The Kid Who Stole Christmas Read online

  They shook hands briefly. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “Madge told me your name was Roy or Roger. But she always was lousy with names. Good thing she gets them right on the paychecks.”

  Rick didn’t have the slightest idea what this woman was going on about, but he needed this job badly, so he just smiled and nodded. Shannon smiled back.

  Females had caused Rick a lot of pain in his life. In fact, it had been quite some time since he’d been even remotely interested in any woman. There had been purely physical urges, naturally, but no real feelings except negative ones.

  His feelings at the moment were difficult to define, and had a healthy dose of the physical involved in them. They were, however, anything but negative.

  Shannon O’Shaughnessy was quite a woman. Her hair, cut in a flattering, shoulder-length style, looked like finely spun copper wire. She had eyes the color of emeralds, and they flashed with intelligence and good humor—even though the joke had been on her. Rick judged her to be nearly as tall as he was, making it easy for her to meet his gaze, which she did with calm self-assurance. Age was always a deceiving factor for him. He was almost forty and he knew he looked older; to be a manager, Shannon would probably have to be in her mid-thirties but looked younger.

  Whatever, she was old enough to know when she was being studied. “Didn’t I get it all?” she asked.

  “Hmm?” Rick realized he’d been staring. “Oh. Yes. Sorry to interrupt your coffee break.”

  “Actually, it was lunch,” Shannon admitted.

  “It does look like they keep you hopping.”

  “That’s in the morning. At this time of day, we’re doing good just to walk,” she said. “By closing, we crawl.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Rick looked around the bustling toy department. A little girl went running past, dragging a stuffed lion by the tail. He felt a pang of regret and looked away.

  Shannon couldn’t help noticing. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” he replied, a bit too quickly. He managed a smile and added, “I rushed over my lunch, too. Heartburn.”

  Paul Sanchez strolled up nonchalantly. “Everything okay here, Shannon?” he asked politely.

  Shannon wasn’t fooled. She could see from the way Paul was checking out the other man that he was suspicious of Rick. Rick was aware of it, too, she noticed, and yet seemed oddly accepting of it, as if it happened all the time.

  “We’re fine, Paul. Rick is here to apply for the Santa job.”

  “Oh.” This made all the difference in the world to Paul, who had been forced to fill in at that position a few times himself earlier this month and had no desire to repeat the performance. “Well, I’ll let you get on with it, then,” he said, hurrying off. “Good luck!”

  “I take it the job is still open?” Rick asked, amused.

  “Very open.” Shannon laughed, too. “It’s hard work and there are no benefits, but at least the pay is lousy. Still interested?”

  He nodded. “Lousy pay is better than none.”

  Shannon needed someone for this position so badly that she hadn’t even bothered to take a really good look at Rick Hastings until now. He was, as Madge had warned, an eccentric. Or at least dressed like one, considering he was here about a job.

  But Shannon had never really been all that concerned with appearances. She had known, and even dated, a few of the snappy dressers who frequented Lyon’s. Most were more interested in themselves than in her. Others had been interested in her, all right, but what they had in mind was a clothes-optional activity.

  Rick had given her a solid masculine appraisal, as well, she knew. What with the black woolen slacks, cream-colored blouse and black-and-red-check blazer she had on today, though, whatever conclusions he’d come to must have been based largely on his imagination. Still, some men were good at that.

  There was something about him that Shannon couldn’t put her finger on. He was handsome, in a rugged sort of way. But it was another quality that had her wondering about him. Rick Hastings looked a bit lost. Strong, self-assured and maybe just a little dangerous, too, judging by the oddly cold undercurrents in his eyes. Perhaps therein lay his appeal. A lot of men were lost; this one seemed intent on staying that way, and that had aroused Shannon’s curiosity.

  “You really don’t seem the Santa type, Rick,” she said.

  Rick shrugged. “Like I said, I need the job.”

  A straightforward answer. Shannon liked that. She was inclined to like the man, too. But would the kids?

  “How are you with children?” she asked.

