Santa And The Concubines
A Stan The Elf  Story
Victor Gischler

I used to be big shit at the North Pole. Sleighs didn’t come or go unless I gave the word. I said jump and the rest of the elves jumped. Cringle’s right-hand man, let me call him Chris after a hard day when nobody else was around, just the two of us sucking back a couple of fat Cubans. I was one big-cheese elf.
But all it takes is one vodka-tonic too many to ruin all that. Get out of line once—just once—and you find yourself falling down the corporate ladder faster than the big guy’s ass hits the bottom of a chimney. I guess that’s why I raised an eyebrow when I saw Mrs. Clause descend the cold metal stairs to my backwater office in the Carved Wooden Toys Division, Rocking Horse Department. That’s where I’d landed after the long fall. Under the corporate rug. Hell.
She nodded at me, took the seat on the other side of my desk. "How have you been, Mastandro?"
I shrugged my best I-don’t-give-a-shit, although she knew better. "Can’t complain." I gestured at my sad, little office. "I’m in charge of all this. What more could I want?"
She offered me one of those humorless laughs, flashing big perfect teeth. Immortality freezes everyone at different times, and Mrs. Clause had been lucky. People think that because Santa is some big fat white-haired guy that Mrs. Clause must be the grandmother type. Not on your life. She’d settled into a permanent thirty-something. Round hips, nice rack, copper hair. Legs you’d definitely want to find in your stocking come Christmas morning. It was easy to imagine why the marriage had been on the rocks recently. Cringle wasn’t cutting it the bedroom department, and the wife was permanently frozen in her sexual prime. Tempting? You bet. Just one vodka tonic too many. Damn.
"We go back a long time, don’t we Stan?"
She’d used the short version of my name, so I took the cue. "I guess so, Lizzy. But I take it this ain’t just a social call."
She shook her head. "It’s Chris."
That figured.
"Have you heard anything?"
"Just the usual." Sometimes Santa went off on a jag. He was like that, prone to deep, violent depressions. I guess it was the snow all year round and the ridiculous wardrobe and knowing that his wife’s love-life was battery powered. So sometimes he’d hit the skids, usually around October, coming out of it just in time to make the big run on Christmas Eve. Once I’d found him out of his mind on tequila and Quaaludes up in his study. That was in the old days when I’d had the run of the place. He had the naughty/nice list out and was shitting into ziplock baggies, muttering how the naughty kids had better get with the program. Coal didn’t put the message over, I guess. But Lizzy didn’t know about any of that, and I didn’t tell her. I just said that everyone had noticed the big guy wasn’t making his rounds but figured he was off on one of his "rests."
"I thinks it’s different this time," she said. "He’s been gone awhile. Longer than you think. A month. And he usually leaves a note at least."
A month? Had it been that long? It seemed impossible, but time stood still down in the rocking horse department. "The crew must be getting itchy."
"I don’t have to tell you how useless Chris is," said Lizzy. "You were his right hand for years. He may be a figurehead but he’s a damned necessary figurehead. Remember the big scare in ’83?"
"Yeah." A lot of the departments went automated and we had about seven hundred unemployed elves in line at the Easter Bunny’s place looking for egg-hiding jobs. Folks thought it was the end. But if Santa were gone, it’d be worse. A whole big hell of a lot fucking worse.
"I can’t go to anyone else with this, Stan," she said. "You know him. You can find him. If word gets out . . ."
"Yeah."
"Do it for me, Stan."
For her? That’s a laugh. Still. Those legs. Those curves. Maybe I would do it for her. Goddamned vodka tonics.
She must’ve sensed my hesitation.
"If you won’t do it for old times, if you don’t think I deserve it, then consider this. I can get you out of here, out of the basement, back to the front office. You wouldn’t ever have to see another rocking horse again."
My lip curled up into a little smile, and I realized I was nodding at her. "I’m going to need a few things."
