The Fat Man_ A Tale of North Pole Noir - Ken Harmon [38]
I could tell Kringle Town was in a dark mood when we found Dingleberry Fizz up to his elbow in the cookie jar. I hope you won’t lose any sleep when I tell you that Santa doesn’t eat all of those cookies you leave for him. He just can’t. First, there’s the whole “Naughty Cholesterol” issue. Second, most of your cookies are inedible, merciless, granite globs of sugar and lard, a kind of cookie jerky whipped up at the last minute before bed. Elves use those cookies for roof shingles and patios. Of the thousands and thousands of good cookies, Santa will take a nibble just to be polite, but then brings the rest of the batch back to the North Pole and puts them in the elves’ huge cookie pantry. Most of you cubicle convicts serve your time with the help of a java or a soda pop. Elves are fueled by sugar. Cookies, candy, cakes, pies—an elf’s sweet tooth is primal and not picky. Need six million Poopy Droopy Diaper Dolls with Wipe-Away Rash by sundown? Toss a handful of elves a couple of sleeves of chocolate chip cookies and get out of the way. During the Christmas of ’88, when it seemed like every tyke in the hemisphere was clamoring for the Z-Box’s Grandma Hostage Ninja Rescue, Santa stepped up production with a few dozen rhubarb pies and a turbocharged hot chocolate. Because Santa brings back thousands of sweets every Christmas morning, elves are able to snag a bite of some sugar goodness whenever we want. Of course, Dingleberry is also a stress eater. The pile of crumbs told me Dingleberry was in a dither. He burst into tears when he saw me.
I imagine that I was quite a sight. Not taking a chance with her big story, Rosebud snuck me back into Kringle Town through a hopscotch of other holiday worlds. You’d think Halloween Town would be the worst, but, believe me, you don’t want to spend any more time than you have to on the Pinta in Columbus Day City. Scurvy will be the least of your problems. Dingleberry rushed over and soaked my shoulder with a fresh spring of tears and mucus. “What have they done to you?! I’m so sorry I said those things, Gumdrop,” he said. “You’re my best friend and I doubted you. You really are good, better than George, even. Well, almost. You can hate me the rest of your life if you want, but I’ll still be your best friend.” Dingleberry cried some more while I patted his shoulder.
“Doesn’t anybody want to talk about football?” Rosebud asked. “Or trucks?”
After a few minutes, I got Dingleberry to cork the waterworks so he could tell me what I had missed.
“Tell him what you told me,” Rosebud said like she didn’t have all day.
Suddenly, Dingleberry looked scared to death and he swallowed hard to keep from coming unglued all over again. He looked at me with big eyes and a lip that wouldn’t sit still and whispered, “Gumdrop. Mr. Cane is stealing toys!”
It sounded daffy. “Toys? Why would any elf steal toys?” I said. “They play with them all day long! Dingleberry, you’re one of the few that isn’t sick to death of toys.”
“Cane’s not playing with toys, tough guy,” Rosebud said. “Finish it, Ding.”
Dingleberry slowly pulled a folded piece of paper from inside his shirt. He held it gently like it might explode. “It’s the Misfit Mafia.” Dingleberry said the name quietly, as if he would actually summon them if he said it any louder. “I came back the night of our fight, but you were gone. I found this on your doormat. The note was open, but it was wrong of me to peek. I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying you’re sorry, Dingleberry.” I read the note:
Dear Gumdrop,
The game’s afoot! I have deduced that there really is a Misfit Mafia! Great Caesar’s Ghost! I may need your help, so stay close!
Sherlock Stetson
P.S. Zsa Zsa says hello to her vittle Gumdrop and that if you’ve got the chimney sweeper, she’s got the flue. Don’t worry; I’ll get her some soup.
“Did you read this?” I asked Rosebud.
“You bet your buttons I did, my vittle Gumdrop. Please tell me you