Yuletide Immortal (The Immortal Chronicles Book 4) (8 page)

I couldn’t get close enough to hear their exchange, but it concluded with him paying the kid some cash.  Then the guy walked off, shaking his head, while the boy stayed where he was and counted the money.

“How much did you get?” I asked.

Davey looked up, surprised, but maybe not all that surprised.  “Two hundred.  Not bad, right?”

“Not bad.  What were you betting on?”

“Funny story.  You’ll love it.”

“I bet.”

“That’s my buddy Larry.  He’s a degenerate, gambles on everything.  Met him a couple of years ago, I swear he hasn’t won a bet with me once, but he keeps tryin’.  I don’t even have the money to put down, he don’t care.”

“Not a mob enforcer, then.”

“Nah.  Sells mops for his father-in-law.  Totally harmless.  Apologized three times for grabbin’ me in the alley even when I asked him to as soon as I clocked you fellas on the other end.  He’s not real smart about a lot of things, though, like what makes the numbers on horses go up and down.  I bet him two hundred bucks the odds on the worst horse at the Aqueduct would drop by at least twenty today, and since he don’t know those odds are tied to the action he has no clue how he just lost.”

“You’re right, that’s not very smart.”

“He’ll get you a deal on a mop though.”

“Right, I’ll remember that.  When did you make the bet?”

“Couple days ago, after I lined up your buddy to put down the five large.”

“And I take it there’s nobody here named Beautiful Pete.”

“Nope.  Like I said though, good story, huh?”

“Very good, yes.”

“I’m told I got a gift.  Anyway, he looks like he’s got plenty, your friend.  Plus all that North Pole money I’m sure just keeps on rollin’ in, right?  And hey, it made him happy to help me out so, no-harm.”

I didn’t think I had it in me to explain to him that disappointing Santa at Christmas is definitely not without harm.

“I pick up an extra two hundred from my dumb friend,” he continued, “and your buddy up there sleeps at night because he did what he could to help out the poor little orphan.  Merry Christmas to everyone.”

“Sure.  Until you don’t show up after the race.”

He laughed.  “Why would I show up?  Like you said, there’s no Beautiful Pete here, and the jockeys ain’t gaming the results.  If they were, I’d be as much in the dark as anybody, cuz I never met any of them.  The only thing I told the truth about was the horse.  He’s been bringin’ up the rear at this track forever.  Maybe your Santa buddy will be a little confused about why his sure thing lost, but I’m not gonna be there with an explanation.  I’m out.  If you’re worried, you can make up something yourself so he feels better.”

He walked past me.  I reconsidered my original impulse to strangle him, and wondered if anyone would notice if I did.

“Hey,” I said.  “You know if you’d asked he probably would have just given you the five grand.”

He laughed.  “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

*   *   *

I didn’t dream up an explanation for Santa.  I couldn’t think of one, and the idea that I even had to was suddenly very unpleasant.  This would have been a good time to discover the same gift for gab that Davey had, or a talent for turning a bad ending into a good one like Santa did, but that wasn’t going to happen.

Santa and I had been going back and forth for more than a week on the subject of Christmas, and happiness, and hope, but it was really more an argument over whether people were worth doing nice things for or not.  Whether people were good, or bad.  I was sure, based on a much larger pool of experience, that people will always disappoint eventually, while his much more positive outlook was one that had humanity acting nicely towards one another in stories with happy endings, where everyone ended up okay and getting what they wanted out of life.

There was no way to take his perspective seriously, but a part of me really wished the world actually worked that way.  It would make it much easier to live in.

I could have gone back up into the stands and told him what I’d learned about the cherubic little scam artist he thought he was helping out.  I could have proven I was right and he was wrong, in other words.  It was the only story I knew how to tell.  And when
Bacchus Doubtful
lost for the umpteenth time, the point would have been driven home.

But I couldn’t do it.  I’ve done enough awful things in my life already and I didn’t want to add “ruining Christmas for Santa Claus” to that list.

Instead, I chickened out and left him at the track.

This was probably not the best way to handle the situation, but it was the way I went with.  Honestly, dropping and running to cope with a problem is one of my more popular solutions.  It works particularly well when people in town decide I’m a witch, but also for those uncomfortable times when I’ve cuckolded someone more powerful than I realized, or when I’ve inadvertently insulted a king, or when someone asks me to marry them, and so on.  I outlive everybody, so acting like a total bastard and running away until everyone I’ve angered or disappointed has died is a legitimately viable option.

This was what I was telling myself as I packed up my room.  The hotel, as I said, was not memorable or particularly clean, but it did have a dedicated private bathroom I much appreciated, and the rats were generally very polite.  It had served nicely as a place to call home for the past couple of months, but now that winter was coming I was getting the distinct notion I’d overstayed my time in New York City.  Plus it was difficult to find a bar in the neighborhood where I was sure not to run into Santa.

I didn’t know where I was going.  According to the papers, snow was on its way, and I wanted no part of it, so I was thinking someplace tropical.  Beyond that, I had no plans.

I also forgot it was Christmas Eve.  After paying for the room, I ended up in the lobby, in a beat-up old chair waiting for a taxicab to show up to take me out of town.  Taxi service was turning out to be less than optimal, however.  I really only needed a ride as far as, say, a bus station or something—I hadn’t decided—but getting a cab to show up wasn’t working out, either because of the holiday, the oncoming storm, or the fact that I was calling from a seedy hotel in a crummy part of town.  For whatever reason, I ended up sitting in that chair for a couple of hours with my bags and an old steamer trunk, watching the lobby clerk/building owner finger through the race tables in the newspaper.

