Scuzzy O' Malley's Christmas Carol

Scuzzy O' Malley's Christmas Carol

by

George R. Lasher

word count: 9,999

The year after we moved from Dublin to Chicago, I lost me Mum and Da in a Christmas Eve boatin' accident while they vacationed in Florida. Six years later, on the day before Christmas, I nearly died after bein' shot by a jewelry thief wearin’ a Santa suit. Six more years down the road, again on December twenty-fourth, I got plugged a second time. The shooter, a drunken, enraged husband, wore, you guessed it, a complete Santa Claus outfit. That fiasco ended up with me gettin’ thrown in prison for somethin' I never did.

        In spite o' everythin', I always believed that fate, God, Jesus, all the angels, and especially Santa would pay me back for me misery. I never dreamed I’d end up broke and alone - so broke I’d be on the verge o’ losin’ me bar.

        Well, Christmas Eve, me bad-luck day, had come ‘round again.

        Two people besides me were in the bar. Both came in drunk as a fiddler’s bitch and passed out. The first was me partner, Danny Wysocki, a retired, widowed, ex-cop we call Gunner. Gunner lay face down in a cocktail of drool and whiskey in the back corner behind the pool table. The other guy, some old vagrant, lay propped against the wall in a small, poorly lit booth by the loo. I thought about tossin’ the pissy-eyed stranger out, but bein’ Christmas Eve, a touch o’ good will convinced me to cut him a little slack.

        Standin’ in the doorway, listenin’ to the buzz o' the neon sign and the distant noises o' rush-hour traffic, I ran a hand through me thinnin' red hair and scanned the western horizon. The new overpass stood out like a sore thumb. Announced three weeks after I bought me bar, the Illiana Expressway's construction took six years. If theyda took another six, I wouldna have minded.

        The Expressway reroutes commuters from this side o' town to the west side of the business district. Since it opened, decent businesses around me have been shuttin' down. Like a spreadin’ infection, seedy enterprises have moved in, takin’ advantage o’ the nose dive in property values and lease amounts.

        Me bar ain’t fancy. I have a juke box, but no dance floor. Peanuts, pickled eggs and pretzels make up the menu. There’s booze and beer - bottled or draft. The pool table’s not level, and the sticks, those what ain’t been broken, are warped.

        Why don’t I fix this place up? Yeah, right. I can’t afford me insurance premiums. So, why don’t I sell? Wish I could. Thanks to the sons-o'-bitches that decided where to put the new expressway, this bar is now on the bad side o’ town, on the down side o' the slippery slope that leads to, well, it leads to here.

        Like the neon sign says, you’re at Scuzzy O’Malley’s. I'm Scuzzy. 
                                                                           

~        ~       ~

             
        I’ve been called Scuzzy since I got suspended for what school records list as lewd conduct while I sat on the back row durin' Mrs. Tinsdale’s tenth-grade algebra class. So there ain't no misunderstandin', me package was still in me pants. Yeah, I gave it a little rub, but I didn’t know I had an audience. Why would I do such a thing?

        On the last day before Christmas vacation, Ramona, the hottest girl in school, sashayed into home room and sat down beside me. She leaned over, and whispered somethin’ that lodged in me mind like an arrow goin’ through me head. The promise that slipped out o' her perfect, pouty lips crept through me ear canal like a band o' Comanche Indians sneakin’ up on a wagon train and massacred the synaptic soldiers o' good sense before they knew what hit ‘em.

      I couldn’t think o' nothin’ else for the rest o' the day. That’s what I had me mind on when I got tossed out o' Mrs. Tinsdale’s class.

      "You're headed the wrong way, O' Malley!" Principal Stern warned. He predicted I'd wind up labeled as a pervert. Understandin’ the severity of the situation, I fought to keep a straight face, but his acute case o' irritable bowel syndrome made it impossible. Right in the middle o' his lecture he let one loose that literally brought tears to me eyes. He acknowledged it, sayin’, “Stomach’s giving me  a little trouble, today.”

        That did it. I couldn’t help meself. I hooted like a crazy man in the loony bin while Stern shouted for me to get a hold o' meself. Wipin' away tears o' laughter, I replied, “But that’s exactly what I’m in here for, Mr. Stern — gettin’ a hold o' meself. Make up your mind, man!”

      The fat, fartin’ bastard said he felt sorry for me Aunt Martha, who took me in after me folks died, or he’da expelled me. He called her with me standin’ there. Thirty-six years later, I remember the smug look on his bloated face as he watched me squirm. Draggin' each syllable out, for effect, he used words like mas-tur-ba-ting and de-gen-er-ate. 
                                                                         

~      ~       ~

            Rememberin’ I had a bar to run, I crawled out o' that cesspool o' memories, glared at the sky, and shouted, “Even Ebeneezer Scrooge got a break, didn’t he? Don’t ya think it’s time I got one lousy break, huh?”

        Not far away, a bag-lady pushin’ a grocery cart turned 'round and shouted, “You talkin’ to me?”

        Even in the dim light of the street lamps I could tell she didn’t have more than five or six teeth in that mouth o' hers. She coulda been an angel sent from heaven to help me, but I waved her away. If she represented your typical angel, then God’s dental plan ain’t so good. Maybe everyone in heaven has bad teeth 'cause the greedy, rat-bastard dentists were sent to hell.

~      ~       ~  

            Back to gettin’ shot on Christmas Eve at the age o’ fifteen. While I waited to meet Ramona in the alley behind Gypster’s Jewelry, some guy in a Santa suit busted out o' Gypster's back door. He bumped into me, and as we both went down he dropped his red sack, filled to overflowin' with the jewelry he'd pinched.

        Before he squeezed the trigger I remember starin’ at that shiny gun barrel. The next thing I knew, me teeth were chatterin’ while a white tornado o' doctors and nurses swirled ‘round me in the emergency room.

        I awoke to see Ramona, smilin' like an angel of mercy, but this angel’s teeth looked okay. She should’a felt pretty guilty. After all, if she hadn’t suggested meeting behind Gypster’s, I never woulda been in that alley.

~        ~       ~

       
                                                                   
      Near closin’ time last night, Ramona came by. First time I’d seen her in years. When I asked what brought her to me little hole-in-the-wall, she held up a little sprig o' mistletoe and said, “Hey, don’t we have some unfinished business?” When I resisted she started to cry, and when Ramona gets her waterworks started, flood warnin's go up for miles around.

        Ramona said she'd left her husband after discoverin’ he cheated on her. She reminded me that he whacked her around occasionally, something I had known for thirty years. But he'd give her a mink, or a diamond bracelet to make up. Ramona considered the gifts as fair trade, but she warn’t puttin' up with him cheatin’ on her. She said she knew things - horrible things that'd ruin him if they became public knowledge.

        I figured she'd been justified in leavin’ him, and told her so.

