Stella, Get Your Man. Nancy Bartholomew
really was Santa Claus and the new sleigh just added fuel to his delusional fire. It was a custom-made, larger-than-life sleigh and Joey was often spotted from the road, maniacally polishing its brass frame, or sitting up on the bench, shoving the wire-mesh Santa to one side as he cracked the whip over poor Rudolph’s head.
The word on the street was that Joey slipped his regulars rocks of crack when they pulled up in front of the estate for the grand nighttime viewing, but again, there was no proof of this. The other myth about Joey Smack was easier to verify. If he knew of an Italian-American family in Glenn Ford who was in need or without at Christmastime, Joey took care of them, with presents and food and an envelope stuffed with cash to tide them over “until there’s better times.”
Was it any wonder Joey Smack never had to worry about prosecution? Who would testify against a saint like that? Further, who in their right mind would attempt to repo Santa’s sled from Santa Claus? We were risking the wrath of hundreds of children, dozens of Joey’s minions, and probably risking our own lives as well, and for what, a few lousy hundred dollars? What was the big deal about eating and paying the rent? Was that really so important? Was this really a viable career choice?
I crept slowly toward the darkened display, looking for the panel to disconnect the wires before Jake arrived with the truck. Repo is all about speed. We had to load old Santa, his vehicle and the nine tiny reindeer before someone woke up and realized what was going on. No amount of Yankee ingenuity or artistic license would make Joey Smack decide to let Santa go without a fight. Stealth was our middle name, repossession was our game.
I was half swaggering now, buying into my own propaganda. Jake and I were pros. This was a cakewalk for us. After all, he was a former Delta Force Army Ranger, while I was a veritable killing machine, a former cop with every bit of specialized training I could absorb. What could be easier than a simple repossession? In fact, maybe that was the real problem; I just wasn’t challenged by my newfound profession.
When Jake came chugging up the driveway, I was ready for him.
“They’re unhooked. Let’s do Santa and the sleigh first and then stuff the reindeer around them.”
He nodded and we flew into action, moving as quickly and quietly as possible. We were easily a hundred yards from the house, but every move sounded like a shotgun and the diesel’s engine seem to roar louder and louder as we scrambled to load old Saint Nick.
The true shotgun blast was almost a relief.
It thundered into the still night air, turning baseless apprehension into fully grounded reality. We were busted. Rudolph stood alone on the snowy ground where he waited to join his imprisoned but unsecured buddies on the flatbed of the truck. As far as I was concerned, he could stay there, too. The Lifetime Novelty Company would just have to make do with the haul we had on the back of the truck. I was not battling shotgun fire to reclaim one red-nosed reindeer. Not me.
“Drive!” I yelled, diving for the passenger-side door.
The gun roared again.
“Jake, damn it! Let’s go!”
I could hear voices now, men calling out as they ran toward the pasture.
I screamed his name one more time, but knew even before I looked, that Jake had been hit.
I flew out of the truck, ducked low behind the flatbed and yelled, “Repossession! Hold your fire!”
This was met with another blast from the shotgun, this time over my head. They didn’t care who I was. They were protecting their property and would say that when the police came to investigate our murders. Shit!
“Stella!” Jake’s voice, weak, came from the rear of the flatbed. I found him, struggling to stand, and went to him. I grabbed his arm, slipped my hand around his waist and felt sticky liquid coat my fingers. My heart clutched in my throat and for a heartbeat I found I couldn’t move.
“Okay, babe, hold on,” I whispered.
A blast of gunfire blew out the windshield and back window of the truck. With strength I didn’t know I had, I pulled Jake forward, throwing him onto the floorboard of the truck as I dived over him to slide behind the wheel.
I heard Jake moan as I pulled my Glock out of its holster and slammed the truck into gear. We were moving.
Jake squirmed, trying to pull his door shut as he, too, reached for his weapon.
“I got it!” I said. “Just lie still. You’re bleeding!”
I was driving hell for leather toward the front gate. Behind us, Joey Smack’s security guards fired again. As I watched in the rearview mirror, a set of headlights swung out from behind the farmhouse and began following us. I glanced at Jake, saw the color drain from his face and knew we were in trouble.
My chest tightened with feelings I didn’t want to acknowledge, not to myself and certainly not to Jake. I was scared, but not about Joey Smack or his men. I was scared because it was Jake lying there, bleeding, and because I knew with a deep certainty that he mattered to me, really mattered.
“This is so not good,” I muttered.
“What?”
I didn’t answer him immediately. It wouldn’t do for Jake to see me scared, or worse, concerned. Any sign of emotion from me would be a dead giveaway. Around Jake I was as cool as a cucumber. I forced myself to take a deep breath before I spoke.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “I just think we could’ve planned this one better, that’s all.”
Jake sighed, a half moan that sounded like raw pain. “Just like a woman,” he gasped. “Always got twenty-twenty hindsight, always gotta process the problems in the relationship.”
I looked out in front of us, squinting as the cold night air hit my eyes.
“No, this is not about twenty-twenty hindsight,” I said. “It is about you letting the damn gate swing shut because you were in too much of a hurry to check behind yourself. Admit it, you were in a big hurry to score Santa and you let the gate swing shut!”
“It was wide open,” Jake protested, starting to sound like a querulous child. “I knew we’d be leaving in a hurry. Remember? We disabled it.”
I stared at the eight-foot wrought-iron fence up ahead. It was closed and locked. I took a deep breath.
“Well, it’s shut now,” I said. “Hold on!”
I punched the accelerator and gripped the steering wheel with both hands.
“Don’t hurt my truck!” Jake yelled. “It’s all I got left of the shop!”
I ignored him. Jake’s truck was dispensable, we were not. His shop might’ve been blown to bits by a maniac, and he might love his truck, but I had to believe our lives were worth a lot more.
“Stella!”
We hit the fence dead-on. The shock of the impact threw me against the steering wheel and wedged Jake tighter beneath the glove compartment. The F–350 bent the metal bars like green tree limbs, but they refused to break. I shook the impact off, fastened my seat belt and shot a look in the rearview mirror as I backed up and got ready to try again. The headlights were gaining on us.
“Stella, no!” Jake screamed.
I ignored him and yelled. “Brace yourself!”
I mashed the accelerator pedal to the floor, held my left foot on the brake and then, just as I felt certain the engine would blow, released the brake pedal. We slammed into the fence, the lock gave, and we were through.
“My truck!” Jake moaned.
“Your ass,” I said, wincing as I tried to turn my neck and look into the rearview mirror. “I saved your ass and all you can think about is a few cosmetic repairs to your grillwork?”
I heard gunfire behind us, close behind us, and saw Joey Smack’s people on our tail.
“You