  This was the part that worried him, and had caused a good part of Charlie’s concern for him, as well. “I used to be very good with kids. But it’s been some time since I was around any.” He looked at her, wondering if she would understand what he was about to say. “That’s one of the reasons I want this job.”

  Shannon arched her eyebrows. “I see.”

  “Do you?” Rick asked, suddenly sure she was going to turn him down. “Do you really?”

  “How long have you been divorced?”

  The question hit Rick as if it had been a physical blow. He actually pulled back from Shannon a few inches. “You’re very astute.”

  “Rude, too, I suppose,” Shannon said by way of apology. “It comes from spending so much of my time around children. They’re very direct, most of them. I enjoy that about them.”

  One of the clerks approached them. “Sorry to interrupt, Shannon,” the woman said, “but there’s a lady over there who wants to talk to you.” She indicated a frazzled-looking older woman standing by the overflowing checkout counter. “It’s about you-know-who.”

  “Not another one.” Shannon groaned. “Excuse me a moment, Rick. This shouldn’t take long.”

  She went to deal with the problem. The clerk smiled uncertainly at Rick, then returned to her register. Left to his own devices, Rick decided to take a look around. He was standing in front of a display of pistol-like gadgets, when Leo discovered him.

  “Hi,” Leo said.

  Rick stopped his puzzled examination of the gadget in his hand to look down at the boy. “Hi.”

  “Slime,” Leo said.

  “No, thanks,” Rick returned. “I just ate.”

  Leo grinned crookedly, not quite sure how to take that response. “I mean that’s what that gun shoots,” he explained. “Slime. I’d show you, but Shannon took away the demonstrator.”

  “Did she?” Rick studied the gun some more. “I don’t suppose that was an arbitrary decision on her part?”

  “What’s arbitrary mean?”

  “For no particular reason.”

  “Oh.” Leo colored slightly. “I suppose she had a reason.”

  Rick smiled. “Is it fun to shoot?”

  “Sort of,” Leo replied with a shrug. “It’d be a lot better if the slime wasn’t so thick. That way, it would go farther.”

  “And give a guy a head start running away.”

  “Right.” Leo nodded his approval, both of the idea and of Rick. “Sometimes, arbitrary targets get mad for no reason when you slime ‘em.”

  “I just bet they do.” Chuckling appreciatively, Rick returned to his inspection of the device in question. “So you just fill it with water, add some of that powder to this other reservoir and it’s ready to go?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Seems to me if you added some kind of control onto it, you could change how much water got mixed with the powder,” Rick said thoughtfully. “Make the slime thicker or thinner, depending on your range.”

  Leo thought that was a wonderful idea. “Neat! Hey, are you an engineer, or something?”

  “Or something,” Rick agreed.

  “Well, I bet they’d pay you for that idea.”

  “I doubt it. Big companies aren’t very good listeners.”

  “Why not?”

  Rick shrugged. “Too busy making money, I guess.”

  “That’s what Shannon says
about the Arnie people. She says they don’t care that some kids won’t get one. I’ll be right here in the store when they come, so I know I will,” he added with obvious relief.

  Frowning, Rick started to say something, but Shannon returned from talking to the distraught customer and had her own opinion on the subject.

  “They don’t care what their stupid marketing scheme is doing to the parents of those kids, either,” Shannon said. “That’s the third one in an hour. In person, that is. I lost count of the phone calls from parents who have to work the rest of the week, or can’t make it into the city again for a while. For whatever reason, they’re worried sick they won’t get an Arnie and their boy or girl will be devastated.”

  “It’s just a toy spider,” Rick said quietly.

  Both Leo and Shannon stared at him. “Just a toy spider?” Shannon asked incredulously. “It is the toy of the season. We don’t know how many we’ll get or when we’ll get them. The company won’t even let us take advance orders, so it’s first come, first served. All we know for sure is that there won’t be enough to go around.”

