"Thank you for calling Deep's Quick Lube. How may I be helping you?"

  "It's Morris. What else is wrong with my car?"

  "Ah, Mr. Morris, sir. Your car is ready. You will come this afternoon?"

  "Yes, I will come this afternoon," said Morris.

  "Please to ask for Deep."

  Morris hung up the phone and placed a call to Pete. "Can you give me a ride to Deep's? My car is ready."

  Pete chuckled. "Gimme a few minutes."

  And just a few minutes later, Morris spotted the pick-up truck pulling into the parking lot. The truck had barely come to a complete stop when Morris was pulling open the door. "Thanks, Pete."

  "No problem, man." Pete was still chuckling as they drove to Deep's.

  Morris had never been so happy to see his aging Buick. "Thanks for the ride, Pete."

  "Do you want me to wait?"

  "Nah. Deep said the car is all set." Morris was grinning at the thought of getting behind the wheel of the Buick. He hopped out of the pick-up and went inside to find Deep.

  Pete decided to stick around, just in case.

  Inside, Deep was printing out a copy of the bill for Morris.

  "I am hoping you will be satisfied with the quality of Deep's service."

  "Yeah, sure. It's . . ." and Morris looked at the bill. ". . . Eight hundred and forty-two dollars! How the hell can it be eight hundred and forty-two dollars?"

  "Please to be looking at the bill, good sir. There was much damage."

  Morris wasn't interested in looking at the bill. "But I only came in here for a flat tire."

  Deep seemed embarrassed by the bill. "I am most sorry. You are right, Mr. Morris. The tire. I forgot all about the tire." He took the bill from Morris, ran a few numbers on his calculator and printed out a new copy of the bill. "I am most sorry. The bill is nine hundred and eight dollars."

  Morris was livid. "There's no way I'm going to pay nine hundred and eight bucks to fix a flat tire. The car's not worth nine hundred and eight dollars."

  Deep had already checked the blue book value of the Buick. "You are right, sir. The car it is valuing at nine hundred dollars."

  Morris got to the point. "I don't have nine hundred and eight dollars."

  "This is most difficult, sir." Deep frowned. "Perhaps there is another way."

  Morris waited to hear what Deep was going to propose.

  "Perhaps you would be selling Deep the Buick?"

  Morris realized that his options were limited. He couldn't afford to pay for the repair. And the longer he waited, the worse this was going to get. Eventually Deep would prevail. Morris signed over the car.

  "Thank you, good sir. Now you will be owing Deep only eight dollars more."

  When Morris walked outside, he saw that Pete had waited. He climbed into the pick-up truck. Pete was still chuckling.

  "Don't say a word. Not a word."

  They drove in silence back to the Bhait's Motel.

  The Smell of Pine and the Sound of Miles's Trumpet

  Cassie stared at her computer screen. She couldn't pretend anymore. She had forgotten how to write. She poured another Tullamore Dew and stared at the screen. For fifteen years, she had written stories for the magazine, good stories, popular stories, stories that built the magazine's fan base and bottom line. But somehow, in the year since Morris sold the magazine, she had written nothing. Not a single story. Jack Cambrian was running out of patience and, at moments like these, Cassie had to admit he was correct. She was a writer who had forgotten how to write. Cassie sipped her Irish whiskey and stared at the computer screen.

  Feeling sorry for herself, she pulled up old stories on the computer—sea monsters, psychic spies, space aliens, Soviet secrets, Siamese triplets. She was reduced now to writing warm and fuzzy stories for Jack Cambrian about a shopping mall. And she couldn't even manage that. It was pitiful. It was Jack Cambrian's fault. It was Morris's fault. It was . . .

  Cassie stared at the ugly truth.

  . . . her fault.

  And it had nothing to do with the magazine.

  It had been a year since Morris sold the magazine, but that was not the only landmark event of a year ago. One year ago, Andy MacTavish had gone to prison for murder, put there on the strength of Cassie's story.

