was particularly proud of the gift he had “purchased” for Grover, his six-year-old grandnephew. A fire truck, complete with siren, flashing lights and a hose that squirted water. Grover had admired it on an earlier trip to the mall, and had even asked George to get it for him. Of course, he didn’t realize he was asking his uncle. He was sitting on his lap at the mall when the request was made. George had given him a candy cane, patted him on the head, and promised him that he would grant his wish if he would be a good boy for the next four weeks. This, he knew, would be a daunting task for Grover, but the incentive was great enough to give it a try. Grover swallowed hard and nodded, but the look in his eyes told George that he was hoping Santa would be too busy to keep tabs on him. A chip off the old block, George noted fondly as he watched him walk away. He determined he would get the fire truck. It was the least he could do for his favorite relative.
It was a week before Christmas. George had stolen enough wrapping paper to take care of all the gifts. He had completed the task of wrapping and tagging, and had carefully stored the gifts under his bed where they would stay until Christmas Eve. He fixed a glass of eggnog, fortified it with a touch of rum, and kicked off his shoes. The TV was showing A Christmas Carol , one of the many versions of Dickens’ classic, starring Albert Finney. In George’s mind, it was the best of the lot. He settled back in his recliner, avoiding the broken spring. Some day he would buy a new chair, since it was impossible, even for a man of his talent, to shoplift one.
Christmas Future had just exited, leaving a transformed Scrooge to dance around in his nightgown, when the doorbell rang. George sighed and stood up. Glancing at the TV as he walked to the door, he opened it to see a total stranger standing on the other side.
“Mister Grimes?” the man said.
George studied the man a moment before answering. Medium build, ordinary face, brown short-cropped hair, he wouldn’t draw a second look in a crowd. Yet he looked vaguely familiar.
“Who are you?” George replied. “What do you want?”
“My name is Pierce. Stanley Pierce. May I come in?”
“Not until you tell me what you want,” George growled.
“Of course,” Pierce said amiably. “It concerns your job at the mall. Santa.”
“What about it?”
“Please, sir,” Pierce said in a low voice. “It would be better if we talked inside. I don’t think you would want the neighbors to hear what I have to say.”
George scowled at the man, then stepped aside and let him in.
“This better be good,” he said.
Pierce surveyed the room with a hint of disapproval, but said nothing. Gesturing toward a chair, he said, “May I?”
“Yeah. Go ahead. Sit.”
Pierce sat down gingerly, as if the chair contained snakes, surveyed the room a second time, his eyes finally settling on George. “This is a matter of utmost importance,” he said.
George returned the man’s gaze but said nothing. He had learned that silence was a virtue for a man in his profession.
“How should I start?” Pierce asked. Then, before George could speak, he went on. “I’m an employee of Holman’s Mall. Security.”
The word startled George and he sat up straight.
“When you were hired, I did a background check,” Pierce went on. “Routine, you know.” He took a paper from his pocket, unfolded it and studied it through his bifocals. “In 1979 you were convicted of shoplifting in Santa Fe, and served thirty days.” He glanced at George with an apologetic smile. George met his gaze in silence.
Pierce cleared his throat and went on. “In 1984 you were charged with petty larceny—shoplifting—in Phoenix. The charges were dropped when you made restitution.” Another smile, less apologetic. “These charges raised a red flag, and I decided to keep an eye on you.”
George shifted in his chair and scowled at Pierce. “That was a
It was a week before Christmas. George had stolen enough wrapping paper to take care of all the gifts. He had completed the task of wrapping and tagging, and had carefully stored the gifts under his bed where they would stay until Christmas Eve. He fixed a glass of eggnog, fortified it with a touch of rum, and kicked off his shoes. The TV was showing A Christmas Carol , one of the many versions of Dickens’ classic, starring Albert Finney. In George’s mind, it was the best of the lot. He settled back in his recliner, avoiding the broken spring. Some day he would buy a new chair, since it was impossible, even for a man of his talent, to shoplift one.
Christmas Future had just exited, leaving a transformed Scrooge to dance around in his nightgown, when the doorbell rang. George sighed and stood up. Glancing at the TV as he walked to the door, he opened it to see a total stranger standing on the other side.
“Mister Grimes?” the man said.
George studied the man a moment before answering. Medium build, ordinary face, brown short-cropped hair, he wouldn’t draw a second look in a crowd. Yet he looked vaguely familiar.
“Who are you?” George replied. “What do you want?”
“My name is Pierce. Stanley Pierce. May I come in?”
“Not until you tell me what you want,” George growled.
“Of course,” Pierce said amiably. “It concerns your job at the mall. Santa.”
“What about it?”
“Please, sir,” Pierce said in a low voice. “It would be better if we talked inside. I don’t think you would want the neighbors to hear what I have to say.”
George scowled at the man, then stepped aside and let him in.
“This better be good,” he said.
Pierce surveyed the room with a hint of disapproval, but said nothing. Gesturing toward a chair, he said, “May I?”
“Yeah. Go ahead. Sit.”
Pierce sat down gingerly, as if the chair contained snakes, surveyed the room a second time, his eyes finally settling on George. “This is a matter of utmost importance,” he said.
George returned the man’s gaze but said nothing. He had learned that silence was a virtue for a man in his profession.
“How should I start?” Pierce asked. Then, before George could speak, he went on. “I’m an employee of Holman’s Mall. Security.”
The word startled George and he sat up straight.
“When you were hired, I did a background check,” Pierce went on. “Routine, you know.” He took a paper from his pocket, unfolded it and studied it through his bifocals. “In 1979 you were convicted of shoplifting in Santa Fe, and served thirty days.” He glanced at George with an apologetic smile. George met his gaze in silence.
Pierce cleared his throat and went on. “In 1984 you were charged with petty larceny—shoplifting—in Phoenix. The charges were dropped when you made restitution.” Another smile, less apologetic. “These charges raised a red flag, and I decided to keep an eye on you.”
George shifted in his chair and scowled at Pierce. “That was a
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