XMAS FOR THE WYNNE!
by Norsebard
Contact: norsebarddk@gmail.com
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DISCLAIMERS:
This family-friendly Christmas adventure yarn is to be categorized as an Uber. All characters are created by me, though some of them may remind you of someone.
The story contains some profanity. Readers who are easily offended by bad language may wish to read something other than this story.
All characters depicted, names used, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons is intended nor should be inferred. Any resemblance of the characters portrayed to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
The registered trademarks mentioned in this story are © of their respective owners. No infringement of their rights is intended, and no profit is gained.
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NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:
Written: December 11th - 16th, 2024, with a small addition on January 14th-15th, 2025.
This is the 26th entry into the long-running series featuring Wynne Donohue, Mandy Jalinski and all their friends, foes and acquaintances in Goldsboro, Nevada. All 25 previous stories are available at the website of the Royal Academy of Bards.
Thank you for your help, Bard Of New Mexico! Hello, Phineas Redux! *Wave*
As usual, I'd like to say a great, big THANK YOU to my mates at AUSXIP Talking Xena, especially to the gals and guys in Subtext Central. I really appreciate your support - Thanks, everybody! :D
Description: Christmas isn't just near, it's here! And over in Goldsboro, Nevada, there's no better way to celebrate Christmas Eve than to host a bingo event at Moira's Bar & Grill. All the regulars show up for an evening of fun and games that involves classic Christmas hits, the occasional imported Polar Bear Brew, a Santa Claus who bears a striking resemblance to a certain Last Original Cowpoke, and plenty of drama and high tension when the markers are down…
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XMAS FOR THE WYNNE!
Tuesday, December 24th at Moira's Bar & Grill on Main Street in Goldsboro, Nevada.
Everyone's festive cheer had arrived with a vengeance. It was certainly a positive development given the state of the world, but it meant the much sought-after serenity of the Christmas period had a hard time poking through the myriad of noises that existed inside the most popular eatery in all of MacLean County.
With the hands of time creeping around to a quarter past three in the afternoon, there was precious little time left before the evening's grand get-together, the inaugural Mega XMas Bingo Event, was to start.
Moira MacKay, the owner of the establishment, had read on the Internet that community get-togethers were going to be the number one Big Thing for the coming holiday period simply because people at large had grown tired of the debilitating negativity that had soured everyone's lives for far too long.
Such a growing trend would offer a great opportunity to try something new, so instead of repeating the karaoke evening, the knitting bee or even the series of You Too Can Repair Everything In 10 Easy Steps lectures that she had tried with a varying degree of success over the past few years, she had rented a bingo machine and a professional announcer who was going to wear the legendary Santa Claus costume while working.
The Bar & Grill's carpet had been steamcleaned, the checkered tablecloths had all been washed and starched and all the items in the reed baskets had been refilled or renewed. Thus the toothpicks and the napkins, the salt and pepper shakers, the plastic bottles of mustard and ketchup and the earthenware jars of hot sauces were all clean and inviting.
In general, Moira's famed restaurant had been decorated with miles of fake ivy, several bushes' worth of holly, dozens of gift stockings, plenty of mistletoe in various strategic places, enough tinsel to outshine Las Vegas and an army's worth of little figures depicting Santa, Mrs. Santa, Christmas Elves, reindeer, sacks of gifts, angels, candy canes, sleighs, trumpets, drums and a host of other characters associated with the traditions of Ye Olde Yuletide.
A tall and wide Christmas tree had been put up in the corner where the ice chest usually took up space. Fresh, green and gorgeous, the fir - imported from Oregon that had a surplus of such trees - didn't yet sparkle like it was supposed to, but the person in charge of decorating it did her best; the mid-fifty-something Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' Donohue.
Shocking everyone by showing up in something else than her usual rugged Cowpoke garb, Wynne wore classy lace-up shoes and black jeans featuring a rather large brass belt buckle. Further up, she wore a knitted Christmas sweater held in reds, whites and greens that depicted Red-Nosed Rudolph in all his colorful glory. The website she had bought it from had categorized it as a jokey item in their 12 Horrors Of Christmas line-up, but she loved its colors and sincere celebration of a classic character, so according to her, the people who insisted on ridiculing it could go suck an egg.
Her dark locks were held under wraps by a floppy-coned Santa hat that she had pulled on crooked to add a little spice to the Yuletide proceedings. The Santa hat came equipped with a fluffy tassel and a pair of reindeer antlers that gave it a somewhat surreal look, but she loved it.
She was framed by no less than four huge cardboard boxes of ornaments and tinsel that she dipped into at regular intervals when the next bare branch cried out for some gold, silver, red, purple and green. Why the tree hadn't been put up weeks earlier was beyond her - it was in fact due to an acute shortage of Christmas trees following a month-long drought - but it didn't lessen her enjoyment of decorating it.
At present, the decorating was in fact going a little slowly as she had her telephone glued to her ear. Listening to the Georgian twang at the other end of the connection made her alternately wear a goofy grin and laugh out loud. "Yuh, I reckon!" she said while she put a silver bell on one of the tree's branches. She laughed some more at the reply before she said: "Ernie, ol' buddy… y'all gotta lissen ta this. I swear ta tha bearded gaaah in da skaaah dat it be true! Yessir, it be one o' theee weirdest, theee wackiest, theee plumb ca-raziest things I evah done heard- haw?"
Wynne moved back to the nearest cardboard box while her best friend Ernie Bradberry spoke in her ear. The next ornament she chose was a golden star that reflected the lights in the Bar & Grill beautifully. "Yuh, cross mah heart, hope ta choke on a peanit. Anyhows, late on Hallah-ween, yuh? In da middle o' da night, ack-chew-ly, ou'ah ol' foe Artie Rains done had some kinda mental breakdown or som'tin- naw, I ain't shittin' y'all!"
The golden star had soon found a new home on a branch next to a candy-apple red cornet and a green bell. The trio of ornaments complemented each other perfectly which made Wynne break out in a grin as she listened to Ernie's comments.
"Naw, Ernie! Artie Rains really did have- yuh. Anyhows, Sheriff Mandy was alreddy ho'ah-m by then, so it wus Rodolfoh who done took tha call. Get this, Artie wus runnin' 'round that there Ol' Boys' Haven trailah park buck nekkid! Yuh, I done said buck nekkid! Fully exposed, sure ain't no lie! Yuh, an' he wus flailin' his arms an' whatnots an' moanin' an' groanin' an' carryin' on an' everythin'… yuh!"
While Ernie tried to digest the wild and crazy story, Wynne reached into the cardboard box to find a small figurine of Rudolph. She grinned when she compared the figurine to the image of the legendary reindeer that was integrated in her knitted sweater. "Accordin' ta Rodolfoh, Artie done claimed he wus visited bah three ghosts there ta show 'im the errahs o' his ways. I mean, shoot, buddy… y'all an' me both know that ain't news 'round these parts, yuh? Aw, I know them green crittahs back then wus goblins, but we done had a-cupple-a ghosts too, ya know. Naw-naw, we sure did! Or I sure did, anyhows- haw? Yuh, I had been drinkin' at tha time, ain't no denyin' that…"
At the other end of the connection, Ernie moaned a little about the time when Reverend Raymond Light's undead horde of zombie cannibals had caused him to wreck his old truck. Worse, he had lost his original Built Ford Tough cap in the accident out on the state route, and that continued to haunt him because it had been signed by NASCAR legend - and namesake - Ernie Irvan.
