Repairman Jack [02]-Legacies

And she kept telling him it was his kid. Kept saying how it looked just like him. So one day last week she finally hounded him into going over to this place where they keep the kid and look after it. The Nail didn't know what had gotten into him—maybe that Ceylonese brown they'd been using had got him over-mellowed—but he was glad he'd given in. Because as he was hanging around the place, he saw people carrying a bunch of Christmas gifts through this doorway. He took a peek, figuring he might be able to make off with something small, but he saw a whole room filled with toys. Whoa.

Merry Christmas to me.

He did the place two nights later.

And the coolest part of the whole thing was the news coverage. Shit, man, last night you couldn't turn a radio or TV without hearing about "the AIDS baby Christmas toy theft." He'd spent hours hopping from channel to channel, one news show after the other, grinning like a total asshole.

That was him they were talking about. The Nail.

The only bad thing was, he couldn't tell anyone. At least not until he'd sold off the stuff. After that he could talk all he wanted because the toys would be gone and no one could prove nothing.

The only thing he didn't get was how pissed off and disgusted all the news geeks acted. Like it really mattered to them. Bullshit. Everybody knew how stupid it was to waste presents on those AIDS kids. Really, how long were they going to live anyway? Weren't going to be around long enough to appreciate them. Total waste, man.

Leave it to The Nail to put the stuff to good use.

And it'd been so fucking simple. All he'd had to do was—

The Nail jumped as he heard a skree-eek behind him. He twisted around in his seat. That sounded like—

It was! Shit, some asshole had opened one of the truck's back doors. And now he was flashing a light inside.

His first thought was cops, but he hadn't seen a fuzz-mobile pull up. And The Nail knew cops had to follow certain rules about searches.

The buyer? Maybe, but he didn't think so. More likely some strung-out junkie trying to boost his stuff.

The Nail pulled out the automatic and chambered a round. He'd put an end to that shit real quick.

He jumped out and ran around to the back of the truck.

"Hey, man. What the fuck you think—?"

Nobody there. And both rear doors closed. The Nail scanned the alley up and down: not a fucking soul in sight.

He couldn't have imagined it. The weed hadn't been that strong. And he'd heard the noise. He'd seen the light.

Better check to see if anything was missing.

But as The Nail reached for the handle, the right door sprang open and slammed into him, knocking him flat. He landed on his back, rolled, and popped to his feet, the gun stuck out ahead of him. He saw the open door of the truck, but no one there.

And then he heard a deep voice.

"Ho-ho-ho!"

The Nail looked up and saw this fat guy with a white beard in a red suit standing on top of the truck.

The guy did his ho-ho-ho thing again, then shouted, "So you're the one who stole the toys I was putting aside for the AIDS babies! No one steals Santa's toys and gets away with it!"

Aw, man. This asshole thinks he's Santa Claus!

The Nail raised the pistol and plugged a round into his heart.

Santa fucking Claus flew backward off the top of the truck like someone had yanked a leash wrapped around his neck.

No one steals Santa's toys and gets away with it?

Shit, yeah. I steal anybody's fucking toys and do what I damn well fucking please, asshole!

The Nail hurried around the side of the truck. Time to put another slug in Santa Hole…

But he wasn't there.

"What the fuck?" The Nail said aloud.

And then something red and white popped up from the shadows behind a garbage can and slammed a white-gloved fist into his face.

The Nail had heard about seeing stars, but he'd never believed it. Now he did. He heard his nose go crunch as his face erupted in a star-studded explosion of pain. He staggered back, caught the heel of his shoe on some alley shit, and felt himself falling backward.

He windmilled his arms, trying to keep his balance, but he was out of control. He went down hard.

And when he looked up, Santa was leaning over him.

"You think you can stop Santa Claus with a bullet? A mere bullet? Think again, sonny!"

The voice wasn't quite as deep and strong as it had been a moment ago, but the guy was still standing. And there, not two feet from The Nail's face, was a bullet hole in the red fabric of his suit. Right over his heart.

Shit! What was going down here? The fucker should be dead, man.

Unless of course he really was Santa Claus.

But that was crazy.

But so was the guy in the red suit! The Nail saw his eyes gleaming between his white beard and the furry brim of his hat. Whoever he was—hell, maybe he really was Santa Claus—he was pissed. Royally pissed.

The Nail started to raise the pistol for another shot, but Santa stomped a foot down on his arm.