JINGLE’S CHRISTMAS
CHAPTER ONE
It had been a long night. The carousing husband partied hard, leading me into dives I didn’t know existed. And I’ve worked Dallas for a bunch of years.
His wife booked me by phone. Said she was sure her husband was stepping out on her. She wanted proof, hard proof so the divorce would be quick and simple. That’s what I do for a living, so I took the case.
I’m a PI in Dallas and most of my cases involve spouses who forgot their sworn vows. Occasionally, I hit a case with a tad more excitement, such as arson, blackmail, kidnapping and murder—but only occasionally. To feed my cats and me, I surveil and write reports on spouses.
That night’s philandering husband hit several topless joints, and the later the hour, the less the dancers had to offer. In the last place, their wares had apparently been proffered many times before, much too many times. He finally drifted into a meat-shop about midnight. I followed him in and looked around the dim interior. The pickings were slim, but I knew his standards weren’t high. By twelve-fifteen, he was hitting on one of the leftovers at the bar, and fifteen minutes later they had plans for the night. I watched him rent a room in a cheap hotel then lead his conquest in. That was my permit to cut for home. I’d taken pictures, and had the name of the bartender for a witness.
I was tired and eager to fold myself between clean sheets. That didn’t occur until two-thirty after I captured the night’s adventures and expenses in my records. Finally, early on the morning of December 15, I sought sleep.
The phone’s irritating jangle was my first clue there would be no peace. Striker snoozed in his usual position on my chest while Sweeper curled beside me. Both lifted their heads and hissed. Oh, lest there be confusion, Striker and Sweeper are my two orange cats, not the attractive women I’d have preferred to be in bed with. I rescued them from the local SPCA when they were kittens. Now a year and a half later, they ruled my life.
After the second ring, I grabbed the phone. "Hello."
"Arty. How are you?"
Even if I hadn’t recognized the voice, the cheerful tone would have irritated me. "Jake Adams. What do you want? And don’t call me Arty."
"Need to talk. Are you awake?"
"No, I’m not awake. It’s . . ." I looked at my clock radio which merrily blinked a red three followed by a colon and two zeros, " . . . three o’clock in the middle of the night. Call me in the morning."
"Hey, don’t hang up. I need a favor."
"Why? Oil wells dry up?"
Despite my desire to sleep, I couldn’t ignore Jake’s call. Many times, he simply harassed me but, occasionally, he was my entrée to a high-paying case. I needed one of the latter. My checking account suffered from malnutrition.
Jake laughed his throaty chuckle. "No, my oil pumps just keep making me richer."
I gritted my teeth, wondering why women found his inane laughter so sexy. "Okay, but make it fast. I’ll give you two minutes."
"Arty, you’re so transparent. You’re listening, so you need a paying case. Here I come, riding the sunrise to your rescue again."
I wanted to remind him that sunrise was still hours away but decided to hear him out.
"Meow," Striker said, jumping to the floor.
"Ouch," I said, staring at his orange back disappearing through the doorway. He had sunk his claws deep enough to remind me I had interrupted his sleep.
Sweeper followed his example, using my thigh as a launching pad. "Ouch, again."
"Who’s with you, Arty? Tell her to sheath her nails until I’m finished."
"Oh, shut up. It’s the boys letting me know I should hang up."
"Your watchcats? Tell them I apologize for waking them."
My cats he’d apologize to. Me, he’d call Arty.
"Now, Arty, are you ready to talk?"
"Spit it out, and don’t call me Arty." I swung around and picked up a clipboard and pen.
"I set up a meeting for you in the morning. He says he’s busy at night so he can’t get there early. I told him you’d wait until ten. Sound good?"
"Ten sounds fine." I could have reminded him I’m also busy at night, but I was afraid he’d give me another of his terribly sexy chuckles. One was more than enough.
"Meet him at MeMaw’s Café in North Dallas. He’ll recognize you and initiate the contact. Now, get some sleep. You sound terrible."
