It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder, page 6
During his lunch break, Santa cruised the second floor. He spotted the security guard eating lunch and was tempted to boost the man's walkie-talkie. Instead, he swiped a digital radio and a pair of sneakers, dropping them into his bag of Christmas gifts. Just for the hell of it, he took one kid's happy meal and another kid's soda.
Before returning to Santa's Workshop, Tommy stashed the bag of stolen goods in the trunk of his car. He wondered if everyone had this much fun playing Santa Claus.
The line of children moved easily that afternoon in Santa's Workshop. Parents seemed more patient, while their kids enjoyed a visit with Santa Claus. Mrs. Claus was feeling frisky. Elves were feeling especially elvish. Even the assembly-line photographer seemed to be in unusually good spirits. It was a remarkably jolly afternoon. Cassie watched Santa's Workshop from her spot at the edge of the food court. She wished she could give Jack Cambrian a warm Christmas tale about the Mall of New Jersey. There's no story here, she told herself yet again.
"Cassie!"
Cassie looked up in time to see Cheyenne and her mother, Rae, hurrying over, loaded down with shopping bags. "Welcome to my home away from home. You ladies having a successful shopping trip?"
Rae dropped the shopping bags and sat down next to Cassie. "Here. Let me show you what we bought."
Cheyenne rolled her eyes. Her mother began pulling boxes out of the bags. There was a gift box of white musk bath bubbles, a set of four champagne flutes. There was a string of pearls and a pair of pearl earrings. There was a box from Victoria's Secret that Rae Harbrough was embarrassed to open. "It's a red teddy." There was a beautiful black cashmere sweater. Rae Harbrough rummaged through her shopping bags. "Where's the matching scarf? " She turned to her daughter. "Cheyenne, do you have the matching scarf?"
Cheyenne did not have her mother's matching scarf. "Look again, Mother. It's probably in the bottom of the bag."
Rae Harbrough took another look in her bags. "It's not there." Turning to Cassie she added, "Someone stole my black cashmere scarf."
Cassie started to say something, but Cheyenne interrupted. "No one stole your scarf, Mother. Here. Let me look." And she began rummaging through her mother's shopping bags.
"It's not in here," Cheyenne said.
Rae Harbrough was already standing up. "We have to go report this to security."
"Slow down, Mother. Maybe we ought to retrace our steps. You probably left it somewhere."
Rae turned to Cassie. "What do you think, Cassie?"
Cassie tried for noncommittal. "I guess it's possible."
Rae's mind was made up. "I'm going to the security office. Are you coming with me, Cheyenne?"
Cheyenne made a show of standing up. "I'm coming, Mother." She turned to Cassie. "Care to join us?"
Cassie was tired of staring down at the line of children waiting their turn with Santa Claus. "Yeah, I guess."
The three ladies went in search of the mall security office to report Rae Harbrough's missing—"stolen dear, not missing"—scarf.
Oliver Berryhill looked up as the three women marched into the security office—the older woman actually marching, trailing the two younger women behind her. He smiled. "How can I help you ladies?"
Santa's Helpers
The line waiting for Santa was mostly little children, pre-schoolers and toddlers overflowing with excitement. Occasionally an older boy or girl would risk embarrassment for the chance to give Santa a gift list. But never had Santa's elves seen two such as got on line that afternoon at the Mall of New Jersey. Two large men in custom-tailored suits and fine Italian leather shoes. Either of the men, alone, towered over Santa. Together, the Macks dwarfed his workshop. Little Mack wanted to jump to the head of the line, but Big Mack counseled patience. Finally, it was their turn to sit on Santa's lap.
"We need to talk," said Little Mack.
"Ho! Ho! Ho! Gimme a break, guys. Can't you see I'm working here?"
"You're on a break Santa." Little Mack reached for the velvet rope and the sign that read,
Back in fifteen minutes.
"I can't take a break now. I'll get in trouble."
Big Mack broke his customary silence. "What part of, 'You're on a break,' don't you understand?" Big Mack took the rope from his son and hooked it in front of the line. He turned to the children waiting behind him. "Santa's on a break."