Chuckling at the insulted tone to her friend's voice, Wynne found a new home for the Rudolph figurine before diving into the cardboard box once more. A purple bell was her reward. "Anyhows, ol' Artie wus buck nekkid an' not willin' ta go back inside his trailah 'cos o' them ghosts an' all. Naw. So Rodolfoh had ta sweep a blanket 'round his boulder-belly and wobbly asscheeks so he woudden scare any good folks who wus there trick-or-treatin'. Not that anyone would go dere, 'cos… dang, them folks out yondah be freaky, lemme tell y'all! Haw? Yuh, like a nekkid Artie Rains! Rodolfoh done tole me that Artie spent tha rest o' tha night at his nebbahs place. With no undahshorts 'cos nobodda on this he' planet got any dat be big enuff!"
Wynne had barely finished speaking before she leaned her head back to let out a long, loud belly laugh at Rains's embarrassing moment in the spotlight. The laughter eventually turned into an entire series of snickers as she found a branch that had a suitable companion for the sweetly jingling purple bell, namely a golden cornet. "Aw, dat perdy much be the best o' whut done happened he' since we last spo'ah-k, buddy. Yuh. Okeh, Merry Chriss-mass ta y'all too… an' give ol' Bernadeeh-ne a sloppy kiss from me, yuh? All right, friend… tawk ta y'all latah. This he' be the one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew signin' off. I be gone, bah-bah."
Beaming from ear to ear, Wynne stuffed the telephone into her pants pocket so she had both hands free to scoop up the next batch of ornaments.
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Moira had allowed the restaurant's speaker system to be used for the first time in ages, so Wynne had filled the 10-disc CD player installed in Moira's office with a wide selection of compact discs containing traditional Christmas music. All in all, they would be able to listen to 200 tunes that were roughly evenly split between novelty songs, everyone's favorite warm-hearted classics and more religious fare.
A wide grin graced Wynne's face at the old songs, the gorgeous tree, the sparkly tinsel, the delicious smells of food being prepared and the general buzz permeating the Bar & Grill. Grinning and singing weren't good bedfellows, so she put the grin away for later and concentrated on warbling along to all the oldschool artists in an inch-thick Texan accent that came through loud and clear. The Chess-nuts Roastin' On An Open Fi'ah had never sounded more rural, nor had Tha Li'l Drummah Boy, Frosty Tha Sno'ah-man or even I Be Hoahhhh-me Fer Chriss-mass for that matter.
When the next cardboard box had been emptied of ornaments, Wynne took a step back to cast a critical eye on her tree-mendous handiwork. A "Haw… gotcha," escaped her when she discovered a bare spot among the branches where one wasn't supposed to be. A small-scale mission of rearranging a handful of items was quickly dealt with leaving the tinsel and ornaments more evenly distributed over the tall, wide and handsome tree.
The fiery Moira and the far more sedate short-order cook, the late-twenty-something Anthony Joseph 'Slow' Lane, ran to and fro between the storage rooms at the back and the industrial stoves out front to make sure they had enough of the items that would undoubtedly go like hot cakes once the mad rush of customers commenced.
'Slow' Lane carried no less than four buckets of his famed potato salad while Moira took care of another two bucketfuls of bratwursts, frankfurters and pre-made meatballs. In addition to all that, the freezers were filled to capacity with French fries and other types of pre-fab potato products that were destined to go into the deep-fry basins or onto the frying pans at the industrial stoves.
There would be half a bull's worth of beef patties, piles of minced pork for meatloaves, heaps of spare ribs and so many vegetables the work counter would resemble the vending booths at San Cristobal's famed Market Square that hosted most of the major city's open-air fairs and markets.
The main entrance opening and closing proved to be Grant Lafferty, the owner of the Beer & Liquor Imports store across Main Street from the Bar & Grill. The fellow walked in a tenderfooted fashion as always, so he looked around for help the moment he entered the restaurant. Spotting Wynne over by the Christmas tree, he waved to catch the attention of one of his best customers.
Given the date, the mid-sixty-something Grant wore nicer clothes than usual. His gray pants were still highwaisted and made of Polyester, but the creases were newly ironed and thus presented a sharper look. He wore a winter jacket up top that covered a burgundy flannel shirt, a neat necktie and a gray fleece cardigan.
His bunions - that were killing him slowly for each step he took - demanded that he wear soft felt slippers at all times or else they wouldn't allow him a moment's rest. The soft indoor shoes looked a little out of place next to the rest of the outfit, but there was nothing he or anyone else could do about that as he didn't have the time or the financial means to close the store while he had the bunions treated.
His dark brown hairpiece sat just right as did his reading glasses that were perched low on his nose. He wasn't quite as young and spry as he had been when he opened his liquor store decades earlier, but a single look into his eyes proved that he hadn't lost a thing on the mental side of the equation.
"Whah, if it ain't tha Grant-Mastah!" Wynne cried the second she clapped eyes on the person standing at the door. "Aw, an' he be wavin', too! Yuh, friend, I'mma-gonn' be right ovah!"
Wynne needed to wait for a gap in the foot traffic consisting of Moira and A.J. Lane carrying yet another load of foodstuff destined for the stoves before she could shuffle over to the door to greet her friend. "Howdy, Grant! Whah, I do bah-lieve that Merry Chriss-mass be in ordah, too, haw?" she said as she put out her hand for the traditional greeting.
Grant smiled as he shook Wynne's hand. "Merry Christmas, Wynne. The night's about to get even better… you'll see what I mean. I need your strong arms because I have a fully-laden dolly over by the store. Would you mind wheeling it over here?"
"I woudden mind a dang bit, Grant-Mastah. Haw, I be right back an' all," Wynne said before she made a beeline for the front door.
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"Lawwwwwwwwwwwr-die, wouldya lookie at all that there awesome, awesome beer!" Wynne cried the moment she stepped back into the Bar & Grill pulling a triple-tier dolly. Each of the tiers carried five six-packs of imported beer so there was enough to satisfy even her overdeveloped thirst.
She needed to take a deep breath to pull the heavy load across the first part of the carpet as the two wheels seemed to dig into the deep piling, but she had soon cleared the hurdle and was well on her way over to the refrigerators.
"Wait, wait, wait," Grant said, hobbling after his temporary skycap the fastest he could. "They're not going into the fridge, Wynne. They're prizes for the bingo event."
Groaning, Wynne came to a halt a mere three steps from the glass doors and the shelves beyond them. "Aw! Aw, shoot… so I can't even grab one an' sample it right this minnit, then?" she said, staring at the beer with wide, sad eyes.
"Not unless you want someone to win a five-pack."
"Yuh, okeh, that would be kinda crappy, woudden it? Durn." Falling silent, she scratched her neck a couple of times before she grabbed hold of the dolly's handlebar. With a heave-ho, she began pulling the heavy load over to the corridor that led from the restaurant itself and down to the storage rooms at the back.
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When she returned with the empty dolly just shy of ten minutes later, Grant met her at one of the tables. He had taken off his winter jacket in the meantime, but that wasn't what caught Wynne's eye; the black and white can of imported Christmas brew that a mysterious someone had put on the table did. "Wha'…? I coudda sworn y'all jus' done tole me that-" she said while pointing at the alluring can.