"Hold it. Who am I meeting?" The click told me he’d hung up. I quickly dialed Jake’s home number. His machine answered. I killed the connection and dialed his cell. A synthetic voice told me his phone was not currently active, and invited me to leave a message. Since I prefer not to have my more colorful comments recorded, I disconnected.
Sweeper and Striker strutted into the room, smiles on their faces. Okay, you say cats can’t smile. I disagree. Mine smile.
"Meow?" Sweeper asked.
"Meow?" Striker echoed.
"Beats me," I answered. "Jake did it again."
* * *
At nine-thirty, I entered MeMaw’s Café and stepped to the side of the doorway, allowing my eyes to adjust to the interior. What I saw didn’t improve my mood any, and it was already lower than a dachshund’s belly. The inside was dingy—my mom would have said dirty—with fluorescent lighting. Management obviously practiced energy conservation. No tubes had been replaced in a long time. I looked over the doorway where I’d heard a muted dinging. Three small bells hung there, each tied with a red ribbon to a hook. I couldn’t tell whether they were there to celebrate the season or to act as a signal, maybe let the cashier know if someone were escaping without paying. From the dust on the ribbons, it looked like the latter was the intended use.
There was a Christmas tree against the back wall. I was sure that’s what it was because it was bright and shiny, an aluminum tree reflecting the dim light. It had a bedraggled star leaning from its top prong, and a few shiny balls on its artificial branches. I would have given the management an A for effort except that it tilted so far starboard, I expected it to tumble at any moment.
It was my first trip to MeMaw’s and I vowed to make it my last. I’ve been in worse places but only when following someone. One look at the patrons made me glad the meeting was during daylight hours.
Near the tree in the rear were two booths, one on each side. Both were empty so I sauntered toward the back of the café, using my tough-guy walk. Giving the shaky tree a wide berth, I slid onto the cushion, patched with duct tape. I faced the front of the restaurant.
"You want coffee?" a gruff voice said from behind.
I looked around, and up at a guy who stood well over six feet. His greasy hair dangled in limp clumps from under a white paper hat. Or, I supposed it had been white when it was young—the hat, not the hair. The hair was an indeterminate color. The waiter sported a severe case of belly overhang. If his belt broke, the table could be crushed.
"Yeah, coffee’s great." I wanted to sound mean but may have come up short.
He must have been satisfied because he walked through an open doorway on the side of the seating area.
I looked around, drumming my fingers on the table in frustration, trying to decide whether to be angry or happy. Too many of my dealings with Jake Adams start this way.
In case you’re wondering, my name is Arthur Conan Edwards, Ace to everyone except Jake Adams. He insists on calling me by my mother’s pet name—Arty.
Most of my cases involve following a spouse, sometimes female, mostly male, into places I’d prefer not to go. I’ve learned most of the pick-up spots and strip clubs in Dallas and its suburbs. I’ve seen enough bouncing boobs and bare bottoms to last me a lifetime—unless I specifically select to lead them to my bedroom.
The grungy waiter interrupted my reconnaissance of the café. He carried a black liquid in a stained mug. "Want breakfast?"
It’s a good thing I’m bilingual, something I learned in my ten years on the Dallas police force. I can translate grunts into English. That’s what he spoke, grunt. "No, just coffee."
I stirred in a packet of Sweet‘n Low then added a second after examining the consistency of the coffee. Tentatively, I lifted the cup to my lips.
"I wouldn’t drink that."
I did a double take, rolling my eyes, scanning the restaurant. Nothing. Must have been my imagination. I lifted the cup again.
"I wouldn’t drink that. Doesn’t look potable."
"Where are you?" I whispered. I still didn’t see anyone looking my way.
A head covered with bushy red hair slowly rose from below the other side of my table, followed by shoulders and . . . That was it. A small head and narrow shoulders sitting across from me. Not a kid, either. The face wore a full beard, a bright red beard.
"Good morning, Arty. Jake said you’d be here early and sit in the back. You’re great friends, aren’t you?"
