was a Porsche, one of a number that we'd had at the Little Detective Agency, each one older than the last. It's called the Little Detective Agency on account of Bernie's last name being Little. I'm Chet, pure and simple. Charlie—Bernie's kid, if you've been paying attention—lives with Leda, Bernie's ex-wife, except for some weekends and every second Thanksgiving and Christmas, when he's with us. But this was one of those every second Christmases! So imagine our mood! Tip-top!

This particular Porsche was brown with yellow doors. Maybe you've seen it flashing by, so fast you just sighed and thought, Hey, at least someone's living the dream. That was Bernie behind the wheel, by the way, and me in the shotgun seat. Is there anything better than riding shotgun in the Porsche? Not that I'd ever come across, and certainly not riding on the strange little bench behind the actual seats, which was where I happened to be now, what with Charlie in my spot. I loved Charlie, so it wasn't a problem, as long as it hardly ever happened again, preferably never. Plus the truth was not quite all of me was on the little bench, no little bench able to completely contain a hundred-plus-pounder such as myself. At some point my tail had managed to curl itself free and share the shotgun seat with Charlie in a companionable way. Was the kid somewhat crammed in against the door? Possibly. But it was nice to see my tail riding up front, kind of like my representative. My tail and I have a lot in common, if that makes any sense.

We turned into our driveway, as nice a driveway as you could
wish for. But hey! What was this? Someone else already parked here? That was very bothersome. Don't forget who's in charge of security at our place on Mesquite Road: namely me. This someone else was driving a bright red van with green Christmas trees painted on the side panels. The door opened and out stepped a round little dude with a big smile on his face. This was a round little dude we knew, although we hadn't seen him in some time.

“Plumpy Bonaparte?” Bernie said. “What the hell—heck—is he doing here?”

“That's a funny name, Dad,” Charlie said, as we parked behind the bright red van.

“Uh-huh.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

Excellent question on Charlie's part. But no more than you'd expect from a son of Bernie's. Bernie was always the smartest human in the room, as many perps can tell you, meaning Charlie had to be the smartest human son in the room. Wow! My most complicated thought ever! Was I getting better with age? Look out, world! I was so happy with myself that the most complicated thought ever flew straight out of my head, kind of like a frightened bird, perhaps never to return. But back to perps, “perp” maybe describing Plumpy a little better than “friend.” Would I ever forget the day we'd grabbed him by the pant leg? Me doing the actual grabbing, not Bernie, although that had happened once: Bernie, grabbing a pant leg by the teeth! Poor Bernie had to see Dr. Choi, the dentist, soon after. Bernie was afraid of no man on earth, excepting Dr. Choi, for some reason, a tiny guy with wrists not much thicker than Bernie's fingers. What was that about? I had no idea, and meanwhile I'd lost complete track of where I was going with this.

Pant leg! That was it. I'd grabbed Plumpy by the pant leg.
But before that he'd tried to run. Plumpy running! What a slow-motion ending that was! I'd strolled after him—Plumpy glancing back at me from time to time, scared out of his mind—and brought things to a halt by a freeway exit, not wanting Plumpy to get himself hurt in traffic. We took Plumpy in without cuffing him. No need to cuff the Plumpys of this world.

“Not exactly a friend,” Bernie said, as we squeezed in behind the red van with the Christmas tree pattern and hopped out of the Porsche—me and Charlie actually hopping. “More like a business acquaintance.”

“A criminal, Dad?—”

“We'll talk about it later.”

“Okay!”

Plumpy hurried over to us—meaning his body made all kinds of speedy-like motions that ended up delaying his forward progress—and stuck out his chubby hand. Bernie shook it.

“Bernie! Season's greetings!”

“Hi, Plumpy.”

“And here's my ol' buddy Chet!”

I moved closer to Plumpy. He had a Slim Jim deep inside his pants pocket. Slim Jims in pockets have a strange way of pulling you toward them.

“And who have we here?”

“My son, Charlie. Say hello to Mr. Bonaparte, Charlie.”

“Hi,” said Charlie.

“A big hello to you, young man. And the spitting image, if I may say so.”

“You're the only one,” Bernie said.

Or something like that. I myself was stuck on the spitting reference. Was spitting in the near future? No one was chewing tobacco at present, but that didn't rule it out. A big subject,
human spitting, full of questions. Why men and not women, for example? Meanwhile Bernie was having a thought. I could see it in his eyes, also feel it in the air. Bernie's thoughts were one of our best assets at the Little Detective Agency. I bring other things to the table.

“I'm a bit surprised to see you here, Plumpy.”

“I know my way around this part of the Valley,” Plumpy said. “Sold insurance door-to-door up here, back in high school.”

“Saw that on your sheet,” Bernie said. “A premiums-only kind of insurance, if I remember right. But what surprises me is you being on the loose.”

“On the loose? Makes it sound squirrelly, if you don't mind my saying so, Bernie.”

Uh-oh. Plumpy was turning out to be trickier than I recalled. First spitting, now squirrels. Security rule number one at our place on Mesquite Road: no squirrels on the grounds, end of story. And there were none at the moment, not even in the trees out front, trees they ran up in their infuriating way every time I gave chase. I'd tried to follow many times, but the running-up-trees technique eluded me. Which didn't mean it would elude me forever, so heads up, my little bushy-tailed friends! Of whom we had none right now—so what was Plumpy trying to pull? I sidled in a bit closer.

“Remind me of your sentence, again?” Bernie was saying.

“Four years,” Plumpy said.

“We can't be even close to that.”

Plumpy nodded, one of those enthusiastic nods that make jowls wobble on humans that have them, which Plumpy did. “Paroled after eight months,” he said, “on account of overcrowding.”