        She responded with, “Was I justified in testifying that you broke into my house and tried to rape me on Christmas Eve?” Ramona's eyes clouded up again, meanin' we were about to see her Niagra Falls impression.

        Don’t go gettin’ confused. That stroke o' misfortune happened durin' me junior year at the university, six years after me little incident in the alley. And don't look so surprised 'bout me goin' to college. I had a job to pay for me schoolin’ and I made decent grades.

~        ~       ~

       
        I ran into Ramona at Kroger’s on Christmas Eve, when we were both twenty. She had married Nicholas Gypster the year before. Noticing a dark bruise on her leg, partially hidden by her skirt, I asked if she'd hurt herself exercisin’, or somethin’.

        She started to cry, and I don’t mean a little boo-hoo. I mean, call an exorcist before her head starts spinnin'.

        I got her out o' the store and into her Jaguar. Between sobs she told me about the abuse she'd been subjected to. She said Nicholas would be at his office Christmas party until well after ten and that she couldn’t bear the thought o' bein’ alone. “Besides,” she said, “Don’t we have some unfinished business?”

        At that age me little soldier was ready to go to war faster, with less provocation, and less thought about the consequences than Donald Rumsfeld. I followed Ramona to her place and, at her insistence, went in. She suggested I pick out some music while she slipped into somethin' more comfortable.   

        Ramona wore black, high heels that sank into the thick, red carpet that ran up the middle of the spiral staircase. When she reached the top she looked back down, blew me a kiss, and disappeared into her bedroom. Enchanted by what I'd just observed, I wondered how she might appear when she came back out.

      Browsing through the LP’s and compact discs that she and Nicholas collected, I came across a Joe Cocker CD with “You Can Leave Your Hat On.” I slipped it into the CD player.

        Hearin' her bedroom door open, I looked up. Ramona wore a startlingly low-cut, sea-foam-green gown. From her shoulders, it flowed over the curves of her body, cascading like a shimmerin’ waterfall down the side of a mountain.

        “Well?” she asked. “Did you pick out any music?”

      Now I know how Ulysses and his sailors felt when they heard the voices of the Sirens. Righty, that’s my right hand, hesitated above the play button. On that Christmas Eve, with Ramona waitin’ at the top o' the stairs, he said, “This is another man’s wife and home, James. Just because he isn’t expected until ten doesn’t mean he won’t walk through that door at any moment.”

        Righty had a valid point, but I was young back then. I whispered, “Sorry, Righty,” pressed the play button, and headed upstairs.

       

Chapter 2

As gravel-throated Joe serenaded us, I thought, This is the way Christmas is supposed to be. That’s when Ramona's bedroom door flew open.

        Whirlin' around, I saw Ramona’s husband, wearin' a complete Santa suit. Nicholas had come home earlier and more scuttered than anyone other than Righty had anticipated.

        I remember Nick’s ridiculous question, “What’sh going on here?” Trollied or not, if this Bozo couldn’t tell, I warn’t gonna pick him to be on my team the next time I played charades.

        Nick pulled a gun out o' his pocket and, as if the cosmic mechanism that turns the world changed gears, everythin' slipped into slow motion. The weapon looked startlin'ly familiar as Nick’s finger tightened on the trigger.

        Slippin’ in and out o' consciousness I couldn’t figure out why I'd been handcuffed to the gurney, which I thought was a tiny lifeboat. By the time we reached the hospital I couldn’t focus on nothin’. I closed me eyes and floated away on the good ship, Anesthesia.

        When I came to, ‘stead o’ Ramona, one of Chicago’s boys in blue stared down at me. “Are ya like, protectin’ me, or somethin’?” I asked.

        “I’ve been assigned to guard you,” the officer replied.

        After a warm, Demerol influenced, sigh, me smile inverted. I wondered if Nicholas mighta got away and might be lookin’ to finish the job he'd started. “Did ya catch him?” 

        “Catch who?”

        “The man who shot me.”

        The officer replied, “Mr. Gypster hasn’t been charged with any crime, Mr. O’Malley.”

        Durin’ the trial, Ramona broke down three times, forcin’ the judge to halt proceedings until she could continue. I knew she wanted to tell the truth, but couldn’t - not unless she wanted to be beaten within an inch of her life by Nick, the prick.

        I’ll never forget that tall, skinny, jury foreman. He stood proud and straight in the corner of the jury box, holdin’ that slip of paper with me destiny scrawled on it. He seemed so certain he and his fellow jurors rendered the right decision. 

~        ~       ~

                                                             

      Six years later, after bein’ released on parole, I ran into some high-school buddies who had done pretty well. Billy Maloney married into wealth and became the Deputy-Mayor of Joliet. The other, Jimmy Ferguson, inherited a successful road construction company from his dad. The state always had work for Jimmy’s crews.

        Billy and Jimmy owned a bar on the upper-eastside of Chicago and needed someone to run it. I told them I'd run it like it was me own. For twenty years things sailed along smoother than a sailboat on Lake Michigan in summertime.

        The bar made money hand-over-fist until one day, me buddies decided to sell. They asked if I wanted to buy it. I said, "Yeah."

        Three weeks later I owned the place. Three weeks after that, on Christmas Eve, the highway department unveiled their plans to build the new expressway. 
                                                         

~        ~       ~

       

        A sleek, black Mercedes pulled into the handicapped parkin' slot near the front of me bar. As the driver's-side door swung open I flicked the remainder of me self pity and what was left of me cigarette aside. I didn’t want to. I was addicted to both.

        When I took me place behind the bar, I got a queasy feelin'. The driver of the Mercedes wore a Santa Clause suit. Even under the gold, wire-rimmed glasses and white beard I knew this man. “Well, Ho, Ho, Ho,” I mumbled, without a hint o’ jolly. Nicholas Gypster had come to pay me a visit.

~        ~       ~

       

        “You ruined my life, you miserable bastard!”

        I’d imagine most of you assume this outburst came from me. On the other hand, some might suppose those words were screamed by ole Nick after three decades of marital problems that he mighta felt I initiated.

        Well, you’re all wrong. Me partner shouted those words as he pushed himself up from his Jack Daniels pillow. Gunner must o’ thought he was shoutin’ at the red-suited, S.O.B. who transformed him from a respected police officer and happily-married man, into a drunken, bitter widower.

        Three years to the day after I got shot in that alley behind Gypster's Jewelry, Nicholas’s father, Dave, and Gunner’s wife, Barbara, were both killed during a second heist.

        Barbara’s boss told Gunner that Barbara had been worried sick about havin’ to work late at the License Renewal Department on Christmas Eve. The office closed at three, but Barbara’s super asked her to work another forty-five minutes.

        Bank records show she made it to the drive-thru in time to cash her paycheck. After countin’ it out, she headed across town. “Ice or no ice,” Barbara told the bank teller, “I’ve gotta get to Gypsters.” She musta figured they’d be closin’ early like everybody on Christmas Eve.

