Warren Murphy: Shooting Schedule

"Look, friend, I have eighty-seven thousand homes to get to by Sunday night. If you won't cooperate I'll just have to mark this house down as 'Naughty.' Thanks for your time." Remo turned to go.

The doors suddenly banged open and the moon-faced man lumbered out. He wasn't wearing a Santa suit. He looked twenty-eight. Going on twelve.

"No, no, wait!" he pleaded. "Come in. Please. I'll talk to you. I will."

Remo shrugged. "Okay." He followed the man in. Remo decided that he tipped the scales at nearly three hundred pounds. Almost none of it muscle. The guy's stomach flopped over his rope belt like a glob of marshmallow fluff. He had enough chins to distribute among the Jackson family and still have one left for himself.

And as Rema followed him into a cheerful if unkempt living room, he noticed that the guy's upper thighs rubbed together. He was wearing corduroy, and the sound was loud enough to frighten mice.

"Please sit down," the fat man said. "My name is Henry. Are you thirsty? Would you like hot chocolate?" His voice was pathetically eager to please.

"No, thanks," Remo said distractedly, looking around the room. "I'd only melt."

The living room lacked the usual Christmas decorations of the season. There was no tree. No stockings hung above the sullen fireplace logs. But in one corner stood a three-foot-tall plastic reindeer. It was plugged into a wall socket. It glowed faintly. The nose burned a cherry red. It belonged on a lawn.

"Rudolph?" Remo asked.

"Don't you recognize him?" Henry asked in an injured voice.

"Just checking," Remo said. "Now, let's get down to business. I have a report that someone in this house has been naughty."

"It wasn't me!" Henry shrieked.

A querulous voice called from another room. "Go to bed, Henry."

"I will, Mother. When I'm done talking with Frosty."

"Go to bed now!" a male voice bellowed.

"Yes, sir.... I gotta go to bed. Vincent says."

"This will only take a minute," Remo said. He noticed that his arms were melting. He felt cold watery fingers crawling down inside his T-shirt. Remo figured he had five minutes to get the answers he wanted. The rest would be easy.

"Okay," Henry said, quietly closing the door. Remo put his hand on Henry's trembling shoulder.

"Henry, is it true?" he asked.

Henry looked away. His eyes sought the plastic reindeer. "Is what true?" he asked evasively.

"Don't beat around the Christmas tree," Remo growled. He was staring into Henry's twisting face. The mouth belonged to Santa Claus. There was no mistaking that. So did the personal scent, an equal mixture of Ivory soap and underarm deodorant. It was hard to match Henry's whining voice to the sinister "Ho ho ho," Remo had heard, but there could be no mistake. "We know you're the one," Remo said flatly. "The one who's been killing little kids."

"I ... I had to," Henry said miserably.

Remo grabbed him by the shoulders. "Why, for God's sake?" he demanded angrily. "They were only kids."

"He told me to," Henry blubbered.

Remo looked. Henry pointed to the plastic Rudolph. Its flat white-and-black eyes stared back innocently. The nose flickered.

"Rudolph?" Remo asked.

"He made me do it."

"Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer made you cut off the heads of seven little children. Why?"

"So they wouldn't be sad. Like me."

"Sad?"

"Vincent said there was no Santa Claus. I didn't believe him at first, but Mommy said-it was so."

"Who's Vincent?"

"My stepfather. My real father ran away. Vincent said it was because I was a retard, but Mommy hit Vincent when he said it, so I guess it's not true."

"Why did this happen?" Remo felt all his anger drain out of him. The big oaf was retarded.

"After Thanksgiving. I asked him how come we didn't have a tree. Vincent said we didn't need one."

"Keep talking. I still want to know why."

"Well, I didn't want any little kids to be hurt," Henry said, twisting his sausagelike fingers. "And Rudolph said that if a little kid died before he found out there wasn't any Santa, he would always be happy and go to heaven. But if he grew up, then he would go to hell when he died and burn forever. Like bacon."

"You killed them so they wouldn't find out there wasn't any Santa Claus?" Remo asked incredulously. "Yes, sir, Mr. Frosty. Did Vincent lie?"

Remo sucked in a hot breath. It was a long moment before he answered.

"Yes, Henry," Remo said quietly. "Vincent lied."

"I'm the one who's going to burn in hell, aren't I?" Remo answered the question without hesitating. "No, Henry. You're going to heaven. Are you ready?"

"Can I say good-bye to Rudolph?"

"No, there's no time. Just close your eyes."

"Okay." Henry obediently closed his eyes. His face squinched up and his knees knocked together. He looked so pitiful that Remo almost changed his mind. But then he remembered the news clippings of the headless children under the trees and the pathetically regretful quotes of the parents who had found them. And he remembered his own empty childhood.

Remo stepped up to Henry and with a two-fingered blow struck the padded spot over his heart.

Henry fell backward like a refrigerator. The house shook. The querulous, sexless voice called again. "Henry, go to sleep!"

It was joined by a male bellow. Vincent. "You control that idiot of yours or I'm going back to Sandra." Remo looked down at the fat man's face; It was peaceful. There was a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. The smile only made Remo angry. He had wanted to kill the guy slowly and painfully. He wanted him to suffer for all the suffering he had caused. He felt cheated. The Santa Claus killer was dead, and he felt no sense of accomplishment or victory. He felt nothing. Just as he felt every Christmas of his life.

He wondered if maybe he should do Vincent. Then the sexless voice was shouting again.

"Henry, if I don't hear your snoring in five seconds, I'll turn you in to the police for driving without a license. I'll put you in jail. Do you hear me? Jail!"

Remo decided that Vincent would suffer a lot more if he let him live. He walked out of the house and hotwired the Christmas-red car. He drove north to Boston and Logan Airport.

Just when the snow looked like it would fall forever, like salt onto a raw wound, it stopped.

"Sometimes I hate this job," Remo muttered into the night. "Especially this time of year."

On the flight back to New York, he hoped someone would try to hijack the plane. But no one did. Maybe when he got back, Upstairs would have a decent assignment for a change. Something big, worthy of his talents. And bloody.

He was going to get his wish.

Chapter 3

Bartholomew Bronzini was doing wrist curls in his private gym when the gym telephone whirred. Bronzini did another few reps with his left arm before he answered it. He took pride in his daily regimen of exercise. And he always gave his left side more exercise because he knew that right-handed persons developed larger muscles on the right side. Bronzini had worked out a compensating regimen so that he had nearly perfect muscular symmetry.

Bronzini scooped up the phone as he toweled off his pees. They gleamed as if greased.

"Yo!" he said briskly.

"Bart, baby, que pasa?" It was Shawn. His agent.

"What's the word?"

"Our Japanese compadres just Fedexed me the script. It looks great."

"Did they change much?"

"How do I know? I haven't read it."

"You just said it looked great."

"It does. You should see this binder. Looks like Spanish leather or something. And the pages are get this-hand-lettered. Looks like-what do they call it?-calligraphy. "

Bronzini sighed. He should have known better than to ask. Nobody in Hollywood read scripts if they could help it. They made deals and hoped for the best.