Brian Lawrence - Holiday Cheer

Holiday Cheer
by Brian Lawrence

Both men stared at the small package positioned between the half-full beer mug and the nearly full martini glass, a drink sold in Turco’s as often as Harley Davidson T-shirts were sold in Saks Fifth Avenue.

“You gonna open it, Slice?” George Bruder, known as “Lefty” to his few remaining friends, asked.

The gaunt, greasy-haired pimp sitting across from the ex-cop, now private eye, pulled his gaze away from George’s right shoulder, where the right arm used to be but was no more, thanks to a North St. Louis gang member and a Mac-10.

“What’s in it?”

George stirred his martini with the swizzle stick, wishing Turco’s bartender wasn’t so full of holiday cheer. The cranberry stuck on the end of the red plastic rapier didn’t look as appetizing as a green olive.

“Come on, Slice. I got you a little gift. Open it.”

Slice, nicknamed for his habit of cutting his hookers with a pearl-handled switchblade, stared at the package, which measured about four inches long and a couple inches wide. He hefted his mug and sucked down the beer.

George sipped his martini.

Slamming the mug on the acrylic-coated table, Slice shouted, “Candy, get me another beer, and put some ice in it. Jesus, it’s as warm as piss.”

Candy Kane -- at least that was her last name during the month of December -- was a buxom blonde, Turco’s only waitress that night, and a part-time hooker. For the occasion, she was dressed in a sexy Santa suit.

George shook his head. Christ, he was sick of hookers with cutesy names. That was why he was sitting at a filthy table in a North St. Louis hole to begin with.

Slice said something, but “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree”, playing at an obscene volume, drowned out the words.

Merry fucking Christmas, George thought, then his mind drifted to Holly.

Holly Day - every day’s a holiday when you’re with Holly Day -- had been a good friend, and George admitted, a sometimes elixir to take the edge off of being alone. So, when Holly had wound up dead, her throat slashed, her pinkie finger missing, another in a series of murdered hookers with missing digits, of course George had caved in when asked to help. Sweet Liptz -- Liptz was her actual last name, the Sweet came with the job -- a good friend of his and roommate of Holly’s, eyes gushing tears, had begged him to find the killer. The police were useless. They didn’t care about a bunch of murdered hookers. No one cared. Except, of course, for Sweet -- and George.

Holly’s murder fit the modus operandi of the “Finger Killer”, as the media had so cleverly, or so they thought, dubbed the hooker serial killer. Except for one small detail. The finger killer had already collected two pinkies, so a third disrupted the pattern, a pattern known only to the cops, and George. The Major Crime Squad had not released which fingers had been taken in the last four murders, only that one finger was missing like the previous three. George used one of his contacts inside the force, one of his moles, a man named Reynolds who worked in records, and learned of the pattern, though he’d already suspected as much, considering in the first three deaths the killer had taken an index finger, middle finger and ring finger in that order. When the killer had reached the pinkie, he took two in a row, thus reversing his order. Why? No one knew. It’s a sick world.

“Want a cookie?” A pair of white gloves cradling a red tray drifted into George’s view. The smell of gingerbread, and when he looked up, the glint of white teeth framed with rosy dimples and ample breasts spilling from her red Santa suit was nearly too much to resist. But he did, on both accounts.

He picked up the package and flipped it at Slice, then slid out of the booth and eased Candy and her cookies along to the next table.

“Man, what’s got into you?” Slice asked.

“It’s Christmas, Slice. And I got you a special gift. Just open the damn package.”

“All right already.” Slice tore off the red foil wrapping, then opened the lid of the small box.

He shrieked and tossed the box on the table. It fell over. George stared at the pale pinkie he’d found in the pimp’s freezer last night, thinking how much better it had looked attached to Holly Day, and thinking about how good it had felt when tracing a line from his Adam’s apple to his belly button.

Slice growled bringing George’s attention back to the situation. The pimp charged. George side-stepped and executed a sweep kick. Slice fell face first into a card table masquerading as a buffet table.

George pulled Slice’s head out of what he thought was plum pudding, but looked more like runny shit. Slice shook free and swung at George, who easily blocked the roundhouse. He drove the knife-edge of his hand into Slice’s neck, cupped the pimp’s head and brought his own knee up and Slice’s head down where they met with a satisfying thud. He pushed the top of Slice’s head and sent him careening into the jukebox, which groaned to silence, cutting Bing Crosby off mid-dream.

The place went silent, but certainly not holy. Slice slumped to the floor, his chin on his chest. George glared at the semi-conscious man who had introduced him to Holly. No finger killer there, just a loser pimp who got pissed at his whore, killed her, then tried to make it look like someone else had done it. Not such a stupid plan, except he’d cut off the wrong finger, and kept it, either as some sick memento, or out of guilt.

The cook must have dialed the police, for the wail of sirens sounded close. George decided he’d had enough holiday cheer and really didn’t want to do a lot of explaining to his former buddies. Nor did he want to tolerate their sympathetic stares, their averted eyes, or their whisperings about what a promising career he’d had. No thanks. Self-pity was all the pity he needed that night.

He returned to his table, pushed the pinkie into the box with a napkin, grabbed the box, walked over to Slice, who was still groggy, and shoved the box into the pimp’s jacket pocket.

On his way out the door, George whispered to Candy, “Tell the cops to check his jacket.”

She nodded, then lightly brushed his arm with her fingertips. Her sympathy touched him, for she too had been a friend of Holly’s. Again, the temptation to help himself to the goodies was strong, but a wave of guilt pushed the temptation aside. Maybe another night.

He pecked Candy on the cheek, then slipped into the wet, cold darkness to celebrate Christmas alone.

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