WHICH LIST FOR THE MRS?Cold caught me in the side like an amateur pickpocket who’d rather be boxing forliving. Nothing on these cold streets could really be making a living. Just livingwas difficult enough, keeping a little warmth inside to shore up against the coldand bitter wind and the bite of disdain. Sure there was the holiday spirit, asmile, a strain of a jingled jangled carol, someone stepping aside with a wave butthen that fast car would come by and dump icy slush all over your suddenly not sowarm boots, even worse if they were designer, even worse if they were sneaks…Sneaks wear sneaks in this town, you know, sure I got the Burberry and the Indy Jhat but the sneaks keep me alive, keep me gripped to the ground, keep me burningrubber when the bill collectors come to town. I always pay my debts, but I nevercarry cash. Character is my currency, a flash of charisma, one good set ofclothes, a quick wit and an even quicker jump off the start line…that’s whereyou’ll find me…running right by you, the trouble behind charging my trajectory,the trouble ahead calling my name. Are you trouble? Well, do you know my name?That’ll answer your question.The alley behind my office was dark and damp. Never go in the front door; Ilearned that early in this game. It’s not Opportunity knocking behind you; it’smore likely your knees from cold, fear or exhaustion. Besides, the fire escaperoute to the office is good practice for easy escapes. Without diligent practice,leaving quickly through a window with barely a glance behind can be an inelegantpose. Yes, there were photos to prove it, but I burned the negatives and stompedon the memory card. Now I’m as smooth as an eel on wet marble — no splash.Swung through the window at the end of the hall and paused; a strangely alluringsmell lingered — part ginger, part peppermint and pine…but all trouble. After ittickled my nose; it kicked my gut…that kind of a scent…sure wafting’s a nice word,but this was a hurricane. I opened the door. I know what trouble looks like: I seeit in the mirror every morning and she wasn’t trouble; she was danger, heartache,vexation and woe, with a hint of tumult and torment. They were candy cane stripedlegs leading up to North Pole ice floe eyes and I, well I, I’ve just never beenable to really breathe in these situations and to slide straight out this windowwas a five story drop to the head. And I was already dizzy.She knew the effect she had, riots and hurricanes always do. So she didn’t botherto let me catch my breath; it could have taken a month. Picture her voice; well,picture a Ferrari, then picture chocolate, then listen to the sound they maketogether: “I lost my husband.”Yes, I’m an idiot. It’s why we’re here. No one of us would be in this office if weweren’t entirely sure of that fact. Especially not her. So she repeated herself,leaning forward a bit so I could see white lace contrast under the jolly red coat— hang that on the tree — ”I lost my husband.”“On purpose???!!!!????”The laugh was even better: shivers mixed with mint mixed with mirth mixed withmidnight. “Would I be here, if I had?”I shrugged. There was never really a good answer to “Why are you here?” but I wasstaring to hope that this one would take in the scenery, eat up a little time,venture down a detour or four before we got to this car to the cliff overlookingthe moonlit view of truth and its uncompromising cousins: promises, vows, moresand manners.“I want you to find him for me.” She leaned back. Turns out I’d sat myself downsometime between storms. We might have been eye to eye if she hadn’t chosen thatmoment to stand. “By Friday, Christmas Eve.” She turned, her icy eyes melted intotwo biting blue seas. “I need him”But right now, she needed me. And she knew it. Commotion or calm, avalanche or

roadblock, jackpot or jeopardy, tonight, I was in its way. And now she was inmine, leaning over the desk, reaching into my inside coat pocket, pulling out myphone, her long fingers efficiently invading, unsettling, unbalanced my onebastion of organization. She tossed it on my desk as if it were made of nothing. Iwinced at the clipped sound and the bounce, and the dent that would be developing…and the other dent that would be developing when she tossed me with that samelanguor, the same nonchalance, that same intent to ignore potential harm. Shedidn’t care how anything landed; I’m not even sure she paused long enough torealize how it felt in her hand. Just another tool, another prop, another lever topry what she wanted from who she wanted it from. I looked up from the matte,dented, dingy body of my phone to her eyes with their swells of laughter. Laughterat me for caring about such a small, scarred thing; laughter at me for caringabout anything. Another tool, another advantage for her.“There’s my number. Call me.”And I would. A cold call for a cold December night. And the details? They’d findme. It was raining; it was dark; there were alleys everywhere: dank, dark deadends with slippery details lurking in the shadows, in the puddles, in the peltingrain…I was soaked already, cold, tired, a little on fire…I picked up the phone asshe shut the door behind her; the hint of mint, ginger, pine and hazard lingeringalong with her razor edged, velvet wrapped whisper, slicing through my nights, mythoughts, my future…”Call me.” I hate phone calls. You never get the lush,thrilling whisper of danger out of your ear. Bruises heal, bills get paid orforgotten but that hint of peril tickles you and you end up here, staring at aphone while the details are meeting up outside, lurking, just waiting to smash inyour door…They never bother to knock or stay around to pick up the pieces. Coveryour