  “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Rick maintained. “It might force some kids, and their parents, to be more thankful for what they do get. Like I said, it’s just a toy spider. There are plenty of kids in this city and others I’ve lived in who would rather have a new coat for Christmas.”

  “Really?” Leo asked, surprised by this information.

  Rick nodded solemnly. “And their parents are worried there may not be enough of those to go around, either.”

  Shannon closed her eyes and sighed. When she opened them, she was seeing her Santa applicant in a different light. His clothes. That defiant look in his eyes. The lost air about him. He probably wasn’t homeless, but she could just bet he really did need the job.

  There was more to it than that, though, she was certain. This wasn’t much of a job, and he looked capable of doing ones that paid a lot more. Of course, those were usually hard, physical labor, of which he had undoubtedly done a fair share. Maybe he just wanted to be in where it was warm. He obviously wanted to be near children.

  Shannon had a sudden, powerful urge to help this man, to find out how he had come to be in his present situation. She also felt an undeniable attraction to him. But she was head of Lyon’s toy department and had a duty to hire people on the basis of their character, not her hormones.

  Still, Madge had recommended him, after all. And his view of the Arnie affair would certainly be a welcome voice of reason at a time when almost everyone she came in contact with seemed to be losing their minds.

  There was, of course, one final test. She had little doubt he’d pass with flying colors. “Mr. Hastings wants to be a Santa, Leo. What do you think?”

  “I figured that’s what he was here for,” Leo replied with a knowing air. “I was checking him out.”

  Rick was somewhat taken aback by this information. “Oh, really? And here I thought you were just being friendly.”

  “I was. But a good executive can’t let friendship stand in the way of making the right decisions.” He walked around Rick once, looking him up and down. “A little skinny. And he doesn’t seem very jolly. But we’ll give him a try.”

  “I agree,” Shannon said. She smiled at Rick, who was clearly befuddled by this cooperative effort. “Rick, meet Leo Lyon. He’ll show you where to change. Then he’ll show you where to sit. And then he’ll sit on your lap.”

  “Don’t worry,” Leo assured him. “I’ll take it easy on you, this being your first time and all. Come on.” He grabbed Rick’s hand and started pulling him toward the elevator. “How are you on the reindeer?”

  “Reindeer?”

  “The names. If you don’t know all the names, you’re in trouble. Especially with the five-year-olds. They look for the slightest weakness, and then wham! They murder ya.”

  Chapter Three

  Over fifty years ago, on the day the first customer walked out of Pop Lyon’s toy shop, Joe Bayer was standing across the street in front of his own dry goods emporium, holding up a sign proclaiming his competitor to be a liar and a cheat. From that high point, relations between the two men went steadily downhill. By comparison, Macy got along quite well with Gimbels.

  When Pop expanded into the storefront next door, Joe added a second level to his establishment. Pop bought out the entire block, Joe went down the street and did the same. A building spree followed. At four stories, Lyon’s was bigger. But Bayer’s had an indoor fountain. Lyon’s gave out trading stamps. Bayer’s held one-cent sales.

  In spite of this competition, or maybe because of it, both stores were hugely profitable. However, for some reason, there was always a tendency on the part of the public to think of Bayer’s as the less pleasant alternative. They would shop there, especially for bargains, but if an item was similarly priced at the two stores, people preferred to buy from Lyon’s.

  This naturally drove Joe Bayer up the wall. He even went so far as to scatter pictures of his smiling face around the store to promote goodwill. In fact, he wasn’t nearly as nice a man as Pop Lyon. His employees did not love him the way Pop’s did, and weren’t as happy in their work as Lyon’s employees. Customer relations suffered.

  The situation didn’t improve upon Joe’s death when his son Nathan took over operation of Bayer’s. While Pop Lyon continued to refine his homespun method of internal management, Nathan dragged Bayer’s into the world of incorporation and expansion, stock offerings and board meetings. He demanded obedient efficiency from his employees. And, like his father before him, Nathan was not a very nice man.