Little Mack focused on Santa. "Let's go for a walk."
Santa began walking, flanked by two of the unlikeliest helpers in the history of Santa's helpers.
"Where can we talk that's private?" asked Little Mack.
"There's no place really private," Santa explained. "Believe me, I've looked."
But Little Mack had an idea. "Follow me." And he led them to a little used loading dock in the back of the mall. "Time to make a payment Santa."
"I don't carry cash in my frickin' Santa suit."
"We've been patient with you. Real patient. But you need to get with the program, Tommy." While Little Mack talked, Big Mack rubbed his hands, getting ready, warming up. "Or we'll do it Big's way." Big Mack nodded his head and smiled at Tommy.
Little Mack continued. "You got paid today, Tommy. Lemme see your paycheck."
Tommy wanted to tell the Macks that he didn't carry his check with him, but he realized he was just postponing the inevitable. He reached into his Santa suit, pulled out the paycheck and turned it over.
Little Mack took one look at the number on the check and doubled over in laughter. "That's all you get paid?" He pointed to the number on the check. "That's all?"
Tommy tried to hide inside the Santa suit.
Little Mack folded the check in half and placed it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
Tommy spluttered at the sight of his disappearing paycheck. "Bu-bu-but I . . . look guys, I'm willing to make a payment, but I need to keep at least a hundred."
Little Mack roared. "You're a comedian Tommy, a regular Santa Dice Clay." The check stayed in Little Mack's pocket. "Now about that other matter."
Tommy was ready. "You know what I've learned since I started working? Santa can't sneak around. Anyplace I go in the mall, kids follow me and parents follow them. It doesn't give me a chance to swipe much of anything." Tommy was talking non-stop, not wanting to give Little Mack a chance to respond. He reached inside his Santa suit and pulled out a bracelet, earrings and a black cashmere scarf. "Sorry guys, it's the best I could do."
Little Mack examined the bracelet and earrings. "Well it's a start. You'll do better next week."
Big Mack was fingering the cashmere scarf. "Nice." He draped the scarf around his neck, liking the way it looked against his custom-tailored suit. "Very nice." Big Mack turned and walked off.
"See ya next week Tommy." Little Mack followed his father to the exit.
Rae Harbrough exited the security office, disgusted with the meager investigative resources of mall security. "They should have the authority to lock down the mall if they need to."
Cheyenne was still thinking about the scene her mother had made in the security office. "Mother, it's just a scarf."
"No Cheyenne," Rae Harbrough tried to explain to her daughter. "It's the principle. Right, Cassie?"
But Cassie was not about to be sucked back into the same argument. "Sorry, gotta run. Chey . . . Mrs. Harbrough . . . it's been a pleasure." And she made her way quickly down the hall.
Rae and Cheyenne, mother and daughter, made their way to the mall exit. Standing in the parking lot, scanning for their car, Cheyenne Harbrough noticed two enormous men in fine suits. "Look at them."
Rae looked at the Macks. "Cheyenne, look. The one on the right. He's wearing my scarf!"
Cheyenne drove her mother home from the mall in a silent automobile. Mother and daughter, unable to agree on anything else, had agreed to put their argument on hold. Cheyenne wished her mother could let the scarf go. Literally. When Rae Harbrough saw the black cashmere scarf in the parking lot, draped around a gentleman's neck, nothing was going to stop her from approaching this pair of exceedingly large gentleman.
"Excuse me, sir, but I believe you have my scarf."
Big Mack continued walking as though he hadn't heard.
Rae Harbrough was not going to be ignored. "You have my scarf, sir."
Big Mack stopped walking. He turned and stared at this skinny old lady in her designer sports suit, a suit designed for many things, but none of them sport, and then at her very well endowed, very embarrassed daughter. Big Mack smiled into Cheyenne's cleavage and said nothing.
Little Mack looked nearly as embarrassed as Cheyenne. "I am sorry, ma'am, but I believe you are mistaken. There must be thousands of scarves like the one my father is sporting. Why would you possibly believe this particular scarf belongs to you?"
