The Fat Man (17 page)

As bad as the screams were, the racket of downtown Pottersville was worse. Uncle Billy turned a corner onto Potter Avenue to a jangle of loud music, yelling and car horns. Everywhere you looked, neon lights screamed empty promises of pleasure, like
Dance of the Sugarplum Starlets, Ice Cold Holiday Cheer and Beer, Mistletoe After Dark
. Pottersville citizenry rumbled through the streets looking for a fight or just coming from one. Your ears couldn’t go a second without hearing a threat shouted across the sidewalk or the crack of fists and bones. The mob was a hurricane, tornado and flash fire all rolled up into one, spitting out little dark clouds of trouble to picnic on each other. I could feel the anger in my soul like a tribal drum. I could taste blood. If Santa died, I could survive here, I thought.

Then, I hated myself for thinking all over again.

As tough as the rabble on the street was, they made a path for Uncle Billy. Holding me like a football, Uncle Billy chugged through the crowd like the loco locomotive he was. The criminal class gave me the stink eye as we hustled by and, had I not been in the company of the town’s nut uncle, I most certainly would have been fertilizing Potter’s Field. But even the toughest hombres backed away from Uncle Billy. He was Potter’s pet, dangerous as a rumba in a minefield. I was between a rock and a hard place, and it was about to get even less cozy. Uncle Billy pulled me close and opened the door to Potter’s.

As soon as the door closed behind us, the ruckus of Pottersville switched off like a light. Potter’s sanctuary had walls as thick as mountains, and the windows and doors must have been just as hardy because inside you couldn’t hear a thing except the ticking of a slow clock somewhere. The floors were marble and walls paneled with huge slabs of dark, fancy woodwork. It reminded me of a coffin.

“What are you doing here?” Uncle Billy asked me. I touched one of the strings tied around his fingers and said, “You brought me to see Potter.”

Uncle Billy smiled like an idiot. “So I did! So I did,” he said and shuffled over to a set of doors just off the foyer. He turned back and grinned at me again and I felt my neck get clammy. Uncle Billy then pushed open the doors and there was Potter.

Dead.

Didn’t see that coming. Where’s Rudolph when you need him?

CHAPTER 19

P
otter’s body was heaped on the floor like a pile of laundry. The wheelchair beside him was empty and eerie. The whole scene was about as charming as the mumps, but I didn’t turn away until I heard the voice behind me.

“I see a vacant seat. A chair without an owner, carefully preserved.”

I turned to see a sight that could only be seen in a place like Pottersville—Not So Tiny Tim.

The place across the bridge from Kringle Town warps everything and, in Pottersville, Tiny Tim was a hulking hunchback, a monster carrying a big stick. He limped toward me, dragging a bum leg and leaning on a crutch that looked like it could turn the Ten Commandments into gravel. He smiled like he had just burned down a church. “Gumdrop Coal,” he said. “Welcome to the winter of our discontent.”

“Tim, what are you doing?” I stammered. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, I think you know, sir,” Not So Tiny Tim said. “You said as much on the boat a few days ago. You just had no idea how far things had progressed.”

The memory of the boat ride to Misfit Isle roared back into my brain. I remembered how I had teased Tim about being too nice for his own good, how he should use that crutch of his to clean a few clocks. I thought the little guy went quiet because of modesty. Now I knew that Tiny had crossed the bridge into Pottersville and turned into big trouble.

Not So Tiny Tim saw the light go on in my brain and decided it was time to get down to business. “Billy,” he said, “Mr. Coal and I need to talk alone. I assume you were able to finish your assignment?”

A wide, sick grin burst out of Uncle Billy’s face and he shook his head “yes” like it wasn’t fully connected. “I did indeed,” he said. “I did indeed. No worries there.”

“Very well,” Not So Tiny said. “Then you will find a bottle and a booth waiting for you at Nick’s, Billy. With my compliments.”

Uncle Billy was too excited to speak. He gave a quick little bow and hustled out the door without giving me another thought.

“I saw old Sherlock Stetson out there in the graveyard. Or what’s left of him,” I said. “Is that what earned Uncle Billy your compliments?”

“I’m afraid so,” Not So Tiny Tim said. “The Misfit detective chose the wrong time to actually solve a mystery. I could not let him disrupt our plans.”

“So am I next?”

“That, Gumdrop Coal, is entirely up to you,” Not So Tiny Tim said. “However, based on the wisdom you shared with my good version back in Kringle Town, I hoped to compel you to follow your own advice and join us here in Pottersville.”

“Why would I want to do that?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“To redefine the meaning of Christmas,” Not So Tiny Tim hissed. “Gumdrop, you should be proud of the beating you gave Raymond Hall and that other rabble. You discovered the justice of practical thought and swift, appropriate action. My hope is that you have finally purged yourself of Kringle Town’s diet of sentimental hogwash and will now savor a feast of power and influence that is served when you view the world as hopeless as it really is. Christmas should reflect that hopelessness and focus instead on getting what you deserve. And when the Fat Man is out of the way, we can do just that!”

Panic ripped through my gut like a bad burrito. “Tim, you don’t mean that. Let’s go back to Kringle Town, where you can get right again.”

“Pish-posh, Gumdrop,” Not So Tiny Tim said. “This is where I belong and so do you. In Kringle Town, Tiny Tim is a boring, pathetic Boy Scout who limps through the holiday pageant like vanilla eggnog. Potter gave me a talking-to a while back and pointed out that as a sinner, Uncle Scrooge was interesting, rich and respected. When he changes, the story is over. As Tiny Tim, I was tolerated, but only barely so. Following Potter, I crossed the bridge a few times to see if it was true. Every time I did, I grew up to the powerful man you see before you. Now, I command power. Furthermore, I believe you agree with our philosophy or you would have chosen to think that the goodness and kindness reflected by others would eventually influence and change the naughty. Instead, you chose—correctly, I might add—to beat them black-and-blue.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” I said. “I made a mistake.”

