Santa's Special Delivery

by Lubrican

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Chapter Two

Charlie came in and sat down in the chair beside my desk.  He had a manila folder in his hands.  He flipped it open and recited.  "Eva Sinderson, twenty-seven year old, no priors, but was identified as the victim of domestic assault three times before she got a restraining order against one Wallace Gardner, who is a piece of work.  Got a rap sheet as long as my arm, including assault, theft, extortion, criminal threats, weapons violations and criminal damage to property.  Seems to have a taste for various controlled substances too.  He's currently in the slammer for resisting arrest and assault on a police officer, doing eighteen months to two years.  Eva Lives at 2206 Maple.  Has one known child, Timothy Daniel Sinderson, seven years old, who is popular and, according to the principal, very deserving of our attentions.  Mom is involved and helpful whenever the school needs her to be.  School records show permission for Carla Hernendez to pick Timmy up at school.  We don't have much on Carla yet."  

I sat back.   "Employment?"

"Waits tables at Angelino's.  Cleans rooms at the Ramada on the weekends. Has a license to perform as a clown when juveniles are present, but I don't get any sense she's worked the clown angle for a while.  Hard to do when you don't have wheels."

"No vehicle?"

"One older Ford that's been parked for quite a while.  It could use tires, turn signals and some glass, according to Black.  He says it looks like somebody worked it over with a ball bat.  The only reason it hasn't been towed is because it's in the driveway instead of on the street."

"When was the restraining order?" I asked.

He looked through the file.  "Looks like it was about a week before he went into the slammer.  Latest domestic was the same date he was busted for resisting arrest, but the assault charges were dropped."

"So he got out on bail and convinced her not to press charges," I said.  "But he didn't count on the cops pushing their part, and ended up in jail anyway."

"Back in jail," said Charlie.  "He's been in and out since he turned eighteen.”

"Sounds like she could use a little happiness," I said.

"Damn straight," said Charlie.

"Okay then," I said.  "She and Timothy are confirmed on Santa's list."

On the recommendation of Timothy's teacher, who was sworn to secrecy, it was determined that Timothy would enjoy a good set of artist's pencils, because he liked to draw and, according to the teacher, was good at it.  Tanya, Charlie's wife, is a painter, so I asked her if she'd choose the right stuff.  She got him a case that had a couple of hundred pencils in it, along with chalk and who knows what else.  It was a nice set, just the thing for Santa to bring him.

It wasn't possible to get good info on Eva without risking her finding out what was going on.  The people she worked for are the kind of people who get hinky whenever they're contacted by the cops, and would warn her we were asking questions because they would never believe somebody would do what we do at Christmas.  So I winged it, as usual, and got her a gift card charged up with 250 dollars.  I figured that would widen those lovely eyes. It was a starter VISA card that one of the local banks worked with us on.  Once the money was gone, she could actually open an account and deposit money into the card balance, or just toss it.   

Our little group has its own tradition.  If it's adults we're helping, we usually just send them things in the mail, with a note that it's from Santa.  If kids are involved, we try to deliver everything on Christmas Eve.  But that's also a time for family, so we have a get together the evening of the 23rd, and have dinner.  It's always a pot luck kind of gathering, and people expect more desserts than actual food, but that's part of the fun.  While we eat, we make the final arrangements for everything.  It sounds like it's a big operation, but it's really not.  The most we've ever done is twelve kids, and that year five of them were siblings, so there were only nine deliveries.  We don't have the same players every year either.  Some years some people in the group can participate, and other years give other folks a chance.  But the dinner is for everybody in the group, which is comprised of about twenty-five people in all.  That doesn't count donors who don't want to be a member of the actual "Santa team."  

During this year's pre-Christmas Eve gathering, we had eighteen people, which was a good crowd.  A lot of the wives like to be involved in the deliveries, most of which are very straightforward.  The "spiel" is personalized by each "elf" but it generally goes something like this:

"Hi.  I'm one of Santa's helpers, and he's got a runner problem on the sleigh tonight, so we've been drafted to deliver some of the presents.  These are for you."

It's that short and that sweet.  It's in and out, without answering questions, if possible.  Usually people are stunned, and you can get out before they gather their wits.  If there are kids present, they pretty much freak out, which also distracts the adults.  I think the women just like being mysterious, and seeing the excitement on the faces of people who thought Christmas was going to be pretty thin.  

