Chapter One

It was hot. Hotter than a VCR bought out of the back of a van. Hotter than my Aunt Miriam in a spandex mini skirt, but that's another story.

The sky was as blue as the balls of Doris Day's prom date, and the clouds were as fluffy as that damn French poodle that keeps crapping on my doorstep. In other words, a typical California sunshine-noir detective story sort of day.

I woke up with a dog breathing in my face. After I threw her out, I made a note to myself not to pick anyone up after more than four drinks.

Elves with pickaxes were digging in my brain. I could only hope they'd mine out the memories of that platinum blonde twist who'd cut my heart out and spit on it so long ago...but that's another story.

I showered, then gave myself a thorough shave: face, neck, tongue, palms, the back would have to wait till I could get to a barber. I slapped on plenty of Rusty Nail aftershave. Ten minutes later, when I stopped screaming, I headed for the office.

It's in a great part of town, my office. The crack whores give senior citizen discounts. The sidewalk evangelists will guarantee you a place in heaven for the price of a bottle of Mad Dog, and lay a curse on you for anything less than a dollar. You can buy anything from the oregano they pass off on tourists as grass to acid so strong it gives Timothy Leary a woody beyond the grave.

My downstairs neighbor runs a 'training school'. She wears a lot of leather and chrome, and the guys and gals who attend private classes usually sport bruises and rope burns in interesting places. She's a good neighbor, but I wish she'd have her place soundproofed, the howls can be distracting.

The damn landlord had put a padlock on the place this time instead of a combination lock. I had to go back to my car for my snippers. I made a mental note to hint that I'd use them on his dingle-dangles if he didn't stop trying to lock me out. I told him I'd pay for the damn toilet when I got paid for the Crayola Caper.

She was waiting in my office. She was gorgeous. Well, of course she was. Has there ever been a hard boiled detective story female client who wasn't gorgeous? She was 110 pounds of womanhood.

Actually, about 50 pounds of boobs, 30 pounds of hair, 10.5 pounds of makeup, 19 pounds of womanhood, and 8 ounces of clothing, mostly shoes.

Her eyes were as green as the beer you get in Boston on St. Paddy's day. Her hair was as black as the heart of the dame who'd sworn I meant more to her than Life itself, then threw me over for a New Yorker, but that's another story.

She sashayed over to me, with more backfield in motion than three seasons of NFL playoffs. Her bosum bumped me gently on the chest, with a squeak like I used to make by rubbing a balloon, and Ma would get so irritated she'd hang me upside down and...that's right, another story. Like I said, he bosum bumped me. Thirty seconds later, she arrived, and put her arms around me.

"I'm so hot, " she moaned.

Her hands slid down my hips. "I'm so hungry."

Her hand slid into my pocket and started to feel around. "I'm so pissed with your landlord."

She pulled out my emergency Twinkie, ripped it open and gobbled it up. "Your air conditioning is out, and the bastard locked me in last night, so I missed supper and breakfast, and it's almost noon. How the hell late do you sleep, anyway?"

"I'll ask the questions, doll face." I said doll face because of the clown spots of rouge, raccoon style mascara, tarantula lashes, and three shades of lipstick. It just wouldn't have been nice to call her Tammie Faye. "Who sent you?"

She thought. "Right now Delbert McClinton really sends me. If you mean who am I representing, The Fat Man."

I snarled. "Screw Rush Limbaugh!"

"Not him."

"Well, then, fuck Willard Scott."

"Not him, either."

Now I was a little unsure. "Um, tell Steven Segal I'm not available right now?"

"No, fool. The Fat Man! Double K."

"The rapper?"

She'd turned the color of my butt the last time I fell asleep face down under a sun lamp, bright red. She screamed, "Kris Kringle!"

"You mean...?!"

"Yes. Santa is desperately in need of help with his list of naughties, and he wants you."

Rage, righteous rage, rose in me, threatening to spew like lukewarm Coke from a can that's been used in a touch football game. "You mean to tell me that after ten straight years of bringing me nothing but socks and underwear, then not another thing for the last twenty, that fat bastard expects help?!"

At that moment something crashed into the back of my skull. Pain exploded, like the time I tried to put the moves on that buff Sarah Conners chick and she knee dropped me where it would do the most damage. Last I'd seen of her, she was humping it toward a metal factory, dragging her rug rat and some half-ton humanoid with a Saturday Night Live Hanz-und-Franz accent. But that's another story.

As I slid into darkness, I turned and saw a sawed off runt wearing curly toed shoes. He was smoking an unfiltered Camel and leaning on a Louisville slugger that was taller than he was.

He removed the butt from his lips and rasped, "Missus Claus sez yer needed, shamus. Ya don' dick around wit' da Clauses."

Unconsciousness claimed me, and as I went out I heard him say. "It ain't no safer dan messin' wit' dat Toot' Fairy bitch. But dat's anudder story..."

Chapter Two

It was cold. Colder than a well digger's butt. Colder than a witch's tit in Alberta in the middle of January. I've never felt a well digger's butt. As for Broomhilda's booby...that's another story.

I opened my eyes. For a moment I thought that Head 'n Shoulders resistant dandruff had come back, but I soon realized that it was snow. Well, friend, some weird stuff happens in LA, but this was pushing the envelope.

I tried to rub the sore place on my skull, but found that my hands were tied. With bright red satin ribbon. Whoever had done it had tied it in a fluffy bow, but the bastard was as secure as anything a 20 year navy man could have come up with. I tried to say something, and realized my mouth was glued shut by a gift label. By crossing my eyes, I saw that it featured Frosty the Snowman. But instead of the carrot being in the middle of his face for the schnoz, it was positioned at crotch level, and Frosty looked ready to toss salad, if you know what I mean.

A wind stiffer than Frosty's root stung my face, and I looked around. I was sitting in...well, there's no other word for it. A sleigh.

But not your one horse open one. This one was pink, and I could see ahead, through the snow, a huge, lumbering beast harnessed to it. And he was lumbering through a cloud at the moment.

I leaned to the side, looked down, and made a sound kind of like a Guinea pig in a blender set on frappe`. I've never been good with heights. I had a nasty experience with a booster seat in a Denny's once, but that's another story.

I scooted over toward the middle of the seat, and bumped into Mrs. Claus. She was wearing more fur than a Republican before PETA got active. "If I take off that gag, do you promise not to make that sound again? If you do, I'll have to have Smitty toss you over, no matter how much K wants you. That made my fillings hurt." Suddenly, as if realizing she'd said something dangerous, she looked around nervously.

"Mrrfurgle." I agreed.

She used the 'do it quick so it'll hurt less' method. That idea is more of a myth than the Clauses are. I didn't make the Guinea pig sound, though. Smitty, who was holding the reins up front, was squinting at me over his shoulder. He looked like he'd enjoy nothing more than to give me the opportunity to pen one of those 'I fell 30,000 feet without a parachute' stories.

"Nice ride you got here" I said. Well, I had to say SOMETHING, and I wasn't up to the Gettysburg Address right then.

"Do you like it?" She stroked the pastel sides. "I'm very proud of it. I didn't get it from fat boy, you know. I earned this baby myself selling Mary Kay. Have you got any idea how hard that is when your clientele consists of gay elves and a few Eskimos?"

I peered through the dense flakes. I hadn't seen this much snow fill the air since someone sneezed into the stash at a Hollywood party. "I didn't know there were albino reindeer."

Smitty snorted. "Dere ain't, dummus. Dat's Bruno." I squinted some more, and saw that the sleigh was being pulled by a humongous polar bear.

"My generous, considerate husband wouldn't risk his precious flying hatracks on MY transportation. Bruno isn't as fast, but he has more power. He can do as much alone as those seven deer."

I mentally ran over the names. Dasher, uh, Stripper, Prancer, Slutty, Ajax, Cupid, Dunder, Blitzkrieg..."Don't you mean eight?"

She smiled. "Not after I got Bruno."

"It's DK's own fault for lettin' dem critters roam aroun' at will. Geez, dey's nuttin' but crap machines. Wunna da fuckers ate my stash. I know, 'cause he flew upside down an' buzzed da outdoor Jacuzzi. Dropped a turd right inna middle o' da Fortiet' Annual Mixed Orgy we had goin' wit' da Land o' Two Moons Wolfriders." He sighed wistfully. "Ya ain't never had it 'til youse done it wolf style wit' wunna dos forest bitches."

My gallant instinct arose. Also the opportunity to make brownie points couldn't be passed up. "Don't call tarts bitches."

Smitty's eyebrows...eyebrow...that fuzzy orange caterpillar just over his eyes, lifted. "Din' ya hear me? I said 'Wolfriders', din' I? What da hell else ya gonna call a lady wolf dan a bitch?"

"Enough small talk." said Mrs. Claus.

Smitty glowered. "I gotta call da SPADE division on ya, Missus?"

"I didn't mean it that way, Smitty."

"Okay, since it's you, Missus."

"SPADE division?" I asked. "I thought the politically correct term these days was African American." She slapped me sharply on the forehead. "Ow! Why'd you do that?"

"I was hoping I'd hit an 'on' switch and activate your brain. S-P-A-D-E. Small People's Anti Defamation, Elf division. What do you think of this?"

She showed me the label she'd used to remove my lips. "I think Grandma might blow her pacemaker if she found that on her Christmas box of Jean Nate` talcum powder."

"Exactly. And this is why we need your help."

Chapter Three

It was foggy. As foggy as the reasoning of whoever the hell it was that decided detective stories should start with a weather report. From now on, open a fucking window.

I was dashing through the snow in a one polar bear open sleigh, but it was at 30,000 feet, and that was no Miss Fannie by my side. It was an over painted hair mousse addict by the name of Claus. If she was going to be showing me filthy gift labels, I decided I should know her first name. "What did your parents call you?"

"An accident."

"I mean your name."

She shrugged. "I've been called lots of names, some of them not vulgar. I've been called Bridget O'Shaunassy, Nora Charleston, and Mistress Dominique, but that's another story."

"I mean what it says on your birth certificate."

"Father unknown. And Bertha Mae Hickenlooper."

"Funny, you don't look like a Bertha Mae."

"Not now. I wasn't always like this."

"Lots of plastic surgery?"

"Let me just say that you should keep in mind that Kris invented the Barbie doll. You can call me by my nickname--Sandy."

I could have, but when you put the nickname with the last name...I've shot people for better puns than that. "I'll call you Trixie."

"Suit yourself. Anyway, that pornographic label is just a tiny example of what's been going wrong at Christmas Central. Someone snipped the toes off 5000 stockings, and the elves have been darning like crazy. They've been damning pretty steadily, too. They keep sticking themselves with the damn darning needles. A whole batch of candy canes came out in polka dots instead of stripes. We're still trying to figure out how the hell they managed that. And someone slipped Exlax in the brownies for the third shift's snack break. Geez, I never saw so much elf-shit in my life! We had to tear out the carpet."

"Sounds like someone has it in for your old man, all right. And they'll be hurting all the children."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, the rug rats would be disappointed. But the real problem is, if Christmas doesn't come off on schedule, with no major disasters, we lose all the promotional deals with the corporations. It would mean millions."

"You don't make all the toys?"

Smitty barked with laughter. "What da hell, man. Youse t'ink our union's gonna let us be woiked inta da groun' like dat? Not unless fat boy ups da overtime wage, an' he's too cheap ta do dat. It costs 'im less ta piece out da high volume toys."

"I didn't realize elves worried about overtime."

"What else we got ta negotiate? We never get old enough ta retire an' draw a pension, so we're screwed dere."

Just as well. Miami is flaky enough without an influx of geriatric elves. The average retiree is too short to see over the steering wheel as it is.

"If I agree to take this case, what's in it for me?"

"I don' feed ya ta Bruno." growled Smitty.

Sounded like a fair deal to me.

Trixie was more generous, though. "If you can get to the root of this conspiracy, I'm sure Kris will let you choose something from the catalogue."

"Thanks, but I'm kind of past my red wagon stage."

"Even if the red wagon is a Lexus? Haven't you heard that old saying that the difference between men and boys is the size of their toys?"

"That sounds doable."

"Good. We're about to land. Strap yourself in. The runway ices up sometimes, and I don't want to end up having to pry you out of Bruno's butt."

We landed safely. Bruno's claws really dug in. He sprayed shaved ice like a furry Zamboni. A miniature landing crew hustled out of a nearby igloo and one of them put a sedative dart in his rump. Grunting and swearing, they unharnessed the snoring bear and rolled him onto a sledge, then dragged him off toward a larger igloo, a little further off.

"Step away from da sleigh." Smitty ordered. I did as instructed. Mrs. Claus pulled out something that resembled a Garage Door Genie, and hit a button. With a clank and a whir, the sleigh slowly lowered out of sight, leaving a large square hole. A moment or two later, the platform rose again. Now there was only the sleigh tracks, stopping abruptly, and already beginning to blur with fresh snow.