        A friend of hers walked out o’ Gypster’s as Barbara pulled up in front o’ the store. Her friend recalled Barbara fumblin’ in her change purse, searchin’ for parkin’-meter money while the wind, blowin’ in off of Lake Michigan, made a mess of their hair. When she suggested not worrying about change, Barbara replied, “It wouldn’t look right for the wife of a police officer to get a parkin’ ticket.”

        Gypster’s video monitors showed the rest. Red-cheeked from the bitin’ cold, Barbara pulled some money from the right hip pocket of her bulky, wool coat. She laid two twenties and a ten on the counter, the balance due on the gift for her husband and, soon to be, father of their first child.

        Mr. Gypster tucked the bills into the register. He reached below the countertop and grabbed a blue, felt box. ‘Stead o’ simply handin’ it to Barbara, Dave came out from behind the counter.

        The monitor system lacked audio capability, but lip readin’ experts figured out most o' what was said. I tried readin' the transcript, and couldn't finish it, but Gunner's told me the story a hundred times. Sometimes he breaks down. Sometimes we both start bawlin'.

        Handin’ the receipt and the box to Barbara, Dave said, “Did you know I sold your dad the engagement and wedding ring set he gave your mother?”

        “Yeah, Dad told me, Mr. G.”

        “He did, huh?” Gypster nodded. “Well, tell your mom she can bring those rings in anytime for a free cleaning. We’ll clean any of her jewelry, whether it was purchased here or not.”

        “Mom insisted I come here. She said you’d do a good job on the engraving.”

        “So how long, now, before the baby’s due, Barbara?”

        “Doc says three months.” She beamed with all the radiance a healthy, expectant mother could exude. Carefully, she lifted the pocket-watch out of the box and inspected the inscription. “All my love, for all time - Barbara.” Evidently imaginin' how pleased her husband would be, she was smilin’ from ear to ear when the door that led to the back offices swung open.

        A man wearin’ a Santa suit emerged from where Dave and his employees worked beyond the view of browsin’ shoppers. Brandishin’ a pistol in his gloved right hand, the bandit bellowed something like, “Nobody move!” his fake beard made it impossible for the lip readers to be sure.

        With his hands held palms out in a calmin’ gesture, Dave moved toward the silent alarm under the counter. He said, “Settle down. I’ll give you all of the money in the register.”

        The robber pointed the pistol at Dave and waved him away, evidently insisting he would get the money, himself. Again, with the fake beard obscurin’ most o’ his mouth, nobody can be certain.

        Dave shook his head and said, “No, let me get it.” Approaching the brass antique register, he started to reach for the alarm button when the burglar fired twice.

        Thrown back, Dave slammed into the wall, knockin’ the glass-framed, tax I. D. certificate that held the store’s first collected dollar to the floor. Before he collapsed, he managed to reach the silent alarm.

        Barbara screamed, her eyes bulgin’. Made awkward and slow by her watermelon-sized belly, she lunged for the door. Grabbing a fistful of her long, brown hair, the counterfeit Santa jerked her back. She lost her balance and tumbled in a clumsy heap to the floor. Big tears flowed from Barbara’s eyes. Her chin trembled as she struggled to her knees.

        With her husband’s gift held tightly against her chest, she begged the red-suited bandit to let her live. “I’m pregnant!” she wailed, starin’ up at the snub-nosed, pistol. “Please, don’t shoot me! Please!”

        Less than four minutes elapsed from the time the alarm went off to the moment Gunner arrived. The suspect was gone. Barbara Wysocki was already dead, shot twice - once in the head and once in the stomach. The empty box the pocket-watch came in lay on the floor in a spreadin' pool o' dark blood.

~        ~       ~

       
     
        Now, through what he often refers to as whiskey-vision, Gunner saw a gold pocket-watch in the white-gloved, left hand of a man in a Santa suit. “You ruined my life, you miserable bastard!” he shouted again, and coldly added, “I’ve waited a long time for this.” Gunner struggled to his feet, stumblin’ and almost fallin’ as he reached beneath his jacket, fumblin’ for the gun nestled in the concealed holster he wore.

        Nicholas wasted no time stuffin’ the watch into his pants. He pulled a gun from the right pocket of his Santa jacket. Squintin’ and grittin’ his teeth, Gypster squeezed the trigger again and again, wishin’ death with each pull, but the gun never fired a single shot.

        After ten clicks from the firin’ hammer fallin’ on empty chambers, he stopped. “It’sh not shooting,” he slurred. “I know I loaded it, but . . .” Stupefied, he stared down the end of the short barrel.

        Flashin' a wry smile, Gunner said, “Ain’t that a bitch? Gun won’t fire, eh? No bullets?” Six feet away from the man that just tried to kill him, my partner raised his own weapon and said, “Here, I’ll let you have one of mine.”

        Gypster looked up at the instant Gunner pulled the trigger. A moment later, Saint Nick lay flat on his back with a surprised look frozen on his face and a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. 

        Gunner staggered forward, reached into Gypster’s left pocket, and pulled out the pocket-watch. After a quick glance, he looked up at me and said, “Scuzzy, I believe this is the watch Barbara bought for me.” He looked down again and, after a moment of silence, added, “The one I never got.”

        He flipped it over and stared at the engraved inscription with watery eyes. "All my love, for all time - Barbara." A single tear trickled down the side of his face.

    Gunner stuffed the watch into his jeans. “Case closed,” he said, and shoved his pistol back into its holster. Unable to walk a straight line, he zigzagged back to his favorite table. After collapsing onto his chair, he beckoned to me. “Scuzz-meister, call the gendarmes. And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, bring me a mug of coffee . . . black.” 

Chapter 3

Ready to make Gunner’s coffee, I came 'round the corner o’ the bar and noticed me cell phone’s voicemail light blinkin’. Realizin’ I’d set it on silent, I winced. Eleven voice mails - all from Ramona. I turned the ringer back on and it rang before I could even hit the button to call her back. Ramona doesn’t give up easy.

        “Why haven’t you answered?” She shouted. “Is he there, yet?”

        “Well, I had it set on silent, and yeah, I assume you’re askin’ ‘bout your husband?”

        “Scuzzy, he’s there to kill you! Get your ass out of there!”

        “Ramona, I gotta call you back. I gotta call the police . . .”

        “No, Scuzzy!” She insisted. “He’s killed before. He won’t hesitate to do it again!”

      Intent on gettin’ her to listen, I hadn’t paid attention to what she said. “Ramona, stop. Just stop, will ya? He’s dead!” Then, what she had said sunk in. “Wait a minute, what‘d you just say?”

        “I said he’s killed before, and . . .” Hyperventilatin' on the other end, Ramona suddenly went silent. Her next words were, “Wait a minute, Scuzzy, what‘d you just say?”

        “I said, he’s dead.”