  For fifteen years, she struggled to move beyond the death of her late husband Rob. For fifteen years she had mourned. And then she met Andy and she knew that finally, after all that time, her life was going to make sense again. It was okay to mourn Rob and to love Andy. And then she sent him to prison. Cassie stared at her computer screen and sipped her Irish whiskey.

  Once upon a time, Cassie lived in the hour between night and day, in that space between sleep and wakefulness. She had been avoiding that place for a year. It scared her now, that place in her bed, in her head, that she used to go to see Rob. It scared her, but it was where she needed to be.

  Cassie turned off her computer and got ready for bed. She dug deep into the dark places in her closet and found an old cotton nightgown, one of Rob's favorites. It was not fancy, certainly not sexy, but Cassie knew that Rob loved the way her body moved inside that nightgown. As she drifted off to sleep, Cassie could almost remember the young bride she had once been, married right out of college, and that young bride's plans for the life they were supposed to spend together.

  They were twenty. In her dreams they were always twenty. Cassie wanted desperately to have a dream of Rob, but when she opened her eyes in the morning, she could not remember anything. She lay in bed, half awake, her eyes half-open, the view out her bedroom window still more night than morning. Rob had not come to her in a dream, but he would come to her in this place. She lay in bed, her tears soaking the pillow. It wasn't fair.

  She buried her head in Rob's chest and cried. She felt his arms around her, and she cried. It's not fair.

  No, it's not, he whispered, and it may not get any better.

  She cried for Rob. She cried for Andy. She cried for Cassie. It's not fair.

  No, it's not, he whispered, but you have to believe that it will be.

  Rob was gone. The morning sun streamed in her window. It was time for Cassie to face the day.

  The air was fragrant with the smell of pine and the sound of Miles's trumpet. Cassie was tempted to take the top down, but December is not convertible weather in New Jersey, even on the best of days. Instead she rolled down her window, letting the pine in and Miles out. She zipped her coat against the early morning chill.

  Cassie was in no great hurry. She knew where she was heading, and for a change it wasn't the Mall of New Jersey. So she wandered through the Barrens, on roads both strange and familiar, but always heading southeast, the forest gradually thinning, the scent of pine surrendering to saltwater and seaweed.

  She had no trouble finding the turn and followed the road until it dead-ended at the water. Except for the "For Sale" sign, Andy's beach house looked just as it had when the police took him away in handcuffs.

  Spend, Spend, Spend

  Once Tommy got started, he quickly warmed to his new role as Santa Claus, petty thief. The opportunities for thievery were as many and varied as the people who believed in the fat man in the red suit. Each day, Tommy went to work at the mall making children happy, spreading holiday cheer, and gathering holiday lucre. Every night, he made the drive to Woodbine and an appointment with his fence, Louie Feldman. For the first time in a very long time, Tommy had cash in his pocket and a feeling that his life was his to control. Why can't the Christmas spirit last throughout the year?

  "Hey, Santa . . ." Tommy looked up to find Big Mack filling the walkway.

  "Hey, Big. Flying solo today?"

  Big Mack grunted and rubbed his hands. Tommy didn't need to know that Little Mack was in Woodbine, discussing business with Louie. "Anythin' you wanna tell me, Tommy, before I beat the ever-lovin' crap outta you?"

  "Ho. Ho. Ho. Easy there, big fella. You don't wanna be hittin' Santa Claus. Think of the children."

  "You've been cheatin' us, Tommy. I don't like cheats. I take it personal, Tommy. Real personal." Big Mack continued to rub his hands together.

  "Whaddya mean I'm cheating? I've been making my payments. Here . . ." And Tommy reached inside his read suit, pulling out his cash. "Here's today's hundred," and Tommy peeled off a couple of bills. "And something a little extra for your effort."

  Big Mack glared. "You see, Tommy? That's what I mean. Now where you been getting all this cash?"

  "What's the problem, Big? I'm just a man trying to pay off a debt."

  "Look, Tommy. I've been patient about the cash. Right? And all I asked was a little favor. Boost some stuff, you know, electronics, jewelry."