"I certainly did. The six-packs you just put into storage are prizes for tonight," Grant said with a grin, "but this one is a Christmas gift from me to you. You can drink it whenever you wish, but you need to take a look at the label first, Wynne. Just looking at your truck afterwards will count as a DUI. I guess you don't want that on your resume."
"Lawrdie, no, I sure don't. Not if I can help it. Aw, it ain't gonn' be no trubbel tanight, anyhows, 'cos me an' mah sweet li'l Mandy done arranged we be sleepin' in tha Bed an' Breakfast," Wynne said, picking up the can to study the label like Grant had said she should.
The beer's name was a Polar Bear Brew, and it seemed to come from the frosty Norselands. The can's design was neat and clean with a stylized drawing of a fierce-looking polar bear. One detail in particular catching Wynne's eye: "Holy shittt! It done says so right he' on this he' label that it done got a strength o' nine point fo'ah percent alcohol! Good shittt almighty, them Fenwyck Extra Strongs be seven point seven an' they be plentah strong!"
"Nine point four percent alcohol, yep," Grant said with a smirk. "It's dark brown like a malt beer and it's even kind of sweet, but it has a kick like you won't believe. Or a bite, since it's a polar bear. You don't want to chug it down in three gulps. Not unless you want to fall down where you stand and sleep for the rest of the night… oh, and wake up in a yellow puddle."
Snickering, Wynne turned the can over to study the drawing of the fierce polar bear that graced the front. "Haw, yuh… whah, Grant-Mastah, I sure 'preciate it, yessirree! Thanks a whooooole bunch!"
"You're welcome," Grant said with a smile that soon turned strained as he moved to sit down at the table. He groaned several times until he was able to get his legs and painful feet stretched out under the table. "Would you happen to know if it's okay to order a warm meal? I can see that A.J. is very busy-"
"Yuh, he an' Moira be runnin' around plentah. Lemme whip som'tin up fer y'all, Grant-Mastah! Shoot, dat's the least I can do. Wotcha lookin' fer taday?" Wynne said, shoving the Polar Bear Brew into her side pocket for later.
"Oh, the regular. Oxtail soup and a freshly toasted whole-grain rustic baguette. And a half-bottle of spicy red to go with it."
Wynne had heard that order so often she didn't even need to write it down. Instead, she patted Grant's shoulder as she walked past him. "Y'all got a deal there, pardnah. An ox, a baguette an' a li'l red comin' right up!"
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Just over an hour later, at twenty past four or so, the branches of the Christmas tree couldn't hold a single extra bell, whistle or cornet without needing support by two-inch cast-iron struts. The tree looked as if a tinsel factory had exploded all over it, but Wynne was greatly satisfied with the results.
The finishing touch had been to wrap seven reams of multi-colored LED fairy lights all over the branches. A seven-into-one power extension unit had been put on the floor behind the tree so all they needed to do to make the tree come alive was to flip a single switch. That was for later, however.
All four cardboard boxes were empty save for the inevitable broken ornament that always showed up at the bottom of any box regardless of how carefully everything had been stored the previous year.
Nodding while giving herself the proverbial pat on the shoulder for a job well done, Wynne reached for the Polar Bear Brew that she had put aside so it wouldn't get too shook about whenever she needed to use the stepladder to reach the highest branches. She grinned at the small stick-it note she had put on it: Wynne's beer! Hands off, buster!
Before Grant Lafferty had returned to his store after enjoying his oxtail soup, he had told her she would really get the full effect of it if it was merely chilled rather than refrigerated, so she had left it on top of the ice chest's sliding lid. The idea seemed to have worked a treat as the can was cool but not cold to touch.
Grinning, Wynne cracked it open with the familiar Pssshhhht! A moment before she put the can to her lips, she remembered Grant mentioning its unique color. Seeing something special for the first time had always intrigued her, so she put the beer down once more and went on a quest up to the bar counter to find a tumbler.
A beer glass was easier to come by than she had feared though the entire kitchen could be called 'organized chaos,' so it wasn't long before she poured the Polar Bear Brew into the tumbler with great care so nothing would go to waste in a tidal wave of suds. "Ho'ah-brothah! That there beer there sure be dark, haw?" she mumbled to herself. "Mercy Sakes, it be as dark as a Guinness… shoot, I hope it ain't as bittah as them big G's… hate bittah beers… an' the foam is nut brown! A-may-zin'! Well… he' goes."
While the first probing sip was still in her mouth caressing her tastebuds, several things happened at once: first her eyebrows shot skyward at the sweet leading edge and the rich body; then her nostrils fluttered as she slowly swallowed the sip, marvelling at the ocean-deep taste of all the traditional Yuletide spices like cinnamon, brown sugar, allspice, cardamom and cloves as well as hints of oranges and chocolate. As the parting salute, the 9.4% alcohol made their presence felt all along her palate and down her gullet.
"Ho'ah… ly… shittt," she said once she came up for air from the first sip. "Dat be one helluva beer, dat! Good shittt almighty, tha Grant-Mastah sure wussen kiddin' or nuttin'. If I chug this one down, I'mma-gonn' get whacked bah Thor's Hammah, yessirree."
Staring at the can's design for a moment, she could already feel the high levels of alcohol give her one hell of a kick up the backside. The next sip followed almost at once. Feeling brave, she took a larger one just to discover whether or not the sensations of taste would follow suit. The short answer was 'they did.'
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Thirteen minutes and an empty can of Polar Bear Brew later, Wynne felt little pain but plenty of warmth, joy and festive happiness. She had decided to jump ahead in time to Christmas Day and throw herself at some of the good, old traditions like dancing around the tree. Her footwork was impressive as she danced along in a mix of the slow Galveston Shuffle and a double-quick Texas Two-Step that was - obviously - accompanied by a lot of hooting, hollering and Yeeeeeee-Hawwwww'ing in true Lone Star state style.
The Christmas music had returned to the speaker system after a short break, so she warbled along to all the old chestnuts in her inimitable style. "Aw, tha weathah outsihhh-de be frightful, but'da fi'ah is soooooo da'lightful… haw! I saw three ships come sailin' in on Chriss… Lawwwwwr-die, three be mah lucky numbah, yessirree! Howdy, A.J.! Wanna dance? Dancin' be a-lotta fuhhh-n an' I feel goooood!"
A.J. 'Slow' Lane just stood there all agape at the uninhibited ferocity with which Wynne pulled a song and dance act for the ages.
The short-order cook wore clothes that were well-suited for spending the entire evening at the cooking panels, the sizzling frying pans and the French-fry baskets. The ergonomic shoes weren't stylish but certainly comfortable, and the straight-cut slacks were half an inch too wide for his waist simply to ensure the fit wouldn't be too tight. Upstairs, he wore a long-sleeved denim shirt that would stop most of the errant globs of grease that would inevitably shoot up from the pans and baskets. A white apron that was well-worn but squeaky clean completed the ensemble.
"Ah… no thank you," he said before he returned to his state of agape-ness. His wide eyes followed the two-stepping Cowpoke for a moment before he shook his head to snap out of the stupor. "Anyway, have you seen Moira lately?"
"Naw! Y'all can't find her?"