Not So Tiny Tim barked. “What you felt was instinct, natural. Those who can’t behave must be punished. Those with the spleen and strength to punish earn the power to rule. You have that strength, Coal. The Coal Patrol is a perfect example. You just didn’t carry it to its full course until you made an example of Raymond Hall.”

“But I didn’t kill Raymond,” I said.

“So join us and learn how to finish the job,” Not So Tiny Tim said. He shuffled over and opened the door to the ugly street. “This is your world, Gumdrop. These people would respect your ability. It’s why you belong here.”

Outside, the mob had formed a circle around two reindeer. The bucks were sharpening their antlers to deadly points, preparing for a bloody fight to the end. The crowd screamed bets to each other and waved wadded bills in the air. There was nothing like this in Kringle Town. I was taking it all in, when it hit me.

“
Us?
” I asked.

The hunchback turned and smiled. “Potter encouraged me to cross the bridge, promising me the attention and respect I deserved. But the old man did not thirst for power like I did. He did not know what it felt like to be a crippled child passed by Christmas’s hustle and bustle. Limping and twisted, I could not hope to keep up while others pursued the perfect holiday, with Santa bestowing perfect gifts.”

“So Potter was given the powder?”

“Precisely,” Not So Tiny Tim said. “He did not have the proper motivation to crush Santa and the Christmas spirit completely. But someone else did. And I think you do, too. Your cravings for justice proved you would be a worthy partner. But when you did not kill Raymond, we needed a reason for you to seek asylum here. So naughty Raymond Hall got decked. A small sacrifice to call a lost sheep into the fold.”

I felt like I was going to faint or be sick, or both. On one hand, I had been played like a toy piano. On the other, maybe the big hoss was right. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. The world was going to heck in a hand-cart no matter what Santa did. I just didn’t know if I wanted Not So Tiny Tim to be right. “Who’s your partner?” I asked.

“Gumdrop, who else shares my affection for twisted ugliness?” Not So Tiny Tim asked with a big grin. “Who else believes the mean and the horrible should enjoy their rightful place in this world? Who has been cast aside? Forgotten? Looked on as useless trash?”

I knew. “The Misfits,” I said. I felt like the saddest guy on earth. I didn’t just need to sit down. I wanted to lie down in a hole and never get up again.

“I can’t say that I blame them. Not after the way Santa treated them.”

“So Sherlock Stetson was right,” I said. “There really is a Misfit Mafia.”

Not So Tiny Tim made a face that indicated that Sherlock Stetson was spilt milk. “Sherlock Stetson couldn’t find water if he fell out of a boat,” he said. “There is no true Misfit Mafia. Just me and a few Misfits with a brilliant idea. Sherlock would have never had a clue of our enterprise had he not been married to the Misfit master-mind.”

“Zsa Zsa’s your partner?” I asked. I knew the answer, but I hoped I was wrong.

“A brilliant doll,” Not So Tiny Tim said with true appreciation. “Santa underestimated her, which was his first mistake. Banishing her was his second. Once Potter brought us together, we became a force that cannot be stopped.”

“So you’re going to make the world even more miserable by dumping a bunch of Misfit Toys into it,” I said. “Zsa Zsa and the Misfits get their revenge on Santa, and you are going to make the good kids feel forgotten because good as gold Tiny Tim was given the short end of the stick.”

“See how easily that came to you?” Not So Tiny Tim said. “You are precisely right, Gumdrop.”

“You’ll excuse me if I look for the knife while you pat me on the back,” I said. “I still don’t know why I was dragged into all of this.”

“Don’t trouble yourself too much, Gumdrop,” Not So Tiny Tim said. “It’s a little more complicated. As long as the Coal Patrol was operating, there was always the chance that children would return to obedience and prolong the supposed need for being overly good. You should be commended for teaching children to show proper respect, but to try and motivate them to be good and nice continues to justify the need for a Santa Claus and foils our plans. The only one that could sell the idea of firing you was Candy Cane. For reasons that escape me, Santa was fond of that elf and could easily be influenced by him. So Zsa Zsa and I convinced Cane to have you fired, disband the Coal Patrol, and convince Santa to give toys to every child, naughty or nice. The increased production would weaken Santa’s fortitude and compromise the quality of the toys.”

“Creating more Misfits,” I said.

Not So Tiny Tim smiled like he just heard a grandmother get hit by a bus. “Misfit Toys would be delivered to children all around the world, flooding Christmas morn with tears and anguish. And as time went on, people would start to take on the traits of their playthings and become twisted, angry and sick—just like that crowd outside! Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It’s a peach,” I said.

“The icing on a very sour cake,” Tim said, turning to me, “was that one of Santa’s own helpers started getting slaphappy with the believers, darkening everyone’s view of Santa. However, since you seemed somewhat reluctant to carry through to the best conclusion—and since your guilt would leave Santa no choice but to forsake you—Zsa Zsa gave Raymond Hall the punishment you could not. Whether you ran to us for safety, or were caught by Santa, Gumdrop Coal, you have advanced our cause considerably.”

Not So Tiny Tim was right. I could think the worst things possible and suddenly a beautiful, awful idea popped into my head. “The summit at Misfit Isle is a trap for Santa, isn’t it?” I asked.

Not So Tiny Tim’s laugh was hollow and dirty. “My dear Gumdrop. Pardon the pun, but that nagging conscience of yours is such a crutch.”

CHAPTER 20