* * *
I let myself into the big guy’s study with the keys Lizzy had given me. Everything seemed about right at first glance. Santa’s roll-top desk was a mess as usual. I kicked the trashcan and it flipped over spilling out an empty Captain Morgan’s bottle. I started in on the pile of papers. Kids’ letters begging for Pokemons. A memo from the accounting elves petitioning for more diet sodas in the vending machines. A proposal from the candy cane department suggesting they put something addictive to the sugar mix like nicotine or crack. Anything to up the demand, I guess. In short, a lot of useless crap which led me nowhere.
I flipped on Santa’s computer. If the lazy son of a bitch hadn’t changed the password . . . . I entered MISTLETOE and was rewarded with a list of the big guy’s recent e-mail. It took me ten minutes to sort through the porn offers (mostly teenage Asian girls) until I got to something juicy.
TO: ccringle@giftdaddy.com <email.htm> <mailto:ccringle@giftdaddy.com>
FROM: bigboss@toymart.com <email.htm> <mailto:bigboss@toymart.com>
Mr. Cringle,

I know that sooner or later we can agree on terms that you will find suitable. This electronic conversation is so impersonal. Why not comedown to the corporate retreat for the weekend? At our expense, of course. We can discuss business in comfort and I’m positive I can arrange some entertainment to your liking.
Best, 
CS
I didn’t know who CS was, but the e-mail was dated just over a month ago. I printed a copy and put it in my pocket. I’d need to visit wardrobe next. Then I’d need a travel voucher.
* * *
"I only got a few things in your size," said the gray-haired elf behind the wardrobe counter. "An orange tuxedo and a black double-breasted."
At four foot-seven I was good sized for an elf, broad shoulders, pretty rugged actually. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I’d caught Lizzy’s eye. In any case, I needed clothes. I couldn’t leave the North Pole in the company gear, frilly red/green tunic and the curly toed shoes.
The suit fit well. He gave me three shirts and five ties to go with it.
"Shoes?"
He dug around and came out with a pair of black and white wingtips.
"What am I, the Joker?"
The old elf looked at me crossly over his half-glasses. "It’s that or a pair of Berkenstocks."
I took the wingtips.
In my new threads, I took the elevator down to Transport.
A fat elf smoking a cigar like he was in love with it pulled himself away from the ballgame on television to see what I wanted. "Yeah?"
"I need a Sleigh and a driver. Somebody who can translate with the reindeer."
The fat elf barked a greasy laugh. "Sure, fancy-pants. You put through the requisition and maybe we can get you a sleigh in three weeks. This is the busy season, you know."
The guy got under my skin. I might have been small time in Wooden Rocking Horses, but technically I was still management and due some token of respect. I opened my mouth to give him an earful the quickly shut it again. I didn’t have time for a company turf war. I pulled out my letter from Lizzy and showed it to him.
His lips moved when he read.
He handed the letter back to me and nodded his agreement like it was the worst thing that ever happened. "But I wasn’t kidding about this being the busy season. I’ll dig up something. At least sign the checkout form and meet me in the launch bay."
"Right."
I signed a paper which took two pages of corporate speak to say basically that I was using a sled and a deer and that I would do my damnedest to bring it back in one piece, not crash it into a mountain, or take hookers joyriding and throw up in the backseat.
I met him in the bay where he was pulling the dust cover off a sleigh that predated the Roman Empire.
"What in the fuck is this hunk of shit?"
"Like I said. Busy."
"This is the only sleigh you have?"
"Unless you wanna wait two days."
"At least give me a good deer," I said. "Is Comet available?"
"He’s taken."
"Prancer?"
"Taken."
"Dancer."
"Sorry."
"Donner?"
"Still in rehab."
"Are any of the first string deer around?"
"I got one. With a red nose. The most famous reindeer of all."
"What?"
"Ha! That’s just my little joke," he said. "I have Dink bringing out a deer named Toot. He’s not famous, but he’ll get you there."
As the crew hooked Toot up to the sleigh, Dink came up and introduced himself. He was a fresh-faced young elf about four feet tall. The eagerness of a world where everything was still possible gleamed bright in his hubcap-sized eyes. How hopeful. Life at the Pole would beat that out of him soon enough
"Dink at your service, sir. I’ll be your driver and translator. I’m glad to be of service. Looks like they got old number 89 hitched up. She’s a good ship, sir. Don’t worry. I’ll steer her true to our final destination."