"Well, I haven't really looked," A.J. said, shuffling around. "But I heard her office telephone ringing maybe five minutes ago. I think she went in there to answer it. I need to ask where I should put something. I ought to know, but…"
Wynne stopped dancing to shoot her younger friend and coworker a puzzled look. "Whah dontcha go'ah see if ol' Moira still be there, then? Y'all bettah knock first, tho'."
"Because I heard her yelling… and I don't want to ask dumb questions when she's in that mood-"
A.J.'s concerns were confirmed when Moira MacKay suddenly barged out of her office and stormed into the restaurant. Coming to a screeching halt, she threw her arms in the air and let out a rasping, resounding "Sonovabitch! Sonova-goddamned-bitch! My Santa Claus is drunk off his ass!" in front of everybody.
Wynne needed to shake her head several times for the surprising news to filter through the wad of cotton wool that the polar bear had used to line the cozy spot it had found for its winter hibernation in her brain cavity. The moment the words reached the part of her mind that translated the odd noises into usable data, she leaned her head back and let out the loudest belly laugh she had produced in years if not decades.
Tears burst from Wynne's eyes as the laughing fit continued at unabated speed and volume. Though Moira looked increasingly annoyed with her, there was no stopping a Texas Cowpoke when she really let loose. The merry laughter died down eventually, but a single glance at Moira's face set off another series of braying detonations that fed directly off the amount of Polar Bear Brew in her system.
Moira's fierce scowl was nearly Wynne's undoing for a third time, but she grabbed hold of herself to say: "Haw, pardon tha hell outtah me, Moira… I dunno whaddahell got ovah me… I nearly done wet mah shorts, but y'all shoudda seen yerself…"
Once she was done talking, she wiped the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her Red-Nosed Rudolph Christmas sweater. Although she continued to chuckle under her breath all during the process, she managed to keep most of it to herself.
"The Santa Claus I booked," Moira said in a dangerous monotone, "just called to say he's been laid up by an unfortunate accident so he can't make it. The damned fool who cost me an arm and a leg, I might add! Accident, my ass! I could almost smell his beery breath over the telephone! Wynne!"
"Yes, Ma'am!" Wynne said, jumping into a salute of sorts. She held it for a moment or two before she broke out in a goofy grin.
"You seem to think it's a laughing matter… well, that makes you my new Santa Claus. Congratulations. The costume is in storage room two," Moira said before she spun around, stomped back through the corridor, entered her office and slammed the door shut with such force that several pool balls rolled around on the green table down the other end of the Bar & Grill.
Wynne continued to chuckle for a short while; then she realized what Moira had said. "Haw?! She done said whut?! Santa Claus? Me? Lawwwwr-die… I need some coah-ffee. Strong coah-ffee. Really strong coah-ffee. A.J.? A.J.? Shoot, whe'da'hell did he go? Haw, ferget makin' tha coah-ffee… just gimme some beans ta chew on!"
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Five minutes later, Wynne sat on a spartan wooden chair in the equally spartan storage room two. It wasn't used for much so the only illumination came from a naked, filthy bulb hanging down from the ceiling on an electrical cord that hadn't been changed since power had been brought to the tiny desert hamlet of Goldsboro in the 1930s.
Everything smelled funny almost as if something perishable had been forgotten in there an eon ago. Half of the wooden shelves lining the walls were empty, but the rest carried canned goods containing the type of food that had a long shelflife but limited use in the everyday diet of the typical patron of the Bar & Grill, like asparagus spears, hardtack, baby carrots, powdered milk, pickled fruit and slices of pineapple. A separate shelf was reserved for sealed mason jars that contained sour edibles in the vein of red cabbage, beets, cucumbers in vinegar, and even sauerkraut imported from the faraway state of Wisconsin.
Wynne remained in a fuzzy-brained, Polar Bear Brew-induced stupor. She could hear the old chestnuts playing over the restaurant's speaker system through the closed door, but her need to dance around the Christmas tree, or any other tree for that matter, had long since evaporated.
A large plastic bag had been dumped by her feet. Staring into it, she could see that the Santa suit she had been strongarmed into wearing was the ultra-traditional one that consisted of black boots, red velvet pants featuring a leather belt and a brass buckle, a huge coat also held in red velvet, white gloves and finally an Elf hat where the floppy cone ended in a fluffy, white tassle. What wasn't there was Santa's typical full white beard, so she surmised the fellow Moira had booked had a natural beard.
"Mercy Sakes, howdahell am I saposed ta figgah all this out? Gawd-almighty… an' where da hell mah coah-ffee be at?"
Knock, knock! -- 'Wynne? Wynne, are you decent?' a male voice that sounded rather like A.J. 'Slow' Lane said at the other side of the door.
"Yuh, I reckon I be perdy decent, son!" - Snicker, snicker!
'No, I meant are you dressed?'
Snorting, Wynne took another gander into the plastic bag. "Fer cryin' out loud, A.J.! Y'all jus' done gave me this he' bag! Naw, I ain't dressed!"
'Okay… then I'll just put the thermos of coffee out here-'
Wynne gave herself a facepalm that seemed to echo through the semi-empty storage room. Getting to her feet, she was at the door faster than even she had anticipated in her fuzzy state. "Will ya jus' gimme dat dang-blasted thermos, son!" she said after whooshing the old wooden door open.
A.J. completely misunderstood the finer details of the situation. Yelping, he spun around so his eyes wouldn't explore something he had no right to see. As he did so, he accidentally smacked himself over the chin with the thermos that nearly flew from his hand as a result. He managed to catch it in time before it could make a heavy, splashing impact on the floor of the narrow hallway. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to- I'm not looking! I haven't seen anything!" he cried in a strangled voice.
Wynne just stood there with a neon-green question mark hovering over her head. Looking down at herself, she took in the sight of her shoes, dark jeans and colorful Red-Nosed Rudolph Christmas sweater without understanding much of what was going on. "Yuh. Okeh. Whutevah. Will ya jus' gimme that dang coah-ffee… wait a minnit… I need a mug, son! I sure ain't drinkin' straight outtah-"
"The mug's in the lid… well, the lid is the mug," A.J. said with his back turned to his older friend.
"Much obliged," Wynne said, taking the thermos of coffee. "Now y'all bettah get back ta them pots an' pans o' yers, yuh? I promise I'mma-gonn' do this the fastest I can… but y'all mebbe need-a keep ol' Moira calm in da meantime, okeh?"
"I will! I will… and I'm sorry… please tell the Sheriff I didn't see anything so she won't smack me around for peeping!" A.J. said before he took off along the corridor at a speed that almost produced little puffs of dust as he moved his feet.
Wynne nodded twice; then she shook her head and broke out in a shrug. "Haw, dat be a big 10-4, good buddy… ain't sure wotcha reckon y'all might be peepin' at, but… aw, don't got no tihhh-me fer that kinda bizzness now," she said into the empty hallway. Shrugging again, she closed the door and shuffled back to the chair and the plastic bag with the Santa suit.
-*-*-*-
Four large lidfuls of strong coffee later, Wynne stared into the near-empty thermos wondering why she still felt woolly in her upstairs department. "Weird. It always works in them mooh-vies… haw. Nevah mind. Then I jus' gotta figgah out how ta hop inta this he' costume bein' buzzed. No sweat, son. Okeh, tha green flag is out an' we be racin' at… at… haw, Bristol Motah Speedway! Yessirree, an' it even be tha night race, too, 'cos this he' gonn' be one helluva challenge, awright, an' there deffa-nete-ly gonn' be some bent sheet metal befo' I be done!"