I do know that excitement is contagious.  I know this because the guys tell me how the women act when they get home, all flushed with that excitement.  To be honest, I think that's why more than a few of the guys joined the group - to tap into some of that ecstatic Christmas Eve sex they heard about from the early members.

Anyway, this year, not counting the adults who got mailed things, we had adopted six families and one elderly woman who had no family and deserved a personal visit.  I volunteered to do somebody, and the rest of the group assigned me to Eva and Timothy.  If there's a single woman they always assign me to her.  There are matchmakers in every group, and the fact that I had never been married and wasn't dating anybody seriously just drove some of the wives loco.  I suppose it's a compliment, what with them thinking what a fine catch I'd be, but I work a lot, and that's tough on any relationship, much less law enforcement which, along with firefighting, has one of the highest divorce rates in the world.  The military is catching up with us fast since the wars in the Middle East.

So the next night I, being one of the hams in the group, put my Santa suit back on and, using one of my smaller bags (it looks more full with fewer boxes in it), drove over to Eva's house.  I timed it to arrive at eight, which is usually after dinner and before most kids have to go to bed, but the windows were all dark.   I saw the car parked in the driveway.  The cracks in the windows reflected the street lights, giving the car a vaguely icy appearance.  There was no storm door, so I couldn't leave anything between it and the front door.  In any case this was the wrong neighborhood to be leaving things lying about unsecure.  And, to be honest, I wanted to see her again.  Besides, I didn't have anything better to do, so I just waited.  

It's pretty difficult to be inconspicuous when you're dressed as Santa Claus and sitting in a four year old Subaru.  I've had people come up to me and say things.   The getup attracts them.  One guy tried to joke around that the Subaru made a lot more sense than a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.  I was thinking about going somewhere and getting a cup of coffee and a donut (lots of people like them, you know!) when a cab arrived and an adult and child got out.  In the light of the street lamp I saw her aquiline nose and pale skin under a stocking cap.  Timothy was bare-headed and active, like a lot of seven-year-olds, running toward the house only to dart back to the cab while Eva paid the driver.  He seemed to be in a hurry to get inside the house.  I saw a shopping bag in her hand, and figured there was some Christmas treat in it he wanted to get to.

I gave them time to get into the house, and get their coats put away.  Then, bag in hand, I got out of my car and went up the walk.

I knocked.

I heard a high pitched "Wait!" and the door was thrown open by Timothy.  Eva was hurrying toward the door, looking worried.  I could understand that, based on this neighborhood and the lateness of the hour.  I didn't blame her for assuming that caution was advisable.  Timothy, as yet unjaded by the world, had no such reserves.  He just wanted to see who was there.

His reaction was most interesting.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, looking puzzled.  The mere fact that Santa was standing on his doorstep didn't seem to be odd.  

"It's Christmas Eve," I said, and smiled.   My beard was made so that you could see my lips and teeth.  Smiles on Santa's face often terrify a small child, but a looming mug that is a mass of white hair with a small dark hole in it is even worse.  I've learned to take my chances with my own face.

His eyes widened and he sucked in breath.  I watched those wide eyes shift to the bag I was carrying.

"You put him in there?" he squeaked, sounding outraged.

"I'm sorry, Timothy," I said.  "The little brothers were all taken when I got back to the nursery.  All that were left were twin girls, and I didn't think that was what you were looking for.  Maybe next year?"

He blinked.  "What will happen to the twin girls?" he asked.

This kid had a habit of coming at me from an unexpected direction.  Thinking on my feet I said "If we don't get any late requests, which we usually do, then they'll become elves and live with me at the North Pole."

"That's not true," he said firmly.  "You don't really live at the North Pole.  People have been there and seen it."

"How about we debate all that later," I said, making it an order rather than a question.  "I've got a lot to do tonight.  Do you want your presents or not?"

"I get more than one?"  He looked excited.

"You want your mother to go without?"  That time it was a question.

"No sir!" he said immediately.  He turned to look at his mother, who had an odd look on her face, having overheard our conversation.  "Can he come in?"

Apparently he did listen to her, occasionally.

She hesitated, but only for long enough that an adult would notice, and then said "Yes.  From what I hear it's hard to keep him out."  Her face was straight, showing no emotion.  "At least on this particular night," she added.

Once in, I just invited myself to sit on the couch and put the bag on my lap.  I rooted around in it.  There were only two things in it, so it was obvious I was just moving air.  But it was all part of my act.

