Friends

“I haven’t used mine.”

That’s the thought riding shotgun as Advent blows through three yellow lights, two stop signs, and what I’m pretty sure is a city ordinance involving sidewalks.

Kristy Lee sits in the back seat like this is a perfectly normal Tuesday.

Maybe for her it is.

Maybe for me too.

Hard to say anymore.

Advent has half her head shaved, the other half dyed the kind of pink you usually only see on medication and roadside carnations. She drives a beat-up black Honda like she’s fleeing both the law and common sense.

She glances at me in the rearview mirror.

Signs something.

Fast.

Sharp.

Aggressive.

I look at Kristy Lee.

“She say something nice?”

Kristy smirks.

“She wants to know if you always look like you’re about to kiss somebody or commit a felony.”

I think about it.

“Fair.”

The Honda fishtails into a gravel lot and stops hard enough to make my teeth click.

I climb out.

Look up.

Smile.

“Well, jingle my bells.”

The North Pole.

Somebody took a log cabin, a biker bar, a meth problem, and a Christmas fetish, then welded them together.

Red and green lights blink year-round across the roofline.

A neon Santa flips off the highway.

Mounted on the roof is a full-size red sleigh made from sheet metal and bad decisions.

Two Harley frames have been welded to the front where the reindeer should be. Their handlebars curl like antlers. One headlight blinks on and off like it gave up years ago but refuses to die.

I nod.

“Kringle’s still committed.”

Advent signs something else.

Kristy laughs.

“She says if you die, she gets your boots.”

I look down at them.

Then back at Advent.

“She’s got expensive taste.”

Advent peels out before I can say goodbye.

I watch her taillights disappear.

Then I look at Kristy Lee.

“So.”

I shove my hands into my pockets.

“How did you two meet?”

She studies me for half a second.

“We used to be lovers.”

I look at her.

“Really?”

She smiles.

“No.”

I nod.

“Fine. Don’t tell me.”

She takes two steps toward the bar, then glances back.

“How do you know Kringle?”

I keep walking.

“We used to be lovers.”

She snorts.

“Smartass.”

I reach for the door.

Pause.

Look at her.

“One rule.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

I pull open the door.

“Fear puts you on the Naughty List.”

The music hits first.

Old outlaw country.

Loud enough to wake the dead.

Loud enough to piss them off.

Then comes cigarette smoke, spilled beer, pine cleaner, gasoline, peppermint, leather, and enough testosterone to lower the national life expectancy.

Conversations die when I walk in.

That happens sometimes.

Not because people are scared.

Mostly because they’re deciding whether they should be.

I count patches.

Thirty-two.

Probably another dozen in back.

Pool tables. Darts. Knife scars in the wood. Christmas decorations hanging year-round. A mounted deer head wearing aviators.

And behind the bar—

Santa Claus.

If Santa did twenty years for armed robbery and spent his parole bench-pressing Buicks.

Kringle looks up.

Rosy cheeks.

White beard.

Red suspenders.

Forearms like bridge supports.

Peppermint stick parked in the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t move.

Hell, I’m not sure he breathes.

Then—

“Gene.”

Not warm.

Not friendly.

Not good.

I give him a little wave.

“Kringle.”

He crunches the peppermint.

Hard.

“My boys tell me you had yourself a night.”

I nod.

“Had a couple.”

“Whiskey Trotter.”

Crunch.

“Putter.”

Crunch.

“Both came home embarrassed.”

I lean against the bar.

“Both came home.”

Kringle stares at me for another second.

Then he reaches beneath the bar, pulls out a bottle of bourbon, and starts walking.

The room opens for him like the Red Sea if Moses had tattoos and multiple assault charges.

At the far end is a raised platform.

Three steps.

Red velvet.

Gold trim.

A throne that looks like somebody robbed Santa Claus and a medieval king on the same night.

Kringle climbs the steps.

Turns.

Sits.

The chair groans.

He pours himself a drink.

Doesn’t offer me one.

“My boys can bleed.”

Crunch.

“I expect it.”

A chair scrapes somewhere behind me.

Then another.

Then another.

I don’t have to turn around.

I hear leather creaking.

Boots shifting.

Devils getting to their feet.

Kringle leans forward on his ridiculous throne.

The peppermint shifts in his beard.

“But two of my boys embarrassed in one night?”

Crunch.

He points the glass at me.

“That becomes my problem.”

Another chair scrapes.

Then another.

I count six.

Maybe eight.

Doesn’t matter.

Kringle smiles.

Not warm.

Not friendly.

Definitely not good.

“You ready to be embarrassed, Gene?”

I roll my shoulders.

Take a slow breath.

Start to smile—

And that’s when Kristy Lee walks past me.

Slow.

Easy.

Like she doesn’t notice thirty bikers preparing to stomp me into decorative mulch.

Every eye in the room follows her.

Mine included.

She climbs the steps.

Doesn’t ask permission.

Doesn’t hesitate.

Just turns—

And sits in Santa’s lap.

The room freezes.

My brain freezes.

Somewhere around the bridge of my nose, something starts burning.