The contents of the plastic bag were soon dumped onto the storage room floor. Whoever had put it into the bag the last time had failed to do so properly as all the familiar items were jumbled into a wild mess. One of the boots had made itself a cozy nest deep down the left-hand side pocket of the coat. Conversely, the other boot was now home to both white gloves and half of the Santa hat.
The black suspenders were permanently attached to the red pants, but one had seemed to want to wrestle with the pantlegs as the three items had been twisted into something resembling a viper's nest.
The wide belt with the even wider buckle had gone AWOL, but a fair amount of rummaging around in the pile of clothes revealed that it had slipped into the coat's right-hand sleeve. Pulling on it didn't produce much in the shape of tangible results, and neither did tugging or tearing.
A growl and a strong yank did do the trick, but the motion had created such momentum that the belt slipped from her fingers and flew buckle-first toward the shelves in a perfect ballistic arc. The flight came to an abrupt end as the brass buckle slammed into one of the cans of sour edibles.
The buckle and the belt fell limply to the floor, but the dented can decided that its moment in the spotlight should be celebrated to the fullest. In short, it went into a pirouette worthy of any ballerina before it smacked against the back wall of the shelf. It ended its short performance by tipping over almost as if it was taking a bow on a stage somewhere.
Wynne just smacked herself over the brow. Looking at the mess of clothes at her feet, she gave up trying to make sense of it all. Instead of breaking her brain on such nonsense, she jumped into the only lifeboat she had at her disposal, i.e. her telephone. Mandy's number was soon found in the registry.
It didn't take long before Mandy's rich tones could be heard over the connection. 'Hello, hon-'
Wynne could clearly see the smile that piggybacked the rich tones. It gave her the warm fuzzies which in turn made her let out a sigh of relief. "Howdy, darlin'… Lawrdie, I need yer help. Badly."
She rubbed her face that the lasting effects of the Polar Bear Brew had turned into some kind of weird latex mask that didn't feel like her own skin. "Moira's rented Santa Claus done stood her up… so get this, darlin'… she gave li'l ol' me a field promo-shun ta be tha new Santa! Snakes Alive, can y'all bah-lieve dat?"
'Oh-'
"Yuh, but darlin', I done hadda strong… an' I mean a really strong beer not too long befo' then… so I be so dang fuzzy I can't seem ta… ta… shoot, put on that dang-blasted Santa suit bah mahself. I know it ain't wotcha saposed ta do as Sheriff, but darlin', it jus' ain't happenin' ovah he' with no help. Please. I promise I'mma-gonn' make it up-"
'You had me at 'I need your help,' hon. I'll be right over. ETA two minutes. Love you.'
"Lawrdie, I sure do 'preciate it, darlin'… Gawd. Luv ya like ca-razy."
Wynne's brow and face were given another round of strong rubbing before she tried once more to make heads or tails of the mess of clothes at her feet.
---
Three minutes and nineteen seconds later, the wooden door cracked ajar to reveal a green eye and a few strands of Sheriff Mandy Jalinski's dusty-blonde mop. She seemed reluctant to enter the storage room before verifying a few details: "Hon? Mr. Lane told me you're not wearing any clothes…"
"Haw?! Shoot… an' I done thunk I wus tha one who got blasted! Mebbe ol' Slow Lane be dippin' inta tha fruit punch or som'tin? I be fully dressed, darlin'. Hell, I got more clothes than I know whut ta do with! Dat be tha whole trubbel, yuh?"
Chuckling, Mandy stepped into the storage room and closed the door behind her. The chuckles turned into a "Hmmm!" when she took in the sight of the Santa suit reduced to its component parts. "Miss Donohue, may I ask politely what you've gotten yourself involved in this time?"
"Y'all can ask but I ain't sure I got no answah fer y'all, darlin'," Wynne said, spreading her arms out wide in the gesture generally known as I Have No Clue How This Happened, But It Did, And Now I'm Stuck In It Up To My Ass Cheeks.
Wynne shook her head in a most despondent fashion. "There I wus, decoratin' tha Chriss-mass tree when Grant Lafferty came bah with a-buncha imported beers, yuh? An' they gonn' be some o' tha prizes fer tha bingah-event so I coudden sample one offem, yuh? But the sneaky ol' Grant-Mastah done gave me a beer called a Polar Bear Brew. Yuh? It was awesome, lemme tell y'all, but I reckon I kinda, sorta, musta drank it too quickly 'cos, ho'ah-brothah, that polar bear got bite!"
"Okay, I got that part…" Mandy said, scratching her eyebrow, "but the Santa suit?"
"Yuh, okeh, so… so tha Santa Claus that Moira done rented ta take care o' bizzness with tha bingah event an' all them othah things tanight, yuh? Well, he done stood her up. I reckon he wus dead drunk… which is sorta ironic 'cos I sure wussen sobah when Moira done ordah'd me ta be tha new Santa."
"I see."
"Haw, dat be great 'cos I sure don't see nuttin'!" - Snicker, Snicker - "An' he' I be with a-buncha Santa clothes an' I ain't got no clue whe' ta start. An' befo' y'all suggest it, strong coah-ffee didden do jack squat, neithah."
Mandy chuckled as she crouched down at the pile of clothes to get everything sorted. "I believe I've told you that a couple of times over the years. That only works in fiction, not in real life. Just like getting fresh air or smoking a menthol cigarette. It doesn't work."
"Yuh, I reckon… mebbe I oughttah ha' trah'd some o' ol' Ernie's cactus joo-ze. Yuck, jus' tha thought, tho'…"
"What did you do back in the old days when you needed to sober up quickly?" Mandy said while she unwrapped the pantlegs from the black suspenders.
"Haw, that didden happen offen, darlin'. Almost nevah. I jus' kinda leaned back an' enjoyed tha buzz when it wus there. Sometimes, I done took anothah cuppel-a beers ta keep it goin' an' goin'… ya know."
Nodding, Mandy stopped her handiwork to lock eyes with her life partner. "I'm glad you've gone beyond that. We wouldn't be together if you hadn't."
"Lawrdie, I hear ya, darlin'," Wynne said in a somber voice. "I be dubbel-glad 'cos y'all be mah whole wohhh-rld. I woudden be nuttin' without'cha. Nuttin'. Shoot, now I'mma-gonn' craaah…"
The moment called for a reassuring kiss, so Mandy got up and carried out the sweet assignment with plenty of love, a ton of heart and even a little tongue. A few winks were exchanged when the kissing was over and done with for the time being. They remained close for the next few moments before Mandy crouched down once more to go back to work.
"Gawd almighty, I needed them kisses," Wynne said in a croak. "Thank y'all fer lovin' me tho' I be a dang foo' at times. How them pants goin'?"
"They're ready," Mandy said, straightening out the pant legs. "Okay, kick off your shoes… if you can?"
"Haw, I ain't that drunk!" Wynne said with a snicker. The laced-up shoes were soon on the storage room floor; then she got up to unbutton her black jeans. "Naw… on second thoughts… I reckon I wanna keep mah reg'lar duds on undahneath. Ya nevah know whut gonn' happen, yuh? This bein' Goldsborah aftah all…"
"That's a good point, hon, but I think this costume is going to be really warm to wear."