"Now, let's see here," I said, mumbling to myself.  "Timothy Daniel Sinderson ... seven and a half years old ... firmly on the good boy list ... I know it's in here somewhere ... Ahhhh, here we go!"

I pulled out the artist's kit.  It wasn't wrapped.  We spent all our money on presents, not momentary glitter.  Having practiced doing so, I opened the case with a flourish and displayed the bewildering array of pencils and other supplies inside.

"Wow!" he gasped.

Score one for Santa.  Not that that's what it's all about, but you always feel good when you know it was the right gift.

"Will you leave me a picture with my milk and cookies next year?" I asked.

He froze, looked up, blinked twice and then his head swiveled.  "We don't have milk and cookies!" he gasped.  It was obvious this was on par with a national emergency.

"I just had some," I said, holding my belly and ho, ho, ho-ing.  "And I'm about to go have more at my next stop.  You can leave me extra cookies next year," I said.  

He sat down with his artist's set and started touching everything in it.  I got the card out of the bag and handed it to Eva.

"Eva Marie Sinderson, twenty-seven and seven months, firmly on the good girl list.  You can open an account with it if you like.  Otherwise it has two hundred and fifty dollars on it you can use for whatever you need."

Her eyes did, in fact, widen.

"Well ain't that sweet!" came a grating voice from the door Timothy had, in his excitement, forgotten to close ... and lock.

Eva's head whipped in that direction.  "Wallace!" she gasped.  "I thought you were ..."

"In jail?"  The man grinned.  

He was, as most witnesses would describe him, of average height, average build and indeterminate age.  His hair was brown and greasy looking.  He had the face that cops recognize almost anywhere, a face that is almost always tense, because the man who owns it lives a tense life.  He's either hungry, scared, wired, worried or elated at pulling something off.  He hasn't had a chance to really relax and take it easy for as long as he can remember.  It makes a man old before his years, which is one reason people have a hard time estimating his age.  In short, Wallace Gardner was a punk.  He had never been anywhere, and wasn't likely to go anywhere other than back to jail.  Unless he wised up.  But they rarely wised up.  Punks like Wallace thought they were smart already.  

The trouble was that he had those bright eyes and trembling hands that told me he was on something.  And I don't mean caffeine.

"I got out early on good behavior," he said, swaggering a bit.  Being able to say his behavior was good was a big deal to this man.  

"There's a restraining order, Wallace," she said, firmly but not in an inflammatory way.  "You're not supposed to be here."

"Yeah," he said, looking around.  "I know.  I am here, though, and I'm broke, and that card will spend for me just like it will spend for you.  I'll take the fancy art stuff too.  That little shit is too young for an expensive set like that.  You can get him some sharpies or something."

"They're not yours to take," I said.

"Shut up, old man," he said, swaggering more.  "You don't want to get that pretty red suit all bloodied up and torn ... now do you?"  He tried to leer threateningly and I almost laughed.  Like most petty criminals, he saw what he wanted to see.

"Timothy," said Eva softly.  "Go to bed now."

Timothy did exactly as he was told, closing the set and getting up.

"Don't you move, boy!" snapped Wallace, "Unless you want your ass beat too!"

I got up then, and bent over to Timothy.

"Do as your mother told you," I whispered.

"What else you got in that bag, fat man?" said Wallace, coming for me.  "And who the fuck do you think you are anyway, giving stuff to my old lady and kid?  You been tapping that gash while I was gone?"

I let him get close enough to grab me and brought my right knee up and between his thighs.  I actually saw him lift an inch or two upwards.

Now, that knee is not padded.  And I've used that move before, so I know what crushed testicles feel like against my knee.  And, while everything felt just like it should ... he didn't go down.

That's when I decided it was PCP he was high on ... and knew I was in trouble.

"Call 911!" I yelled to Eva.  "Tell them an officer needs assistance!"

"You a cop?"  Wallace's eyes widened as he swayed.  His body was trying to tell him to drop to the ground, helpless, but his brain wasn't listening.  "I've always wanted to fuck up a cop."

He pulled a folding lock-blade knife and flicked his wrist.  The blade came half open, suggesting that he hadn't had the knife for long and hadn't had a chance to practice opening it one-handed.  I swept his ankles with my right foot, taking him down and managed to roll him over, getting one of his wrists behind his back and pinning him down with my full weight on one knee in the middle of his back.  I was grabbing for his other hand - the one with the knife in it - when he realized it was time to fight.  He started yelling and cursing.  Some of it was nonsense, but it was all loud.

