“Sure you do.”
“I’m splittin’ from Frisco. Goin’ where it’s warm.”
“Tonight?”
“Maybe. Yeah, maybe tonight.”
“Bus? You want a ride to the bus depot after we’re done?”
“Nah. You just bring me back where you picked me up.”
They were on the freeway now. Big Dog settled back, stretched his feet close to the heater vents. Nice and warm in here, gonna be nice and warm in Dago. Goin’ back in style. He grinned to himself. And when the five thousand was gone he’d hit the man up for another five. And another five and another after that. This here Sandy Claus knew what was good for him, he’d keep his bag full of presents for the Big Dog.
On a freeway exit now. He leaned his head up, blinking. Dark street, looked like some kind of industrial area.
“Almost there,” Sandy Claus said.
“Where? Where we at?”
“Where you get paid off.”
Sharp left turn. Big old warehouse, no lights, asphalt lot behind it all dark and wet. Car stopped, headlights went down dim.
“All right, get out.”
“What for?”
“You want what’s coming to you, don’t you?”
“You go get it, man. Warm in here, cold outside.”
“Get out of the car.”
Different voice, all hot and pissed. Big Dog looked at him. Then his mouth dropped open and he sat up all the way, staring. The man had a gun in his hand, a goddamn big mother pistol.
“Hey,” he said, “hey, what’s the idea?”
“The idea is you get out like I told you to.”
“Nah. You can’t—”
“Get out of the car! Or I swear I’ll blow your head off right where you sit!”
Big Dog felt sick all of a sudden, couldn’t think straight no more. He got out. Rain and cold again. Bad luck again. Shit, he never did have no good luck that lasted. Just jerking himself around, thinking he had. Always turned bad, like he was cursed or something. He wished to Christ he had a drink. He needed one worse than ever.
The man come around behind the car, stood a few feet away from him. Taillights lit him up all red, him and his gun. Red glow, black gun, black shadows.
“You can’t do nothin’ to me,” Big Dog said. “I got it all wrote down. I give it to a buddy of mine—”
“You don’t have any buddies. Not garbage like you.”
“I got it all wrote down—”
“Bullshit. I don’t believe you. Even if I did, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve had all I can take, I can’t swallow anymore. All you bloodsuckers, all you garbage, squeezing a man, hurting people I care about, ruining their lives, ruining my life. Grinding me down, trampling me. I took it all these years but no more, no more. Now it’s my turn.”
“You’re fuggin’ crazy.”
“If I am, it’s bastards like you made me that way. I don’t care. I don’t care what happens anymore.”
Big Dog didn’t care no more neither. He felt sick, he couldn’t think straight, he needed a drink bad. And he was starting to get pissed off himself. His head hurt like somebody was sticking it with nails and wires. Fug this guy. Fug him! He started forward.
“That’s it,” the guy said, “that’s right, come and get your Christmas present.”
Big Dog kept on moving, but not for long. “Christmas present” was the last thing he ever heard.
16
Kerry said, “The pier looks nice this year. Really festive.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Festive.”
“Look at all the displays, how inventive they are.”
I looked. “At least they don’t have some poor schnook dressed up in a Santa Claus suit.”
“I suppose that’s a reference to the Gala Christmas Benefit. You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”
“Ho, ho, ho.”
She poked me in the ribs. “Don’t be grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“If you’re going to be grumpy...”
I said again, grumpily, that I wasn’t grumpy. It was the truth, more or less. Ill at ease was the proper term. She knew how large parties affected me; we’d been together long enough for her to know me inside out. Why call me grumpy?
The crowd was much lager, it seemed to me, than the last Season of Sharing party I’d attended. The huge open space where Pier 24-½’s inhabitants usually parked their cars was packed with milling, chattering, laughing, bibulous, face-stuffing humanity: grouped thickly around a buffet table and bar toward the far end; swirling around the decorative displays, the pedestaled loving cup that would be awarded to the best display at the close of festivities, the red, white and blue donation barrels spotted here and there. The raising of funds and goods for charity was the point of these gatherings — a different charity each year, with one of the pier’s firms handling the collection and disbursement on a rotating basis. The party atmosphere may have left me cold, but I was all for its purpose. I even had a certain personal involvement in this year’s cause, because of the Spook investigation. Ted Smalley had told me that a group called Home for the Holidays, dedicated to housing and feeding the homeless during the season, would be the current recipient.
Kerry prodded me into the midst of the noisy throng. I had to admit that the displays were pretty clever, all right. McCone Investigations’ offices were of the upstairs catwalk to the left; garlands were woven all along the railing in front and a lot of silver stars, moons, planets, and crystal beads hung down from them. The architects on the opposite catwalk, Chandler & Santos, had fashioned a cityscape of colored lights and neon tubing; their neighbors, a group of CPAs, had suspended cardboard cutouts of people of all races holding hands. Down here I saw a couple that Emily might have liked: a miniature Santa’s Village, complete with electric tram, courtesy of the firm of marketing consultants; and a forest of small fir trees dusted in realistic-looking snow, where replicas of various endangered animals seemed to be hiding (ecological nonprofit outfit). There was also a Model T Ford with a life-size St. Nick at the wheel and presents in the rumbleseat (car leasing agency). One of these would win the loving cup and pier bragging rights for the coming year.
We wove and squeezed our way past some of the patriotic barrels, all of which were already stuffed full of canned goods, new toys, and warm clothing, and stopped in front of another, smaller barrel on a low wooden platform. Propped up there was a big sign:
Kerry transferred a folded twenty-dollar bill from her purse into the barrel. I took a ten out of my wallet.
“For heaven’s sake,” she said, “don’t be a Scrooge. Read the sign.”
I said, “Be generous, Mr. Spade.”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind.” I exchanged the ten for two twenties, stepped up to the platform and slotted them into the barrel.
“That’s better. Oh, here’s Sharon.”
McCone came bustling up, as svelte and attractive as ever despite the furred Santa Claus cap she wore over her black hair. Just looking at the cap made my scalp itch. She hugged Kerry, waved some green plant-stuff over my head, and then kissed me on the mouth.
“Hey,” I said, “I’m a married man. And you’re almost young enough to be my daughter.”
“Almost?”
“Don’t mind him,” Kerry said. “He’s in one of his grumpy moods.”
“I am not grumpy!”
McCone said, “Well, whatever you are, Wolf, I’m glad you’re here.” She knew I didn’t care for that pet name — short for “lone wolf detective,” an allusion to the hardboiled pulp sleuths — which was probably one of the reasons she insisted on using it. Her sense of humor is a little bent and barbed, not unlike Kerry’s. “We were afraid you’d try to cancel out at the last minute.”