"Come along, " said Clause, walking to the igloo. "Smitty, be a darling and make sure Bruno is well fed. No blubber, though. You know it makes him flatulent."

"Don't worry 'bout dat, Missus. I'm da one what gotta ride right behin' 'im, remember?"

I followed her through the narrow entrance. It was the traditional low, short tunnel. I found my face in her fur covered backside. I guess I shouldn't have nibbled, but habits die hard. She expressed her feelings by kicking me in the gut. Somehow I hadn't expected Mrs. Santa Claus to wear spike heels.

When we emerged and stood up, we were in an elevator like any one of a thousand in a federal building where they don't waste money on decoration if only the wage slaves are going to see it. Lime sherbert colored walls, grubby baseboards. There was a good bit of graffiti, all of it about waist high. Things like 'Lick my Christmas balls', and 'Want to see my North pole?' and 'I got your candy cane, right here!'

Trixie pushed 2. The doors slid shut, and we started down. From an overhead speaker I heard a lounge lizard version of 'Bat out of Hell.' Oh, God, there's no escape from Muzak, not even in the Arctic Circle. Certainly not in the seven circles of Hell. When I end up there, I'll probably have to spend eternity listening to a medley of Pat Boone and Perry Como singing the greatest hits of Judas Priest.

"To begin with, you'll only have level 1 security clearance. That will restrict you to our living quarters, the elves's dormitories, and the standard toy shop. Your clearance will be increased as needed." "You make it sound like the Department of Defense."

"Nothing as insignificant as that. This..." the elevator bumped to a stop, and the doors slid open, "is Christmas Central."

Chapter Four

You remember the last scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark? Not the one where Han Solo goes off with that booze swilling brass cupcake, the warehouse scene. Where the ark is crated up, and being trundled into a vast, echoing warehouse that's piled high with other crates, set in twisty, mazey rows? Where you just know the government is storing everything they don't want you to know about, from Hitler's brain, to Jimmy Hoffa, to a cure for dandruff? That's what this looked like, except a helluva lot more populated.

There were elves everywhere. They swarmed the place. It was more frantic than the men's room during the seventh inning stretch on Free Beer night. But terrific organization can look like chaos to an outsider. I saw forklifts and motorized carts swooping through the mob and slipping past each other with the grace of Mikhail Baryshnikov doing a Busby Berkley number with the June Taylor Dancers.

The air was redolent of poinsettias, pine, peppermint, and perspiration. Elves sweat a lot. One of them, carrying a clipboard, hurried over when he saw us.

"Hey, Missus K. We're low on wire for the ornament hangers. Same supplier?"

"Yes. We might get it cheaper somewhere else, but he's reliable, and we need it now." The elf hurried off, scribbling. "We are so behind, we can't risk any more delays."

An elf much taller than the others, that's to say nipple high, came up. He was wearing a uniform that was such a dark green it looked black. A red and white armband depicted crossed double hooked candy canes in a design that seriously resembled the one probably printed on Adolph's underwear. Underneath that was Santa's Security. SS. Figured.

His hair was just about the length of a toothbrush, and stood up just as stiffly. His pointy ears stuck out to either side so that, from the front, it looked like he had a huge, flesh colored butterfly perched on the back of his head.

As I said, he was short, but impressive. He looked kind of like Arnold Schwarzenwhoozit seen in one of those fun house mirrors that make you look squashed. Arnold on a day when his hemorrhoids were acting up, from his expression.

"Ah, Flex, there you are." She nodded in his direction. "This is Flex Roids, our head of security. Flex, this is the outside operator Kris wanted."

Flex narrowed his eyes at me. "He don't look like much."

"I didn't have time to pack my cape and my spandex tights."

Flex sneered. "Smart guy, huh?"

"Oh, yeah. For instance, I know that Newton discovered the law of gravity, which means that when I punt your ass into the stratosphere, you'll land eventually."

He scowled, and growled to Trixie. "Do you need me to take care of this bozo?"

"No. I'm quite capable of handling private dicks. Where's Kris?"

"He just came up from his room. He's testing some of the games in his quarters."

"We'd best check in with him. See you later." There was some significant eye contact before he frowned at me again and left.

Trixie began to lead me through the bustling crowd. Relations with the staff must have been good. There were the same sort of wolf whistles, kissy noises, and offers of horizontal mambo lessons you find on any job site when a good looking woman shows up. In response, Trixie put more swing in her hips than London had in the sixties. We went down another couple of levels in another elevator. This time we stepped out into a nicely carpeted, nicely paneled hallway. Trixie led me down to an impressive polished teak door that had a discreet name plate, saying "Kristopher Kringle". She didn't bother to knock, but just strolled in.

It looked pretty much like any really big conglomerate's office. Quiet, tasteful furnishings. A few potted plants. Small van Gogh on one wall. Okay, a Japanese conglomerate. There were three separate desks. The one's on the right and the left held computers, and signs designating them as NAUGHTY and NICE. Behind the big center desk was The Man himself.

Imagine if John Candy had lived another fifty years, and taken a vow not to shave or cut his hair till they came up with a diet cola you really couldn't tell from the real thing. White beard down his chest, white hair past his shoulders. He wore the traditional screaming red suit with white trim. Instead of boots, though, he had on a pair of comfortable bunny slippers. I didn't blame him at all. He was working furiously at a computer keyboard, and didn't look up as we came in. "That you, Sandy? I found a bug in the new Boob Raider, Part 22. Come see."

We went over, and I peered past his shoulder at the monitor. There, in a graphic representation of some sort of catacomb, was Sara Frocks, in her Daisy Dukes, as usual. She was facing a Neanderthal looking guy in fatigues. "Watch what happens when I do this..."

Kris did something very rapid and complicated with the control pad. It involved four different buttons and the joy stick. I waited to see Sara throw down with a bazooka, or maybe take the guy's head off with a flying kick.

Instead, she ripped open her blouse. The Mammaries that Sold Millions burst forth like a couple of slightly smaller-than-life size Detroit air bags. The bad guy's eyeballs exploded.

"See? Can you imagine the howls from the mothers if that had gotten through? Luckily we hadn't really kicked off production, so there's time to get a patch for it." He noticed me. "And there you are! Glad you agreed to help. Mrs. Claus has filled you in on the problem?"

I was vaguely aware that there were others somewhere nearby, and I thought they might be making noise. But I had bigger things on my mind. Sara was breathing. Santa pulled the plug, and I snapped back to reality. "Yep. But I have a question. Why me? You can afford any agency in the world."

"Because the more people who know about this, the bigger the chance of it leaking out. We don't want a panic. I know that you are totally discreet. And you're good. No one else could have hushed up that stables incident with Princess Diane and the polo pony. Thanks to you, there was never a whisper of scandal about Prince Harry's possible parentage."

I'm afraid I goggled. "How did you find out about that? I burned the negatives, the only groom present was killed by a runaway pony cart, and I even had the equine in question gelded for safety's sake."

"That was your one mistake. London ."Loverboy was really pissed about that. He'd been on intimate terms once with Mincer." Santa shrugged. "I payed for transplants, he talked. Don't worry, he's happily at stud in Argentina now."

"Just take care of this for me. Find out who's trying to sabotage me, and why. Once you do, I'll see that you get your choice of our Deluxe Obscenely Wealthy Bastards catalogue, and stay on the Nice list for the next ten years, no matter what

"Sounds good to me. Do I have run of the place?"

"Pretty much. There's only one or two places that will be off limits, and you won't be able to get into them. Otherwise do what you feel is necessary. Question whoever."

"I'll have them fix up quarters for you, since you'll probably have to stay over. If you need to find your way to anywhere, just flag down an elf and ask. They'll tell you where to go. After that, just pop them upside the head, and they'll give you the directions."

Trixie had left while he was speaking. I decided to check out the floor workers first, the one's who had the most immediate access to the things that were sabotaged.

As I left, I saw Santa slip a glossy magazine out from under his desk blotter and open it. The cover showed a pair of long, luscious legs clad in black fishnet. The title was "Stuffed Stockings."

Ho, ho, ho.

Chapter Five

If I remember my rules of style correctly, now that I've got you hooked, it's time to force my life story on you in the hopes that you'll slog through it in an effort to get back to the real story. So we'll leave Christmas Central, the Kringles, Flex, and all the other pissants in pointy toed shoes for the moment. Don't like it? As I said the first time I got my hands on a gal with a boob job, tough titty.

My great-great-grandmother landed in San Francisco in the mid eighteen hundreds. She went by the name of Rhinestone Lil, and worked as a paid escort. Actually, she never escorted anyone much farther than up the stairs, or for the kinkier ones, down to the basement. Lil once threw a gold miner out the third floor window when he made a comment about a 'sluice box', not realizing he was talking about his mining operation.

Lil eventually franchised her operation, having several 'Golden Ore Houses'. As a well-to-do spinster, she decided to indulge in a husband, and married a strapping young deaf-mute by the name of Aslan. 'Dumb' As, as he was nicknamed, made Lil happy, but was unprepared to run the business when she passed away. Lil laughed herself into a stroke when a sourdough asked for credit.

'Dumb' As struggled along, trying to cope with a string of poontang parlors and the infant son he had produced with Lil. One by one he sold off the parlors to one of the girls working there, getting screwed literally and figuratively each time. By the time his son, Bigelow (nicknamed 'Big'), was in his teens, Dumb As was reduced to acting as a bouncer in an establishment he'd once owned. He was desperately trying to better himself, and had started to study sign language in the hope that it would give him wider opportunities. Unfortunately one night a drunken sailor had a mouse run up his pants leg. His frantic efforts to remove it were misread by Dumb As as a threatening come on. He thought he was defending his honor by punching the sailor out. The fleet was in, and very drunk, and Aslan expired when crushed by a dog pile of old salts.

'Big' Aslan, for some reason, grew up with a hatred of orientals equal only to that of a Detroit auto assembly line worker. He decided that his name was too Asian sounding, so he legally had it shortened to As. He amused himself by inserting inflammatory messages into fortune cookies, and slipping them into the regular stock at Chinese restaurants.

His son, my grandfather Jack, moved to LA to break into the fledgling movie industry. Westerns were popular, so he styled himself a cowboy. He had inherited his dad's shrewd sense, and chose the screen name 'Candy.' He never made it to leading man status, but he made a living playing sidekicks, drunks, and cowards. View any silent western, and if the man is losing a fistfight, getting his gun shot out of his hand, evicting a widow, molesting an orphan, or kicking a dog, he's probably Candy As.

Candy married a 'starlet', who was basically in his mom's profession, but with less to show for it. Still, her claim to the title 'starlet' was stronger than many of her contemporaries. She did star in several loops...uh, short subjects. In fact, 'Bunny Does Tijuana' is something of a legend in certain circles.

They produced two children: my daddy, Hadrian (affectionately known as Hard), and my Aunt Fine.

Dad won a football scholarship to Butte, Montana, but lost it when he insisted on calling the residents 'butt mounters'. Aunt Fine designs exotic lingerie, favoring animal prints, feathers, and cut-out designs. Up until recently, she did all her own catalogue modeling. There's a big market for Fine As thongs.

Dad met Mom when he was working as a bouncer in a booby bar. It was amateur night, and some of the girls working there objected to the amount of tips Mom got when she joined the contest. Dad pulled her off a six foot tall blonde, but she came away with a handful of dark roots. It was love at first sight.

That brings it down to me. I bet you've been wondering what my name is, eh? Notice how cleverly I avoided telling you through the previous four chapters. Still, you should have been able to guess by now. My Daddy named me Bradley. That's right...

I'm Brad As.

Chapter Six

Now you know my family tree, complete with root rot. I suppose you're interested in how I grew to be a man, my adventures in the French Foreign Legion, and my various peccadillos with such women as Madonna, Golda Meir, and Leona Helmsly... Well, that's another story, and I'm saving it for my memoirs. Or maybe Jerry Springer.

We're dealing with the Case of the Sabotaged Claus. As I said before, I left Santa studying a magazine filled with pictures of women who had no doubt made his 'naughty' list, but who probably did all right in the gift department anyway. I decided to start by questioning some of the workers.

I flagged down an elf and asked him where the break room was. He told me where to go, and I expected to find the hallway there paved with good intentions. After I slapped him upside the head, he gave me directions.

The break room looked like a break room anywhere, if it had been furnished with kindergarten furniture. I half expected to see finger painting hung on the refrigerator. Instead there was a centerfold of a very buxom lady wearing nothing but a smile, a pair of butterfly wings on her back, and a wand which was being used for purposes that would have gotten her arrested in some states.

The place was full. Plates of assorted pastries and cookies were on each table, and a huge pot of cocoa was on the counter. Yep, it would have looked like snack time at a preschool, except that the elves were smoking, and a flask was being passed around to spike the cocoa. Conversation lulled for a moment when I entered, then started up again. Smitty waved me over to his table, and indicated a chair. I managed to fit one buttock on the seat, and balanced there, knees somewhere around my chin.