        The silence made me think the phone dropped the call, but she came back. “He’s dead?” She heard me, but it hadn’t registered. Again, she asked, “He’s dead?” A smidgeon of hope crept into her voice. “Really?”

        “Yeah,” I nodded. “Gunner shot ‘im.”

        Gunner yelled from his table, “Scuzzy? You gonna call the police, or what?”

        I pressed me phone harder against me ear and questioned Ramona, “You said he’s killed before? You didn’t say nothin’ 'bout that last night. So, how do you know that, and who’d he kill?”

        “I’m coming down there,” she insisted.

        “No, the police are bound to call your home. Hang on.” I turned ‘round to Gunner, who looked really annoyed, and asked, “Hey, the cops will call Ramona, won’t they?”

        “Fuckin’ A,” Gunner replied, “but not ‘til you call them, so they’ll know her husband’s dead!”

        I attempted to say somethin' else to Ramona, but me sharp-shootin’ partner stopped me.

        “Barkeep!”

        “Whaaaat?” Now I sounded annoyed.

      “Coffee, and then call the police! Okay?” Gunner shouted loud enough, I thought, to wake the dead, although the drunk in the back booth never flinched – not even when the shootin' occurred.

        “Scuzzy?” Ramona sounded frantic.

        “Yeah, Ramona, I’m here. Look, maybe you oughtta get down here. I gotta call the cops.” I closed the phone, slipped it into me pocket, and turned to Gunner.

        He struggled to his feet again and pointed insistently at the coffee machine.

        “Okay,” I said. “Now for the coffee!”

        “’Bout time,” Gunner replied. He made his way ‘round the pool table, usin’ the side rails for a brace. “Don’t worry about calling the cops. By the time you do, someone will have already come in to investigate the smell of a decomposing corpse.” He bent over and pulled Santa’s beard down. Sneering, he said, “I oughtta shoot you again.” He mighta, had the front door not swung open.

        Pete, from down the street, walked in. Drug-addict thin, Pete always seemed sober when he dropped by. Friendly but secretive, Pete never mentioned anythin’ about himself. “Hey guys,” he started out. “Weatherman says we got a storm . . .” then he saw Gypster’s body. “What’s goin on here?”

        Gunner answered matter-of-factly, “I shot this guy who was getting ready to shoot me and Scuzzy.”

        “Yeah?” Pete eyed the corpse. “Why would he wanna shoot Scuzzy? And Gunner, what’re you doin’ walkin’ around more than half sober?”

        Gunner flipped him off and replied, “I think he thought Scuzz was bonin’ his old lady.” Turning toward me, he said, “Right partner? Ain’t that what you told me last night?”

        “Uh . . .” Peeved by Gunner’s lack of compunction in sharin’ the intimate details of me personal life, I attempted to defend meself. “I warn’t bonin' his old lady, but I, uh . . ." I shrugged. "Yeah, I think that’s why he was here.”

        I regretted tellin’ Gunner about Ramona’s unexpected visit. Funny thing about that – Gunner hadn’t seemed surprised. He acted like he knew she’d been here. But maybe the booze made him act that way.

        Normally, he'da seen Ramona come in, assumin’ he hadn't passed out. But he called and said his old junk heap wouldn’t start. He said he and his brother were gonna work on it and get drunk together.

        If you’re wonderin’ why I trust Gunner with delicate information, it’s because I trust him more than anyone.

        When I got me chance to buy this place, me bein’ a felon and all, I never coulda got a liquor license if not for Gunner. I coughed up the money, but his name appeared on the application. I’ve never forgotten that, but he plays it down. Says he figured I’d let him drink free and sleep it off here each night.

        It had been a while since I’d had a dead body in me place. Making the coffee, I said, “This is the second time someone’s died here. An old man, musta been eighty, keeled over while playin’ pool. Coroner's report listed natural causes.”

        "Gotta look out for them natural causes," Pete agreed. "They can kill ya."

        Pete opened his cell and dialed 9-1-1. He nearly gave his name and then suddenly decided not to, for reasons unknown, “Uh, this is, uh, uh, I’m calling to report there’s been a shooting at Scuzzy O' Malley's and a man is dead.” Pete gave the the bar’s address and added, “It’s Nicholas Gypster, the jewelry store owner.”

        “Whiskey?” I asked, as Pete closed his cell.

        “Yeah, that’ll do,” Pete replied, settlin’ onto one o’ me five barstools. The cracked, red plastic seat cushions badly needed recoverin’.

      The front door swung open again as another o’ me regulars stepped in - Darnell Jefferson. He wore a pair of flyin’ goggles 'round his neck the way most folks wear a gold necklace or a chain. A Christmas green-and-red, knitted beanie covered his bald head. He unzipped his old, leather bomber-jacket that looked like it went through World Wars I and II, and nodded when Gunner called out, “Look who’s here, Scuzzy, it’s the Tuskegee Airman, himself.”

        Darnell waved, halfheartedly, before spying our dead Santa. “Sheee-it! What’s this, Scuzzbag, some new kind of holiday decoration?”

        “Yeah,” Gunner answered for me. “It was full of hot air, like those big lawn decorations, but it developed a leak.”

        “You need to get your fuckin’ money back,” Darnell suggested.

        Still perched on his stool, Pete swiveled toward Darnell and pointed. “You know who that is, don’t you?”

        Darnell bent down to get a closer look. Squintin’ into Santa’s glazed eyes, he said, “Ain’t that the ‘If you didn’t buy at Gypster’s, you got gypped’ guy, from the jewelry store commercials?”

        “Yeah,” I said. “I think he came here to kill me.”

        Straightenin’ up, Darnell asked, “Why would he want to bust a cap off in you, Scuzzy?”

        Pete butted in. “Scuzz was porkin’ his old lady.”

        “No Shit?” Darnell looked at me like I should’a had more sense.

        Outside, sirens wailed. Before the first cop got out of his squad car, the meat wagon pulled up. Two TV news vans screeched to a halt behind the ambulance. Painted in blue, WGN’s logo adorned the side of one. WLS appeared in red on the other.

        The first officer through the door had a high-pitched, Barney Fife, voice. He ordered everyone to stand back, planted his hands on his hips, and asked if anyone had touched the body.

      Standin’ behind the counter, I stared down at the floor, shakin’ me head and grimacin’. I knew what to expect.

      Gunner raised his right hand to get the young cop’s attention. Once he had it, he confessed, “I touched him. After I shot him, I rolled him over, pulled his red pants and boxers down, and rear-ended him once, real good. Then I pulled his britches back up and got him back in his original position. That’s not gonna cause a problem is it? I mean, I can go now, right?”

        Gunner's pretty subdued when he’s drunk, which is most of the time. But when he starts to sober up he has a tendency to say things.

