Free The Closer by Donn Cortez Page A

Jack said. “Your grandfather slips into an old Swedish dialect now and then.”
    Jack ushered them into the living room. An eight-foot Douglas fir dominated one corner, decorated in a lavish and somewhat eclectic manner: action figures from Sam’s collection waged war in the tree’s branches over the fate of baby Jesus in a manger, illuminated by glowing chili peppers—patio lanterns strung up in lieu of Christmas lights—the tableau made even more surreal by Jack’s handcrafted ornaments. They were all composed of found objects, often silverware; Jack had discovered you could make a quite serviceable angel out of two forks, a spoon and a bit of wire, especially if you spread the tines out for the wings.
    “Good Lord,” his father said, examining the fir. “Well, at least the tree is real.”
    “I thought you’d be late,” Jack said, depositing the presents under the tree. “Considering the roads.”
    “Oh, you know your father,” his mother said, dropping into an armchair. “Made us leave an hour early, just in case.”
    “Good thing I did, too,” Mr. Salter said. “The main routes are all right, but we almost got stuck a few times on side streets. Slow going, I can tell you.”
    “Well, they say it’s supposed to warm up by tomorrow,” Janine said.
    “Yes, and then we’ll have to deal with the slush,” Mr. Salter grumbled.
    “Anybody want a drink?” Jack asked.
    “I wouldn’t mind a hot chocolate,” Mrs. Salter said. “Take the chill out of my bones.”
    “How about you, Dad?”
    “Sounds good to me.”
    “Me, too!” Sam piped up from under the tree. He was rooting through the boxes, looking for his name and saying, “Yes!” every time he found it.
    “I’ll make some for everyone,” Janine said.

    DEATHKISS: I recognize this.
    PATRON: I assume you mean the painting and not the photo.
    DEATHKISS: Yes. By an artist named Salvatore Torigno, isn’t it?
    PATRON: Very good. Yes, Torigno is one of my successes.
    DEATHKISS: I didn’t know he was dead.
    PATRON: He isn’t. His dear mother, though—as you can see by the photo—has attended her last Easter Mass.

    It was late afternoon when Jack got the call. Janine and his mom were in the kitchen fixing dinner and his dad was in the middle of a serious debate with his grandson: “No, Sammy, I don’t think Batman could beat Spiderman in a fight. Not a fair one, anyway…”
    Jack picked up the cordless on the second ring. “Hello?”
    “Jack?” The voice had a German accent as thick and heavy as a Black Forest cake. Jack recognized it immediately.
    “Mr. Liebenstraum—merry Christmas,” Jack said.
    “Jah, Jah, merry Christmas to you, too. I am sorry to be bothering you at home, Jack, but it seems I will not be returning after the holidays, not for some time. I have pressing business concerns.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.” Liebenstraum was a wealthy German art collector who’d bought one of Jack’s pieces through an intermediary. He’d apparently been impressed enough to contact Jack about a European exhibit, maybe even a tour; it was the kind of opportunity that could make an artist’s career.
    Jack had never met the man in person. The German had been in town for the past two weeks, but so far had been forced to cancel appointments twice because of business. The last time, he’d said he’d be busy until he left on Christmas Eve— but that he’d be back in town shortly after New Year’s.
    “I am so sorry, Jack,” Liebenstraum said regretfully. “I wanted so much to see your studio, your pieces. Now that I finally have a few spare moments, it is too late.”
    A few spare moments. “What time does your flight leave?”
    “Not until ten.”
    “Well, if you wanted, we could still get together,” Jack said. “It’d take me about an hour to get to my studio. As long as the cabs are running again, you could meet me there.”
    “Are you sure? I don’t mind, I have nothing to do but drink schnapps in the airport bar,