"Yeah, that’s great, kid. Put my bag in the sleigh, will ya?"
We got in the sleigh and Dink took the reigns. The deer made a sound, half grunt half snort.
"Toot wants to know where we’re going," said Dink.
"New York."
Dink flicked the reigns and we were off. The ancient sleigh soared into the air and the North Pole dwindled behind us.
More noises from the deer.
"Toot wants to know why we’re going there."
"Tell Toot to pull the sleigh and I’ll worry about the details."
More deer sounds, this time harsher.
Dink went red to the ears, and I decided not to ask him for the translation.
* * *
We landed on the roof of ToyMart Corporate Headquarters in Manhattan. I told Dink to wait with the sleigh.
"If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Mastandro, what are we doing here?" said the little elf. "I don’t mean to overstep by position, but maybe I could assist you in some way."
Toot snorted contempt, and I didn’t need the translation.
"I have to agree with the deer, kid," I told him. "It could get pretty thick and hairy in there, and let’s face it. You’re still wet behind the ears."
He shuffled his feet and looked like I’d just pissed on his birthday cake but said, "Okay."
"Just stay with the sleigh."
I took the express elevator down to the lobby. There were a helluva lot of people in a helluva lot of offices and trying to match the initials CS to one of the executives only narrowed it down to about a million. The directory in the lobby told me there was a public receptionist on the twenty-fifth floor and the executive lounge was on eighty, just two floors from where the sleigh was parked.
I took the elevator up and stepped off at twenty-five. The matronly, brunette receptionist greeted me with a typically polished and necessarily formulaic company greeting. I waved it away and walked up to her desk. She squinted down at me with polite expectation.
"I was just hired, name’s Stuart Freemont."
I offered my hand. We shook.
"I need a little help."
"They should have told you everything you needed to know at the new employee orientation."
"Cut me some slack—" I glanced at the nameplate on her desk—"Sarah. I’m having trouble with my e-mail. Just walk me through it once, okay. I figure somebody in you position must know the computer system here pretty good."
"Then you need to call support services. They can—"
"Come on, Sarah." I tried to put just a hint of desperation in my voice. "If I call the tech boys, they’ll put it in the log. Then everyone knows I’m a computer moron and I’ve only been here three days."
She signed and told me to come around to her side of the desk. I watched and nodded as she mouse-clicked me through the obvious procedure. "Then you just type in your password, and you’re all set."
"That’s where I’m having the trouble. Put in your password."
"I’m not giving you my password."
"Of course not," I said. "I don’t want you to tell me your password. I’ll look away when you type it in, okay? I just want to see what the screen looks like when the password works."
She sighed again. "Fine."
When I was looking away, I made sure we were alone.
She showed me what it looked like. "Now I’m ready to write and send mail."
"That’s great, Sarah. Oh my God! Is that Henry Kissinger?"
"Huh?
She looked where I was pointing, and when she turned her head, I gave her an open-hand chop with everything I had at the base of her neck. Her eyes rolled up, and she hit her head on the desk as she folded up and slid out of the chair. I pushed her under the desk out of sight and took her chair. Sorry, Sarah, but thanks for the help.
I typed in the following e-mail:
TO: bigboss@toymart.com <email.htm> <mailto:bigboss@toymart.com>
CS,
I’ve come to take the fat man back. If you want trouble, I can arrange that. But why not come up to the lounge? We can discuss this like reasonable people.
I left it unsigned and hit the SEND button.
This was the most direct course of action I could come up with on short notice, and I realized that as plans go it was a bit half-assed. CS might not even be at his desk. He might not have his little e-mail chime on to let him know he had a message. But a quick note telling him I knew what he was up to—whatever that was--might flush him out. If he thought big trouble was right over his shoulder—
The incoming e-mail chime grabbed my attention, and I clicked the READ icon.
Sarah? What’s going on?
I wrote back:
It ain’t Sarah. Be up in the lounge in an hour.