Wynne briefly rubbed the red fabric between her fingers; it certainly looked and felt warm, but the alternative remained less attractive. "Yuh, prolly, but that be whah them clevah folks done invented tha Dubbel-Zehras, darlin'! Okeh, y'all bettah hold out that there pantleg 'cos I be comin'!"
---
Five minutes later, Wynne exclaimed a "Holy shittt! That fellah Moira done rented ta be Santa gotta be fattah than a fatted calf. Lookie he'! I ain't tha slimmest no mo' but them pants an' that there coat there gotta be five sizes too large. Aw-shoot, this gonn' look dumb. Hell, ferget gonn'… it alreddy be lookin' dumb!"
With the addition of the black boots, the red pants, the red and white coat, the white gloves and the tasseled hat, The Last Original Cowpoke had morphed into The Last Original Santa-poke. She looked the part on an overall level, but the last touches and fine details were lacking.
Mandy settled for confirming Wynne's words by nodding as she was too busy rubbing her chin to speak. "You need padding. Plenty of padding," she eventually said. "Three or four pillows ought to do it, but they'll make the costume even warmer to wear."
"Yuh, prolly. Dad-gummit."
After getting up, Mandy took several steps back to get the big picture. She cocked her head this way and that to get in as many angles as she could of her partner and the Santa costume. Though the former looked good as always, the latter was as baggy as a badly sewn tent. "You definitely need pillows, hon. One on your stomach for sure… better make that two. Santa needs to be big and round for the illusion to work."
"I reckon I'mma-gonn' go next do'ah ta get some pillahs from tha Bed 'n Breakfast's depot, then," Wynne said, patting her costume across the stomach. "Okeh. That be fer latah. Now I really need-a get back ta mah chores. Leavin' Slow Lane all alone on an evenin' like this ain't fair. Lawrdie, darlin', I sure do thank y'all. Ya wus mah li'l Chriss-mass miracle!"
"You're welcome. This was one of the more pleasant assignments," Mandy said with a grin as she moved back to Santa Wynne to give her a big, old Christmas squeeze known as a I Love You Like Crazy And I Can't Help But Want To Touch You-style hug. The kisses that followed weren't bad, either.
---
Back in the restaurant, Wynne let her eyes roam across the rows of tables. The number of empty chairs and tables proved that the big land rush had yet to happen; a fact that suited her just fine as it meant she would have time to wet her whistle on a Double-Zero non-alcoholic beer - or two - before she arrived at the next item on her agenda.
The appearance of a Santa Claus caused plenty of staring and smiling, but Wynne just waved her hand in an Aw-Shucks! gesture.
The decorated Christmas tree continued to look gorgeous as well. Wynne admired her handiwork for a moment or two before she realized the Polar Bear Brew had caused her to skip yet another cog in the thought process earlier. "Aw… aw! D'awwwww-say it ain't so… say it ain't so… Lawrdie, it is so!"
"What? Problems?" Mandy said, running over to Wynne's spot after stopping at the kitchen counter to clear up A.J. 'Slow' Lane's confusion about Wynne being undressed when he brought her the coffee.
"Yuh! I plumb fergot ta put tha dog-gone angel on top!" Wynne croaked, pointing at the empty spot on top of the tree. Shaking her head at herself, she stomped over to the stepladder to get back to work.
The clumsy Santa boots made climbing the three-rung ladder a perilous adventure, so instead of risking breaking the tree or fracturing her butt going up and down too often, she waved Mandy over once she had made it to the upper rung. "Darlin'! Darlin', wouldya mind gettin' tha box where Mizz Angel sleeps? I done put it onna shelf behind tha bar countah. A.J. can show ya," she said, reaching out to smooth down the top shoot.
---
Two minutes later while balancing on the upper rung, Wynne opened a cardboard box lined with silk paper and cotton wool designed to keep the precious figurine inside safe and sound.
The five-inch-tall glass angel had been given a golden coating that made it and its extended wings sparkle like gemstones. It had a hollow tube at the center where the top shoot was meant to go, but Wynne found it exceedingly difficult to get the two items lined up so they could go forth in holy matrimony.
The clumsy Santa boots meant her feet had no room whatsoever on the upper rung of the stepladder, but she needed more space to be able to reach behind the top branch to pull it closer. "Aw, sombitch," she mumbled as her second attempt at extending her arm while leaning forward once more failed to accomplish the task.
"Careful, hon! Please be careful… that doesn't look safe," Mandy said from what appeared to be two floors down from Wynne's spot up near the ceiling.
"Yuh, I be careful, awright. Holy shittt, this sure ain't easy, darlin'… naw, it sure ain't. But I'mma-gonn' get real peeved if I can't get tha darn thing onnit!"
Shuffling around on the rung didn't help much, but shifting her weight to the other leg added another inch or two to her reach. It turned out to be enough even if the knee she had injured earlier chose the moment to voice its disapproval with being bent beyond what it was prepared for. A slight hiss of pain escaped her, but the Christmas music playing from the many speakers was so loud that not even Mandy noticed.
All done, she climbed down the stepladder to admire the finished tree. "Haw-yuh, dat be one helluva good-lookin' Chriss-mass tree, sure ain't no lie! Them kids gonn' luv it… an' all them adults too, I reckon."
"It's very pretty," Mandy said, taking in the splendor. A moment or two later, she cocked her head as if she had a small point to make: "Except… aren't we putting candy canes on it this year?"
Wynne spun around on her Santa-boot to look at the tree. "Tha… tha… candy canes? Whaddindahell, I plumb fergot them dang-blasted candy canes, too! Awwwww-shitttt!"
---
Once the tree had been fully candy-caned, Wynne rubbed her eyes repeatedly to get the darn polar bear to abandon its warm but fuzzy winter cavern. "Okeh… okeh… darlin', y'all see anythin' else I done missed? 'Cos I been lookin' at that there tree there fer so long now I ain't seein' nuttin' but whut I done. An' tha trubbel ain't whut I done but whut I shouldda done, but didden. Yuh?"
"No, I think it's fine, hon," Mandy said, hooking her arm inside Santa Wynne's. Then she cocked her head again. "But why an angel on top instead of a star or a cross?"
" 'Cos nobodda got nuttin' ag'inst angels, yuh? Stars an' crosses tend ta tie people's undies in a wad. We saw that las' year, 'membah? Lawrdie, we done spent tha entiah week between Chriss-mass an' tha New Year debatin' the top ornament. It wus an item on da Town Council's assembly agenda fer cryin' out loud! Ain't gonn' happen this tihhh-me. I hope… naw, it ain't gonn' happen."
"Well, if you say so," Mandy said, stepping up on tip-toes to place a kiss on Santa's lips. "I better get back to the office. Mr. Simms is on rare form today. He's already had two large-scale coughing fits. Worse, he's back on the nicotine chewing gum for the holidays."
"Mercy Sakes, dat means-"
"Yes. That's exactly what it means," Mandy said with a lopsided grin. "Bye, hon. Remember to bring a clothes peg for your nose if you come over to the office."
Wynne bared her teeth in a butt-ugly grimace. It remained there for a short while as the memories of the last time Barry went on the nicotine chewing gum wagon lingered. "Haw, I will. Lawrdie. Bah-bah, darlin'… it sure wus fuhhh-n knowin' y'all…"
-*-*-*-
Mandy zipped her uniform jacket all the way up as she stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the Bar & Grill. Although Mother Nature didn't provide ten feet of snow like in some of the northern states, the stiff breeze that swept down Main Street meant the ambient temperatures were on the distinctly chilly side.