There was a pint sized platinum blonde floozie sitting on Smitty's lap. She had a tan that would have made George Hamilton commit suicide, and I wondered how the hell she did it up here, what with the six month nights. She was nibbling Smitty's pointed ear. "Hey, As," he greeted me. "Wanna brownie?"

I glanced at the goodies on the table, and remembered Trixie's story about the Exlax. "No thanks."

He shrugged. "Suit yerself. Scram, Mabel." The little female hopped down with a pout and left. She pinched my butt on the way out. "Ya should reconsider. Mabel is hot stuff. So, da Clauses fill ya in?" I nodded. "Helluva t'ing. Who da hell would wanna screw up Chrismus? Dere wuz dat Grinch geezer. Da story goes dat he reformed an' became a gooey goody two shoes. I got it on good at'ority dat 'is mutt, Max, got fed up an' ate his ass. Den dere wuz dat Scrooge character. Once he foun' out dat he could use charities ta launder 'is money AN' get a tax write off, he quit bitchin."

"I'm thinking that this is less of a terrorist act and more a personal attack on the Clauses. Who would be more embarrassed if Christmas failed?"

Smitty nodded. "Ya may be right. Ol' fat boy can't deal wit' much more stress. His heart's like an Evinrude tryin' ta run da fuckin' Titanic as it is."

"Is there anyone you know of that might bear him a grudge? A disgruntled worker?"

"Not dat I know of." Smitty shrugged. "It ain't like we respect 'im all dat much, but we don' got nuttin' against 'im." "Why don't you respect him?"

The elf smiled nastily. "How much can ya respect a guy what can't stop 'is old lady from screwin' aroun' wit' half da population? Ta tell da trut', Missus K ain't been as active lately as she wuz. Rumor has it dat she's foun' herself a steady man."

"Who?"

"Dat I cannot say. Which is unusual, 'cause keepin' secrets in dis place is like tryin' ta screw a cap down on Mount St. Helena. Gossip spreads faster'n Cap'n Trips in Da Stand."

Smitty stood up and stretched, which brought him up to about bellybutton height. I reflected that a gay pedophile would die of excitement in this place. "C'mon, shamus. I'll introduce ya ta da shop steward. He's pretty much on top o' what goes on aroun' here."

Smitty led me to a fair sized office. It was papered with work schedules and workers' rights bulletins. There was a minimum wage notice that someone had scribbled BULLSHIT across. An elf that looked like a squashed Peter Lorre (and you have no idea HOW disturbing that was) was punching away at a calculator, frowning.

Without looking up, he said, "What is it this time? The Mickey Mouse watches running backward? Somebody program Violent Femmes into the Singalongs? Obscene instruction booklets with the nutcrackers?"

"No problems right now, Herb. Dis is da outside help da Clauses wuz talkin' 'bout. Brad As, hotshot private dick an' problem solver. Boiled harder dan a half hour egg."

"About fucking time." Herb shook hands. He was wearing a tee shirt that said Stress: a natural physical response to the ego overriding the id's perfectly reasonable impulse to strangle the shit out of some deserving asshole.

"What's your take on this, Herb?"

"Well, to start with, it isn't an outsider, like Kris and Sandy seem to think. This is the goddam North Pole, we'd notice someone who didn't belong."

"Good point."

"And I don't think it's any of my boys, either. After all, our livelihoods depend on this operation. There isn't a huge span of opportunities for elves these days."

"I guess they would be limited."

"We sure as hell don't want to end up overseas making Nikes. The Cobbler Elves guild will be picketing them soon anyway, and we aren't scabs. No, I say it's an inside job, but for the life of me, I can't think who. This was found caught in the gummer when the last batch of labels were tampered with." He handed me a wisp o white stuff.

"What is it?"

"How the hell should I know? I'm a union rep, not a forensic expert. It could be hair, fur, cotton batting, dandelion fluff. Look around till you find a match."

"That sounds logical. Tedious, but logical. I have to cover all bases. Does anyone else live close enough to come over?"

He thought. "There's only two nearby. That would be the Snow Queen, and..." he shuddered. "The Tooth Fairy." Smitty turned pale, and rubbed his bristly jaw. "We have underground emergency routes to both. Smitty can show you the way. I've got to get back to trying to squeeze out some more overtime. We're almost 12 hours behind now."

We left the office, and Smitty took me to Security. "Ya gotta have at least level 2 clearance 'fore I can show ya da emergency tunnels," he explained. "I jus' hope Roids don't give us no shit over it. For some reason, he got a bug up his ass 'bout you. Ya got any idea why?"

"Guess I'm pissing in his territory."

"Yeah, yella snow is kind of a hazard aroun' here, but sometimes it's a long way ta da crapper, an when ya gotta go, ya gotta go. If ya ain't quick, ya end up wit' a pants popsicle. Dat hurts like a sunuvabitch."

Roids wasn't in the office. A bored female security guard, as bulked up as an Eastern Soviet Block Olympic athlete, took my photo and laminated a card, which I clipped to the lapel of my trench coat. Of course I was wearing a trench coat. I've seen every noir detective story ever filmed. While the other kids were wearing backwards baseball caps, I had a snap brim fedora. I had to open several cases of whoop ass over that.

We descended several more levels, but not to the bottom. "I figured the tunnels would be on the lowest level."

"Dat's really a sub level, it ain't full sized. An' no one goes down dere 'cept da Man hisself, and mebbe head o' security. Mebbe."

"What's down there?"

Smitty picked his tights out of the crack of his ass. "It touches me dat ya hold my intallec in such high regard. How da fuck should I know? I'm da chauffeur. General opinion is dat Kris does mosta his brainstormin' down dere. Comes up wit' da nex' hot idea for toys. Or fads. Dat cat what sticks ta da car window came outta dat level. And da Pet Rock. He wuz kinda ashamed o' hisself for dat one, but ya got no idea what da profit margin wuz."

"Couldn't we just take a quick peek?"

"Sure. An mebbe I'll go sodomize Bruno after supper. No way, As. I tol' ya, ya don' dick aroun' wit' da Clauses. Anyways, we can't. I done tried. Ya gotta have a card key an' da code, see?" He indicated a slot, and a keypad.

The elevator bumped to a stop, and the doors slid open on what looked like a pedestrian underpass, floored, tiled, and roofed in that Exorcist-Upchuck green so beloved of under imaginative designers who've basically said, "The person paying for this won't be looking at it. Fuck it."

It branched off to the left and the right, and Smitty headed without hesitation down the right corridors. "We'll see da Snow Queen firs'."

"She's closest?"

"No."

"Well, why don't we go see the Tooth..."

"We'll see da Queen firs', As. I ain't ready for da..." he swallowed hard. "Dat woman. Queenie'll give us sometin' ta fortify us."

"I thought you had a little nip earlier."

"Dat was jus' bourbon. I'm gonna need sometin' a helluva lot stronger dan dat if I'm gonna face her."

I was beginning to wonder what sort of a she devil psycho bitch from hell could shake a concentrated hard case like Smitty.

Chapter Seven

We climbed into an electric powered golf cart type vehicle set on a track and rolled down the tunnel. "Keep an eye out for penguins," Smitty advised. "Dey find dere way in sometimes. Li'l bastards are clumsy as hell, an dere ain't much room ta dodge 'em down here." He laughed. "We got one guy named Burton what still swears dat it was a midget nun he screwed Millennium New Year." I sympathized with Burton. I choose to believe that it was a bowlegged woman in a fur coat I got intimate with at Mardi Gras, despite the fact that I woke up next to the orangutang enclosure at the New Orleans Zoo.

We eventually arrived at another elevator. On the way up, Smitty said, "Be nice ta Queenie. She's a great gal, but... Well, da last guy dat pissed her off ended up losin' an ear ta frostbite. Like I said, Queenie's great, but dat Jack Frost dude she hangs wit' is nasty.

The room we stepped into was more white-on-white than a Kubrik movie set. Everything that wasn't white was crystal or chrome. It was an anal retentive’s wet dream. A fellow who was handsome in a Eurotrash way was lounging on a huge beanbag chair. He looked a little like Balki Bartakomous on 'Perfect Stranger', except that he seemed to have a permanent sneer welded onto his face, and his eyes had as much life in them as a couple of Chinese checkers. "Hey Jack, " Smitty greeted him. "We come ta have a word wit' Queenie."

Jack stretched, making the naugahyde (I thought they'd been declared an endangered species) squeak, or perhaps farting. Judging from what I learned of his personality, I tend to think it was the latter. "Her Majesty is busy. She's having her weekly yak butter massage. Then she'll probably have a nice steam, and a bit of electrolysis. That bikini line grows in wicked fast."

"It's kinda important."

"I doubt that." He was studying his nails. I wasn't surprised to see they were polished with the same smoky grey as the rest of his outfit. Must've been a fashion statement, playing on the 'Frost' theme. He looked like what I supposed a goth nerd would.

"It's Chrismus business." Smitty's tone indicated that this meant slightly more important than the second coming.

"So? You guys at Christmas Central think you're so important." Jack's tone was sarcastic, bitter. "All that publicity, and it's for ONE day out of the year. Ha! One day! I work my ass off for months at a time...Killing plants, coating every single damn blade of grass in the temperate and arctic climates, painting absolute masterpieces on windows all over the world. No two alike. Do you know how difficult it is to keep coming up with fresh patterns? I crank out more than every black velvet painter in Mexico combined! And what thanks do I get? Vandalism! Defacement! Brats scribbling their initials and hearts and smiley faces on my artwork! I tell you, it's enough to get me nipping at their noses."

"My heart bleeds peanut butter, chunky style," I snapped. I hate whiners. I'd once come withing seconds of killing Fran Drescher. She was saved when she developed laryngitis, but that's another story.

Frost flushed. "I think I'll have your ear for that remark." He started up out of the chair.

Have you ever tried to climb out of a bean bag chair? I figure that's why so many gals got pregnant out of wedlock in the sixties and seventies. The guys would get them on the bean bags and start necking. When the girl decided it was time to stop, her flailing around was just as likely to drop her back under the guy. The guys took their frantic gyrations as passion.

I helped Frost by grabbing his feet and heaving up and away. The result was that he turned a back flip off the chair and landed on his face. He leaped to his feet with a snarl. But as he started for me, an imperious voice called out, "Jacky!" He halted dead, looking frustrated.

She swept into the room with the air of someone who owns the world, and doesn't care for how it's being run. She was as tall as I was, showing approximately a mile of smooth leg beneath her short white silk robe. Dolly Parton had nothing to feel threatened by in the chest department, but the ass more than made up for that. Wisps of honey blonde hair were escaping from the towel turban she wore. Her feet and hands were long and patrician, and all ten nails were painted frosty pink. The face... Think pre-Monaco Grace Kelly.

"I have told you time and again that I will not tolerate rudeness to my guests!" The voice was very Tallulah Bankhead. I'd heard that Tallulah used to have a habit of shedding her clothes unexpectedly, and took this as a good sign.

"But he... he threw me..."

"I saw what happened, and it's your own fault. You were being insufferable, as usual. And as for your embarrassment, you will insist on lounging on that ridiculous item when you know you can't get up and down with dignity. Why I let Giles talk me into it, I'll never know. Go to your room."

Jack hung his head sulkily, then peeked up at her. "Will you punish me?"

"Are you joking? You've been much too naughty to deserve a nice punishment. Get on." He sniffled as he shuffled out the door. "I do apologize. Just when you think you've gotten them trained properly, something like this happens. I'm much too lenient with him, I'm afraid."

"No prob, Queenie."

Queenie clapped her hands delightedly. "Smitty! How perfectly marvelous!" She extended her arms for a hug, and Smitty started for her, but she stopped, and waved him away. "Oops, sorry, Darling! I'd quite forgotten that I'm all over yak butter. It does wonders for the skin, but it's horribly messy. And who," she eyed me, "Is this handsome stranger you've brought with you?"

Smitty explained how we'd met, and why I was here. "You poor thing," she cooed. "Would you like me to give you first aid? I'm awfully good at handling... swellings."

"I bet you are. I bet you could handle anything that... came up."

"Mmmhm. I'm really good at... physical therapy."

"And I've been told I have a terrific... bedside manner."

"Excuse me," Smitty said abruptly. "I hate ta interrupt da double entendres, but could I have a belt, Queenie? I need it."

"Of course, Darling. Help yourself, you know where everything is. And be a lamb and bring me a Dubonnet with a twist. Anything for you, Mr. As? I believe in offering... hospitality."

"And I believe in giving my hostess a... gift."

"Look, As, explain t'ings, willya? We ain't really got time for hanky panky right now."

"All right. Your Majesty, will you have a seat, so we can talk comfortabley?"