Rae Harbrough smiled. "Because it does." And she reached up, grabbing one end of the scarf, refusing to be denied.
Big Mack had hit people for far less, but he would not hit a bony old lady over a scarf. Neither would he allow anyone, certainly not a bony old lady, to take anything off his person, and so he simply placed one very large hand on the other end of the scarf and waited.
They stood like that in the mall parking lot for the better part of half an hour, Big Mack and Rae Harbrough, bizarre Siamese twins, attached at the scarf, saying nothing because they had nothing to say, and Little Mack and Cheyenne attached by their embarrassment, saying nothing because they could think of nothing to say. Cheyenne was reminded of an endurance stunt on the TV show Survivor and nearly said so. After twenty silent minutes, Big Mack turned and walked away. Rae Harbrough had won the immunity challenge. She would not be voted off the island this week.
Rae looked at Big Mack. "I need the box and the receipt. In case I decide to return the scarf."
Cheyenne had no doubt how the Macks would vote next week.
One Bourbon, One Scotch and One Beer
Sitting in his room at the Bhait's Motel, Morris could hear an argument in the office, on the other side of the adjacent wall. Beejit Bhait and his mother were arguing, apparently about Morris. He could not hear any of the words clearly, but the tone strongly suggested that Mrs. Bhait did not approve of his taking up temporary residence at the motel. Hell, he thought, I'm just waiting for my car to be repaired.
Morris dialed the number for Deep's Quick Lube and spoke to Deep about the Buick. Deep had bad news to report.
"I put the car up on the lift today, good sir, and I found much damage. The tire, of course, and the rim, but also the brake lining has been damaged."
"Is that bad?" asked Morris.
"It is not good," explained Deep. "I will know more when I start the work."
Morris was growing agitated. "You haven't started yet?"
"Oh, no, sir. But I have scheduled the work for tomorrow. Please to call me again tomorrow afternoon. Excuse me, sir." Deep hung up the phone.
Morris stared at the receiver, as if Deep might yet return. He felt a tightness growing in his chest, felt his thoughts beginning to accelerate. He knew where this was heading, but was powerless to stop. He began gasping for air, even as he told himself to breathe deeply and slowly. He could feel the adrenaline rush. Morris paced inside the room, like a caged tiger, a slightly shorter than average, slightly heavier than average caged tiger on the verge of another panic attack.
He thought about calling Cassie, but he was too jumpy to dial the phone. He thought about taking a walk, but the great outdoors was more frightening than his motel cage. The argument, at least, had ended in the adjacent office. Unfortunately, it continued in his head. Morris sprawled on the bed, burying his head under the pillow. The argument continued. He curled up on the bed, waiting for the imagined disaster, or for the panic attack, to subside. It didn't really matter which; Morris just wanted it to be over.
Sometimes when he was like this a hot shower helped him relax. As he undressed, Morris had the uncanny feeling he was being watched. Standing under the torrent of water, he sensed that something horrific was about to happen. Panic stabbed at his chest like a knife. Suddenly he felt dizzy, grabbing at the shower curtain to steady himself.
As the dizziness passed and his balance returned, Morris could feel the panic leaving his body, washing itself down the shower drain. He turned off the water and toweled dry.
Morris dialed the office and asked Beejit Bhait for the name of the local bar.
"Ah, yes. A drink should help you to relax." Morris wondered how much Mr. Bhait knew. "My nephew Maha owns a very nice place in town. You can't miss it . . . the Maha Bhar and Grill. Please to tell him you are my guest."
"Thank you, Mr. Bhait."
"I am most pleased to be helping. You will be needing a ride I think."
Morris hated to ask. "Do you know a good taxi service?"
Fortunately Beejit Bhait had many nephews, and one of them just happened to drive a cab. Mr. Bhait placed a call to his sister's youngest son, Ajip, who arrived moments later in his pick-up truck.
"That's your cab?" asked Morris.
"Does it look like a friggin' cab, man?" Unlike the rest of Beejit's relations, Ajip was fiercely, proudly American. "My old lady's got the cab tonight." Ajip offered Morris his hand. "My friends call me Pete."