Her sharp eyes made a quick tour of the mostly deserted Main Street. There were quite a few trucks and SUVs parked at the curb in front of the Bar & Grill, but none driving along the blacktop. Up at the far end of the street by the gas pumps at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop, one of Tucker Garfield's fleet of yellow tow trucks seemed to have come to the aid of another vehicle, but it was too far away to see any details. The myriad of yellow LEDs and rotating lights Tucker had installed on all his tow trucks played a symphony in Flash Major as they almost lit up the street.
The sound of an approaching engine made Mandy look to her right. Before long, local resident Matthew Jensen drove past her in one of the company vehicles belonging to his place of work, Hanson's Meat Processing & Packing Co., down south at the halfway point between Goldsboro and Cavanaugh Creek.
The father of Torsten and Lukas Jensen rolled down the driver's side window to wave at the sheriff as he drove past. Mandy responded in kind by putting two fingers on the brim of her Mountie hat. Once Matthew had made the turn onto the aptly named Second Street to get over to Josiah where he lived with his wife Carole, Mandy crossed over Main Street to get back to the office.
---
The sticking glass door offered no resistance to her strong shoulder as she ventured inside. What did offer a great deal of resistance was the quality of the indoor climate, so she remained in the doorway to test the air by sniffing a couple of times. It wasn't fresh, but she had smelled worse - of course, that had nearly always been at the large cattle ranches in the region. Grunting, she closed the door behind her and moved over to the big desk.
The winter uniform jacket and the Mountie hat were soon hanging on their respective nails on the wall behind the desk. Scrunching up her face at the smell that seemed to grow stronger the closer she got to the watch desk, she reached into the desk's bottom drawer to get a can of air freshener. The office was given a solid dose of Alpine Fresh, but it didn't seem to be able to combat the lingering smell.
Christmas music played from a smartphone that had been hooked up to a pair of portable speakers. The combo had been placed on the watch desk so everyone could get an earful of all the old chestnuts. At present, the superstar trio The Andrews Sisters backed by Guy Lombardo and his band, The Royal Canadians, were singing the praises of the Merry Christmas Polka with plenty of oom-pah-pah and heavenly harmonies.
The deputies had added a small amount of Christmas decorations so the rundown office wouldn't ruin anyone's holiday spirit, but the cracked linoleum, the outdated maps, the poor heating panels, the sticking glass door and all the other little niggles put up a fierce fight against any kind of cheer in the Season To Be Jolly. The only thing that brought a smile or two to the people visiting the sheriff's office was a foot-tall Santa Claus figure that would wiggle its behind while 'singing' the main chorus of Bing Crosby's fast-paced Yuletide classic Christmas Dinner Country Style.
A moment later, Blackie came out of the crew room at the back to greet the world and her owner once more. The fierce black German Shepherd - who was a fully-fledged member of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department's K9 squad - also sniffed the air before she went too far, but it seemed the need to connect with her owner was stronger than any horrid scent that could be thrown at her sensitive nose.
She let out a Woof! Woof-woof-woof… woooof! that meant 'The sickly Human is trying to poison me! Would you mind if I gnawed on him? Perhaps just a little nibble?'
Mandy crouched down to dish out some loving of the fur-rubbing kind. "I know, Blackie… I don't like it either, but we need to respect his decision to try that damned chewing gum."
Woof…
Mandy studied the vacant watch desk after getting up. Unlike 99% of the time, the ashtray was empty and even shiny. That was shocking enough in itself, and the fact that the area around it had been wiped clean recently was even more startling.
The splendor only went so far, though, as the rest of the items on the desktop displayed the same amount of clutter as always. Their civilian employee, former Deputy Sheriff Barry Simms, had a crossword puzzle magazine spread out to his left, a Sally Swackhamer, P.I. pulp detective novel to his right, a saucer full of Christmas cookies directly ahead, and a mug shaped like the head of a moose containing what appeared to be hot chocolate placed on top of the important incident report sheet.
Sighing, Mandy strode over to the watch desk to see if the mug had made a brown ring. It obviously had. Another sigh escaped her as she grabbed a semi-filthy napkin from a pile on the desk and began to dab-dab-dab along the wettish spot on the official document.
As the 1960s crooner Al Martino sang O Come, All Ye Faithful - perhaps that was the problem - the door to the restroom at the back of the office opened to reveal Barry Simms in all his afternoon glory.
His hair would always be neat and wet combed at the start of his shifts, but as soon as the hands of time moved around to the PM hours, his hair would try to emulate a hedgehog that had curled itself up into a defensive position. Worse, on an aesthetic level, his brown pullover was littered with cookie crumbs and his pants carried several coffee stains.
It was a perfectly average day for Barry Simms, except that it wasn't.
His complexion had never been the healthiest after smoking sixty home-rolled cigarettes a day for more than a decade, but the gray tones and the mask of discomfort etched onto his face proved that something was out of the ordinary. The hand he pressed against his stomach offered another hint that something was seriously amiss somewhere inside.
He had barely set one foot ahead of the other to get back to the watch desk before he let out a thunderous fart that spent the next few seconds echoing back and forth between the office walls. "Oh… pardon," he said before he resumed shuffling over to the watch desk.
The reactions among those already in the office were immediate: while Mandy rolled her eyes and took a long step back to get out of the path of the toxic cloud, Blackie jumped into a full offensive stance and began dishing out thunderous barks that matched the ferocity of the thunderous fart - or farts, as this latest example was the umpteenth one Barry had released over the course of the day.
Beatrice Reilly arrived a moment later. The door to the crew room was cracked open an inch or two so she could look out without being exposed to the biological warfare.
The thirty-something deputy sheriff had buffed up considerably after jumping into a rigorous training program earlier in the year. Her initial aim had been twofold: to improve her physical stamina to combat the long working days and to strengthen her mental capabilities to prevent things getting out of hand during pursuits or the subsequent arrests. However, when she had discovered how much she liked the exercise routines and the positive changes it brought to her body and mind, she had kept up the strict regimen of weightlifting and martial arts even after her criteria had been met.
She had always been a stickler for following the dress code to the letter, so her uniform was clean and well-maintained with no loose threads, crooked patches or any other kind of half-hearted sewing jobs anywhere.
At present, she had her fair locks in a tight ponytail that didn't see a hair out of place. The stern look meant she didn't need an express courier to deliver the angry glare she sent Barry's way; it simply flew over there all by itself. "Barry! I swear, the next time you do that, I'm gonna ram a cork up your bunghole! Will you quit farting, for Chrissakes!"
"I can't, okay?" Barry said in a croaking voice. "It's the nicotine chewing gum… there's something about it that gives me tummy trouble-"
"You don't say!" Beatrice roared before she let out a Harrumph! and slammed the door to the crew room shut.
Blackie responded to the slamming door by letting out another thunderous bark until she realized the door posed far less of a threat to her than the farting Human. She continued growling while she inched past him on her way back to the crew room to join Beatrice.
Mandy had been so busy scratching an eyebrow at the bizarre topic that she hadn't had time to join the discussion, and the sound of her telephone ringing deep down her pocket meant she would have to push it off even further. When the caller-ID said SnrDpt Gonzalez, she assumed her game face and strode over to the incident report sheet to be ready for any kind of update.