        Paralyzed by Gunner’s statement, Barney Fife hadn’t moved when the chief detective lumbered in. Wearin’ a tan, full-length camel overcoat and a classic fur felt, Stetson fedora, the chief measured about six-four, and tipped the scales at around two-fifty. Judgin’ by the gray hairs below the rim of his hat and his weather-worn face, I judged him to be near sixty.

        He surveyed the joint, catalogued the faces, and stared down at the body. “Don’t just stand there with your donut-hole open, Mahoney," he barked to Barney. "Bag the dead man’s gun and start taking statements.”

        Gunner couldn’t leave well enough alone. He blurted out, “Yeah, Mahoney. What are you waiting for, Christmas?”

        That got the chief’s attention. He turned toward Gunner. “Who are you, sir?” he inquired.

        “Daniel Wysocki,” Gunner responded with a half-assed salute in his typical, smart-assed manner. “Licensed P. I., retired from the Chicago P. D. after becoming seriously P. O ‘ed. I’m your suspect in what may appear to be a homicide, but will ultimately prove to be a case of self-defense.” Gunner voluntarily withdrew his pistol from his shoulder-holster, laid it on the pool table, and raised his hands, signifying surrender.

        Sizin' up his suspect, the detective’s eyes narrowed. “Wysocki, huh?” The chief rubbed his cheek. “That name rings a bell.” He motioned for Gunner to sit, ordered Mahoney to take his pistol, and turned with the rest of us toward the sound of the front door openin’.

        A two-man news crew came in before the detective could say a word. The first guy, dressed in jeans and a bulky overcoat, balanced a hi-def camera on his shoulder. The second guy, dressed in an expensive lookin' suit, carried a microphone. He cleared his throat and started rehearsin' his intro.

        “For WGN this is Jerry Vanderwall on Chicago’s east side, where Nicholas Gypster, owner of Gypster’s Jewelry has been shot to death.” He turned to his cameraman and asked, “Did you get that Benny”

        The cameraman nodded. Originally from the Bronx, although he left there twenty years ago, Benny’s accent had stuck. “Lemme get a close-up here, real quick.” Jerry moved out of the way. Walkin’ around to get different angles, Benny said, “Oh yeah, oooh,” and “Oh baby,” like he was shootin’ a nude centerfold.

        “Be careful, Benny,” the chief cautioned. “Don’t touch anything. You know the rules, this isn’t your first dance.”

        “Yeah, chief, I do know da rules,” Benny assured him. “Like you said, dis ain’t my first dance, so uh, couldja waltz back a step or two? Lemme get in, real tight, okay?”

        “Benny,” Vanderwall asked, “how would it sound if I wrapped this piece up saying . . ." he cleared his throat before continuing. "A bright career comes to a dark conclusion? I like that - it’s gritty. What a night, huh? First we get to do the Isaac Stern, Porno-Principal story, and now this! I love Christmas!"

        I blinked. “Isaac Stern, Porno- Principal?” No way, I thought. Not my old principal. Talk about your Christmas miracles! First, justice for Gypster, and now I learn that Stern got what I always knew he deserved. Lefty slapped the side of me face to make sure I was awake.                                                                                                                           

Chapter 4

"'Scuse me!” I shouted. “Mr. Vanderwall, did you say somethin' about me old high school principal?”

        “Was your old high school Principal Isaac Stern, at Roosevelt High?”

        “Yeah,” I nodded.

        “He was arrested late this afternoon on charges of possession and distribution of child pornography and solicitation of sex from a minor who is a current student.”

        Benny, the cameraman, turned toward me and added, “The man is a bonafide sick-o.” I wasn’t sure if Benny meant Stern or Vanderwall. I nodded, figuring he was right, either way.

        Meanwhile, a cameraman from another news crew made his way inside the front door. He turned back toward his station’s van, kneelin’ to capture the perfect angle for the appearance of Sharon Sanders. The self- proclaimed, “Diva of Dirt,” had a mid-day show on WLS.

        More sure-footed in her red, five-inch Prada heels than I am in my old, worn-out Hush Puppies, she glided down the van’s steps and crossed the street, oozin’ the kind of jaw-droppin’ sex appeal that made men and women turn their heads and stare.

        With all eyes on her, except Nicky’s, and even he might have stolen a glance, Sharon strolled in wearin’ a sparklin’, Christmas-red dress. Leanin’ across the counter, she lifted the microphone to her crimson, collagen-enhanced lips.

        “'Excuse me, mister good-looking bartender,” she said in a Mae West, bedroom kind’a voice. “What’s your name ?” She batted her mascara-laden eyelashes.

        I opened me mouth and managed, “O’Malley, I run the place,” before Gunner let loose with a loud, wolf whistle.

        With everybody watchin’, waitin’ to see what I'd say, me throat suddenly felt parched. I looked away and coughed before saying, “Please, ma’am, forgive me partner. He’s under a great deal o’ stress this evenin’.”

        “No problem,” she smirked, “I get that all the time. By the way, what does he do here? I mean, other than embarrass you?”

        Gunner shouted, “I sit around waitin’ for big-tittied, talk-show hostesses to wiggle into this bar and bend over in front of me!”

        More owl-eyed than ever, Pete and Darnell swiveled back around on their barstools toward Gunner.

        “Don’t worry, Scuzz,” me partner waved from his chair, “I’ll tell her what I do.” With the cameras from both TV stations trained on him, Gunner proudly proclaimed, “I’m the head of the human relations department, here. I conduct sensitivity and sexual harassment seminars for our employees.”

        Pete and Darnell burst out laughin’. So did officer Mahoney, ‘til he caught the chief’s eye. That broke his giggle box.

        A commotion at the front door interrupted Sharon’s attempted interview. Another of me regulars, a guy I call Dirty Harry, wanted to come in, but got stopped by one of the cops. I call Harry, Dirty Harry, ‘cause he owns the massage parlor across the street.

        Tonight, Harry came in with Mustang Sally, a freckle-faced, red-headed whore. Her moniker came from the fact that she spends her time drivin’ around town, pickin’ up “dates” in a meticulously maintained, metal-flake-orange, 1965 Mustang.

        “Let them in!” I shouted. “They’re regular customers.”

        The chief detective stepped over to the bar. “Nobody enters and nobody’s leaving, 'til we say so.”

        Our attention turned to the front door again. Dirty Harry started to scuffle with the cop. The cop pushed Harry, who took exception to the shove. He reciprocated with a harder push, accompanied by a foul-mouthed barrage of support from his refined escort. Sally shouted, “Get out of our way, you overpaid, putrid piece of pig shit!”     

        Gunner reached into his pants, probably preparin’ to show Sharon the pocket-watch, when Dirty Harry and his blue-uniformed dance partner exploded through the plate glass, front window.

        They tumbled over the bottom of the sill, onto the floor, sendin’ glitterin’ safety glass crystals everywhere. While the rest of us ducked, they rolled over and over, poundin’ on each other.