"Of course, but I don't want to get greasy stains on any of my furnishings. Cleaning bills are outrageous these days. Let's see..." She sighed. "Well, there's nothing for it. It'll have to be the damn bean bag, it's the only thing I have that will wipe clean. I trust that you'll be a gentleman and look away while I lower myself?"

"Yes ma'am." Lovely thing, trust. When you can instill it in others, you can get away with murder. The wall I looked at was mirrored. As Queenie sat down, I got a terrific view.

Trouble was, there wasn't anything there I'd expect to see up a skirt. A kilt, maybe, but not a skirt.

Chapter Eight

Queenie was... well, a queen. At least the title was still appropriate.

He... she... shim... Hell with it. She accepted the drink graciously from Smitty, and drank it in dainty sips while I filled her in on the situation. When I was done, her eyes glinted merrily. "My, my. Someone certainly knows how to put the screws to dear little Bertha Mae. That little slut is more of a gold digger than anyone who ever rushed to the Yukon or California. I'll bet the worry about losing a cushy position and income has her sweating between her plastic titties."

"Queenie! Dat ain't nice."

Queenie pouted. "But I'm not nice, darling. Haven't you noticed?" She frowned. "I do feel sorry for Kris, though. Poor old thing. I've never really felt he was up to the job."

"He ain't done too bad," said Smitty generously. "Not like dat one what took flyers on da stock market back in da twenties."

"Santa played Wall Street?" I asked.

"Why da ya t'ink t'ings was so skimpy in da t'irties? Dat one dropped a fuckin' load on Black Monday. Went out ta da reindeer barn an' hung hisself wit' a string o' tinsel. Too much of a coward ta stick aroun' an' confess, like a man. Sheesh," Smitty shook his head sadly. "It was years 'fore we could afford more'n stuff like pencils an' underwear."

"That one? You mean there's been more than one Santa?"

"Certainly, darling." Smitty had lighted a small lavender cigarette for Queenie. She took a deep puff, held it, and passed it to Smitty. She released a cloud of purplish smoke that in no way smelled like anything Virginia had produced. Noticing my attention, she said, "Yuletied Yowie. Very good shit. Care for some? Though I suppose I should warn you," again the seal snort. "It tends to make mortals...Well, the last one woke up in a Pocconnos honeymoon suite with an Angora goat."

"Pass. Tell me more about this different Santa business."

"It's perfectly simple." She took another drag, and her eyes grew dreamy. "You see, Santa is actually more of a position than a person. You know, the President is always the President, and the Pope is always uptight, but that's another story. There's always a large pool of candidates available. Granted, most of them are skid row bums supplementing their plasma donations, but there are a good number of solid citizens. They must meet certain standards, though. No fake hair, whiskers, or weight. That's fine by me, because I happen to adore mature chubbies. This one's a bit of a prude, but very sweet."

"Ya mean ta tell me ya ain't figgered out how dis Santa gig woiks by now? How da hell didya t'ink we been able ta get such wide distribution wit 'out franchisin'?" He ticked off on his fingers. "Deres Fatha Chrismus in Britland, Pere Noel in Frogland... We tend ta have a quicker turn over here in da U S of A, 'cause of da image t'ing."

"Why is that?"

"Sweetums," Queenie jetted another plume of smoke, and I got a slight buzz. God bless second hand smoke. "The candidates start out over the hill. I think the youngest one we ever had was late fifties. Of course he does have the benefit of certain prolongation spells, which..." she grinned wickedly, "Can be very useful when one is horny. For the Santas, it gives them a greater life span. But, my God, Precious! One can't live on a diet of eggnog, cocoa, cookies, brownies, fudge, peppermint, and pork chops, and not expect one's arteries to get as clogged as the pipes at a Taco Bell with a full grease trap. Especially not when their exercise consists of climbing up and down chimneys once a year."

Smitty had been toking furiously, surrounding himself in a plum colored fog. "You're bogarting, Smitty. Pass it over." Sheepishly he handed her a roach that wasn't any bigger than a squashed raisin. Her perfectly arched brows rose almost to the turban. "Well, you are a greedy little hog today, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry, Queenie, but I needed it. We... we're goin' ta see... you know who next."

The Snow Queen, you should pardon the expression, froze. The temperature in the room dropped seven degrees. When she spoke, I could see my breath starting to cloud in front of my face. "Do you mean the Dental Diva? The Periodontal Prima Donna?" Her voice was rising. "The Empress of Enamel? The Countess of Cavities? THE MOTHERFUCKING BITCH OF BICUSPIDS AND BRACES?"

Smitty winced, and nodded, pouring himself a tequila shooter.

"I get the impression you don't like this Tooth Fairy."

"Oh, very perceptive. Let me put it this way, if she were on fire, I wouldn't pee on her unless I could learn how to tinkle gasoline."

Yow, hostility. I tried to lighten things up. "You mean you don't already?"

Her lips twitched into a reluctant smile. "I suppose not. Jack swears that I alternate between rose water and fizzy lemonade. Let's see... I suppose I need to provide alibis for myself and Jack. Smitty, what were the dates of those sabotage incidents again?"

Queenie provided solid alibis for almost all the incidents, easily checked. She'd been doing a guest turn in a Vegas stage show, showing her husky in the AKC National Championships, supervising an avalanche at Gstadd, teaching a course in Advanced Mistress Techniques at the Amsterdam College of S & M: Dominatrix Campus..."And Jacky is never more than a room away. He could drink a bathtub of cod liver oil, and he wouldn't dare fart without my express permission. Smitty, Dearest, I think you've had a wee bit too much."

The tequila pint was empty except for a damp worm, and Smitty was chugging a mug of Everclear. His eyes were slightly crossed, and his voice was blurry. "Nope. I finally got ta da point where I don' give a fuck, an' I'm goin' numb. Dat's jus' about right. C'mon, As."

"Alright, if you must go, you must go. But here," Queenie reached up under her turban, extracted a small flat item, and handed it to me. "Take this, just in case."

I looked at it. It was an old fashioned cutthroat razor, ebony handle etched with silver:A Girl's Best Friend.

Queenie managed to look graceful standing up. "I'd best go attend to Jacky now. I'll probably give him a small flogging. I know I spoil him, but he enjoys it so much. Kiss, kiss."

She made pursed lip pecks in the air over our cheeks, then slunk to the door. Before slipping out, she turned back, her gaze dark. "She got hold of Jacky last year, and he was worthless for almost a month. It wouldn't hurt my feelings at all, Darling, if you found it necessary to slice her nipples off.

Chapter Nine

Friends don't let elves drive drunk. I guess I shouldn't have let Smitty get behind the wheel of the cart. But how much traffic could we expect in an underground tunnel at the North Pole? Besides, we were on a track. It's not like we could swerve into the wrong lane. MADD (that's Meddlers And Damn Do-gooders, right?) recommend taking the keys from someone who's hoisted one too many sheets, by force, if necessary. I don't know what kind of drunks they're used to, but they must be a helluva lot more cooperative than the ones I've encountered. And if you think a drunk red neck can be belligerent, you've obviously never run into a drunk and stoned elf with attitude.

When I started to say something about letting me drive, I was told gruffly to "Siddown an quit flappin' yer gums before I run dis cart up yer poop chute."

We traveled for a while, Smitty muttering under his breath things like, "Who'm I suppose ta be, da friggin' tour guide? Next t'ing ya know dere gonna outfit me wit' a damn lapel mike an' laser pointer. 'An' over here ya can see da reindeers' favorite dumpin groun', pardon da stink.'"

But as we rode on, he grew silent, and that worried me a bit. There had been odd pauses and hesitations whenever anyone mentioned the Tooth Fairy, nervous glances as if they were afraid of even mentioning her. They were afraid of her. Everyone but Queenie, and I think that she'd have just smiled at Hannibal Lector and pinched his butt.

At last we stopped outside a rather ordinary looking Dutch door, the kind that opens in halves. I got out, but Smitty stayed put. I looked at him questioningly, and he shook his head. "Nah, sorry As. You go in dere alone. I been inside dat place once, an' dat was enough ta las' me for a couple dozen lifetimes, if I wuz a Hindu. Jus' don' accept anyt'ing ta eat or drink, okay?"

"Sure Smitty." I knocked and waited, a little tensely. I'm not sure what I expected. Maybe a combination of Janet Reno, Margaret Thatcher, and Nancy Reagan, with a little Lizzie Borden thrown in. Or, after Queenie, possibly Rupert Everett.

What opened the top half of the door was more Carol Kane (you know, Latka's girlfriend on Taxi) and Shirley Temple. She could have comfortably passed under my outstretched arm without her wild blonde curls brushing my sleeve. Her face was pointy chinned and wide at the cheekbones, her nose was short, up tilted, and thickly sprinkled with freckles the size of sesame seeds. Her blue eyes were lively and interested, and her cupid's bow mouth was stretched in a welcoming grin.

"Visitors! Goody, goody!" she squeaked, and she bounced. She might be child sized in height, but she bounced like a woman. She peered past me, and cried, "As I live and breathe, that's not Smitty, is it? I remember you, Smitty. Come on in." She swung open the bottom section of the door invitingly.

Smitty climbed quickly into the back seat of the cart. "I remember you, too, Miz Toot'." His voice trembled. "I ain't fit company right now. I better jus' stay out here an' sleep off dis load I took on at Queenie's."

"Oh, alright. But I'll leave the door unlocked, in case you change your mind. You come on in, mister, and tell me what brings you here." I followed her in, shutting the bottom of the door. She led me through a place that was wall to wall cutesy kitsch. The walls were covered with paintings of big eyed kids, puppies, and kittens, clowns and unicorns on black velvet, and smiley face posters. There were Precious Moment and Hummel figurines everywhere, a Boogie Bass hung over a large fish tank, and knitted cozies topped all the fire implements. A case by the tv was crammed with videos of Barney, the Care Bears, Smurfs, and Teletubbies.

"Sit down, sit down." She threw a stack of Archie comics onto the coffee table, and moved a Barbie cushion so it would be out of my way. I sat down. "Can I get you anything? Yoohoo, Jolt cola? Twinkies, M & Ms, toffee?"

Remembering what Smitty had said, I refused as politely as possible. "Miss Fairy, the Clauses have been having some trouble at their place. Someone has been deliberately messing things up."

"Really? That's terrible. You brush at least twice a day, don't you?"

"Uh, yeah. When I can. Anyway, it's costing the Clauses time and money, and endangering..."

"But you don't floss. I'll bet you've got meat shreds in there from your senior class picnic."

"The damn floss cuts my gums. I'm doing some checking around on behalf of Mr. Kringle, and..."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like some candy or maybe some tea with lots and lots of sugar? Or I have grape Kool-Ade," she said persuasively. I almost gave in. After all, grape..."No thank you, nothing to eat or drink." I said firmly. "I have a list of dates and times, so if you could just tell me..."

"You don't mind if I have a little something, do you?"

"Uh, no. Go ahead."

"Thanks. I have an all week sucker in the kitchen. I'll be right back."

She bounced out of the room in a rustle of petticoats. I looked around idly. After a moment, I began to feel vaguely disturbed. There was something... not right about this place. I began to notice small details.

One of the black velvet paintings featured a unicorn AND a clown. The clown was spitted on the unicorn's horn. All the smiley faces had big toothy grins, with one or more teeth blacked out. The Boogie Bass had obviously been fileted, then glued back together. Barbie on the cushion looked like Leatherface. At some point her image had been cut to pieces, then crudely stitched together with black thread. And those weren't guppies in the fish tank. Several of them were working with razor sharp teeth on what looked like a penguin carcase. Every single one of the figurines had it's head glued on.

But the most ominous thing was the Cabbage Patch doll I removed from between the seat cushions. Someone had ripped out all the molded plastic teeth. I decided that I'd better get out of there like the place was on fire, and my ass was catching.

"I see you found Myrtle."

I dropped the doll, turning my head to see the Tooth Fairy standing behind me. She had what looked like a pink manhole cover on a broomstick raised over her head, and she brought it crashing down on my skull. I passed out. What can I say? Hard-boiled detectives get knocked out a minimum of two times a caper.

Chapter Ten

I came to with a lump on the front of my head to match the one Smitty had given me in back. At least now I was symmetrical. I'd been moved into another room, away from the gruesomely cheerful decorations. This was just a small, square room.

The only thing unique about it was that it was completely tiled in a tiny, pebbled pattern of white, with several mosaics in dingy beige, yellow, and grey on the walls. Very modern and minimalist, I thought. I was alone.

I was really bothered by the fact that I was in a dentist's chair, complete with restraints. Yep, I was strapped down ankles, arms, and head. The hands were on long straps, enough to give me a few inches movement for each hand, but not enough to reach any fastenings. And my mouth had been clamped open.

shudder, shudder, shudder

I strained, but it was no good. All I could do was wait. It took me a few minutes to realize that the tiling wasn't done with pebbles. The entire room, walls, ceiling, and floor, was covered with teeth. The shades of the mosaics came from teeth in various stages of yellowing and decay. She'd even managed to get some with enough of a green tinge to do misty grass. I assumed that my landlord had contributed one or two of these.

