Molly closed the safe door and pressed the buttons that set the alarm.
Two-four-seven, four-six-three.
‘Well, that’s it,’ she said.
‘Finalmente,’ Helen said.
* * * *
When Drits came out of the employees’ entrance of Gruber’s, he was wearing his beard again. Made him feel good, wearing the beard, all dressed up like Santa, best damn Santa the store had ever had—who was that fuckin’ imposter in the men’s room? What made him feel even better was the quantity of scotch he’d drunk in Aronowitz’s office. Very nice scotch. Nice and warm in his little round potbelly.
There was a man selling two-dollar watches on the sidewalk.
There was a man selling scarves at a dollar apiece.
There was a Salvation Army guy standing near a big black kettle.
‘Here!’ the Salvation Army guy said.
Drits looked at him.
‘Ho, ho, ho,’ Drits said.
‘Where’s the bag?’ the Salvation Army guy whispered.
Drits figured he was nuts.
He threw him a finger and walked up the street.
* * * *
Molly and Helen were about to leave the cashier’s office when the inner steel door opened.
They were looking at Santa Claus.
‘Merry Christmas, ladies,’ he said, and shot them both between the eyes.
The silencer worked fine.
* * * *
The Deaf Man was confused only momentarily.
Of course, he thought, the real Santa. Or at least the store’s Santa.
He looked at his watch.
Five minutes to seven.
Charlie should be coming out that door any minute now.
He glanced toward the corner where the side street intersected the avenue. A uniformed cop was just turning the corner.
‘You!’ the cop yelled at the Puerto Rican selling the hot watches.
* * * *
The security officer at the door to the employee’s entrance thought he’d seen Santa leave already.
‘Two of you, huh?’ he said to Charlie.
Charlie was at the time clock. The canvas sack with the red and green merry Christmas lettered onto its side was bulging with the money he’d taken from the safe. He lifted Helen Ruggiero’s card from the rack and punched her out.
It was almost seven o’clock.
‘Two of us, right,’ he said.
‘Well, have a Merry Christmas, Santa,’ the security officer said, chuckling at his own little joke.
‘You, too, Mac,’ Charlie said, and stepped out onto the sidewalk, where suddenly all hell broke loose.
* * * *
The cop wanted to see a vendor’s license.
The Puerto Rican didn’t have a vendor’s license.
The cop said he was giving him a summons.
Somebody in the sidewalk crowd yelled, ‘Come on, you shit, it’s Christmas Eve!’
The cop yelled back, ‘You want a summons, too?’
Everybody in the crowd started razzing the cop.
That was when the Puerto Rican decided this would be a good time to make a break for it.
That was when Charlie came out of the store, carrying the sack of money.
The plan was to put the sack of money down near the kettle, where it would look like a Salvation Army prop.
The plan was for Charlie to disappear into the night, lootless.
The plan was for the Deaf Man to wait five minutes before picking up the sack and walking off with it.
That was the plan.
Until the Puerto Rican collided with Charlie as he was coming out of the store.
And the sack fell to the sidewalk.
And zippered plastic bags of money spilled out onto the sidewalk.
And the crowd thought Santa was distributing money for Christmas.
And the cop thought Santa was a fuckin’ thief.
The crowd surged forward toward the money on the sidewalk.
The cop’s pistol was already unholstered.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!’ he yelled at Santa. The crowd thought he was telling them to stop picking up the money.
The crowd yelled, ‘Fuck you, pig!’
The Puerto Rican was halfway up the block by then.
A gun suddenly appeared in Santa’s hand.
The Deaf Man winced when the cop fired at Charlie.
Charlie went ass over teacups onto the sidewalk, a bullet hole in his right shoulder.
A lady dropped a dime into the Salvation Army kettle.
‘God bless you,’ the Deaf Man said.
‘Sleep in heav-enn-lee pee-eeese,’ the cassette player blared, ‘slee-eeep in heav-enn-lee peace...’
Shit, the Deaf Man thought.
And then he melted away into the crowd.
* * * *
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Neither Carella nor Brown wanted to be working on Christmas Day.
They had both deliberately chosen to work the four-to-midnight on Christmas Eve so that they could spend the big day itself with their families. But at approximately seven last night a man named Charlie Henkins had inconsiderately held up Gruber’s department store, managing to kill two women in the process. Carella and Brown were catching when a frantic patrolman called in to say he’d just shot Santa Claus. The case was officially theirs, and that was why—at ten on Christmas morning—they were questioning Henkins in his room at Saint Jude’s Hospital.
‘I’m an innocent dupe,’ Henkins said.
He did look very innocent, Brown thought. In his white hospital tunic, his left shoulder bandaged, his blue eyes twinkling, his little potbelly round and soft under the sheet, he looked like an old Saint Nick without a beard and settling down for a long winter’s nap.
‘It was the other Santa Claus done it,’ Henkins said.
‘What other Santa Claus?’ Carella asked.
‘Arthur Drits,’ Henkins said.
Carella looked at Brown.
‘Let me get this straight,’ Carella said.
‘I’m an innocent dupe,’ Henkins said again.
‘What were you doing in that Santa Claus outfit?’ Carella said.
‘I was going to an orphanage to surprise the kiddies there.’
‘What orphanage?’ Brown said. ‘We don’t have any orphanages up here.’
‘I thought there was an orphanage up here.’
‘Were you taking a gun to the orphanage?’
‘That gun is not mine, officers,’ Henkins said.