I hauled ass out of there before CS got wise and sent the corporate goon squad down to see who chopped his receptionist.
* * *
"Please be careful, Mr. Mastandro," said Dink. "Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you? You know? As backup."
"You stay put," I said. "If I’m not back in three hours, you’ve got to high-tail it back to the Pole and get reinforcements. You know the situation."
I’d told them Santa had been kidnapped and that ToyMart had their mitts on him. I didn’t mention that Santa might’ve been hiding out here of his own free will because he couldn’t satisfy his wife, that he was probably stoned off his nut, that we’d probably have to stuff him in a sack and take him back to Lizzy like a bundle of presents.
Toot snorted twice and grunted. I looked at Dink.
"Toot wants to help too," said Dink. "You got to understand, Mr. Mastandro. We all look up to the big guy. If he’s in trouble we want to help."
Poor naïve bastards.
"Just stay put," I repeated.
I headed for the eightieth floor lounge wondering who was the moron: Dink, the deer or me.
* * *
I was sitting in one of the big leather executive chairs when she walked up to me. She was one of these severe corporate women, dark hair cut close like a boys, a gray business suit with a shot skirt to show off hard, athletic legs, to let you know she worked out, pushed herself. Her features, like her movements, were sharp and precise. Every part of her was Nazi perfect and with an edge. The usual package high powered women put together. She wanted to say she was smarter, faster, stronger and meaner.
I stood to meet her. We shook hands.
"I’m Carla Strand," she said.
Carla Strand. CS. A woman. Legs. Hot damn.
"How did you know it was me?" I asked.
She took a step closer, made a point of looking down at me. She smiled almost—but not quite—cruelly. "You stand out."
Good point. I told her to call me Stan. She suggested we sit. The waiter brought Vodka tonics.
"Sarah is doing well in case you happen to be curious," said Carla. "Just a slight headache. I suppose you know I should have you arrested right now for assault and battery. But your communication sounded a bit urgent and a lot hostile. I thought it best to come hear you out."
"Let’s cut right to the point," I said. "I know you got the fat man on ice around here. I think you know who I represent and how far I’ve traveled, so you probably suspect just exactly how much trouble I can cause you if you don’t hand him over." This was the biggest steaming pile of crap I’d ever uttered, but I figured it would get the ball rolling.
She considered only a moment, then said. "He’s here, but I think you misunderstand. Mr. Cringle is very happy here with us and can leave anytime he wishes. The simple fact of the matter is that he chooses not to."
"That’s highly doubtful."
"It’s highly the truth."
"I’ll need to talk to him myself," I said.
"I’m sure that can be arranged. A moment please."
She went to the bar, made a brief phone call, then returned.
"I’ve set it all up," said Carla. "It will be a little while. Let’s have another drink while we wait.
So we did. Then we had another. We talked freely and she was pleasant. We talked about unimportant things. The toy business, and how we manufactured very little on premises anymore, just a big import-export business. But in the meantime our eyes were having another conversation. At some point her jacket had come unbuttoned revealing the soft semicircles of her upper breasts as they attempted to escape the top of her low-cut blouse. She crossed and uncrossed her legs a lot. I turned on the charm and had her laughing with a few jokes.
"I like funny men," she said.
"And I like tall women."
"I’ll take you to Santa now. He should be ready. Up one floor in the corporate penthouse. It’s where all important guests of the company stay. I followed her to the elevator.
Standing up, I was eye level with her tits. She saw me looking and smiled, this time warmly. She locked both hands behind my head and pulled me into her cleavage. Soft. Warm. My own hands found their way around back of her and got a firm hand full.
She said in my ear, "After you’ve seen Santa, when you’re satisfied, we’ll have some time together."
What a fantastic fucking idea.
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open. I stepped out eager to see that the fat man was okay so I could get on with the boinkfest. I felt the hard cold knock of metal at the base of my skull. My eyes filled with blackness, and I floated to the floor.
The last thought through my head was that I was a stupid, stupid elf.
* * *
When I awoke, I saw her sitting on a chair a few feet away smoking a cigarette. She had a silver, short-barreled revolver pointing right at me, looked like a .38. Probably what had given me the lump on my head. She had my letter from Lizzy folded up on the table next to her.