      Everybody in the bar, ‘cept me, cheered’ for their favorite. Sharon gave up on tryin’ to speak to Gunner for the moment and started shoutin’ with everyone else. I stayed behind the bar, tryin’ to figure how I’d be able to afford gettin’ that window boarded up and replaced.

        Also, I wondered what was takin’ so long for Ramona to show up? I didn’t have to worry very long, though, because right that minute, here she came. The Jaguar’s headlights glared through the glassless, front window panel.

        Ramona opened her door and explained to the cops that came runnin’ up, “That’s my husband lying dead in there. I’m Mrs. Nicholas Gypster.”

        That must’a been the password. She paraded through the bar’s front door with Detective Wary trailin’ close behind, wavin’ a notepad, sayin’, “Mrs. Gypster, we have a few questions ...” He fell quiet as Ramona reached her dead husband’s body.

        Talk about a Kodak moment. On one side of our deceased Santa stood Ramona, hands on hips, with a harsh look on her face, wearin’ a white ermine jacket over a flowin’ green dress and matchin’ green, patent leather Manoloblahniks. On the other side, Sharon Sanders completed the picture in her bright red, low-cut dress and red Pradas, holding out her microphone.

        “Tell us what you’re feeling, Mrs. Gypster,” Sharon prodded, “grief, guilt,” she paused to dramatize her last option. Nodding knowingly, she added, “Or maybe greed? After all, you stand to inherit millions.”

        Ramona looked up and replied, “Anger, Sharon. Quite frankly, I feel angry.”

        “Tell us more,” Sanders urged. “What are you angry about?”

        “I’m angry that a shit-stirrin’ bitch like you is stickin’ a microphone in my face and askin’ me a god-damned question like that at a time like this!”

        Caught up in the moment, I shook a fist in the air and yelled out, “Yeah, kick her ass, Ramona!”

        Sanders spun around. Stickin’ the microphone back in me face, she accused more than asked, “You know this woman?”

      Squintin’ as the light from Phil’s camera blinded me, I looked away and said, “Since high school.”

        “Hey!” Detective Wary stepped up behind Sanders. “You wouldn’t be the O’Malley that Nicholas Gypster shot roughly thirty years ago, would you?” When I didn’t answer, he continued, “You’re the one that broke into their house and tied Mrs. Gypster up, aren’t you?”

      This registered about a ten on the old, fuck-me meter. Why couldn’t this gray-haired, cop have been one of those who developed memory loss at an early age?

        “What’d you do, O’Malley, lure Gypster here?” Wary poked a finger into me chest and asked, “Was this your way of getting revenge for him catching you assaulting his old lady?”

        “Hold on there, Detective,” Gunner shouted.

        Both of the cameramen spun around as me partner stood up for me.

        “Thirty years ago, Mr. O’Malley may have intended to boink the bejesus out of Mrs. Gypster . . .” At this point I wasn’t sure if Gunner was helpin' me or not. I held my breath as he continued, “But what you don’t know is that my partner entered her bedroom at Mrs. Gypster’s request. She never testified so in court because Nick-o threatened her life.

        The look on Chief Wary’s face was classic.

        “Thank you Denny Crane,” I cried out. The lights were back on me again. “What was I gonna do?” I asked, “I couldna say anythin’ that might get Ramona hurt. Gypster beat her black and blue to get her to say those things about me.”

        “Is that true, Mrs. Gypster?” The Chief asked.

        “Yes,” Ramona nodded. “I invited Scuzzy, err, Mr. O’Malley up to my bedroom on Christmas Eve, thirty years ago. At the time I didn’t know about the murder...”

        Oh, no. . . Ramona began to cry. Don’t let this be one o’ her Niagra Falls impressions, I thought. She turned away from the cameras and bent forward, her shoulders shakin’ as she sobbed.

      Attemptin’ to get Ramona to face the camera again, Jerry placed his hands on her shoulders and began to turn her slowly, sayin’ “There, there . . . Mrs. Gypster, tell us what you meant  . . . What murder?”

        Gunner interrupted. “The murder this son-of-a-bitch committed. The Christmas Eve murder of my wife, Barbara Wysocki and our unborn child.  And the murder of Dave Gypster, his own father!”


   

Chapter 5

I felt the bar gettin’ cold, pretty fast. Chilly little puffs of wind were sneakin’ in for a quick peek around and then runnin’ back out to tell their siblin’ breezes they oughtta go in as well.

        Ramona continued to cry, coverin’ her face so the cameras wouldn’t reveal how her runnin’ mascara transformed her into an Alice Cooper look-alike. “Oh Scuzzy,” she sobbed, “I was so scared for you. I called your cell, but I kept getting your voice mail.”

        Sharon charged in. “Does this mean the two of you set some kind of elaborate trap so Mrs. Gypster would inherit a fortune and you could resume your affair with no husband to interfere?”

        Ramona stopped cryin’ and turned to confront the toast of the talk shows. “Take it easy, Ramona,” I said. “Calm down. Don’t do anythin’ foolish.”

        In a squeaky, strained voice, she replied, “Foolish? Me?” She slapped the mic out o' Sharon’s hands and snatched the blonde wig right off o' her head.

        The suddenly brown-haired, Sanders screamed, “You Biiiitch!” and they were both down on the floor, scratchin’, bitin’, and cussin’ worse than Dirty Harry and the cop.

      As they battled, Ramona saw some o' Sharon’s blood on her jacket. That musta convinced her to put an end to the circus. The piston-like, right hand she threw landed on Sharon’s already swollen kisser, showering both combatants with still more of the daytime diva’s blood.

      Outside, in the meat wagon, the paramedics hadn’t expected to do anything more than pick up a stiff. They were sittin’ in the ambulance, listenin’ to “I wanna be a Rock Star.” Suddenly, someone pounded on the passenger side door and told them Sharon Sanders had been knocked out.

        If Sharon had known those greasers would be pickin’ her up and takin’ her for a ride, I bet she’da come to her senses without any need for smellin’ salts. 

        Ramona leaned against the pool table, holdin’ her right hand, her eyes were fixed on her husband's body.

        “I don't mean to seem disrespectful of the dead,” I said. “But you’re lookin’ at him like you’re already missin’ him. Didn’t you hate him?”

        Ramona nodded. “Yeah, I did. But still, in his way . . .” she glanced at me and back at Nicky. “In his way, which pretty much sucked, I think he loved me.”

        “I thought you said he beat you?” I reminded her.

        “He did, Skuzzy, but you know what?” She leaned over so no one but me could hear. “I beat him this time.”

        “Yeah, well, I guess you did," I nodded in agreement. "You outlived him, if that’s what you mean.”

        She shook her head, no. Her lips nestled into the hollow of my ear, so near I heard them part and draw air as she prepared to speak. I felt the moist warmth of her breath, expelled with each word, “I took the bullets out – of – his - gun.”

        I pulled away and stared. Her eyes were full of pride and payback.

