Free The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories by Christopher Bunn Page A

Bittersweet chocolate chips with macadamia nuts. Then, with a polite burp, I schlepped my sack over to the tree in the corner. Sixty seconds later I was done for the season. Grabbed the last cookie for the road and wormed my way back up the chimney.
    There were three guys on the roof when I stuck my head out of the chimney. They were standing around, staring at my sled.
    “How’s it going?” I said.
    My first thought was that they were from the City Building Inspection Department. But then my second thought was, if they were, why were they all wearing masks? And what were they doing on a roof at three in the morning? That’s when the closest one hit me over the head with a blackjack. I went out like a light. Didn’t even remember falling back down the chimney.
    I woke up with some guy in blue shining a flashlight in my eyes.
    “You’re under arrest,” he said.
    “But I’m Santa Claus!” I said.
    “And I’m the Queen of England,” he said.
    I was booked in at the 52 nd Precinct. They did the thing with the fingerprints and the mug shots. I’ve never liked how my profile turns out in photos.
    “Name,” said the sergeant on duty.
    “Santa Claus,” I said.
    “A real wise guy,” he said, looking bored. “You wanna give me your name, or what?”
    “My name’s Santa Claus. First name’s Santa, last name’s Claus. Listen, you’re making a big mistake.”
    “Whatever, freak. Everyone knows Santa Claus is an old fat man with a white beard.”
    “That’s my dad. It’s a family thing. He retired. I’m Santa Junior.”
    “Okay, Junior,” he said. “You can spend the night with all the other freaks.”
    They threw me in cell number nine. All the hard cases were in there. A couple of mean drunks, a guy covered in enough tattoos to rival the Sistine Chapel, and another thug big and hairy enough to double as the gorilla at the Central Park Zoo.
    “What’re you in for?” rumbled the gorilla.
    “Nothing,” I said. “They made a mistake. I’m Santa Claus.”
    “Santa,” he said, staring at me.
    “Santa!” wailed one of the drunks. He burst into tears. “It’s Christmas.”
    Before I knew it, everyone in the cell was weeping and wailing. The sergeant hurried down the row of cells and glared at me.
    “You’re a troublemaker,” he said.
    “Hey, don’t I get a phone call?”
    He nodded, reluctant.
    The phone rang and rang.
    “Come on,” I mumbled. “Pick up. Somebody.”
    The trouble was, most of the elves were probably already halfway to Tahiti. Or Bali. Or passed out from too much eggnog.
    The phone kicked into the message. I ground my teeth together.
    “I’m sorry,” said the recorded voice sweetly, “but no one’s available at this time. If you’d like to leave a message for Santa, press one. For the Research and Development Department, press two. For the Warehouse, press three. For the Mechanic Shop, press four. For Production, press five. For the Front Desk, press zero.”
    I pressed zero. “It’s me,” I whispered into the phone. I could feel the sergeant staring at me from down the hall. “I’m at the 52 nd Precinct Station in Manhattan. That’s New York State, in the USA, if you numbskulls need to look at a map. I’ve been arrested. Get me out of here! Quick!”
    “Time’s up,” said the sergeant.
    I slept poorly that night. The gorilla snored like a rusty chainsaw, the tattooed man seemed to be gnawing on the bars, and the drunks kept on bursting into song.
    The judge wasn’t impressed the next morning.
    “Claus, eh?” he said, staring down at me. “I never believed in you as a kid, and I don’t now.”
    “Er, well. . .”
    “Breaking and entering, grand theft. Over three million dollars’ worth of art missing from that residence you burgled. Quite a night you had, Mr. Claus. You take, and the mythical fat man in the red suit gives. Your choice of pseudonyms, while ironic, irritates me. Bail’s denied. Court date set for next Wednesday, nine a.m. sharp.