Someone asks you, "So what do you do for a living?"
You tell them, "Freelance investigation." Watch them turn their nose up at you. You can read the assumptions all across their face.
Most people think I just spy in jealous lovers' bedrooms taking pictures from the closet. First of all, I'm a delicate person. People have even called me sensitive. I don't go digging for dirt where it aint there. I don't go running to the newspapers. I don't dial up the mayor calling shenanigans. I don't judge. I get paid to gather the facts that people probably already know about but are too proud to rightly admit. At least they tell me that they can't afford to get their hands dirty, whatever that means. Way I see it, they'd rather live a lie than muster the guts to confront the truth. Pay someone else to that. Do you want me to spell it out for you? I'm a dick! Only my middle name aint Richard . . . It's Henry.
Anyway, back to my story. The door slowly opens, and in steps some broad in a black dress. Sheesh! It's 12:00 and I'm hungry. Who is it this time? A senator's wife? She's young. Blonde hair. Not gonna take it very easily. I say, "Look, mam, you suspect you're husband is cheating on you and you're probably right. But maybe you should save yourself the grief, huh? Use your money and take a vacation." My stomach was growling, what can I say? I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't seen it happen a thousand times before.
"I'm afraid you've judged me wrong, Mr. . . "
"Just call me Henry."
"Mr. Henry."
"My apologies. So what CAN I do for you, Mrs. . . "
"It's Miss."
"Excuse me."
"Miss Trinket."
"Miss Trinket. What can I do for you?"
I look at the clock. 12:02. I know right about now the line down at Joe's Sub Shop has probably strecthed out to a 15 minute wait already. No use squirming outta this one now. You gotta understand. It's never easy working for women. I mean, there's gotta be some level of trust between you and your client, and with the bad reputation I already get for being a member of my (honest) line of work . . . well, trust is something that I've found takes time when you're talking about a man and a woman.
"I work at the orphanage on 11th Avenue. Well, last night someone broke into the kitchen pantry and stole all of the milk and cookies. I wouldn't be so concerned except for the fact that this is the second night in a row that this has happened."
"So you came to me."
"Well, I didn't want to bother the police. But also . . . "
"But what?"
"Well . . . "
"Well what, Mrs. Trinket? Anything you might be thinking makes my job easier, makes your case potentially quicker and cheaper to solve."
"I believe that it's Santa Claus!"
I drop my head. As does my stomach. It was a Friday. Fridays are always bad luck, especially on a Christmas Eve. You think you're about to kick back for a nice relaxing weekend.
She goes on, "I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have come here. I . . . "
"No! Look, I'll help you out. I just need you to sign this contract, it contains all of the information regarding my fees and your rights . . . "
Truth was, I'd dealt with this guy before. Mr. Santa Claus. It was about three years earlier. Toy shop manager comes into my office telling me there's this guy been coming around the store lately. Big fat man in a red puffy outfit. Apparently he'd started coming in every day, wistfully admiring the model trains and racks of stuffed animals. When the cash box started turning up less money than what was supposed to be in there, that's when this manager starts to get some suspicious ideas about the manic depressive fat man. Turns out it was the manager's son had been felching extra cash from his daddy's business. The guy was raising a spoiled brat for a son, but he was too busy with his own affairs to even notice that his kid had been going about causing trouble, getting his name pretty high up on the naughty list.
Well, I'd followed this fat red guy anyway. I was curious. He looked familiar. When he finally stopped for the night in a back alley on 42nd Street, I tripped over a garbage can. Blew my cover.
"Who's there?" the guy calls out. I can hear the fear in his voice. I don't blame him. It can be a rough city at night.
"Not to worry, sir," I tell him. "I just feel like I know you from somewhere, but maybe I was wrong. The name's . . . "
"Henry. I know, son."
I stagger backwards.
He says, "Kris Kringle." And he holds out his hand. I start to walk with him to some shantytown on the East Side. He tells me it's warm there, a place with burn barrels and more or less friendly company. We're talking on the way, and I finally convince him to let me buy him a cup of coffee and a piece of pie at this nice little diner I know uptown. Turns out he only wanted some milk. They didn't have any cookies but he settled for a muffin.
Long story short, turns out the jolly fellow had gotten a bit disillusioned over the past few years about his job. Seems that Christmas had become too much of a commercial gimmick. People didn't want Christmas for what it was, a time to be with their families, eat delicious cooked meals, wake up with bright cheerful faces to see what new toys Santa had left them under the tree (all out of the goodness of his heart, mind you). Kids were greedy these days. They didn't want trains. They wanted violent video games. They wanted money! First of all, that wasn't easy for Santa and his helpers (as he called them) to meet the demand of. That required a lot more complex machinery and manpower. Worst of all, he'd begun to read columns about himself in the newspaper. Some parents had been claiming that they were unsure about the moral character of a man who snuck into people's homes in the middle of the night, much less certain children's bedrooms where the young ones had left thank you letters addressed to him. I gotta say, I kinda knew where the old guy was coming from.
Well, after a few hours and a few funny stories later, we got up to go.
"Listen," I say to him, "I'm sorry people misunderstand you, Mr. Claus, but I don't think you realize how special you were to me when I was a little kid."
I told him about the time that I got the poster of Micky Mantle that I'd really wanted, how I still mounted that one on my bedroom wall. I think I actually convinced him to go back home and keep working. I mean, that next Christmas morning I walk down to my living room to find a tubed package sitting next to the record player. I didn't bother to get myself a tree that year, I still feel bad about it. I open it up and it's a poster of Babe Ruth.
It looked like Kris Kringle was down in the dumps again. How could I blame him? Maybe he was expecting me to come after him. I figured he'd been hanging around the orphanage because he cared about the poor kids there. In any case, it looked as if I would have to go talk some of the jolly happiness back into the red suited fellow once again. Hey, it was my pleasure, especially if it paid the rent. I picked up my overcoat and headed out the door. I paused to think, but just for a second. Then I made my way down to 42nd Street.