        “Hey, Scuzz,” Pete asked. “What’re ya gonna do about getting that window boarded up on Christmas Eve?”

        I had no idea. But one thing demanded immediate attention. I walked past the two of ‘em and said, “Gott’a go shake hands with the unemployed.”

 

~        ~       ~

                                                         
     
        Standin’ at the urinal with me Shillelagh in Righty’s familiar grip, I felt a pair of eyes borin’ into the back o’ me head. I turned ‘round ‘spectin’ to see Pete, or Darnell. Instead, I saw the old drunk that had been passed out in the booth at the back of the bar.

        “Glad you were able to get up, boss,” I said. “Anythin’ I can get fer ya?” His eyes troubled me. They were dull and lifeless - as gray and ghost-like as the storm clouds I watched stampedin’ through the sky a few minutes ago. His pasty complexion didn’t look right, neither.

        His mouth twisted, vaguely resemblin’ a smile, though it could have been a grimace. He said, “Ain’t you a fine lad, now? Kind hearted, y’are. You could’a throwed me out like a sack o’ rotten potatoes. Instead, ya gave me every chance in the world to pull meself together and retain a tiny shred o’ dignity on Christmas Eve.” He sounded sober as a judge, which bothered me.

        “T’warn’t nuthin’,” I assured him.

        “T’was too,” he came back. I gritted me teeth as the old stranger placed a pale hand on me shoulder. His icy touch took me back through time to when I was a little tyke, cryin’ at the funeral of me Mum and Da. As swiftly as it flared up, the image faded, leavin’ me wipin’ tears out o’ me eyes as if I was still that little boy.

        “You’re wonderin’ if I’m a spirit, aren’t you, James? Somewhere, deep down inside, you believe there’s a bit o’ truth in tales about leprechauns, puka horses, and banshees. Earlier tonight ya thought that old basket-lady dressed in flitters was a spirit of some kind, didn’t ya?”

        “No, no way,” I lied, “But how wouldja know that? You were passed out in the booth.” He took a step toward me, causin' me to instinctively move back and bump into the urinal behind me.

        “Wall, she warn’t no spirit, but I am, James O’Malley!” he pointed to himself with the thumb on his left hand.”

        “So, it’s a spirit y’are?” I figured if I could talk meself out o' believin’ him, this whole thing might go away. Doin’ me best not to sound intimidated, I speculated, “You’ve come to visit me on Christmas Eve, have ya? What does that make me, now, Ebenezer Scrooge?”

        “You ain’t been failin’ the tests o’ life, James. All you need is some good luck, like you asked for earlier tonight when you stepped outside to smoke a harry. Yes, lad, I heard ya, and I’m here to give it to ya.” He folded his arms in front of his chest, kind’a smug-like, and asked, “D’ ya have a problem with that?”

        “Luck, you say? Since you showed up, a rich man's been shot dead and is lyin’ on me barroom floor. Me bein’ a convicted felon, I’ll be lucky if I don’t get more prison time! So you can take your luck and you can stick it up your sickly lookin’ arse!”

        The door to the men’s room opened and Chief Wary walked in, lookin’ relieved to see me. “I thought you might have gone out a back window, or something,” he said. “I’m not saying you did what Sharon Sanders accused you and Mrs. Gypster of, but I wouldn’t leave town if I were you.”

        “Oh, I don’t have to worry 'bout a thing, detective,” I replied. “Ask me friend,” I pointed. “He says I’m to go on a lucky streak to make up for all the shite I’ve been through.”

        The detective looked in the direction I pointed and squinted at me. “What are you trying to pull, O’Malley?”

        I put me hands on me hips. “I ain’t tryin’ to pull nuthin’, detective. The question is, what’re you tryin’ to pull? Maybe the old man was in the back booth, earlier, but me peepers tell me he’s standin’ here with us.” I stared at the spot where the old man still stood - me seein’ him clear as day and the detective evidently not seein’ him.

        Addin’ a jigger of concern to the suspicion floatin’ in his voice, detective Wary said, “If you keep this up, I’ll have to call the men in the little white coats to come fit you for a restraining jacket.”

        The restroom door flew open again. Here came The Three Stooges. “The barkeep ain’t out there,” the first cop said, blinkin’ with surprise when he saw me.

      “Well,” Wary asked, “Did any of you eagle-eyes happen to see an old man in a booth right outside the restroom?”

        The three cops checked with each other and nodded in unison.

        Wary turned toward me and shrugged as if to say gettin' good help ain't easy these days. He turned back to his boys and asked, “Would one of you check to make sure he’s still there?”

        The cop closest to the door stepped out and returned before the door ever finished closin’.

        “Still there?” Detective Wary asked.

        “Yeah, Chief. He ain't moved a muscle.”

        I warn't gonna take this. I stormed out of the men’s room.

     
                                                   

Chapter 6

Everyone came up behind me – Detective Wary, The Stooges from the john, and twitchy officer Mahoney. Behind them were Pete from down the street, and Darnell, who came prepared for a dogfight with his goggles pulled down over his eyes. Jerry Vanderwall and Benny tried to squeeze through to the front, past Dirty Harry and Mustang Sally.

        Sally demurely inquired as to why, the flyin’ fuck, every cock-sucker in this shit-hole of a bar seemed so God-damned concerned about some vagrant, puss-faced, flea-bitten, rat-bastard that had been passed out for who knows how fucking long?

        I think I'll ask Sally to deliver the eulogy at me funeral.

        Bringin’ up the rear, Ramona and Gunner stood patiently behind the rest. “Poke him, Scuzzy,” Gunner suggested.

        “Hey there, old man.” Righty poked the old coot. Methuselah began to tilt, like a towerin’ Sequoia bein’ cut down. Someone should’a yelled, “Timber!” because he came crashin’ down sideways like a dead man. The left side of his face smacked the worn out, faded cushion of the bench without him even puttin’ out an arm to break his fall.

      Righty reached down and placed two fingers on the spot where the carotid artery would be pulsin’, or not. The skin felt cold. There warn’t no hint of a pulse.

        “Oh, Geez,” I whispered. I looked up at Detective Wary and said, “I think he’s dead.” I backed out o' the booth to let the police take over.

      Realizin’that I'd either flipped, or had been speakin’ to a dead man, I made me way across the floor. I sat on one of me barstools, makin’ sure it warn’t the one that falls off its pedestal. In me pocket, me cell phone began to ring. Glancin' at the LCD screen, instead of displayin’ an incomin' call number, I noticed it said, “PRIVATE.” I answered, “Hello?”

        The hair on the back of me neck stood as I recognized the voice. “You walked out o' the men’s room 'fore I could give ya a message from your Mudder and your Da.” The old geezer was speakin’ to me on me cell while I watched the cops standin’ 'round his body. “They said to tell ya they’re right proud of the way you’ve hung in there, ‘specially considerin’ that your Aunt Martha warn’t all that happy 'bout havin’ to take care of ya. Furthermore, startin’ with this Christmas Eve, they want ya to enjoy the rest o’ your life. Merry Christmas, James.”

