ONE YEAR LATER at ‘Santa’s Village’ in Santa Monica, music was playing the cheery song: It’s Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas, and in the background was a large house with two smaller ones, all lit up with Christmas lights with a mechanical reindeer merrily moving back and forth. In the larger candy cane cottage house, a sign hung over the door that read: ‘SANTA’S HOUSE’, and below it on the doorstep was a curious little elf lying on the ground, face down in the snow, surrounded by a pool of dark red blood.
Mrs. Claus and two other fake elves were standing to one side of the body, apparently overwhelmed by the frightful horror of it. In the meantime, Santa was being hand-cuffed and read his rights by an L.A.P.D. Detective, back dropped by red and blue flashing lights emanating from his squad car.
Crime Lab personnel and police were all over the crime scene while people and passersby gathered behind the yellow-striped police tape barrier gaping hungrily to get a glimpse of the bloody corpse.
Harry Giles, 36, a brown wavy haired good-looking guy with mustache came on the scene wearing a stylish gray-tweed sports jacket. He casually ducked under the tape and strolled over to Lieutenant Detective Frank Johns, a stout man in his forties, in a blue flack-vest. Johns eyed Harry warily, but most other cops there seemed to know Harry and nodded affably when he slipped under the tape barrier.
“Hey, Frank, what’s the story?” Harry inquired cheerily.
“Hell of a thing,” said Frank. “I guess Santa had a bad day.”
“Not as bad as the elf,” Harry chuckled, watching as they placed the arrested Santa in the back seat of a police car.
“Which one you working for?” probed the Lieutenant.
Harry said nothing, only grinned.
Lt. Johns laughed, “Unless you just came to tell the fat man what you wanted for Christmas!” he added, challenging Harry to lie.
“Santa hired me,” replied Harry. “The elf was banging his wife.”
The Lieutenant gaped at him, “The elf was banging Mrs. Claus?”
“Not Mrs. Claus...The guy’s real wife!”
The Lieutenant shook his head in disbelief, while Harry patted him comfortingly on the shoulder, then turned to leave.
“Love to stay and untangle it for you, but I have a plane to catch,” Giles said.
“Where you going?”
“Vegas.”
“I thought you quit gambling?”
“It’s only gambling if you lose,” Giles quipped confidently.
He ducked back under the barricade tape then remembered something and turned back to Johns.
“When you talk to Santa, remind him he still owes me a grand.”
“Hell, he’s not going to pay you. He needs money for an attorney now, not a private investigator.”
“Oh, Santa’ll pay...” Harry retorted, holding up an envelope, “because this is going to help him beat the rap!”
Lt. Johns reached for the envelope, but Giles swiftly pulled back.
“Privileged information!” Harry fired back.
“Not if it’s going to help him!” Johns said, quickly snatching the envelope back and ripping it open.
“It’s goddamn empty!” the cop said annoyed.
“I know,” laughed Harry, “but it’s going to cost Santa a thousand dollars to find that out.”
Lt. Johns grinned knowingly, “You’re a devious sonovabitch, Giles!”
Harry laughed and walked away, “So long, Frank. It’s going to be a great
Christmas!”