  Such a man deserved a wife like Angela. Shrill, shrewish and unabashedly materialistic, Angela had the body of a goddess and the morals of an alley cat. She would use any and all of those attributes to get what she wanted. And what Angela Bayer wanted, every minute of every hour, was nothing less than her own way. She usually got it, because if she didn’t, everyone knew there would be hell to pay.

  At the moment, Nathan was making an installment.

  “Can’t?” Angela glowered at her husband of three years and repeated the word, emphasizing it as if she didn’t know its meaning. “Can’t? I don’t want to hear that, Nathan!”

  Nathan hadn’t wanted to say it, either. He tried not to wince at her tone of voice. Like a wild animal, she would take any sign of weakness and turn it to her own advantage.

  “There’s nothing I can do, my love,” he said calmly. “I don’t have a magic lamp.”

  She narrowed her pale gray eyes to thin slits. “Is that supposed to be funny, Nathan?”

  “No.” He sighed. “I simply meant that what you’re asking me to do is impossible. There are no Arnies to be had, at any price.”

  As slick as an eel, Angela changed tactics. She sat on the edge of his desk and leaned over, her oval, expertly made-up face in a pretty pout, her ample bosom displayed at the V of her yellow mohair sweater.

  “But what shall I tell Chelsea and Todd?” she asked.

  Nathan stared at her breasts; she was perched so close to him that he hardly had any choice. But it wasn’t a hardship. The view was marvelous. Angela was a very beautiful woman.

  From her rich mane of natural, honey-blond hair to her delicately painted toenails, she was one ripe, luscious curve after another. Sensuality smoldered in her eyes, was painted on her full mouth and tempted any man that watched the gentle sway of her hips as she walked. After three years, Nathan still couldn’t quite believe his eyes when he woke up beside her every morning.

  But such a luxury came with a steep price. Besides her demanding, self-indulgent ways and expensive tastes, there was her temper, which could be quick and unbelievably vile. She was also a flirt and a tease, leading on any man who looked at her, and the way she flaunted herself, there were many of those.

  On the other hand, she could also be charming, a treat to have on his arm at a social gathering and a valuable asset to his career. It was a trade-off.

 
Nathan had no illusions. That she had married him for his money and position was obvious. That he had allowed her into his world—and his will—in return for the pleasures of her young body was just as obvious. She had given him a son, too, an heir to the Bayer empire—though she left that heir with a nanny most of the time, especially the nearer he got to the terrible twos. Everything else was as negotiable as next year’s labor contracts.

  “At his age, Angela,” he said at last, “I don’t think Todd is going to much care if he gets an Arnie for Christmas, or not. And all Chelsea wants is the same thing she asks for every year. A horse. Since she’s getting the stupid thing this year—thanks to you—I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

  “An Argentine polo pony is hardly just a stupid horse,” Angela corrected. “I told you. It’s an investment.”

  Nathan laughed curtly. “Sure it is. An investment in bankruptcy. Heaven forbid she might actually want to compete with the thing someday. There’s a reason they call it the sport of kings, you know.”

  “I believe that’s horse racing, dear,” Angela corrected again, her white, perfect teeth clenched.

  “Whatever.” Nathan could sense her mood swinging again. He had to nip it in the bud by going on the attack. “Neither of the children needs or even wants an Arnie. You’re the one who does, just so you can say you have it.”

  Little spots of color appeared on Angela’s cheekbones. “So? You bought a Porsche for the same reason.”

  “I drive the car. You wouldn’t even look at the stupid spider, now, would you? With its hairy legs and little beady eyes? They stick to your skin, you know, and won’t come off.”

  “Stop it!” As quickly as she had colored with anger, Angela now went pale. She stood up, hugging herself.

  “See? Now what would you do with an Arnie?”

  Angela glared at him. “I don’t want one, you stupid fool!” she returned sharply. “I want the shipment that Lyon’s is getting. And so should you. You call yourself a Bayer? Hah! Your father is spinning in his grave.”

  The light was dawning in Nathan’s mind. “I see. And you thought that by nagging me to find one, I might stumble onto a source? A black market source, maybe?”