Kasey Michaels: High Heels and Holidays

Well, that wasn't making any sense. "So the manuscript was in your office before even Francis was murdered, let alone Jonathan? And you told him you liked it so far, also before Francis and Jonathan were killed."

"Yes, I think I already heard something like that somewhere. And you need to know this why?"

Maggie put out her hands, waved off the question. "God, I wish Alex was here—not that I'd ever tell him that, because he'd never let me forget it. But I think—yes, I'm pretty sure I'm heading in the right direction. You have to do me a favor, Bernie. No, two favors, okay? One, do what I'm going to ask you to do—and two, don't ask me why I'm asking you to do it." She took a deep breath and said the words quickly as she exhaled: "I need you to call Bruce and tell him his manuscript stinks. And that's just for starters ..."

"I'm so sorry, Saint Just," Sterling said, breathlessly skidding to a halt on the sidewalk near the headquarters of Santas for Silver. "Brock was proving most uncooperative and all of that, and I barely had time to leave him with Socks before I donned my Father Christmas suit and met George and Vernon at the corner. I believe Socks requires a bit of remuneration, by the way. At least he was holding his hand out to me, palm up, as I raced by him."

"Not a problem, Sterling," Saint Just told him, nodding greetings to the Merry Men. "George, how nice of you to carry Sterling's chimney for him."

"Uh-huh. You said you wouldn't need us for very long today, Alex. Is that true? These costumes rent by the day, you know, so if we can get them back before one o'clock that would be solid."

"Right," Vernon echoed, looking past Saint Just to the two very large gentlemen standing about ten feet behind him. "Hey, I think I know one of those guys. Wow, that's Tony Three Cases. Geo, you know who I mean. Tony Three Cases. Right over there—look. No, don't look! Oh, okay, look, but don't make it obvious. He walked away with three whole big cases of cigarette cartons from that trailer a bunch of guys boosted in Queens a few years back. Wouldn't drop the cases and run, even when he heard the sirens. Just kept his cool, kept on moving down the sidewalk carrying these three big cases, and the dumb cops figured he had to be legit and just drove right past him." Vernon reverently lowered his voice. "Tony Three Cases. He's a legend, Georgie-boy. We're in the presence of a freaking legend."

Saint Just smiled in genuine amusement. "You are such an endless fountain of delightful information, Vernon," he said. "However, for today, I'm afraid you must also reconcile yourself to forgetting that you've seen the gentleman and his friend."

Vernon looked ready to weep. "But ... but I was going to ask for his autograph."

"Saint Just? You look quite serious. Is something amiss? Why did you want to meet with us here? And who are those two men?"

"No one for you to concern yourself about, Sterling. You do trust me, don't you?"

Sterling drew himself up very straight. "I'm insulted that you would even broach such a question to me, Saint Just. Of course I trust you."

"Ah, splendid. In that case, what I need you to do is to come inside Santas for Silver headquarters with me—you, too, boys—and stand flanking Sterling a few feet inside the front door while I conduct some business with Mr. Goodfellow."

"Business? I don't—"

"Shhh, Sterling, I'm not quite finished. While you three are standing there, looking just as splendidly festive as you do now, my other friends will stand behind you looking, er, looking as festive as they know how to look, I suppose. Mr. Goodfellow and I will adjourn to his office for a few minutes, no longer than a few minutes, I'm sure, and then we will be on our way again, everyone back to their own individual pursuits. Is that clear?"

"No, Saint Just, it most certainly is not. But I've learned not to question you. There's something unpleasant afoot, though, isn't there? Something with Mr. Goodfellow ... something with Santas for Silver. Oh, Saint Just, please don't tell me he's decided to terminate my association with Santas for Silver because of that ruined costume! I've offered to pay for it, I really did, and—"

"This has nothing to do with your costume, Sterling," Saint Just told him, and then shook his head. He was so new at this—this thinking more of others than he did of himself, the investigation of the moment, the pleasures of the moment. All this evolving, this business of becoming more real, more attuned to the emotions of others? Being mortal wasn't easy. Worth every problem, absolutely—but never easy. "Must I tell you the truth, my friend? I will, if you insist."

"No, of course not, Saint Just. I've never questioned you before, have I?"

"We're both expanding our horizons, the parameters Maggie set for us, aren't we? Yes, well, another discussion for another time. Are you ready?"

"At all times, Saint Just," Sterling said, adjusting his beard, which had begun to sag slightly. "Lead on, MacDuff!"

Saint Just longed to grab his friend's head, remove the red velvet cap and wig, and plant a kiss on the fellow's balding pate. "The entire quote, Sterling, is 'Lay on, MacDuff, and damn'd be him that first cries, Hold, enough!' and has to do with Macbeth's last words, shouted out as he challenged MacDuff to a fight to the death. I hardly think the quote fits the occasion, but I know the sentiment is there."

Sterling frowned. "It's not lead on, MacDuff? Well, now, why did I think it was, I wonder."

"I believe, Sterling, that is because Maggie says lead. It is my conclusion that it's an American corruption of the immortal bard's words. This is, after all, a country that spells light 'l-i-t-e.' " Saint Just halted just at the edge of the large window that made up the front of Santas for Silver, and peeked inside. "Ah, and here we are, and there is Mr. Goodfellow, not in his office, but being extremely friendly with Miss McDermont. How convenient. Come along now please, gentlemen—you all know what you are to do."

"Not really, Saint Just," Sterling pointed out as Tony held open the door for them and Gino remained on the sidewalk, glaring at passersby until everyone was safely inside the building, before joining them. They were, as Saint Just felt sure Maggie would term them, goons, but they were very well-trained goons.

He and Tony did have a small conversation before Sterling had arrived, one that had to do with the way Saint Just had "made us look bad to Mr. Campiano," and Saint Just had offered his profound apologies before inviting both men to "take another turn at him" if they so desired—get some of their own back, as it were. "I had the element of surprise riding with me, gentlemen, but I am convinced I could not be so successful again."

Tony had declined Saint Just's invitation, if Saint Just would only tell him where he had procured the sword cane, because he was fairly certain he'd look good carrying one himself, to which Saint Just had agreed that the bodyguard would look fine as ninepence ... to which Tony had said, looking at Gino, "Hear that? Ninepence? Didn't I tell you he's one of them aliens?"

Smiling at the recent memory, and still faintly puzzled as to why he'd offered to teach Tony how to use the sword stick to its best advantage, Saint Just assured himself that his cast of characters was in place behind him before he lightly tapped his cane on the floor and politely cleared his throat.

Marjorie McDermont reacted first, pushing away from Goodfellow with some alacrity and pulling down her tight black sweater. "Thank ... um ... thank you, sir. I believe the eyelash is out of my eye now," she said, and then, her eyes wide as she looked at Tony and Gino, she bent down to pick up her purse. "I think I'll go down to the corner to get some coffee."