Pete opened the passenger door of the pick-up and Morris climbed in. When they pulled away from the motel, Pete turned briefly to face Morris. "The Maha Bhar sucks man. You don't want to go there."
"You got a suggestion?"
Pete nodded. "Maybe."
As they headed for the highway, Pete pointed out the Maha Bhar.
"It looks closed," Morris said.
"It always looks like that."
Twenty minutes later Pete pulled to a stop in front of Walt's.
Morris could hear blues coming from inside the busy club. "Sounds great."
Pete nodded. "Don't it though? And you gotta check out Walt's single malts."
Morris looked in his wallet at his dwindling cash. "I don't think I can afford single malt tonight."
Pete laughed. "Not a problem. I bring Walt a lot of business. Last night I brought in a wealthy developer . . . Harper, Harban, something like that. Anyway, the guy ran a tab. If I know Walt, the tab's still open." Pete climbed out of the pick-up. Morris followed him inside.
It was a small room, maybe twenty tables and a tiny stage in front. A lone musician was doing his best to sound like John Lee Hooker. Morris noted that the guy's best was pretty damn good. "Nice."
Pete nodded. "Yeah." They found a table. Pete asked for a bottle of Talisker and two glasses. He poured each man an inch of scotch. Morris loved the peaty aroma of the Talisker. He sipped. "Are we near the water?"
"What do you mean?" asked Pete.
"Seaweed," Morris said.
Pete nodded. "That's the Talisker."
On stage, the musician was singing, "One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer."
At the table, Pete and Morris lapsed into silence, enjoying the music and more than one scotch. During a break in the music, Pete looked up from his scotch. "People leave Woodbine. No one comes to Woodbine. So what's your story? What are you doing at my uncle's motel?"
Morris frowned. "Car trouble."
Pete laughed. "Don't tell me, your car's at Deep's."
Morris nodded.
Pete laughed again. "Be careful. It could get expensive for you here in Woodbine."
"Yeah. Today he told me the repair is bigger than he first thought."
"That's Deep," said Pete. Morris shook his head in disgust. Pete explained. "No, it's not like that. Deep's honest. It's just, he doesn't get a lot of customers, so when he does, well, let's just say, he's thorough."
"What about Beejit?"
"Same thing. He'll do whatever he can to encourage you to stay as long as possible."
Morris remembered the argument. "What about Beejit's mother? She doesn't seem eager to have me stay."
Pete perked up at the mention of his grandmother, Beejit's mother. "Have you met my grandmother yet?"
"No," Morris admitted.
"I didn't think so."
A Complete Rotation
Morris dialed the local number.
"Thank you for calling Deep's Quick Lube. How may I be helping you?"
"Is my car done?"
"Who may I ask is calling, good sir?"
"How many cars are in for repairs?"
"Just one, sir." Deep paused. "Of course. How silly of me. I am most sorry, sir."
Morris was growing weary with Deep's polite non-answers. "My car, Deep. Is it ready."
"Oh, no, sir. Your car is being more damaged. You will be needing new tie rods and struts, sir."
"Enough already!" Morris was screaming into the phone. "What if I decide not to replace the tie rods and struts? What if I come over right now and get my car?"
"Certainly, sir. It is your decision." Deep was philosophical. "I understand how you feel. I do not have to be fixing the tie rods and struts. Unfortunately, sir, your car will not be driving without this repair. So your car will have to be sitting on my lot until you have it towed." Deep took a breath before adding. "Please to not be taking too long because I will be needing to charge you a daily storage fee as long as your car is parked at my lot."
Morris quickly ran the numbers in his head. "Go ahead and replace the tie rods and struts."
"You are a wise man, sir."
"Look, Deep. I just want my car back. When can I come get it?"
"Please to call me again tomorrow." Deep hung up the phone without waiting for an answer.
Morris debated finding something to do, but he was running out of desire and Beejit was running out of relatives. He sat in his motel room, the TV on in the background, killing time. He didn't bother eating. He barely slept. Somehow, he convinced the earth to make a complete rotation on its axis.
He picked up the telephone and dialed the familiar number.