"We had to check you out," she said. "Just to be sure. You’re from the Pole alright, but I don’t think you can really do us any harm, Stan. Or should I say Mastandro?"
"We’re not going to have sex, are we?"
She smiled. "You do continue to amuse, little man. But now that you’ve finished your nice, long nap, a pair of my associate will come to dispose of you. I assure you that even if any of the pieces are found, they won’t be identifiable."
"So Santa was never here? You killed him too, I guess."
"No," she said. "That’s the funny part. He’s actually in the next room. But I don’t think he’ll be of much use to you. Take a look if you want."
She followed me into the next room, the pistol still pointing at my head.
Santa sat naked and sweaty in a leather recliner, he looked pale and ill. Two naked hookers were with him. Both had long tracks down their arms. One was a chubby red-head. She held Santa’s arm. She took a syringe and found a fat, blue vein, punctured it, her thumb pushing the drugs home. The other hooker was a leggy blond. She was between Santa’s legs, her head bobbing an ugly, erotic rhythm. They didn’t see us standing in the doorway. They were in their own world, eyes glazed over in a junkie dream. The king on his throne, his concubines in attendance.
I thought I was going to be sick. I couldn’t even tell if the big guy was enjoying himself. He just stared at the Manhattan skyline through the enormous floor-to-ceiling window. I turned away.
"We keep him happy like this," said Carla. "We thought of simple disposing of him, of course, but we might need to clean him up later for some marketing snapshots. With ToyMart in control of the North Pole’s market share, we will soon rule the toy world."
"And there’s no way to talk you out of this?"
"I suppose not."
"What about . . .uh . . . Christmas spirit and the kids and all that?"
"Don’t be ridiculous."
"Right."
I heard the elevator chime in the next room and I knew my time was up. That would be her goons coming to end me. I coiled to spring at her, my only chance. I prepared myself for the hot kiss of lead.
The floor-to-ceiling window exploded, spraying Santa, the hookers, me and Carla with glass. The hookers screamed and ran into the bathroom. Santa didn’t even blink.
Dink’s landing wasn’t textbook, and the sleigh knocked over a bar and a few stools as it skidded to a halt. Carla’s mouth fell open. She turned the revolver onto Dink, and I was on her. I grabbed her hand, opened my mouth wide and bit deep into her wrist. She screamed. The gun hit the floor. Blood fountained between my teeth.
I pushed her away and grabbed the pistol as a couple of bruisers entered the room. I fired once, and they ran.
Dink said, "See, Mr. Mastandro, I told you we could help. When you didn’t come back—Hey! It’s Santa."
"Get him into the sleigh," I shouted.
I don’t know how Dink managed it, but he dragged Santa out of the chair and heaved him I into the back of the sleigh. I had the gun on Carla. She’d curled into the corner, sucking her wrist. I spit blood.
"You’ll pay for this, you pointy eared son of a bitch," she said.
"Maybe, but not today."
I jumped into the sleigh, and we pulled away. Out the window. I looked back.
Carla Strand stood in the window’s broken frame, the wind whipping around her like she was a super-villain poster child. I watched her fade into the distance, the daggers of her eyes still chasing me.
But we’d done it. We got the fat man. Now he was Lizzy’s problem.
"He don’t look right," said Dink. "Is Santa okay?"
"Don’t ask so many questions, kid, and you’ll go a long way."
"Really?"
"Sure," I said. "How would you like to be supervisor of Wooden Rocking Horses? What the hell. You earned it."
"Wow."
Toot snorted and growled.
"Toot wants a reward too."
I shrugged, supposing he could go to The Show until Donner got out of rehab. 

Victor Gischler <mailto:vgischle@ocean.otr.usm.edu>’s work has appeared in Cozy Detective, Lynx Eye, Houghton Mifflin’s Best American Mystery Stories 1999 and is forthcoming in Mayhem. He hopes that his little Christmas tale will brighten your holiday. He encourages you to print out the story and send it to loved ones instead of Christmas Cards.