  Tommy suddenly was starting to sweat inside his Santa suit. "Look at me. I can't be sneaking around dressed like Santa. Who would be easier to identify in a line-up than Santa? I explained all that last week."

  Big Mack considered Tommy's explanation. "So tell me, Tommy . . . where's all this extra cash coming from? And how come the security office is getting so many reports of lost and stolen merchandise?"

  "It's not me." Tommy looked at Big Mack, looked for understanding. "Gimme another chance."

  Big Mack's eyes were cold steel. "I can't, Tommy. It's bad for business. You understand."

  Tommy had no answer.

  "Let's take a walk, Tommy," said Big Mack.

  Working mall security, Oliver Berryhill had taken more than the usual number of complaints this holiday season. Lost and stolen merchandise were definitely on the rise, but when Oliver alerted his supervisors, they told him not to worry about it. Mall management didn't want the bad publicity that would come with news of a Christmas crime spree. He was instructed to downplay the problem, to defuse angry shoppers.

  So Oliver went about his business, walking the mall, framing imaginary camera shots and bopping to the piped-in Christmas music. It was going to be a hipster's Christmas this year, he decided, judging from the swinging arrangements. Oliver was singing along to Little Charlie and the Nitecats—"It's Christmas Time Again (so Spend, Spend, Spend)." He wondered whether anyone in mall management realized what was playing on the Christmas tape loop. He stopped to use the men's room.

  It was a few minutes too late that Oliver realized there was no toilet paper in the stall. Luckily a man was using the adjacent stall.

  "Hey, bud. Pass me some toilet paper, okay?"

  It annoyed Oliver when his neighbor ignored his request. Are we not our brother's keeper, Oliver wondered, especially during the holidays?

  "How about it, bud? Can't you spare me a coupla sheets?"

  When the stranger in the adjacent stall again ignored his plaintive request, Oliver carefully peeked under the composite fiberglass wall which separated the stalls, staring at the fine Italian loafers, the black gabardine suit pants, and the pool of dark red blood spreading across the floor.

  Oliver pushed open the door to the adjacent stall. A very large man, fully clothed, sat on the toilet seat, dead from a stab wound in his neck. There was a puddle of blood on the floor, a Henckels carving knife in the puddle. Oliver remembered what they taught him in mall security school. He checked the man's pulse. And found none. Oliver reached for his walkie-talkie. Damn. The batteries were dead too. He would have to walk to the security office at the other end of the mall.

  Oliver checked the man's pockets and found a wallet—Thaddeus Maciborski. He also found several pieces of woman's jewelry, but no receipts, the jewelry quite possibly stolen. Something about the man was familiar. Oliver played back the imaginary footage he'd been shooting for weeks. He froze the footage on a scene in the parking lot, the dead guy and his partner hassling an older woman. He considered the recent rash of complaints. An idea began to tug at Oliver. He placed an "Out of Order" sign on the men's room door and hustled down to the security office. The office was empty, security staff out making their rounds. He logged onto the computer. Thaddeus Macibroski, aka Teddy Mack, aka Big Mack, aka Big, had more criminal convictions than aliases. Oliver placed a call to the local police.

  "My name is Oliver Berryhill. I'm a security officer at the Mall of New Jersey."

  "Yes, Mr. Berryhill, what can I do for you?" The officer who answered the phone seemed less than interested in doing much of anything for Mr. Berryhill.

  "There's been an incident at the mall."

  "An incident?" The officer was listening now.

  "I was making my rounds of the mall today, just like always, and I came upon a man in possession of stolen property."

  "And?" The officer prompted Oliver to continue.

  "When I confronted the suspect, he pulled a knife on me. I'm sure you realize, as mall security, I don't carry a weapon. The man lunged at me. In the ensuing struggle, as I defended myself from his attack, the man seems to have been cut by his own knife."

  "How badly is the man hurt?" the officer asked.

  "I'm afraid the man is dead."

  "I'll send someone right away," said the officer.

  While Oliver waited for the police to arrive, he placed an anonymous call to the local TV station. Oliver was ready for his fifteen minutes of fame.