The Tooth Fairy bounced into the room, wearing a dentist's smock. Usually these are pristine white. This one was splashed, streaked, and blotted with blood, ranging from barely dry through maroon to black and clotted.

"Oh good, you're awake," she chirped. "Wouldn't want you to miss any of the fun." Whistling happily, she pushed a couple of machines and a covered tray close to the chair.

"I don't use all of this," she assured me. "For instance, the pain killing substances were a complete waste of money, since I never use them." She paused, then giggled mischievously. "Well, not on my donors, anyway. But it's important to me to have the right atmosphere, so I have the whole outfit."

She clamped a tube into my mouth, and I tried to shift my head out of the way. No dice. "Now, now. Struggling already? Be very brave, and I'll give you a lollipop when I'm done. If we really have a good session, you can have a toy, too."

"Uck oo." I gargled.

She had no trouble interpreting me. I suppose she'd heard the same expression a lot of times. "Language, language." she tisked. "I'm having both of the bicuspids for that. Want to go for a molar, too? Those are stubborn boogers."

I tried to shake my head. "Uh uh."

"That's the spirit." She whisked the cover off the tray, and I nearly wet my pants for the first time since I was two, if you don't count that accident at a Hollywood party when Ernest Borgnine came up on me suddenly, but that's another story. Some of the instruments were sharp and shiny, some were dull and rusty. All had the air of being well used. The Tooth Fairy looked at them as proudly as a grandma who's trapped someone, book of brag photos in hand. "Quite a collection, isn't it? Did you know that barbers were the first dentists? They also did simple surgery and bloodletting. Some of my instruments date back to the sixteenth century. This one, " she gently stroked what looked like a pair of dull metal forceps. "Belonged to the famous Thomas Toothripper. He used them to remove all the teeth of Prince Wallydrag, the Piggish. Wallydrag's rotten teeth were poisoning him slowly. After Thomas was through with him, he was safe from that, " she said proudly. "He bled to death very quickly instead."

She was nuttier than all the fruitcakes in the Swiss Colony Catalogue. Her eyes sparkled, with madness I now realized, and she dithered over the tray of instruments. She was like a woman presented with a box of Godiva chocolates, trying to make up her mind which to sample first because they all looked so good!

First she picked up a small chisel and hammer, then put them back, murmuring, "Too quick to begin with." Then she picked up what looked like an old fashioned rotary egg beater, except that there was a wicked drill bit on the end. She gave the handle a few experimental turns, then shook her head. "Needs oiling." At last she picked up a pair of needlenose pliers. "Ahhh."

She held them up for me to see. "Simple, traditional. Dentistry in it's purest form. The gadgets are fun, but there's nothing like the basics."

She leaned over me, then frowned. "Eww, you are making a lot of spit, Mr. As. A little suction is in order."

Now, normally if a woman said this to me while I was strapped down, I'd be overjoyed. It just wasn't the same in this instance. She flipped a switch, and instantly the hose in my mouth began sucking up my excess saliva. It also caught my tongue. That thing sucked harder than a Leonardo de Capprio film festival. My tongue hadn't been sucked that hard since my ninth grade French teacher, Mademoiselle Bon Chue, but that's another story.

The Tooth Fairy was leaning over me. "This may take awhile. I'm really going to have to yank, but don't worry. I've been working out." She slipped the snout of the pliers into my mouth. I tasted metal...

Chapter Eleven

We never did figure out how the wombat got into the Jell-O, but by the time we'd removed all the fruit cocktail, he was beyond telling us. I never could look at miniature marshmallows in the same light again, and...

Oops, sorry. That's one of the other stories I've been telling you about. Where were we? Oh, yeah, the Tooth Fairy.

So, there I was: strapped, clamped, getting a tongue hickey in the most unpleasant way imaginable, and about to have a psychotically cheerful pixie with a morbid dental fixation give me a gap worse than anything Terry Thomas ever suffered. I squinched my eyes shut, then felt something against my wrist that wasn't a strap. Then I remembered...

Queenie, the far from frigid Snow Queen, had given me a little gift before I'd left her...him...To hell with it. Queenie was as fruity as Carmen Miranda's chapeau, but a helluva a guy, or broad. To hell with it. Anyway, Queenie, probably suspecting something like this might happen, had given me a beautiful cutthroat razor. I'd slipped it into my sleeve.

By bending my hand and fingers to the extreme, I managed to grip the end of the razor. The Fairy was fussing around, trying to find the best grip. I carefully slid it out of my sleeve, hoping that it wouldn't slip. The bitch would probably add it to her collection, and some luckless bastard would learn more about it than he wanted to. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to open it. What if it stuck?

Queenie, bless her... him... To hell with it. Queenie had kept it in superb condition, though. A mere flick, and it slid open smoothly. I couldn't move my head to look at it, and I wouldn't have wanted to draw Psychoslut's attention to it, but by peering down, I just caught a glimpse. Six inches of glittering, murderous steel. Gripping the handle firmly, I swung.

My range was limited, of course, with the straps. The Fairy was unscathed. But I'd cut the suction tube.

Suddenly my tongue was released. The tube flopped, the slurping noise it had been making growing in volume. "What on earth?" Puzzled, she removed the pliers and grabbed for the dangling hose.

One of her corkscrew blonde curls got too close to it, and disappeared into the tube with a whoosh. She yelped in surprise, grabbed the hose and jerked. Big mistake. The curl must have tangled around something in the machine's innards, because the hose came away, but it took the hair with it. She was left with a raw bald patch, as the end of her hair disappeared into the tube like a strand of spaghetti between the lips of Luciano Pavarotti.

She dropped the tube in shock. Another mistake. There wasn't much of a nose there, but the tube caught it. She looked cross-eyed at the hose attached to her face, a small, skinny blonde elephant.

I had managed to turn the razor and cut the strap on my right hand. I had undone my left, and was fumbling frantically with my head restraints. She gave a yell of fury, and ripped the hose off. Most effective freckle remover I ever saw. But as she started to reach for me, the tube dropped down her blouse front. She jumped, and got a look on her face like every mother whose ever breast fed, and misjudged when Junior was going to start teething

I'd gotten my head loose, and was going for the ankle straps when she finally thought to slap the switch, and turn the machine off. Wincing, she gingerly cupped one boob while reaching for her tray. I had to wonder if all the Playboy models who'd used that pose through the years had ever gone through the same experience as she. Anyway, she picked up a syringe filled with murky liquid. "No you don't!" she grated. "Not when I still need to tile around the toilet."

She raised the needle and lunged for me. I was doomed. My legs were still immobilize, and there was nowhere to dodge. There was a sudden crash, and she dropped like a stone.

I looked up to see Smitty, weaving slightly, standing over her. "Blurg mrfle smeluh."

"Take off da mout' clamp, ya idjet."

I did. "Thanks, Smitty."

"Don' mention it. Get loose before Ilsa here wakes up."

As I finished releasing myself I said curiously, "What did you hit her with? You didn't bring your bat."

"I had ta improvise." He indicated a shattered pile of green plastic. "Dat Easy Bake Oven did da job. I'da used da poker, but I wuz half way here when I realized it wasn't some sorta ceiling duster wit dat pompom poodle on top o' it. Now let's book. I t'ink she's commin' 'round."

Indeed, the Tooth Fairy was stirring weakly. Eyes closed, she was mumbling something that sounded like "Is it safe?" We booked like Jimmy the Greek.

Once we were in the cart, hurtling away, Smitty began shaking his head sadly. "I shouldn'a let ya go in alone. I ain't afraid o' much, As, but dat..." He shuddered. "Lemme jus' say dat I'm wearin' a partial plate, okay?"

"How long has this been going on?"

"Years, decades. You won't believe dis, but she wasn't always so fucked up. Was always a little ditsy, sure, but dat's expected. T'ings went rotten in da late sixties."

"Ah," I said wisely. "Too much bad acid."

"Nah, her t'ing was pixie dust, anyway, an' she joined a twelve step t'ing back in da early seventies, 'fore she went really bonzo. It was a fatal obsession sorta deal. She fell hard for some elf, an' he took her for a fling, den dumped her for a hygienist. Last t'ing I hoid, dey had a practice in Salt Lake City."

"Man, he must've been really something to spoil her for other men THAT bad."

"Could be. I heard dat Herbie da Elf wuz pretty smooth. Hung aroun' wit' Rudolph an' Frosty an' Yukon Cornelius...You know, da famous Nort' Pole Pussy Posse. Rumor is dat dose guys saw more bush dan an Aussie pilot. Talk about 'down under'!"

We rumbled back to our starting point. Roids was waiting beside the track. He was holding a bottle of suspicious looking pills. As we slid to a stop, he hastily swallowed a few, then crammed a wad of cotton back in the bottle, struggling and swearing as he tried to fasten the cap. I saw the veterinarian label on it as he stuffed it in his pocked and gave me a nasty smirk. "Well, As, I hear you went to visit the Snow Queen AND the Tooth Fairy. Which end is hurting, ass or mouth?"

I jumped out of the cart. "Say what you want to about that pint sized Doris Day on angel dust, " I growled, "But don't talk about Queenie. She's more of a woman than you'll ever have, and more of a man than you'll ever be."

Roids flushed to the roots of his bristle cut. "Watch your step, cuckold catcher."

"I'll watch my feet, alright. Watch them all the way to your butt if you don't back off. Go take another hormone shot, Flex. I think you still have an inch of skin that isn't covered with ropey veins." He did a Bette Davis impersonation, eyes popping like a hyper thyroidal Pekingese, and stormed away.

"Careful, As. He's a little ridiculous, yeah, but he's mean, an' sneaky. Once, he t'aught he had da saboteur. A buncha poke`mon cards ended up printed wit' monsters like Titgrabbur an Munchapussi, and Roids t'aught dat a weasley li'l dude named Percy da Perv did it. I'll admit Pers woulda loved ta collect sometin' like dat, but he wasn't creative enough ta come up wit' it. Anyway, he stuck Percy's dingus in da RibbonTie machine, an' tre'tened ta trow da switch. If Double K hadn't a come along, ol' Pers woulda had da only pecker aroun' what was in a sheep's shank wit'out goin' anywheres near a sheep."

I winced in sympathy. I remembered an overenthusiastic young lady a 'friend' had set me up with. He told me to ask her why she was called 'Taffy Pull' Tessie, when we started to get intimate. I had found out, and had to walk in a crouch for a week.

"Dat clears Queenie, Jack, an Rebecca of Funnybrook Farms, right?" I nodded. "Look, I got duties ta attend to, As. Yer on yer own for awhile. Dat reindeer manure don't shovel itself. Though why da hell it can't jus' levitate to da dumpster is beyond me, since da fur balls fly." He stumped off, mumbling, "Now, where did I put dat clos'pin for my honker?"

Chapter Twelve

I decided that I could use some food, and flagged down an elf to ask the way to the cafeteria. He told me where to go. Again I got the directions I needed once I slapped him upside the head.

The cafeteria was large and institutional, like most cafeterias. The only difference was, no steam tables. The only evidence of hot food was a huge cauldron of steaming chili. That suited me fine. I picked up a bowl and ladle, stirring the pot to make sure I got a healthy serving of meat. Someone tugged at my sleeve.

I looked past platinum blonde hair into a pair of warm, chocolate brown eyes. Mabel, the Brownie, was on tip toe, pulling at my arm. "I wouldn't if I were you," she piped. "It's hot."

"Hey, little lady, I won the Butte Crick, Texas Tri County Jalapeno Jamboree pepper eating contest."

She snorted. "Jalapenos! They hang those on the side of iced tea around here. That's got about a pound of Subarctic Seranos, and a handful of Perry's Peril Poblanos in it. They generate their own heat, otherwise they couldn't grow up here. We don't have to put the chili on the stove, Brad. We just stir in the peppers, and they cook it. We have to be careful not to burn the meat, though."

I put down the bowl. "What's the point in that?"

She shrugged. "You've seen how cold it gets up here, and it's cheaper than central heating. Grab something out of the cold case."

I surveyed the offerings. Again an assortment of cookies, bonbons, petit fours, cream puffs, and various ice creams. "But this is all sweets, " I complained. "I want some real food."

"I don't blame you. Do you have any idea what the rate of diabetes is among elves? Have a sandwich, that's probably the least sugary."

I did indeed find ham and turkey sandwiches. Of course, they were on dessert breads. I chose a turkey on cranberry nut bread, and a ham on banana nut, with orange marmalade. Then I started trying to decide between plain milk and wassail.

"I got beer in my room," said Mabel. "Why don't you scarf that down and come by for a coupla brews?"

