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

Next!”
    The only thing positive about a formal charge was that I got my own jail cell. I paced back and forth. Ate lunch. Stared at the wall. Mentally cursed the elves. And then jumped to my feet in horror.
    My bag! The all-encompassing sack of toys!
    Where was it? Was it still on the roof? Had it fallen down the chimney with me? Had the police confiscated it as evidence? My hands trembled.
    You see, there’s more to Santa’s sack than just toys. Theoretically, that is. Have you ever wondered how Santa—that’s me—could haul several billion toys all over the world in one mid-sized velvet-lined sack without throwing his back out? Well, there’s a trick to it, and here’s what it is.
    You can pull anything you want out of that sack. Just think about it, stick your hand in, and pull it out. I forget exactly how the elves in R&D figured that one out, but it’s something to do with some extremely good sewing and the fifth dimension. It works great. A toy train, a rocking horse, the latest video game? Just visualize, reach in, and pull it out. The only problem is, that sack in the wrong hands could generate anything. Anything at all. I sat down on the bed and gulped.
    “Claus?”
    She unlocked my cell. The badge on her belt was the only thing signifying she was an officer. She was a tall, brunette drink of ice water with frozen blue eyes. But I don’t mind the cold, living at the North Pole and all.
    “I’m Detective Thurston. Come with me. I’ve got some questions for you.”
    The ambiance of interrogation rooms leaves something to be desired. Gray walls, steel table, concrete floor, one single light bulb. It made her look all the better—not that she needed any help. She stared at me for a moment, expressionless. I stared back, which I didn’t mind doing, as she was rather easy on the eyes.
    “All right,” she said. “How long have you been working for the Gambini family?”
    “What? The who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “I think you do. This morning, we received word a Matisse changed hands for something north of 1.2 million dollars. Supposedly, a Gambini fence did the sale. It was the same Matisse that went missing from the address you were arrested at last night. Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
    “The only thing obvious,” I said, “is that you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m Santa Claus. You know, the guy with the sack of presents. Surely you’ve heard of Christmas? Peace on earth and all that? By the way, you didn't get any presents for Christmas, did you? I can tell.”
    “That's beside the point," she said, looking irritated. "Your gang betrayed you. They left you to take the fall. Loyalty among thieves is one thing, but this is ridiculous. You’re looking at twenty years in the pen.”
    “Twenty years?” I gulped.
    That was a lot of missed Christmases. There were going to be a lot of unhappy kids next December. No Santa. No toys. No sack! The sack!
    “Uh, listen,” I said. “Maybe I can help a bit. I just need to know something first.”
    She didn’t speak, but her blue eyes were intent on mine.
    “Was there anything found, I mean, at the, whatever you people call it—”
    “The scene of the crime?”
    “Yeah, that’s it. Did you find a, uh, sort of sack? Red velvet, gold drawstring, silver embroidery spelling out Santa? Maybe on the roof or down near the fireplace?”
    “Is this a confession?”
    “I’m not confessing anything.”
    She shrugged. “No. We didn’t find anything. Nothing on the roof. Nothing inside. No Santa sack. That’s because your partners in crime, no doubt, made off with your so-called sack, stuffed full of art and jewels.”
    I slept poorly that night. I dreamed that a whole bunch of Italian gangsters were zooming through the starry sky in my rocket-powered sled. They were pulling grenades out of the sack and tossing them down chimneys. Boom! There went another chimney. Boom! Some pigeons went flying. Boom! The grenades seemed to be