Santa 365 by Spencer Quinn Page A

most complicated thought ever flew straight out of my head, kind of like a frightened bird, perhaps never to return. But back to perps, “perp” maybe describing Plumpy a little better than “friend.” Would I ever forget the day we’d grabbed him by the pant leg? Me doing the actual grabbing, not Bernie, although that had happened once: Bernie, grabbing a pant leg by the teeth! Poor Bernie had to see Dr. Choi, the dentist, soon after. Bernie was afraid of no man on earth, excepting Dr. Choi, for some reason, a tiny guy with wrists not much thicker than Bernie’s fingers. What was that about? I had no idea, and meanwhile I’d lost complete track of where I was going with this.
    Pant leg! That was it. I’d grabbed Plumpy by the pant leg.But before that he’d tried to run. Plumpy running! What a slow-motion ending that was! I’d strolled after him—Plumpy glancing back at me from time to time, scared out of his mind—and brought things to a halt by a freeway exit, not wanting Plumpy to get himself hurt in traffic. We took Plumpy in without cuffing him. No need to cuff the Plumpys of this world.
    â€œNot exactly a friend,” Bernie said, as we squeezed in behind the red van with the Christmas tree pattern and hopped out of the Porsche—me and Charlie actually hopping. “More like a business acquaintance.”
    â€œA criminal, Dad?—”
    â€œWe’ll talk about it later.”
    â€œOkay!”
    Plumpy hurried over to us—meaning his body made all kinds of speedy-like motions that ended up delaying his forward progress—and stuck out his chubby hand. Bernie shook it.
    â€œBernie! Season’s greetings!”
    â€œHi, Plumpy.”
    â€œAnd here’s my ol’ buddy Chet!”
    I moved closer to Plumpy. He had a Slim Jim deep inside his pants pocket. Slim Jims in pockets have a strange way of pulling you toward them.
    â€œAnd who have we here?”
    â€œMy son, Charlie. Say hello to Mr. Bonaparte, Charlie.”
    â€œHi,” said Charlie.
    â€œA big hello to you, young man. And the spitting image, if I may say so.”
    â€œYou’re the only one,” Bernie said.
    Or something like that. I myself was stuck on the spitting reference. Was spitting in the near future? No one was chewing tobacco at present, but that didn’t rule it out. A big subject,human spitting, full of questions. Why men and not women, for example? Meanwhile Bernie was having a thought. I could see it in his eyes, also feel it in the air. Bernie’s thoughts were one of our best assets at the Little Detective Agency. I bring other things to the table.
    â€œI’m a bit surprised to see you here, Plumpy.”
    â€œI know my way around this part of the Valley,” Plumpy said. “Sold insurance door-to-door up here, back in high school.”
    â€œSaw that on your sheet,” Bernie said. “A premiums-only kind of insurance, if I remember right. But what surprises me is you being on the loose.”
    â€œOn the loose? Makes it sound squirrelly, if you don’t mind my saying so, Bernie.”
    Uh-oh. Plumpy was turning out to be trickier than I recalled. First spitting, now squirrels. Security rule number one at our place on Mesquite Road: no squirrels on the grounds, end of story. And there were none at the moment, not even in the trees out front, trees they ran up in their infuriating way every time I gave chase. I’d tried to follow many times, but the running-up-trees technique eluded me. Which didn’t mean it would elude me forever, so heads up, my little bushy-tailed friends! Of whom we had none right now—so what was Plumpy trying to pull? I sidled in a bit closer.
    â€œRemind me of your sentence, again?” Bernie was saying.
    â€œFour years,” Plumpy said.
    â€œWe can’t be even close to that.”
    Plumpy nodded, one of those enthusiastic nods that make jowls wobble on humans that