Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [91]
“Don’t worry about it. It probably wasn’t focused right.”
“Guess so,” Mary said, putting the pictures into her purse. “Shall we get the nuts now or later?”
“Later, Mary, much later.”
Dan Malinowski looked at the clock on the opposite wall and grimaced. Damn that Charlie Roman. No word on the tank. He should have known better than to believe vague reassurances from a loser like him. “I’ll fix his ass,” Dan snorted. He dialed a number at Timberwoods Mall.
“Summers here.”
“Dan Malinowski. You guys still keeping tabs on everyone? Have you seen Charlie Roman?”
Eric didn’t bother to answer the first question, because that was none of Dan’s damn business. “I think he got sent home this morning. Can I help you?”
“Nah, guess not. It can wait. He looked sick when I saw him, but that was about eleven this morning. Guess he couldn’t take it, not even as a walk-around Santa, what with all those kids and that bad cold. I’ll call him next week.”
“Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do?” Eric asked.
“Nah. He was just going to check on that missing propane cylinder for me. But like I said, it can wait.” Dan caught himself, remembering what Charlie had told him about Miguel. “No sweat. Sorry to bother you.”
“No bother,” Eric said, sounding puzzled. Dan hung up the phone. Poor old Charlie. He must’ve been really sick to go home. That was why he hadn’t called about the cylinder. Dan congratulated himself on keeping his word and not getting Miguel into trouble before Christmas. Basically, Dan was all heart, even if some people didn’t seem to know it.
“Damn that Charlie,” Eric mumbled as he pressed a button on the phone. “Hey, it’s Summers. Is Charlie Roman here or did he go home? Get back to me . . . Well, how long? . . . For Christ’s sake, I could run around the mall faster than that . . . Yeah, I know there’s been some accidents . . . No, I don’t want to shovel snow . . . Okay, get back to me.”
Dolph Richards stomped into Eric’s office, a furious look on his face. “Now what the hell do you want?” Eric asked, not bothering to hide his agitation.
“I’ve had it up to here with you, Summers. Do you know how much work I have piled on my desk? Do you know that over the past three days there have been eleven accidents in this damn parking lot? Besides the accidents, we’re fielding a record number of complaints and I don’t know what the hell else—”
“Tell me,” Eric said wearily. “I’m here to help.”
Richards threw his hands up in the air. “You name it. A critically ill kid who wants to see Santa, missing propane—who the hell do they think I am? And you sit there playing games! Move it! Do something!”
“Could you be a little more specific?” Richards scowled. “For starters, you can handle these complaints. The people in question are waiting in my outside office. Right now, I have to go find Santa Claus and arrange for a private sitting for that little girl. Don’t open your mouth, Summers, because if you do I’m going to stick my fist in it!”
“The word from the floor is that Nick is up to his Santa hat in tots, and the line is getting unmanageable,” Eric replied tautly.
“What happened? No assistant? Did that damn elf quit?”
“As a matter of fact, she did.”
“Then get one of the girls from the food court to replace her. And get me a Santa, any Santa. One of the walk-arounds. Not like the kid will know the difference.”
“We’re short there, too. Lex told Charlie Roman to go home. He was sick as a dog.”
“Are you telling me there’s no damn Santa Claus? Is that what you’re telling me?” Richards snarled. “Want to suit up, Summers? Bet you’d look good in red!”
“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you, and no, I can’t play Santa. Not in my job description.”
“Now what?” Richards shouted. “What the hell am I going to tell the kid’s mother?”
“Maybe he’s still here.” Eric wasn’t impressed by the other man’s theatrics, but he didn’t want to disappoint a sick child. “I