      Lefty pressed against me chest. Stuck with holdin’ the phone, Righty pulled it away from me ear and held it steady in front of me while I attempted to deal with what just happened.

        “Who was that, Scuzzy?” Ramona asked.

        Me eyes waterin’ up, I stared at her, not havin’ the faintest idea o' how to answer, even if I were to find me voice.

        Rather than interrogatin’ me like Aunt Martha woulda, with questions like, “What’s wrong with you?” Ramona tenderly slipped her arms around me. Seein' I was hurtin', she held me and put her head on me shoulder without sayin’ a word.

~        ~       ~

         

        Dirty Harry and Mustang Sally were the first allowed to leave. Sally saluted the decision with a final, eloquent outburst, “Well bend me over and bite my frostbitten buns. It’s about time.” They rode off together in her orange, metal-flake Mustang, fishtailin’ in the ice already formin’ on the road.

        Pete and Darnell said Merry Christmas, and walked down the street, cursin’ the ass-freezin’ weather.

        Gunner gave me an awkward hug and turned to hug Ramona. I heard her say, “Thanks Mr. Wysocki. You’ve done us both a big favor.” As he walked to his old jalopy, I wondered how Ramona even knew his real name.

    The rain had stopped, but the wind made me wish I'd worn somethin’ thicker than the old red sweater I had on over me flannel shirt. Shiverin’ slightly, Ramona asked, “Remember when you came home with me on Christmas Eve, so many years ago?”

        “Yeah,” I replied. “I remember Joe Cocker, silk scarves, a four poster bed . . . and a gun.”

        “I think we have some unfinished business, mister.” She leaned over and kissed me, ticklin’ me lips with her tongue and I kissed her back. “Do you feel up to it tonight?” she asked.

        “I feel up to bein’ with you, but I can’t make any promises ‘bout me knob.”

        “You could stand outside, naked, ‘til it gets hard.” Gigglin’, Ramona led me down the three steps, onto the sidewalk and over to her Jaguar.

        The first flakes of snow fell as she clicked the remote key to unlock the XJ. Tossin’ her blood-spattered jacket into the back seat, she motioned for me to get in. “Wanna go for a ride, Scuzzy?” she purred.

        “Yeah, but first, how did you know Gunner’s real name?”

        Ramona looked like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, but she came back with, “I heard him give it to the police.”

        I couldn’t remember if she’d gotten to the bar yet when the police took Gunner’s name. I bent down, got in the car and buckled up as she slid in to the driver’s seat beside me. She lifted the leather-covered console, reached into it and retrieved a small, round pill box.

        “What’s that?" I asked.

        “A crutch for Tiny Tim,” she arched her eyebrows. “Viagra - it was Nicky’s.” She turned the key and the engine growled. The radio instantly blared to life.

        “Once again the lotto numbers for tonight are . . .” I smiled when the first two numbers matched my quick-pick. I reached under me sweater and snatched the ticket out o’ me shirt pocket in time to confirm that the third number also matched. Secretly, I expected a miracle. After all, it was luck that I was supposed to have, wasn’t it?

        Before the readin’ of the fourth number me heart rate accelerated, but when it didn’t match, the sweet little tingle of anticipation turned sour. I turned to Ramona and stuck out my lower lip in a classic pout.

        Acceleratin’ into the middle lane of the expressway, Ramona glanced at me and said, “Don’t be disappointed, ya dope,” she turned on her windshield wipers as the snow began to come down harder. “We already hit the jackpot. We just got away with murder.”

        Was she kiddin’? I knew Nicky meant to kill me, but surely Ramona and Gunner hadn’t used me to lure him to the bar, had they? It bothered me, but not enough right then to make me tell Ramona I didn’t want to finish our long-unfinished business.
                                                                             

~        ~       ~

       

        The light from the mornin’ sun peaked through the bedroom curtains as Ramona woke me up with a kiss. “I enjoyed our celebration last night,” she whispered in my ear. “I’m glad that pill helped get your little soldier back on his feet.” She chuckled in a throaty, satisfied-sounding way and asked, “Do you believe in happy endings, Scuzzy?”

        I yawned and stretched before answerin’, “Happy endin’s? What? Like the kind they give in massage parlors? Yeah, I believe in those.”

        “No, goofball,” she giggled. “I mean happy endings, like ours. I’ll sell Gypster Enterprises. We can go away, somewhere. We can forget about the bar, the jewelry stores, and the rest of the world.”

      “That sounds nice, Ramona, but before I can forget about the rest of the world, there’s one thing I have to know. How long have you known Gunner?"

        Ramona frowned. “He found me a month ago. He was tryin’ to solve his wife’s murder. I told him what I knew. Shortly before he found me, Nick got really drunk one night and blurted out that he’d killed his father and some pregnant woman. He also said he shot a kid in the alley behind the store, several years earlier. Scuzzy that was you! If he’d remembered telling me, he would have killed me to keep me quiet.”

        "You used me like a minnow on a hook, Ramona. You shoulda told me." I attempted to get up.

        Ramona pressed me back down, sayin’, “We decided we wouldn’t tell you about it, in case anything went wrong.”

        I saw that kind o' strategy explained in a movie, once. Plausible deniability, they called it. I guessed that made sense, kinda. One other thing still bugged me like an itchy scab on a slow-healin' cut and I had to scratch at it. “Hey, you guys didn’t hire a set of old, drunken twins - one to sit in the back booth and play dead, and the other’ paid to act like some kind o’ Christmas spirit, or somethin’, did ya?”

        Worry wrinkles appeared across Ramona's forehead. 'Don't weird out on me now, Scuzzykins," she begged. "We've been through so much to finally be together."

        “Never mind, love," I said. "It’s all just a little overwhelmin’.”

      I tossed the covers back and started to get up, but Ramona held me down again. Her right hand pressed firmly on me chest, she said, “Don’t be in such a hurry to get out of bed, Mr. Scrooge.” A long, silk scarf still dangled from where I had tied it around her wrist last night. “Let’s just lay here a while.”

        I didn’t argue. I closed me eyes and relaxed, enjoyin' the feelin' o' her warm, soft skin against mine.

        Ramona broke the silence, sayin’, “Let’s see if we can get a rise out of Tiny Tim this morning.” Like she promised in high school so many years ago, she took her time kissin' her way down the middle o' me chest. Just below me stomach, she paused and exclaimed, “Well, will you look at that! Talk about a Christmas miracle, God bless us, everyone. I don’t think he needs his crutch anymore.” 

The End

                                             
                       

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The Werewolf of Sault Ste. Marie  (18+) Classic Halloween story #1600012 by George R. Lasher

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George R. Lasher

"Welcome to my imagination."