I looked at her. Her boobs were about half a handful each. Which meant, on her miniature body, that she was built like Pamela Anderson, pre-implant removal. Still, I hesitated. She seemed to know what I was thinking. "I'm of age, honey. Just barely. I had my hundredth birthday last month. I celebrated by getting drunk and laid for the first time..." she giggled. "...legally."

"But won't there be a problem, proportion wise? I don't want to hurt you."

She rolled her eyes. "Sheesh, men and their egos. You must all think you're John Holmes or something."

"I mean, you're an elf..."

"Brownie."

"Anyway, you're a naturally small person, and you're used to being with people your own size. And I'm..." I trailed off at her knowing smirk.

"You've never seen an elf naked, have you? Ever wonder why so many of them walk bowlegged? Hit the showers at shift change one of these days. Anyway, I got some information for you, but I don't want to spill it here. Come on by in a little." She told me where to go, and this time I got directions without having to pop an elf. I watched her wiggle away, remembering that line in 'Some Like It Hot', what Jack Lemmon had said about Marilyn Monroe as he watched her move. "Amazing. Like Jell-O on springs."

She brushed past the Clauses and Roids on the way in as she exited. Santa said, "Roids told me you'd returned. Found anything?" "Nothing so far. But I'm meeting with an, uh, informant in a few minutes."

Roids' already squinty eyes narrowed till they were as thin as Calista Flockhart on the Atkins Diet. "Who?" he demanded. "Why didn't they come to me?"

"Maybe cause you ain't done jack so far."

Mrs. Claus put a fancy nailed hand on his arm as he started toward me. "Flex, don't let him goad you."

Still staring at me, Roids laid his own paw over hers. "All right, Sandy." he muttered.

Oh, please! Could they be any more obvious? Poor old Chubby Chimneyclimber watched them with obvious pain. Maybe Trixie had an 'open' marriage, but it looked like Kris was still closed up tight. Sweet, but a prude, Queenie had said. Must believe in the old fashioned 'keeping thee only to him' rigamarole.

Well, it was none of my business, unless Claus decided to sue for divorce and wanted 'candid photos' of the couple later. Trixie strolled off beside Flex, tickling him flirtatiously with the ermine trimming of the sable coat she was wearing, while Kris trailed them morosely.

Chapter Thirteen

I followed Mabel's directions to her room. The door wasn't much bigger than the bottom half of the Tooth Fairy's Dutch door. I knocked, and it opened immediately. "Well, hello, Mr. Sneaky. Come on in." I had to crouch, ducking my head. I could only half stand up inside.

"Sit down before you throw your back out. You're gonna need it in good shape in a little while."

It seemed that Mabel was prepared for all sizes of visitors. She didn't have any chairs or a bed, just thick padded mats and big pillows. She brought me a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon ('Some guy I met at a kareoke contest recommended it. Said it was the next best thing to whatever he was huffing out of that mask he carried.'), and one for herself. The 12 ounce can looked like a 40 ounce in her hands.

She'd started before me, because her beer was half gone, and she was about half potted already. Guess it didn't take much to raise the blood-alcohol level on someone so tiny. "What was it you wanted to tell me, Mabel?"

"How cute you are." She climbed on my lap. "Lean down here so I can nibble your ear."

"Sounds good, Mabel," I said sincerely. "But I got the impression you had something to say about what's been going on around here."

"Oh, poop. That's all anyone can talk about. The boys are so busy working overtime to make up that they hardly have any time for me at all. As a matter of fact, I do have something to tell you, though I'm not sure what it means."

She couldn't reach around my waist, so she settled for hugging my arm. "I work in packing for the lingerie section. You know, Victoria's Secret, Frederic’s of Hollywood, Fine As... I'd left my latest issue of Soap Hunks Monthly at my work station, and I went back to get it before bed."

"As I came in, the door across the room shut as someone went out. By the time I got across, the other hallway was empty. It was a good thing I'd come in when I did. I found all the fancy colored and decorated thongs, teddies, bikinis, and bras stuffed in a sack on the floor. All the boxes had been filled with..." her nose wrinkled in distaste. "granny panties and Maidenforms."

"Ugh."

"I think that whoever did it would have finished the job, except they seemed to have been trying on some of the items. There were some leopard bikinis that were stretched all to hell, and I found this." She dipped into her cleavage, nature's safety deposit box for some women. She pulled out a piece of white fluff. "No cracks about me stuffing my bra. Unlike SOME people around Christmas Central, who shall remain nameless but she drives a baby ass pink sleigh, MINE are one owner factory issue." She handed it over. "That was caught in the hooks of a Wonderbra."

I took out the wisp Herb had given me and compared the two. "Close enough for government work," I said.

"That stuff looks real familiar," she said, chugging the rest of her beer. "It's like I see it every day, but I see it so much that I just don't recognize it. Does that make sense?"

"No."

"I love a man who's blunt. Are you blunt everywhere?"

She'd grabbed hold of, um, a convenient outcropping, and she hung on when the explosion came, pitching her off my lap.

She sat up, stunned. "What the fuck was that?"

"Any chance I might have of fathering children going bang," I moaned.

"The reindeer shed is right above my room. It must've been in there."

I tried to leap up. I managed to crawl upright using the wall to brace. "Smitty was going out there."

Chapter Fourteen

Mabel looked alarmed. "Piss! Smitty is the best stud around here! Go help him! I'll get some blankets and first aid shit together."

I hobbled out. By the time I reached the surface, I could walk again. There was a babbling crowd of elves milling around outside. Smoke was pouring out of the igloo that had housed the reindeer and Bruno.

There were mad screams and animal noises coming from inside. As I came nearer, six tiny reindeer burst from the building. But these weren't cute, cuddly animated special reindeer. These had big pointy racks of horns, sharp hooves, terrified rolling eyes, and froth covered muzzles. And they were stampeding right toward us.

Elves dived for cover everywhere, but how much cover IS there at the north pole? I had six of them using me as a shield. We were saved from bloodshed when they took off about fifteen yards from us. One of them kicked off my fedora as they passed inches over my head. I narrowly dodged the fudge patty he dropped as he went, and I heard one of the elves cursing, and knew it had scored, even if it hadn't hit the bull’s-eye.

Then, through the smoke, lumbered a white behemoth. Hell, I thought. Bruno, and me without a rocket launcher. Then I noticed that Bruno was dragging a limp little figure. Smitty!

I went toward them cautiously. If Smitty wasn't dead yet, maybe I could distract Bruno long enough for the others to drag him to safety. Then I noticed that Bruno had his teeth in Smitty's collar, not his flesh. Bruno was hauling him along like a mama cat trying to move a half grown kitten. A ways from the igloo, Bruno dropped Smitty, and gently pawed him over onto his back. Then he looked at me with his little black, piggish eyes and snorted. I think it was bear for 'Well, dickhead, what are you waiting for?', and he lumbered back into the igloo.

I rushed over to Smitty, falling to my knees beside him. I groaned in despair. He was covered in blood, his eyes closed. He smelled like barbecued meat, and he was also coated in soot and ash.

His eyes fluttered open, and he gasped, "I ain't cleanin' up dat shit..." His breath wheezed, then stopped, and he stared up, glassy eyed.

"No!" I threw my head back and howled like an arctic wolf. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Chapter Fifteen

Don't you fuckin' hate cliffhangers? First I leave you with me bashed over the head, then I'm in danger of having a dental experience like the ones provided by Steve Martin in 'Little Shop of Horrors', now I leave you dangling with me kneeling over the body of my faithful sidekick. I'm a real bastard, aren't I?

I threw myself across Smitty's cold, still body. "No! No! No!" I screamed.

Something smacked my ear hard enough to make my head ring. A labored voice said, "Fuckin' A, no. I can't breathe. Get offa me, ya moron."

"Smitty!" I sat up in glad astonishment. Smitty blinked and sat up, coughing. "You're alive."

"No shit, Sherlock. If ya ever grab me like dat again I'll knock yer nuts up aroun' yer Adam's apple. I might get cozy wit' Queenie every now an' den, but she's a helluva lot prettier 'n youse. Oh, and..." He smacked me again.

"Ouch! What was that for?"

"Dat was fer da 'fat'eful sidekick' crap. Fateful sidekick, my rosy red rectum."

"What happened?"

He looked grim. "Sabotage again. One o' da reindeer exploded."

"Excuse me?"

"Ya heard me, exploded." He looked a little green. "Blood an' reindeer guts everywhere. One of da damn jingle bells shot past my pointy ear like a .38 slug."

"What happened, did someone give him a plastique suppository, and he farted?"

Another elf came up. "We found out what caused the explosion. Did you know that someone had filled the water trough with club soda?" "That shouldn't do more than cause a few burps."

"By itself, yeah. But when you combine it with this..." He showed me a handful of oats that was mixed with what looked like the colored gravel you put in fish tanks, "and this..." a chunk of a crumbly white substance. "Alka Seltzer was substituted for the salt block, and that's Pop Rocks mixed in with the feed."

"Dat sadistic bastard!" Smitty gasped.

"Well, at least it's not a total disaster. The others escaped, and they'll be back soon. And Bruno's in there, cleaning up the mess. We won't have to do much more than pick up the antlers and hooves."

"Which one was it?"

"Vixen. The bucks are gonna be real pissed when they settle down." He left. Smitty groaned and held his head.

"Take it easy. You've had a real shock."

"It's not dat, dumbass..."

"Brad. You're thinking about my great-great something grandfather."

"Da hell I am. Nah, I was jus' t'inkin' about all da woik I got ahead of me. Now I got two of dem refugees from a taxidermist ta replace, an' dat ain't no slice o' cheesecake, I can tell ya."

"Speaking of cheesecake, come on down to Mabel's room. She was going to collect some first aid stuff."

"All right by me. Ol' Mabel's a champ at tender lovin' care." But when we arrived at Mabel's, it was in time to see her being carried out of her room. She was very still, but they had an oxygen mask clamped on her puss, so at least she wasn't dead.

"What happened?" I asked one of the elves.

"Dunno. This place was a madhouse after the explosion. I saw Mabel's door open, and went to see if she knew, and found her like that. It's a damn good thing I worked on the Suzie CPR doll last year. Doc says she'll probably be okay."

"But what happened?"

"Do I look like Dionne Warwick? I don't know. Doc says she's got some broken ribs, like her chest was almost crushed. That ain't easy to do. Brownie's are even more flexible than elves."

"I need to talk to her."

"If you're feeling lucky, buy a lottery ticket first. You'll have a better chance of winning the jackpot than you will of Doc letting you see her anytime soon. She's gonna be getting better drugs than anyone else around here for some time. There is one thing you might want to know."

He dug in his pocket. As he handed it to me he said, "She was clutching this."

A white wisp.

Chapter Sixteen

"Curiouser and Curiouser, said Alice as she fell down the rabbit hole," I remarked.

"She musta knew from curious, after what she did wit' da March Hare, da Dormouse, da Cheshire Cat, an' da Mock Turtle. I tried some kinky shit in my time, but bestiality orgies is beyond me."

"No, I meant... skip it. This matches the ones found at the scenes of the sabotage. If I can identify it, it may lead us to who is responsible. Mabel said it looked familiar to her, like she'd seen it everyday, so much that she couldn't recognize it because it was too obvious. Does that make sense?"

"Nah."

"That's what I said, but what the hell. I'm being paid. I need to check out the leads. Come on, let's find Kris."

He was just stepping out of the elevator. "What's going on? It seems agitated around here."

"You didn't hear?"

"I've been down in my room. You could have Armageddon, or even a Slayer concert up here, and I wouldn't hear it."

"Kris, I have to ask you again. Can you think of anyone who might wish you, not Christmas or Santa Claus, but you ill?"

His cheeks were like roses. "Why, no. No one."

"Come on, big guy."

He sounded stubborn. "I said no."

I shook my head. "Kringle, " I said gently. "Mrs. Claus has a bit of a reputation. This can't be news to you."

"I... I know that. We have... an understanding. She can be with anyone she chooses. I can, too."

"But you haven't, have you?"

He sighed. "Only one. Only ever one." He broke off, shaking his head. "When you really love someone, As, you make allowances. Even when it hurts." Tears were welling up in his eyes, and he honked into a mammoth handkerchief. His nose was like a cherry, and his little round belly... okay, his big round belly was shaking like jelly.

"You've got to admit to yourself, Kris, that someone your wife is or was involved with could be responsible. I'm considering Roids."

That got his attention. He stopped blubbering and looked at me in astonishment. "Flex? You're joking. He's head of security."

"All the better to be able to screw things up. Free access to everywhere, and no one would think twice about seeing him around the scenes. What could be more natural?"

"Farting after a plate of beans." volunteered Smitty.

"All right," I admitted. "But what else?"

"Smelly pee after eating asparagus," offered Herb.

"I'll give you that one, too. But..."

"Having a pee stiffy when you wake up in the morning." contributed a passing elf.