And of course that got me thinking about the kid again, and how frustrating it was to have been scammed by a ten-year old.  An unreasonably clever and worldly ten-year old, but a child nonetheless.  It was sort of humiliating.  And I was giving up on a friendship because of this kid.  I felt horrible about that.

If it had been anybody other than Santa I probably would have been getting drunk with him right at that moment, as we complained about the nature of
kids these days
.  (This has been one of the most popular subjects in bars since there have been bars.)  But he was entirely too cheerful to commiserate with over something like this.  Also, if there was one thing I could think of that was worse than complaining with Santa, it was listening to the only reliably upbeat person I knew having his idea of the world dashed on the floor.

“Beautiful Pete,” I muttered, shaking my head.  “Can’t believe I bought any of that.”

“What was that?” the owner asked.

“Sorry, nothing.  Just thinking about a story I heard recently.”

“Good story?”

“Yeah, it was, actually.  It was a really good story.  Very believable.”

The owner was a shrunken man with bad eyesight.  It was difficult to tell, most times, if he was sitting behind the desk or standing, because there wasn’t any apparent height difference.  He had a sort of disapproving grandfather face that probably served him very well when it came to certain customers.  He looked at me over his paper and through his thick lenses.

“Used to be a jockey by that name, I recall.”

“No kidding.”

“Yup.  Beautiful Pete.  Hell of a jock.  Four-foot-eleven and hung like his horse, I’m told.  Course, he’s long since retired.  Haven’t heard that name in years.”

This rattled loose an idea I had apparently been working on for a while.

“
How many
years, would you say?”

*   *   *

It was snowing hard by the time I reached O’Shea’s pub.  Not quite sundown and the place was already packed with guys who’d gotten off work early enough for a few drinks before having to face their families.  Santa wasn’t one of those people, but I had an idea of where I could find him if I had to.

After about an hour, I called O’Shea over.

“I need a favor,” I said, and slid ten dollars across the bar.

“How big of a favor, exactly, pal?” he asked, after taking my money.  He was about ten times friendlier when I was there with Santa, but that was true of the entire city.

“I need to talk to a certain someone.  You mind if I stand behind the bar for a minute?  I’d like to stomp on your floor.”

He smiled.  “The kid, huh?  What’d he do this time?”

“It’s a really long story.  Do you mind?”

“Nah, go ahead.  He’s a pain in my ass anyway.  Just take him out back before you kick him around.”

*   *   *

Reaching into cabinets and pulling out screaming children is apparently a common practice in bars, as nobody there particularly minded.  Nor did anyone get an urge to step in and help the kid, who insisted rather loudly and ardently that I was about to murder him.  Given the comments I heard from the rabble, a few of these guys knew Davey already, and at least three or four owed him money.

I didn’t release the kid until we made it into the alley, and then it was to drop him into a snow bank.

“What’re you
doing?
” he shouted.  “I ain’t got no beef with you!”

“No beef. But you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you nothing!  What the hell are you talking about?”

“Listen, kid.  I don’t like children and I don’t trust them.  I do my best to avoid them when I can.  But my friend Santa is different.  He loves kids, can’t get enough of them, and I mean that in the best possible way.  So let’s get one thing clear: if you were going to piss off one of us, you pissed off the wrong one because I already expected this from you.  He didn’t.”

“What, you want me to apologize? 
You?
  You didn’t even tell the old man anything, don’t think I don’t know.  He’s been asking all over town for me.  Some friend you are.”

“Yeah, fine, I’m a lousy friend, but I’m going to make it up to him, and so are you.  But first, I want what you owe me.”

“And what’s that?”

“An answer to one question.   You can stop checking behind me for some help because I’m pretty sure you don’t have any friends in that bar.”

He actually looked a little nervous, because he was coming to the same realization. I could have hurt him if I wanted to, and he knew it.  “That’s all?  A question?”

“No, that’s not all, but it’s a start.”

“Fine, sure, go ahead.  Ask your stupid question.”

“The question is, how
old
are you?”

He looked speechless for a change.  I’d spent just enough time with him to recognize when he was working out something in his head, but it didn’t look like he was doing any of that.  For once, he looked like he really was a kid.  Which I was pretty sure he wasn’t.

“What?”

“Just answer.”

“Look at me, how old do you think I am?”

“That isn’t an answer. Turns out Beautiful Pete was the nickname of a real jockey, but he retired six years ago.  How many years ago did you run away from that orphanage?”

“C’mon, mister.  It’s embarrassing.  I don’t want to say.”

“Embarrassing is getting outsmarted by a ten-year old.  But you’re not a ten-year old.”

“I’m
twenty-one
, okay?  But look at me!  I’m like, a midget or a dwarf or something.”

“You’re not a dwarf.  A twenty-one year old dwarf would still need to shave.  You ran up to puberty and stopped.  No, you’re something else.”

“Oh, so you know what I am, do ya?  You think I ain’t heard that before?  The nuns thought they knew what I was too, why do you think I ran off?  They kept throwin’ holy water on me, and worse.  It was messed up.  I mean, I guess I can’t blame ‘em, right?  All the kids my age kept getting taller and looking older and I just stopped for no reason, and there wasn’t no amount of praying to fix that.  And hey, I’d
love
to ask my parents what the deal is with this, but I can’t do that either, can I? What are
you
gonna do that’s any different?  I already know you’re a nutso.”

“I might be.  But I know exactly what to do here.  We’re going to go see Santa.”

“You’re
crazy
.  What for?  So we can tell him I’m a freak too?”

“That’s not why little boys go to see Santa, kid.  They go to ask for something special for Christmas.  You still have time.”