I was lucky.  He tried to stab me by putting his arm behind him.  He got my belly padding, but that put his wrist right where I needed it and I bore down on it, pressing it against his body.  He still had the knife, but I didn't care.  I concentrated on holding him down and controlling his wrists.  I had at least three inches and fifty pounds on him, but even with my weight, he almost threw me off.  I realized Eva was dancing around beside me, trying to help.  I turned my head.

"Velcro along my right side!" I gasped.  "Handcuffs on my belt!"

I felt her hands on my back and had to tell her to move forward.  She found the seam and ripped it open.  The first thing her hand hit when it darted inside was the grip of my Sig Sauer, in its holster.  

I went cold.  More than a lot of times a cop has found himself attacked by a beat up wife while he's trying to take the man who beat her into custody.  Psychologists can explain it to you, but for cops ... well, we know that a domestic disturbance is more deadly than dealing with gang members. Statistically, at least.  And Eva had dropped charges against this guy in the past.  If she chose this puke over me, I was going to be in a very bad way.

"Further back," I gasped, and her hand moved.  I almost wept with joy.  

She found the cuffs and jerked on them.  The case was made for that and they came loose smoothly.  She held them in front of my face.

"Do you know how they work?" I panted.

"I've seen it done on TV," she said.

"I don't want to let go of him," I grunted. "He's on PCP or something, and I can barely control him as it is.  Can you put them on him?"

"Do I have to?"

"No.  But I'm not sure I can keep doing what I'm doing until the police arrive and they help me."

"I thought you were the police," she said.

"Eva, put the fucking cuffs on him!" I shouted.

"Okay, okay," came her voice in my ear.  "You don't have to yell at me."

She got the first cuff on and I saw her close it tight, much more tightly than procedure allows. It would cut his wrists if he struggled at all, once I let his arms loose.  I didn't really care.  As she snapped the second one on, I relaxed a little.  At least he couldn't fling his arms around any longer.

"You wouldn't believe how many times I've wanted to do that," she said, leaning back.

"What, cuff him?"

"Yes," she said.  She didn't look happy, though.

His hands were starting to move again, so I took the knife away from him before he harvested his own kidney.  He was thrashing, and I knew he'd get worse if I didn't hold him down.  I didn't want him tearing up her living room, so I sat on him.  That's not procedure either.  Perps are known to die if you sit on them and they can't breathe.  I could hear him breathing, though, between every stream of curses and epithets.

"Wally!" I said, leaning down and shouting in his ear.  He froze.

"He hates it when somebody calls him Wally," said Eva.

"Oh," I said.  "Well, Wally, you're under arrest for burglary, attempted theft, assault on a police officer in the commission of his duties, resisting arrest, and being an asshole out of season.  You have the right to remain silent -"

That's as far as I got.  He unfroze and started howling and cursing again, trying to thrash around.  Two uniformed cops came through the door, guns drawn.  I recognized one of them as a patrolman named Franklin.  The other one was a rookie I had seen around, but hadn't met yet.

"I'm a cop, Franklin!" I shouted.

"He is!" yelled Eva, trying to help.

"Is that you, Detective Carson?" He asked.

"Got it in one," I said.  "Can you give me a little help here?  I think he's on PCP."

It took all three of us to get him out into the yard, whereupon Franklin - the one Wally had bitten and drawn blood on - got on his radio and requested an ambulance.

Franklin had one of the old stun guns.   There weren't enough tazers to go around yet.  So they basically stunned him into submission.  That wasn't procedure either, but when a man like Wally bites you and draws blood, there's an AIDS test in your future, and you don't get to cheat on it.  I went back to the house to see if Eva was okay.  She was in one of the bedrooms, holding Timothy and telling him everything was all right.  He looked a little dazed.  And a little scared still.  That bothered me.

"Sorry about that," I said, standing in the door.  The only thing that had come loose was one side of my mustache, and that wasn't too bad.  I was going to have to write a testimonial for the theatrical products company that sold the gum Arabic I used.  I wanted to laugh at the thought, imagining them open that letter.

"Thank you," she said.  "Could you wait out there?"

I nodded.  "Good night, Timothy," I said.

"Good night, Santa," he said softly.

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