"Enough! Anyway, it's natural that he would be around the crime scenes. And I want a look at that cotton stuffed into the pill bottle he carries around. And then there's Mrs. Clause. She has an ermine trimmed coat, I've seen it."

"Utter nonsense! Why would Trixie... I mean Sandy do such a thing?" "Like I said before, she's hot and heavy with someone else. I can't figure the financial angle, though. She doesn't strike me as the kind who'd be willing to cut herself off from what looks like a very plush income for something as trivial as love."

Smitty was nodding vigorously. "Biggest golddigger since da Dean Martin show went off da air."

I sighed. "I just wish I could make myself believe this was frayed dental floss. I'd LOVE to hang it on the Demon Dentist Dame. I guess I'll talk to Trixie first."

"Can I tag along?" asked Smitty. "Dis is pretty interestin' shit."

"Sure."

As we started off, he said, "Besides, I happen ta know dat da missus usually takes a shower right about now, an' I ain't passin up a chance ta see her inna towel."

Chapter Seventeen

We were both disappointed. Trixie was, indeed, fresh out of the shower. But only her hair was in a towel, the rest of her was covered by a satin robe that would have looked more at home in a boxing ring on someone with an animal nickname. "Can't this wait?" she snapped. "I haven't put myself together yet."

"I suppose it could, but I'd rather piss you off. Besides, it looks like you could put together a 1000 piece Springbok New York Skyline jigsaw faster than putting yourself together."

It was the truth. Minus makeup, Trixie's face had all the color and appeal of biscuit dough straight out of the can. Her eyes looked about the size of runt raisins, and the eyelashes had gone from jungle brush thick to unseeded lawn thin. Her black hair had before had more volume than a Def Lepard album at 3 am, but when she took off the towel it hung in thin, snaky rat tails around skinny shoulders. There were no eyebrows. She was egg smooth from eyelids to hairline. "All right, ask. But I'm gonna fix myself up while you do." She grabbed a brush and a hand held hair drier, and powered it up. Apparently Boeing was missing an engine off one of it's smaller aircraft.

I hung on to the arms of my chair, resembling that dude with the shades in the armchair for that stereo system. My tie blew sideways and smacked Smitty in the face. He retaliated by getting a pair of nail scissors off the vanity and cutting it off below the knot. I didn't blame him, but I hated to see the painted hula girl beheaded. "You've been seeing someone outside your marriage." I shouted. "So?" She was brushing vigorously. Strands flew around her head, looking like the tentacles of some undersea creature waving in a rough tide. "It's not like that's some sort of big secret. Kris and I have an agreement."

"He doesn't seem too happy about it."

She shrugged. "He doesn't care that I'm getting it from someone else, he just doesn't like the someone else I'm getting it from."

"And that would be...?"

"For me to know and you to find out."

"Flex Roids."

She dropped the brush, and swivelled her head to look at me over her shoulder. Her head looked like a negative photograph of a dandelion in full seed. Her voice was sarcastic. "Oh, gee. And I tried SO hard to conceal it." She picked up a comb and began teasing her hair. "Nyaa na na na nyaa na."

"You're trying to force Claus to give you a divorce, so you can take him for big bucks in the settlement, and take off with Roids." "You lived in LA too long, As. This ain't California. We don't have community property out here." She picked up a can of hair spray roughly the size of a thermos and began to spritz her hair. The label said "Fuck the Ozone".

"But still, any settlement would be sizeable."

"Don't kid yourself." Her right arm got tired, and she started to spray left handed. The can sputtered out. She tossed it into a knee high pile in the corner, and took a fresh can out of an open case. "He had lawyers that made the shark in JAWS look like a guppy." She started spraying again. I could feel my nostril hairs stiffening from the mist that drifted my way.

"I had to sign a prenuptial agreement that would leave me a half step below poverty if I broke the marriage, and a half step above if he did." She examined her hair critically, then rapped her head against the wall, hard. When the hair didn't move or flatten, she nodded in satisfaction, and began putting on her makeup. She reached for a trowel.

"So you're telling me that you have no desire to get out of your marriage."

"No. Why should I? I have the name, I have the position." She sprayed fixative on the first layer, and started on the second. "I can pretty much buy what I please. If he says no the first time, it doesn't take much to nag him into it." She dipped a spatula into her eyeshadow, it looked like Move It on Over Mauve, and smeared on the first scoop. "Hey, I got top marks in The Wisdom of Whining, and I led my class in Bitching and Moaning."

She used an eyebrow pencil and a protractor to put in her eyebrows. When she noticed my stare, she explained, "I get better results with a compass, but that pointy end is a real bastard." She removed a pair of false eyelashes from a case and began combing out the tangles. You could have braided them. "And I have a nice elf smorgasbord anytime I want some coochycoo. It really couldn't be any better." She glued the eyelashes in place, and fluttered them. The breeze sent a cloud of used tissues flying. She rummaged in a basket and said, "Rats! I only have two full tubes of lipstick left. What am I going to do for the second coat?"

"You make some pretty good arguments, but I still want to see the coat."

"Help yourself. It's in the closet over there."

Smitty and I went to the closet, and pulled out the coat. The ermine didn't match any of the white wisps. "Well, looks like you're off the hook."

"I never was ON the hook. It was a nasty rumor. That guy gave me money because he liked me."

"Looks like the next stop is Roids."

"If I were you..." she was spraying on perfume from an atomizer the size of a Windex bottle. "I'd walk very carefully around Flex. "He doesn't like you at all."

"I'm crushed. There go my plans for a prom date." We left and headed for security headquarters.

Chapter Eighteen

We were informed that Mr. Roids would see us in his office. The office was nondescript, bigger than Santa's, smaller than Herb's. There were a couple of half empty file cabinets against one wall. The missing contents seemed to be stacked on Roids' desk. I'd have had a hard time peering over those stacks. Flex had arranged them so hecould look between them.

The walls were plastered with framed photos and certificates. There were diploma's from the North Western University, College of Detection, and Bodyguard U. There were dozens of photos of Flex doing various bodybuilder poses, obviously taken at competitions. I haven't seen that much beefcake since I toured a meat packing plant in grade school. In each he wore a number and a teeny pair of Speedos. I could see why Mabel had laughed when I worried that I might be over endowed for someone who was used to elf lovin'.

He was flipping through one folder, working a spring hand strengthener with the other. The monotonous squeaking sounded like someone having a routine shag in the next motel room. He glanced up when we settled in the chairs before him. "I was wondering when you'd get around to me. You're slower than I thought."

"I'm only slow in bed, where it counts. And I'm as thorough at business as I am at pleasure. You did it, didn't you, Roids?"

"Did what?"

"Don't play stupid with me, you're overqualified. You've been screwing things up around here, haven't you?"

His face flushed a purple color that clashed horribly with his green uniform. He barked, "I've been doing everything I can to stop this madness. It's not just my job on the line here, it's my career, my reputation. If I don't take care of this, I'm finished in security. They wouldn't hire me to guard a Family Dollar Store. I couldn't get a gig as Tina Yother's bodyguard. I'd get dissed by crossing guards."

"You couldn't handle that, could you, Flex? It's really important to you that you be respected, even admired."

"I deserve it. Dammit, I've worked hard. I've been head of security through three Santas. Three! If I was two feet taller and not such a magnificent physical specimen, I could do the job myself."

"Ambitious, too. Maybe you're hoping Kris will be rousted, and you'll get your chance."

"I can't. I told you, they have those ridiculous standards about having the real hair, beard, and girth. I can't grow a decent beard, and I'm not going to ruin my body for anyone or anything."

"That sounds reasonable, Flex, but I have reason to believe you might have a reason to behave unreasonably."

"Huh?"

"Roid rages, Flex. The irrational states of a steroid abuser. Steroids can also induce paranoia, a sense of persecution..."

"That's a lie, and anyone who says it is just out to get me!"

"See?"

"Oh, hell. You mean these?" He pulled out the pill bottle and held it up.

"So you admit it!"

"Admit shit. Read the damn label. Those aren't steroids, they're reindeer sedatives."

The label on the bottle said "Deervon-One tablet by muzzle as needed. Absolutely not for human consumption."

"This says it's not for human consumption."

Flex stared at me, then looked at Smitty. "You tell him."

Smitty sighed. "I can't take youse nowhere. We ain't human, Brad. I been wonderin' where dose t'ings were disappearin' to. We had ta lay in a truck load of 'em after Bruno chowed down on wunna dose shit-for-brains deer."

"I've been kicking into petty cash to pay for them. I just needed something stronger than what's been available recently." He gave me a pious look. "I don't use artificial growth hormones. I'm all natural."

"Just like Hulk Hogan, right?" I opened the bottle and compared the packing cotton to the mysterious white wisps. No match.

Flex was saying, "I've been stumped, especially by that white stuff. But I have an idea now. Who it the most obvious white haired creature around here? Bruno, right? Well, I happen to know that he was bought from the Moscow Zoo. I think he's a commie plant, a couple of KGB agents in a really good suit."

Smitty shook his head. "Flex, promise me dat you'll let me be present when ya try ta interrogate da bear. It should be better dan pay-per-view Wrasselegeddon."

"No, it's not any type of hair," I said, staring at it hard. "It wasn't ermine, it isn't bear fur. It's... it's..." I trailed off thoughtfully.

"It's a long damn pause between words. Spit it out, As." Flex demanded.

"It brings back a memory from my childhood. But if I'm right, it has no reason or right to be here at Christmas Central, if all you've told me about this organization is true. Does that make sense?"

Smitty and Flex chorused "No."

"No need to agree so vehemently. I think I might be able to clear this up, but I'll need to talk to Kris again."

We headed for his office, all three of us. Kris wasn't there, but Trixie was. "No, I don't know where he is. He's all over the place these days. But when I find him, I'm going to ask him to dismiss you." She pouted. "You hurt my feelings."

"Sorry, I should know better than to tease a rattlesnake. I may be able to clear this up if I can get a look in Kris's room."

"His bedroom's right over..."

"No, I mean...his room."

Trixie, Smitty, and Flex looked startled. "You mean...?"

"That's right. I'm going to break and enter Santa's Workshop."

Chapter Nineteen

"Brad," Smitty said carefully, "Are youse outta your fuckin' mind? If you're wrong, you'll be da mos' hated man on da face of da planet. Ya'd be better off bombin' da Vatican."

"But if I'm right, Smitty, I'm the Man Who Saved Christmas. And think about it... Between me, you, and Flex, we've pretty much covered every inch of this place except the workshop. There must be something in there that ties all this together. Something bigger than Christmas." They all three slapped me at once. "Ouch! Okay, okay, nearly as big as Christmas."

"An persicely how da youse intend ta get in? Dere ain't no trap in da floor of da elevator, so youse can't climb down to da sub level." "I was hoping Flex could help there. You said that head of security might have access."

We all looked at Flex Roids, and he shook his head. "He used to let me come and go as I pleased, but not any more. We had a... falling out several months ago."

"Over the missus?"

"He did object to our special relationship. Anyway, he changed his access code. I still have my card, but it's useless without the proper code, and there are thousands and thousands of combinations possible."

"I'll worry about that when I come to it. For now, let's just go as far as we can."

We found the right elevator, and all squeezed inside. Smitty pushed the button for the lowest level open to us, and I examined the code pad on the wall as we descended.

It looked pretty standard. There was a slot to slide the electronic key card through next to a numbered keyboard. It was set up like a touch tone phone, one through zero, with letters grouped in trios under each number.

When we stopped, I held out my hand. "Card." Flex handed it over, and I swiped it through the slot. There was a buzz as it activated. I studied the buttons again, and tentatively pushed one. There was a musical beep in a minor tone. I pushed a different button, and got a higher pitched beep, a third gave one that was almost bass. I punched a few more, and the display above the pad flashed 'Access Denied.'

"Look, we can't just stand here while you randomly try combinations," whined Trixie. "My hair will wilt in these crowded conditions."

I held my forefinger against my thumb and rubbed them together. "The world's tiniest violin playing "Hearts and Flowers", just for you. Now be quiet."

"Well, I never!"

"That ain't what I heard."

She stamped her foot. "Flex, are you going to let him talk to me that way?"

"Shut up and let the man make a fool of himself, Sandy."

"It would take a smarter man than I am to make a fool of me. I mean, I'm not as dumb as I look. I mean... Skip it."

"It's another story, right?" Smitty piped up.

"Right. Anyway, this isn't random. I know what I'm doing." I hope I hope I hope, I thought.

I swiped the card, and pushed all the buttons in turn, finding out which produced what tone. Then I swiped the card again, and punched in the first sequence. The tips of Smitty's ears quivered, and he said, "Jingle Bells."

No result, so I slid the card again, and punched. Smitty smiled. "Silver Bells." Still no access. I tried again "Hell's bells! Yer doin' Christmas carols, ain't ya?"

"Correct, my foul mouthed little friend. And since 'Frosty the Snowman' didn't work, I think this next one is our best bet."

