Santa 365 by Spencer Quinn

“ T here’s no Santa Claus,” Charlie said.
    â€œWho told you that?” said Bernie.
    â€œEsmé.”
    â€œWho’s Esmé?”
    â€œAt school.”
    â€œWell,” said Bernie, “everyone has their own opinion.”
    â€œIt’s not an opinion, Dad,” said Charlie. “It’s a scientific fact.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œFrom a scientist.”
    â€œAny scientist in particular?”
    â€œGroucho Marx.”
    â€œEsmé told you that?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œKnow much about Groucho Marx?”
    Charlie shrugged his skinny little shoulders. “He was a scientist and he said there ain’t no Santa Claus.”
    â€œWhat do Esmé’s parents do?”
    â€œDrive her to school. Pick her up.”
    â€œI meant for a living.”
    â€œLike you’re a private eye?”
    â€œYeah. Like that.”
    â€œI don’t think they’re private eyes,” Charlie said.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œThey’re rich.”
    We turned a corner and drove down our street, namely Mesquite Road, the best street in the whole Valley, which may be in Arizona—but don’t count on me for details like that. Our ride—mine and Bernie’s—was a Porsche, one of a number that we’d had at the Little Detective Agency, each one older than the last. It’s called the Little Detective Agency on account of Bernie’s last name being Little. I’m Chet, pure and simple. Charlie—Bernie’s kid, if you’ve been paying attention—lives with Leda, Bernie’s ex-wife, except for some weekends and every second Thanksgiving and Christmas, when he’s with us. But this was one of those every second Christmases! So imagine our mood! Tip-top!
    This particular Porsche was brown with yellow doors. Maybe you’ve seen it flashing by, so fast you just sighed and thought, Hey, at least someone’s living the dream. That was Bernie behind the wheel, by the way, and me in the shotgun seat. Is there anything better than riding shotgun in the Porsche? Not that I’d ever come across, and certainly not riding on the strange little bench behind the actual seats, which was where I happened to be now, what with Charlie in my spot. I loved Charlie, so it wasn’t a problem, as long as it hardly ever happened again, preferably never. Plus the truth was not quite all of me was on the little bench, no little bench able to completely contain a hundred-plus-pounder such as myself. At some point my tail had managed to curl itself free and share the shotgun seat with Charlie in a companionable way. Was the kid somewhat crammed in against the door? Possibly. But it was nice to see my tail riding up front, kind of like my representative. My tail and I have a lot in common, if that makes any sense.
    We turned into our driveway, as nice a driveway as you couldwish for. But hey! What was this? Someone else already parked here? That was very bothersome. Don’t forget who’s in charge of security at our place on Mesquite Road: namely me. This someone else was driving a bright red van with green Christmas trees painted on the side panels. The door opened and out stepped a round little dude with a big smile on his face. This was a round little dude we knew, although we hadn’t seen him in some time.
    â€œPlumpy Bonaparte?” Bernie said. “What the hell—heck—is he doing here?”
    â€œThat’s a funny name, Dad,” Charlie said, as we parked behind the bright red van.
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œIs he a friend of yours?”
    Excellent question on Charlie’s part. But no more than you’d expect from a son of Bernie’s. Bernie was always the smartest human in the room, as many perps can tell you, meaning Charlie had to be the smartest human son in the room. Wow! My most complicated thought ever! Was I getting better with age? Look out, world! I was so happy with myself that the