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Saint Nicked
    By Herschel Cozine
    George took the job as Santa Claus for the Holman Mall in spite of the pay—minimum wage, with two thirty-minute, unpaid breaks a day. He fit the part: short, overweight, in his sixties. A fake beard and square glasses, along with the red suit with faux fur, made him a perfect Santa. And the work was easy, mostly sitting, posing for the camera while kids of all ages climbed on his knee and screamed for their mothers. The candy cane he gave them usually quieted them down, but there were always a few in the course of a day who made him wish he had chosen another line of work.
    George didn’t take the job for the money, of course, or for the privilege of giving out candy canes to ungrateful, squalling kids. The reason was simple—it was the perfect cover for his line of work. George was a shoplifter.
    During his breaks, George was free to go into any shop without being questioned or scrutinized by clerks or security. He was met with friendly smiles, a season greeting, and a wave of the hand. There is something about a Santa Claus suit that elicits trust. Santa Claus is beloved by all, no matter who is in the suit.
    And the bag he carried made it easy to store items he would never be able to take otherwise. He had quick hands, a requirement for his profession. With a flick of the hand an item was transferred from the display case to his coat pocket. The size of the loot had to be within the limits of his pocket. Even with loose-fitting shirts and coats, the booty could not be too large, or the telltale bulge could result in an arrest. He had learned this the hard way years ago. But now, with the bag, he was able to walk away with larger, more desirable merchandise.
    So George, the shoplifting Santa, was happy in his work—at least the part where he wasn’t dealing with kids and parents. His only regret was that he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Just think of the money he could have saved on Christmas presents over the years. Well, this year he would be more than generous with his gift giving. Unmarried, he nevertheless had siblings, nephews, nieces, and an aged father to buy for. He might even throw in a watch or apron for his landlady. The old witch could use some softening up. She was threatening to raise the rent, and George would have to look for another place to live if she did. He was not a wealthy man. Shoplifting didn’t pay the rent.
    The first few days on the job, George limited his break time to “casing the joint.” That way the clerks and security personnel would become accustomed to his presence and leave him to his nefarious activity. And, as Christmas neared, the stores became more crowded, offering him further protection from unwanted prying eyes.
    His first foray was at Penney’s. In the course of ten minutes he had appropriated a pair of Deerfoam slippers, (size 10, his father’s size), two packages of socks, and a necktie for his younger brother. He ambled out of the store with his sack over his shoulder, waved cheerfully to the clerk behind the men’s clothing counter and wished him a “Merry Christmas.” He ignored the man in the dark suit who was dutifully studying the hosiery rack, pretending to be a customer. Gilbert, longtime security man for Penney’s, stood out like a sore thumb. George had developed an instinct over the years to spot and avoid men like Gilbert.
    At Macy’s, George visited the cookware department where he found a set of carving knives. He looked up and down the aisle. An older couple was engaged in a spirited conversation, apparently over which frying pan to buy. A few feet in the other direction was a man busily talking on a cell phone. George smiled at the irony of it. Cell phones keep one connected to a far away voice, while isolating him from someone standing a few feet away. With a deft sleight of hand, George became the owner of the knives.
    By the end of his second week on the job, George had gifts for everyone in the family. He