ears.B OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO MMMThere goes the door.Chapter 2The details poured through the door before it finished the futile bounce up, aflood of fine pointed print with sharp hats and pointed shoes. The wood splinteredbeneath their onslaught proving that doors are only a social contract and youshould always check the fine print before agreeing to anything. My desk was thenext casualty; they left my chair only so the collected weight of tiny, pointedfeet could force me back into it…their breath didn’t smell like peppermint orginger or pine, but their eyes were red as hard cinnamon candies, their hands ashard as a wax shell, their anger ripping my collar from my shirt…they spoke with1000 flutey, tinkly voices, almost musical and if it hadn’t been so close to adirge of irony, I might have chuckled. Then the leader, he of the tallest,stripiest hat, he (or she) of the hottest cinnamon breath and the cruelest candycane striped eyes, spoke, “Where is it?The laugh was forced out of me by the crazy contrast between sweet piping piccolovoices and burning crazy shiny red pin prick eyes , a window into a collectivemadness more dangerous than thrusting a broken leg into a hornet’s nest with yourhead in a beehive. The laugh saved me; a flood of elf detail poured off my armorof mirth, pooling malevolently on the floor. I grabbed my favorite weapon, thebroom I kept propped behind my desk (people always assume it’s there because Iclean and this is after they’ve seen my office; this tells you everything you needto know about the intellectual caliber of the people who wander into my office.) Iheld the broom out, poised for an aggressive elimination of the situation. One ofthe little buggers, no bigger or quieter than the regular rats you see around here

seemed to be scrabbling around in its pockets for something; usually, this is nota situation I require my reading glasses for but this was a detail heavysituation, with the really fine, agate print of minature agitprop maniacs; Ineeded a magnifying glass and an Abrams tank What I had was a broom + enoughexperience to tell me I should have dived through the window when Danger (youremember her) went out the door.The room went quiet, quickly…I would have looked to see if someone had stepped inbehind me but no save the back of my head from a bat instinct had kicked in — orkicked me. They had clustered together, gathering like droplets; the one in frontstill with hands frantically reaching from pocket to pocket. I shoved the broom inhis/her/its direction and the puff of air knocked a group of them back…But theymoved so fast, like everything they walked on was slicked with ice and oil andfacing downhill; my life was like that some days but never to any advantage.Suddenly, a little piccolo peppermint voice whispered into my ear, from my earlobe, “Did she whistle?”She hadn’t whistled but I certainly screamed…shimmied…shivered…and discoed; anykind of dance to get away from the wintery warm (and I mean icicle cold) breath ofthe details now tugging on my ear. I swatted too — quickly and with the blindaccuracy of never honed animal instincts. My former earring landed on the desk, afew of his little pals clustered around, glaring up at me, eyes an even madder rednow, trying to pull me down to their eye level, but I knew that was only aninvitation to a painful poke and gouging, not my favorite waltz. ”The whistle, thewhistle…did she have it; did she try it…did you see it?” A mad a cappella, ahcacophony of a choir that should have been echoing around a dollhouse gingerbreadcathedral…instead there it was bouncing up to only a dog can hear levels and thenback down to driving the drilling of a V-10 worth of piercing ill tuned pistonsbetween my ears and my temples levels…”Whistle? Where?”Headache…HEADACHE…head=ACHERaising a finger aside of my nose, still brandishing the broom in the other hand,I “shhhhh” ed as loudly as I could. Still the rabble roused, caroused and groused…Broom still brandished, finger (we won’t mention which) still aside, I WHISTLED.That stopped them (wait for it…yes, amusing myself costs nothing so it’s myfavorite form of recreation — still waiting?); stopped them cold.Come back when I’ve finished laughing ; )Then one landed on my nose…the what’s in the pocket mystery finally solved when Igot pelted in the eye by the brazen interloper running up the curve of my nose,all sharp points digging into my skin…this would be easy if I sneezed — one elvish(surely they were elves and not gnomes, gremlins or hallucinations — I hadn’t hadany eggnog or peppermint schnapps, it was the day before the night beforeChristmas and I was busy, busy busy being rude)…where were we? One elvish schmearacross the opposite wall if I sneezed. Spread on gingerbread man. You were warnedabout the rude; I’m tired, there’s an elf tapdancing his way up my nose and I’mguessing a visit from the Mrs. doesn’t grant automatic placement on the nice list.I let my attention wander, rookie mistake; I paid for it with one right betweenthe eyes. Nose itching, eyes watering and elf waving a white handkerchief forparley like he’d rather carve out my eye with it. I sat, quickly. And reached forthe hard cider. I guess we were going to talk. Maybe I could convince theChristmas Cacophony to wait outside while I talked to Mr. Nose Walker here…and wewere going to talk. Somebody was going to answer all the questions I had. Whetherhe liked it or not. Naughty, nice…never matters to me. I’m not Mr. Holly Jolly.What I want is informative, cowardly, very bad shot, drunk and leaving…If I sharedthe hard cider, maybe I could get the last two. I flicked him off my nose, he did