  Sharing His Years of Experience

  Two police officers were first to arrive, followed quickly by the medical examiner and the local TV news crew. Mall management was less than pleased to learn the purpose for their unexpected visits and was thrown into chaos at the mention of the dead man. Oliver, however, was ready and waiting, his hair combed and his story straight.

  The officers did a quick examination in the men's room, bagging the knife, while the medical examiner confirmed that the large man's death was as it appeared. The director of mall operations was frustrated with the police who denied him access to the men's room, but there was nothing he could do. When Oliver ignored his questions, he nearly went postal, but Oliver patiently explained that he had a responsibility to speak first to the police officers.

  The older of the two police officers, Eddie Bebedict, "Eggs," as he was known by his friends, a gruff man with gravel in his voice, approached the mall director. "I need a private spot to talk."

  The mall director was nervous, but pleased to finally have the opportunity to find out what was going on. "We can talk in my office."

  "Not you. The square badge. Him." And he pointed to Oliver. "But thanks for the use of your office." Eggs gestured to Oliver who showed him the way to the mall director's office.

  "So explain to me again what happened."

  Oliver and the officer were sitting in the mall director's cubicle, going over the sequence of events. Oliver had watched enough detective movies to understand how this worked. He stayed calm, his voice even, his manner serene, recalling, not reliving the traumatic events of the day.

  "I was making my rounds, same as always. I make it a point to check the men's room a couple of times a day, mostly just to roust the smokers. So I walk into the men's room, and I spot the perp standing at the mirror, examining several pieces of ladies' jewelry."

  This was the third time Eddie Bebedict had asked Oliver to recount the events. He checked his notes as Oliver spoke, but made no new notes.

  "I confronted the perp. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a knife. We struggled. I pushed him off of me. He lost his balance, the knife slicing across his neck as he fell back into the stall. Blood spurted from his neck." Oliver shuddered at the memory. "What do they call that? The carotid artery?"

  The officer nodded. "So what happened next?"

  Oliver continued. "I could tell the man was dead. I put the sign on the door so no one else would walk in, and then I ran down the hall and called you."

  "Thank you." The officer made a few notes. "And then you called the reporter."

  Oliver did his best to look offended. "Me? Of course not."

  Eddie Bebedict shook his head. "No, of course not." He took a moment to collect his thoughts before asking, "You're not planning on going anywhere are you, Oliver?"

  "No. Well, maybe to my Mom's for Christmas. She lives the other end of town. Is that okay?"

  "Okay then. You're free to go . . . for now."

  Oliver smiled. "Whatever I can do to help a fellow officer."

  The officer walked back down the hall to the crime scene. He was pleased to see that the medical examiner had already transported the body and his partner had already completed the canvass. Bright yellow crime scene tape festooned the entrance to the men's room.

  As the officers made ready to leave, the director of mall operations had a question. Pointing to the crime scene tape he asked, "What am I supposed to do about that?"

  The gravel settled deep in the police officer's throat. "Use the ladies' room, I guess."

  As they walked through the mall, they could see Oliver Berryhill being interviewed, this time on camera, by the local TV reporter. Eggs turned to his partner, mentoring now, sharing his years of experience. He pointed at the preening security cop.

  "You think that putz could kill Big Mack, even by accident?"

  Crab Salad

  Cassie stared at the house. It was weathered wood and glass. It wasn't a person. It wasn't a promise. It wasn't even a home. It was just a building, and it did not hold dominion over her. Cassie turned her car around and followed the coastline, back toward town, toward Main Street, toward the boardwalk.

  In the summertime, Cassie could orbit the town without ever finding a parking place, but the beach town was empty in the winter, and Cassie had her choice of thousands of available spaces. She could park in front of any store, any restaurant, any motel in town. It hardly mattered. They were all—well, nearly all—closed for the season. Cassie pulled into a spot and climbed up onto the boardwalk. The arcades were closed, the pizza joints closed, the bars closed. Even the psychic had shut down for the season, the neon eyeball turned off at Om Depot, Madame Alexina having correctly foreseen the limited demand for off-season psychic advice.

 

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