I peered at the speaker, noting his high-pitched voice. "Who are you?" I wasn’t so taken aback that I couldn’t add, "Don’t call me Arty."
"Ah, yes," he said, "Jake said you’d react that way."
"Knock off the crap. I asked who you are." Little guys don’t intimidate me.
"You may call me . . . ah . . . Mr. Snow . . . John Snow. Is that a good name?"
This was weird. Even by the standards of Jake’s jokes, this was weird. "How’d you know I was me?"
"Easy." He pulled at the small green Christmas wreath encircling the sticky catsup bottle and the other condiments. "Jake described you."
Uh-huh, I thought. If Jake provided a description, I doubt anyone would recognize me. Jake and I go back all the way to Cisco where we grew up on opposite sides of the tracks. It’s not that I was poor, it’s that he was so damned rich.
"Mr. Edwards, names are unimportant to me. But I know they mean something to you so please, call me Snow. I’m here on an important mission and need to move quickly."
I know it’s rude but I couldn’t stop gaping at him. In my stupefaction, I lifted the coffee again.
"You really shouldn’t drink that. In fact, we should leave. I’m not comfortable here. That tree is so depressing."
"Why’d you pick this place if you don’t like it?" I asked, slightly piqued.
"I didn’t. It was Jake’s idea."
Another look around the place convinced me he could be telling the truth. This joint was exactly the level of one of Jake’s bad jokes. "Figures. But before we leave, how do you know Jake?"
"Be patient. I’ll explain everything. Let’s get out of here." He jumped down from the booth.
I stood, then stopped and stared. He was tiny—couldn’t have been more than two feet tall. I opened my mouth but he walked away.
The waiter reappeared. "Want a refill?"
"No, gotta run. Remembered an appointment." I pulled three ones from my wallet, dropped them on the table, then followed my client.
"How ‘bout a tip?" the waiter said.
The bright December sun temporarily blinded me when I passed through the doorway to the outside, causing me to lose sight of the little guy. As my vision cleared, I saw him leaning against a light pole wearing a trench coat and dark glasses. He reminded me of the detective in a 1940’s B movie.
I walked over, looked down and said, "Hey, can we get on with this?" It’s not often I get to look down at someone who is standing up. I’m only five feet eight inches. It was disappointing to see that he had a thick head of hair, unlike mine that sprinkles itself around the shower, bathroom sink, and other sites.
He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "Maybe we should walk. I don’t like this area." All he needed was a dangling cigarette to complete the movie role caricature.
My grin almost broke into a laugh. "Good idea," I said, shielding my mouth by scratching my chin.
"First, I gotta do something. Excuse me." He walked back to MeMaw’s, opened the door and stuck his head in. A moment later he re-joined me. "Now we can go."
"What was that all about?" I asked.
"Nothing important. Just something that needed to be done."
I shrugged, and we moved off looking like Mutt and Jeff. I’d done it before but it was the first time I’d played Mutt. Usually, I was the runt. It felt good. "So, Mr. Snow, what are we doing? Why am I here?"
He looked around, conspiratorially. "We had a serious theft."
I matched my pace to his, one step for me, two for him. When he didn’t say anything else, I said, "That’s a huge clue. Wanna give me a little more?"
"Not out here. You’ll have to trust me until we find a secure place to talk. Can’t take a chance that anyone overhears."
"This is ridiculous."
"I can understand your attitude, but I can’t talk here. It’s not protected. I can’t lock up an open area. I’ll meet you at your place."
"Either talk now or I’m out of here." I pointed at his chest, or where a normal chest would be. His was much closer to the ground so I dropped my wrist, pointing above my knee level. That brought my finger down to his face.
My attention was distracted by an elderly couple coming my way, both staring at me. The lady clutched her purse tightly against her bosom.
"Good morning," I said.
They ducked their heads and hurried across the street.
I followed their movements, wondering what I’d said. "Look at that," I heard. Turning back, I saw Snow pointing behind me.
I swiveled in the direction he indicated but saw nothing of interest. "What?" I said, looking back.
Snow was gone.