Pretty sure my heartbeat forgets what it’s doing.

Kringle’s eyebrows climb halfway to heaven.

“Well, now.”

The peppermint shifts.

“Christmas came early.”

Heat crawls up my neck and parks across the bridge of my nose.

I hate that.

Kristy leans toward Kringle like she’s done this her entire life.

“We need a favor.”

Kringle looks at me.

Then at her.

Then back at me.

He grins.

Slow.

Mean.

“Relax, Gene. If I wanted your girl, I’d ask her. I have manners, even if my dumbass boys don’t.”

Kristy smiles.

“And I’d say no.”

Kringle laughs.

Half the bar joins him.

I don’t.

Kristy catches my eye.

Smirks.

Doesn’t help.

Not one damn bit.

Kringle points across the street with his peppermint stick.

A panel van sits near the edge of the opposite lot.

No logos.

Government tires.

Ugly paint.

Tint too dark.

I nod.

“Federal.”

Kringle’s grin fades.

“You can tell from here?”

“Ugly paint. Nobody smiles in those things.”

Kringle watches me.

Then nods toward the door.

Knuckleberry and Rip Rail stand there wearing helmets.

Ready.

“Need ’em gone.”

I look back at him.

“Gone—or gone?”

Kringle smiles.

“Dealer’s choice.”

I nod.

“You have motor oil and a fire extinguisher?”

The room goes quiet.

Someone near the pool table mutters—

“Nope.”

Another voice answers—

“He’s serious.”

I look around.

“Pool table.”

Five minutes later, every biker in the bar stands shoulder to shoulder watching me work.

The balls have been cleared.

Beer bottles moved.

Tools scattered.

Motor oil.

Hose clamps.

Tubing.

A fire extinguisher.

Three terrible ideas.

One very good one.

Important distinction—I’m not building a bomb.

No flame.

No shrapnel.

Nothing that puts out an eye.

Just pressure, smoke, foam, and wounded dignity.

The tape binding my broken pinky catches on the tubing for the third time.

I fight it.

Lose.

Catch the tape with my teeth and tear it away.

Kristy Lee raises an eyebrow.

“A doctor did not approve that.”

“A doctor wasn’t invited.”

My pinky throbs every time I tighten something.

Pain is honest.

I can work with honest.

My hands remain steady.

My mind goes quiet.

Kristy leans against the railing, watching me.

Not scared.

Not amused.

Just watching.

Different from everyone else.

I tighten one last piece and look up.

More than thirty bikers stare back at me.

I shrug.

“Never had an audience before.”

Laughter rolls through the room.

I lift the device.

“Try not to blink.”

I cross the street like I’m borrowing sugar.

Knock on the panel van.

Three seconds pass.

Then the driver’s window rolls down.

Crew cut.

Sunglasses.

Coffee.

He looks at me.

Sighs.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I smile.

“Morning, Bob.”

Another face leans forward.

“Gene.”

“Bill.”

A third voice comes from the back.

“What name are you going by this week?”

I rest my elbow against the door.

Think about it.

Smile.

“Just Gene.”

A beat.

“It’s always been Gene.”

Bob frowns.

“That doesn’t help us.”

“Wasn’t meant to.”

I wake the device with my thumb.

Bob sees it.

Closes his eyes.

Not fear.

Recognition.

“Gene, don’t—”

I toss it through the open window.

Turn.

Walk away.

Nothing.

One step.

Two.

Three.

Then—

WHOMP.

The van rocks.

Smoke pours through every seam. White foam blasts out the windows. The doors fly open.

Three federal agents stumble into the street looking like powdered doughnuts with badges.

The entire bar explodes in laughter.

I keep walking and raise two fingers over my shoulder.

“Might want to check your pressure gauge, Bob.”

“WALKER!”

I stop.

Look back.

“Still not my name.”

Kringle stands in the doorway.

Watching.

Waiting.

The second the agents lose their bearings, he raises two fingers.

Knuckleberry and Rip Rail move.

Harleys roar to life.

Then they’re gone.

First gear.

Second.

Third.

You can still hear them shifting a quarter mile later.

Kringle looks at me.

Crunches the peppermint.

Then nods.

“Good to see the law embarrassed for a change.”

I step up beside him.

“We good?”

He looks at me.

“We’re good. What do you need?”

I smile.

“Downtown Paradise. Tomorrow.”

He waits.

“Noon.”

Kringle frowns.

“Why noon?”

I shrug.

“Got a thing for westerns.”

A beat.

Then I smile.

“Plus—”

I look toward the city skyline.

“I need the lunch crowd.”

Kringle studies me for a long moment.

Then he smiles.

Slow.

Dangerous.

“Son.”

Crunch.

“I like you. I think I’ll put you on the Nice List.”

I nod toward the parking lot.

“Oh.”

I start walking.

“One more thing.”

Kringle raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

I look back.

“Can somebody give us a ride?”

Kringle grins.

The peppermint snaps between his teeth.

“Gene, you came to the North Pole.”

A beat.

“I’ve got reindeer.”