“So you did eight months—”

“Less six weeks on account of good behavior.”

“—for stealing one point two million dollars?”

“Stealing puts it in such a harsh light, doncha think?”

“But that's what a Ponzi scheme is,” Bernie said. He glanced at Charlie, sort of checking out how the little fella was doing. Charlie was watching with wide eyes. What a kid! What a dad!

Plumpy sighed. “That word,” he said. “It's so . . . something or other, also starts with a ‘p.' ”

“Pejorative?”

“Exactly! Forgot what a good conversationalist you were, Bernie. But the point is I never planned on running a Ponzi scheme. It ran me, is what ended up happening.”

“Meaning you're a victim?”

“I knew you'd understand,” Plumpy said. “Didn't want to say it myself. But there's good in everything, Bernie—even injustice, and in my eight months in the wilderness, if you will—”

“Minus six weeks.”

“—I came to a new understanding.”

“Of what?” Bernie said.

Plumpy motioned toward the red van. “What do you see?”

“Car payments you shouldn't be able to afford,” Bernie said. “Not if the investors were made whole—or even one-tenth of whole.”

“You're way ahead of me,” Plumpy said.

“Oh?”

Plumpy looked down at Charlie. Charlie's hair happened to be doing that Indian feather stick-up thing, just another reason to love him. “Your old man's got it up here,” Plumpy said, tapping the side of his own head. “Don't forget that.”

“He's not old,” Charlie said.

“Heh,” said Plumpy, almost a laugh, but not quite. “Heh heh.” He turned back to Bernie. “But making people whole, that's
where I'm at now, Bernie. Making people whole holistically.”

“What does that mean?” Bernie said.

I was with him on that.

“It means,” Plumpy said, “that from now till I cast off these mortal coils—and maybe even after, but let's not go there for the time being—I, Norbert Norwood Bonaparte—am all about giving back. That's the founding principle behind my new business—Santa 365.”

“How about just giving back the one point two?” Bernie said.

Plumpy shook his head. “All gone, I'm afraid. Pissed away, pardon the expression.”

That was interesting. Plumpy did smell slightly of piss, but no more than most humans, and less than some.

“So instead it's Christmas every day of the year?” Bernie said.

“Not Christmas,” said Plumpy. “Santa. Santa every day of the year. There's a need, Bernie, a terrible emptiness just waiting to be filled. My way of giving back. For no more than the most modest of honorariums, Santa pays a personal visit to your private abode.”

“How much is the honorarium?” Bernie said.

“There's a sliding scale based on menu options chosen by the customer, but we start at a very reasonable two hundred an hour.”

“That's what my lawyer charges,” Bernie said.

“But is he or she jolly?”

“Not particularly. Is that what you're selling? Jolliness?”

“I shy away from the whole selling concept,” Plumpy said. “But, yes, jolliness is the product. I—and my associates, depending on the option choices—will bring jolliness to your and your loved ones' lives. And since you've always been straight with me and I consider you a friend, I'm offering my services this holiday season.”

“At two hundred an hour.”

“For the Santa 365 entry-level package.”

“Charlie?” Bernie said. “You been listening to this?”

Charlie nodded.

“And?” Bernie said.

“There ain't no Santa Claus,” Charlie said.

“Heh heh,” said Plumpy. “Heh heh.” He squatted down to Charlie's level, his knees cracking the way human knees often did, although I'd never heard knee cracking quite as loud as this. At the same time, a car went slowly by, the kind Bernie calls an old lady ride, meaning a far-from-new sedan in perfect condition. And what do you know? There were two old ladies inside, both with bluish white hair, although not much hair was visible on account of the hats they wore—big white cowboy hats with lots of floral decoration. The two old ladies—both with granny-type glasses perched on the ends of their noses—turned and fastened their gazes on Plumpy. Their faces—not what you'd call soft and warm to begin with—turned harder and colder. The sedan moved on, a signal flasher blinking although there were no possible turns in sight from our place.

Meanwhile Plumpy was smiling at Charlie, one of those over-big human smiles which were all about getting the dude on the receiving end of the smile to join in. Charlie did not. “What's your position on elves?” Plumpy said.

“Elves?” said Charlie.

“Santa's little helpers,” Plumpy said. “For a very small upgrade, you can get Santa plus elves.”

“Real elves?” Charlie said.

“As real as they come,” said Plumpy.

Charlie looked up at Bernie. “You'd like that?” Bernie said.

Charlie nodded.

“Well,” said Bernie, eyeing Plumpy in a careful sort of way, “I
don't really think it's—”

“Please, Dad.”

There was a pause. Then Bernie nodded. “Okay. We'll make it into a little party.”

“L'chaim,” said Plumpy.

“Excuse me?” Bernie said.

“It means to life, Bernie.”

“I know, but—”

“And Santa 365 is all about life.” Plumpy rose, his knees cracking again. “I assume you'll want a genuine personally hand-cut Christmas tree, thrown in at nominal cost. I'll need a fifty percent deposit. And there's a generous five percent discount for cash.”

“That'll put Uncle Sam in a jolly mood.”

“Heh heh.”

I sensed time running out on this little confab, and barked—a soft, friendly bark, directed at Plumpy's pocket. Out came the Slim Jim. Life could be so simple.

We went into the house. There was some confusion at the doorway but I ended up being first, Charlie bouncing right back to his feet in no time.

“Chet likes to go first, huh?” Charlie said.

“He has his own special way about a lot of things.”

My own special way? How nice of Bernie! But he was special to me, too. We headed for the kitchen. I thought: Open the fridge. And right away Bernie opened the fridge! How about that? Now I was making things happen just with my mind? What a life!