I slid the card, held my breath, and tapped. Bloop bleep bleep bloop blat. "Here comes Santy Clause..." There was a buzz, and the display lit up with 'Access Granted', and the elevator started to descend again.

"Well, put me in black face an' call me Gary Coleman! Ya did it, shamus."

I casually polished my nails on my coat, looking significantly at Flex. He said grudgingly, "Like the man said the first time he saw Dolly Parton, very impressive. Now quit gloating. I still don't know what you think you're going to find down here."

The elevator touched bottom with a thump, and the doors slid open. "We shall see what we shall see."

We exited into a large room. It looked like another office. There was a drafting table that held a half finished sketch of what looked like a jet powered roller blade skate. I went to it, and examined it and the materials around it. I ran a finger over it, and held it up, coated gray. "This hasn't been touched for months. It's covered with dust."

Trixie looked puzzled. "If he hasn't been designing, then what has he been doing down here? He spends hours."

We went into another room, which was bathed in white-purple UV light. There were tanks everywhere, filled with water, blobs floating in them. I went to one and lifted out a blob. "Cabbage." I went to another, and did the same. "Broccoli." Another. "Zucchini. Looks like we have bell peppers and radishes, too."

"I don't get it." Smitty looked bewildered into a tank that was filled with squash. "Why's Kris storin' veggies in water?"

"Not storing, Smitty. Growing. This is a hydroponic garden."

"But Santas never eat vegetables. The closest they ever come is the onion on a loaded baked potato," protested Trixie.

The next room was full of exercise equipment: a Nautilus, Stairmaster, Thighmaster, Gutbuster... If someone had sweated over it on a late night infomercial, it was there. And none of them were dusty. Roids examined a couple of serial numbers. "These disappeared from inventory months ago. I'd assumed it was part of the sabotage." A teevee-VCR set up in the corner was stacked with copies of tapes like "Jane Fonda's Workout", "Sweatin' to the Oldies with Richard Simmons", "Tae Bo", and "Move Your Fat Ass".

"It's all coming together," I said. "If I find one more item, I'll know my theory is correct. Wait here." I went into what proved to be a small bathroom, and opened the medicine chest. It was there, just as I'd thought.

From outside I heard "What are you all doing down here?!" It was Kris, and he sounded pissed. I grabbed the item, and put it in my pocket, then went out.

Kris was confronting Smitty, Flex, and Trixie. He glared at me. "As. I might have known. You've overstepped yourself. This place is off limits to everyone but myself. This is my private place. Your services are no longer needed, and you're getting coal and switches for the rest of your life."

"My downstairs neighbor will enjoy the switches. Anyway, it's too late to try to get rid of me, Kris. I've solved the case."

"Be very careful what you say, As. My lawyers haven't had a good libel suit since Larry Flynt published that cartoon of me in Hustler." "You...you're not accusing KRIS of being the saboteur, are you?" quavered Trixie. "That's foolish."

"Brad, what about da clues?" asked Smitty. "He couldn'ta left 'em. Ya said dat the wisps wasn't hair or fur. Dat trimmin' on his coat is real ermine. I know, I gotta pay da cleanin bills every December 26th."

"The wisps are from his beard."

Santa scowled. "You've painted yourself into a corner, As. You were told before that the whole package has to be real: weight, hair, AND beard. Mine..." he stroked the beard proudly, "is the real goods." "Then explain this!" I whipped out the item I'd found in the bathroom.

Chapter Twenty

It was a razor. A Gillette Supershaver, to be exact. And it had been used.

There was a Greek chorus of gasps. Before Kris could move, I reached out, grabbed a handful of curly white beard, and yanked. The whole thing came away in my fist, and he yowled, clapping his hands to his cheeks like Macaulay Culkin in 'Home Alone'. All that was left was raw skin and dried patches of spirit gum. I dropped the beard, and it lay there looking like a Persian cat that had misjudged traffic.

"Kris, your beard!" wailed Mrs. Claus. "You can't keep the position without a real beard! What were you thinking of? Maybe they'll give you time to grow it back. You could get a couple of inches by Christmas, and use weaves for the rest till it grew back in."

"Shut up, Sandy! And quit calling me Kris. That's not my real name, and you know it. It came with the job. I'm Marvin. Marvin Schimmelfinny, and proud of it."

"It was you!" Smitty was outraged. "You sunuvabitch! I t'aut we wuz friens, an ya booby-trap a reindeer on me. I coulda been blasted inta da nex millennium if da poor critter had been facin' away from me when she blew."

"I'm sorry about that, Smitty. You must believe me, I never intended for anyone to be harmed physically. I had no idea you'd be in the igloo."

"And what about Mabel?" I countered. "Was she in the wrong place at the wrong time, too?"

He sighed heavily. "Yes, in a way. Mabel surprised me when I was swapping the Christmas underwear. I heard her telling you about having information, and I rigged up the reindeer to distract you before she could tell you whatever it was. I listened outside your door, and found out that I'd left a piece of my beard at the scene. Then the deer blew, and you rushed out."

"But she didn't know what it was she'd found."

"It was only a matter of time till she did, and I couldn't take the chance. You'd left the door unlocked, and I slipped in...and sat on her. It was odd. All the tiny people I've had sit on my lap, I've never sat one before."

Smitty's little face turned red. "Motherfucker! You almos' killed wunna da bes' pieces o' tail in da Nort'ern hemisphere."

"She's not dead? Good, I'm glad."

"But why have you done this, Kris? I mean Marvin?"

"The oldest reason around, Trixie. Jealousy. Spite. He knew about you and Roids. He knew that Roids wanted his job, and that he already had you. If Roids got his job, he knew you'd toss him aside to stay Mrs. Santa Claus instead of settling for Mrs. Schimmelfinny. So he tried to make Roids look like a fool. A security chief who couldn't do his job."

"The veggies and exercise equipment, even shaving the beard... They were all efforts to make himself more attractive, look younger. He wanted you to love him again, for himself, Trixie."

There was a harsh bark of laughter from Santa, and he suddenly pulled a gun out of his jacket, covering us. "And I thought you were smart, As. You've got it bassakward."

"That's just a water pistol," said Flex confidently, starting for him. A bullet chipped the floor between his feet, and he stopped, goggling. Santa smiled grimily and waved it. "This was going to be Charlton Heston's stocking stuffer, but he'll have to make do with the AK47. Don't come near me, Flex. Not after the way you've treated me."

"Fles?!" This time it was me, Smitty, and Trixie doing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir impersonation. Flex blushed to the roots of his bristly hair and the tips of his batwing ears.

"So I'm bi. I never said I wasn't."

"I was so happy with you, Flex. You said you loved me. Me! Not the office, not the image, but Marvin. Then SHE got her hooks into you!" The gun aimed at Trixie. She squeaked and tried to hide behind her bosoms. "Things were fine. You had all the elves at the North Pole to chose from, but you had to have mine!"

"I didn't know, I swear."

"It wouldn't have mattered if you did. You always insist on just what you want. And I know everyone laughed at me when you screwed around. 'Poor old pussywhipped Kris'. But it didn't matter, not while I had Flex. The first night he went to you, I was so distressed that I chopped off my beard."

"But I never promised you I'd be exclusive, Marvin." Flex protested. "Men!" said Santa scornfully. "You didn't promise with words, but you promised with your eyes, your touch. I tried so hard, Flex. I kept hoping you'd see she was a worthless slut, and come back to me. I did everything I could. I ate..." He shuddered. "Salads. I exercised for hours."

He suddenly ripped off his red suit and stood before us clad in only leopard skin patterned thong and demibra. He looked like a marshmallow wearing two rubber bands. "I lost three pounds for you, you bastard!" he screamed. "And you never even noticed!"

He started to raise the gun again, and I moved. I snatched up a strand of Christmas lights laying on a nearby table, and snapped it like a whip. It lashed him in the face, several bulbs shattering. As he clawed at the glass fragments stuck to the spirit gum on his chin, I dived and knocked the gun out of his hand.

He roared, and bumped me with his huge belly. That Abdominizer in the other room must have worked better than I thought, because there was a lot of muscle under that fat. I was knocked flat, and he bolted for the elevator. He made it inside and the doors slid shut while Roids and Smitty were helping me up.

"He'll be trying to escape," I wheezed.

"He won't risk da tunnels," said Smitty. "I t'ink he'll go for da shed an' try ta hitch up da reindeer. Shit, if he steals dem, I'll never get da whole team replaced in time."

As soon as we could get the elevator back down, we went in hot pursuit. At the top floor a bewildered looking elf called, "What the fuck is going on around here? Some fat guy in lady's lingerie almost ran me down. He kept muttering 'Up, up, and away'."

We went up to ground level and crawled outside. We started toward the igloo shed, but another elf yelled, "Hey, Smitty. Two of the RDs have been spotted out by Queenie's, and she's sending them over. Three were seen headed toward Greenland, and I have some of the boys on their trail. The last two are on top of Nosebleed Crag, and the boogers don't want to fly down. We're calling for a chopper." "That makes seven," I said. "The shed is empty?"

"Except for Bruno."

As if on cue, there was a roar from the igloo, and a high pitched scream. It was followed by very unpleasant, moist ripping sounds. We were all quiet. In a moment there was a crunching, chomping sound. Smitty said, "I hope Bruno don' get da bra underwires stuck in his t'roat."

Chapter Twenty One

It was rainy. Not quite Noah's ark time, but depressing enough. Despite the rain, I still had to sand down my front step because of the ice. I guessed Jack Frost was still pissed at me, since it was late July. At least the poodle had stopped crapping on my steps after he got chilblanes on his ass. I sloshed through puddles to my office. I wasn't about to drive the Lexus in this kind of weather. Even the hookers were staying indoors.

At my building, I paused in the downstairs hallway to shake the water off my fedora and trench coat. My downstairs neighbor was having a session, as I could hear whip cracks and happy yips from behind her door. I thought about how things were now, a year to the day after I'd closed the Case of the Sabotaged Claus.

Bruno was alright, after a bromide. All we ever found of Marvin Schimmelfinny was the bra. Apparently Bruno used the thong to floss. It was decided that Bruno was too temperamental to continue in the flight business. I think he's doing photo ads for a famous brand of vodka.

Since Kris was gone, Trixie was out of a job, too. She quickly lost interest in Flex. Last I heard, she was trying to develop her own line of cosmetics, but was having a hard time getting past the testing phase, since she tended to use up all the supplies.

They'd had another Santa in reserve. An ex shoe salesman from Cincinnati got the job. His wife assured anyone who'd listen that the only thing that got her husband aroused these days was a pair of size five patent leather pumps, and it didn't bother her at all. She'd rather watch soap operas. He did a bang up job. Once the sabotage was stopped, Christmas Central kicked into overdrive, and Christmas went off without a hitch. Herb's ulcers improved so much that he was down to only one bottle of Malox a day.

Mabel recovered nicely. All she could remember was a red wall falling on her. Surprisingly enough, she took up with Flex when Trixie dumped him, and they seem pretty happy. Flex has mellowed a little. He quit his security job at the North Pole, and has a deal with the National Enquirer to write a Behind the Scenes series about Christmas Central, then act as their liaison to all short celebrities. His first interview will be with Michael J. Fox.

I get cards from Queenie occasionally. She's invited me to Mardi Gras, where one of the krews has asked her to ride a float to represent the theme of 'Decisions, Decisions'. I'm thinking of taking her up on the offer.

The last I heard, the Tooth Fairy had been arrested on the set of the Donny and Marie Show. As they carted her off she was yelling, "But they have so many! Just one, just one!" She’s in the booby hatch now, but there’s talk of releasing her to a half way house. What scares me is I heard that she’s dating a proctologist. If he ever dumps her, I’m buying stock in iron underpants. As for Smitty...

I heard someone thumping down the stairs. My landlord came down holding his head, which was lumpy, and his ass, which was up between his shoulder blades. "As, you need to have a talk with that new partner of yours."

"I told you not to bug him about the rent. We'll get it to you when we get paid for the Case of the Burgled Bagel."

He left, and I continued up the stairs. The sign over my door used to read 'AS DETECTIVE AGENCY'. I'd scratched between the first two letters, and it now read 'A&S DETECTIVE AGENCY'.

I opened the door, and Smitty, sitting at his desk, looked up at me. Also looking up at me were approximately a dozen bunny rabbits of all sizes and colors. Smitty waved a piece of paper at me. "I tink we got anudder case, Brad. Dey jus' brought us dis, foun' it dis mornin'."

I took the paper and read it. It consisted of the standard words and letters clipped out of magazines, pasted on the page. "We have taken yer boss. Await instructions. Go to the cops and the Easter Bunny goes to a medical experiment lab."

I looked at the bunnies. Twelve pairs of bright shoe button eyes watched me expectantly. Twelve pink velvet noses twitched.

"Oh, fuck."

But that's another story.