"This is Sheriff Jalinski, Senior Deputy. You're on an open line. Go on," Mandy said after putting the telephone on the watch desk so she could have both hands free for adding the incident to the day sheet.
'Sheriff, I'm at mile marker 253,' Rodolfo Gonzalez said in his customary silky smooth tones that went well with his movie-star looks and suave personality. 'I've apprehended a John Doe for multiple offenses including a DUI, possession of marijuana and associated paraphernalia, driving without a license… or any kind of ID for that matter… and for driving an uninsured vehicle. I suspect he isn't the owner of the car, so we may well be looking at a Grand Theft Auto on top of everything else. Can't say until we've made a positive identification of him.'
"Very well, Senior Deputy. Stand by," Mandy said, nodding several times as she updated the incident report sheet with the date, time, nature of the incident and the initials of the responding officer.
'Standing by, Sheriff.'
Once Mandy had updated the day sheet, she switched over to her indispensable notepad and jotted everything down that Rodolfo had told her. "All right, I'm back. Excellent work, Senior Deputy. I presume you're bringing him in?"
'Yes, Sheriff. ETA ten minutes for Holding Cell One.'
"Very well. I'll have Deputy Reilly meet you there. Is there anything else?"
'Not at this time, Sheriff.'
"All right. One less menace on the road. Sheriff Jalinski out."
Once Mandy had closed the connection, she strode over to the crew room to bring Beatrice Reilly up to speed. As expected, the deputy sheriff jumped at the chance to get out of Barry's firing range: she was out of the office in a flash.
---
Half an hour later, Mandy scowled so fiercely it was a miracle that the mug of hot chocolate she held between her hands didn't shatter into three dozen earthenware shards. The reason for her ire was, of course, Barry Simms, whose gestures and habits created a tidal wave of sound and air pollution by smacking on his nicotine chewing gum, sipping a non-alcoholic eggnog, sucking on a long stick of butterscotch, slurping his ninth mug of hot chocolate and crunching on vanilla rings, butter cookies, peppernuts and half a dozen other types of Christmas cookies.
That was all bad enough in and by itself, but the killing blows came at four-minute intervals when he let out a moan, a groan and a thunderous fart. Once the pressure in his intestines had been reduced to normal levels, the entire circus act of building up to the next one started over.
Down on the blanket just inside the door, the fierce, proud and bone-tough Blackie had reached her fill of the horrors stemming from the Human. To demonstrate her aversion to the man behind the desk, she had turned around so her own rear-end was pointed straight at him. Although she had a water bowl and several sticks of jerky lined up, she was so busy burying her doggy head in her paws that she had no time for the food.
Mandy didn't keep track of Barry's farting as such, but the next one was such a noisy and smelly affair that she bolted to her feet and slammed a fist onto the big desk's blotting pad. "Barry Simms! Either you stop breaking wind right this Goddamned minute, or I will suspend you without pay until you've come to your Goddamned senses! And by that, I mean gone back to smoking cigarettes!"
"But, Sheriff-"
"Do you understand what I'm telling you, Mr. Simms?!"
"Yes, Sheriff… but-"
"Good!" Mandy closed the deal by once more slamming her fist onto the desktop before sitting down and grabbing the next stack of case files she needed to work on. A short, though noisy minute went by before she continued, "And will you please tone down the enjoyment of your treats… I can't work like this. Thank you!"
"Uh… I'll try, Sheriff," Barry mumbled around a mouthful of crunchy butter cookies. After taking a sip of the non-alcoholic eggnog, he grabbed the mug of hot chocolate to wash it all down.
Unfortunately, the hot chocolate was involved in a head-on collision with the advance guard of a cough. As the immovable object ran into the irresistible force, the chocolate went down the wrong pipe. A world class hacking, rattling, spluttering coughing fit was inevitable as was a parade of belches to get the hot chocolate back up from his lungs.
The gross assault on her eardrums caused Mandy to slam her elbows onto the desktop and bury her face in her hands. She sat like that through most of Barry's spluttering fit, but the constant belching and the lengthy double-fart that came near the end was enough for her to jump to her feet, grab her jacket and Mountie hat and storm over to the sticking glass door.
Blackie didn't need a written invitation as she had been ready to leave for the past five minutes or so. The split second her owner tore open the glass door, the fierce K9 hound zipped out of the sheriff's office and into the fresh air on Main Street.
Mandy yanked the glass door shut behind her to get away from the hazmat area. The fact she had escaped the Excrutiatingly Evil Baron von Farty with no lasting damage to her nasal cilia made her breathe a sigh of relief. Another long sigh escaped her as she looked up and down Main Street to find something, anything, to do that would eat up a fair while, or - preferably - the rest of the afternoon.
Blackie ran a short stretch up the sidewalk to get acquainted with potential new smells in her neighborhood. When there didn't seem to be any, she let out a disappointed Woof… before she ran back to sit next to Mandy's legs.
The Sheriff's horrible mood continued to linger for a while, but the combination of remembering how cute Wynne had actually looked in the Santa suit, and the expectation of a fun evening at the bingo event made her forget all about Barry and his vile bodily functions.
Main Street hadn't grown busier since her last visit outside, but there was always something to see and places to visit for a pair of intrepid law enforcement officers, so she and Blackie soon set off on an impromptu foot patrol of the mean streets of Goldsboro, Nevada.
-*-*-*-
At the same time across the street, Wynne had shed some of the Santa costume as she moved around the pool table trying to set up the perfect shot. Just like Mandy had predicted earlier when she had helped Wynne get dressed in the storage room, the double-layered coat in particular proved to be so warm that the The Last Original Santa-poke didn't even need to do anything to sense beads of perspiration trickle down her back.
That wasn't one of her favorite pastimes, so the coat had found a new, though temporary, home suspended over the backrest of the nearest chair. The colorful Red-Nosed Rudolph Christmas sweater had once more come to the forefront, but at least the themes matched perfectly. The clumsy Santa boots did a number on her calves and thigh muscles, but since she wasn't expected to walk too far over the course of the evening, she had kept them on.
She had been over in the Bed & Breakfast's storage depot to find three - it was her lucky number, after all - pillows that she could use for padding here and there along her tall frame. She had experimented with putting a pillow into the back of the Santa pants to boost her rear quarters, but the ballooney look it had created had been too much of a good thing for her self-respect. Thus, the three pillows had been whittled down to a single one that she'd stuff under the coat to give herself a big, fat belly when her time on stage would come.
A Yap? from underneath the pool table made Wynne take a step back and crouch down to look into the doggy cave. Goldie had a large bowl of fresh water and an even larger bowl of Lafayette's Quality Dry Feed at her disposal, but it seemed the food and drink had less of a draw on the Golden Retriever than usual as she had only nibbled at it.
"Whazzamattah with y'all, girl?" Wynne said, reaching in to give Goldie a little fur-rubbing. "I sure hope y'all ain't comin' down with som'tin…?"
Yap…
"Mebbe y'all is? It sure ain't like y'all not ta chow down that there Lafayette feed. Haw… y'all ain't pregnant, are ya? Mebbe y'all an' ol' Freddie finally done tha lovely? He sure is a strappin' fellah, awright, but… we nevah did get around ta ask Doc Gibbs if all y'all could… ya know. Mate safely."
A short delay appeared in the conversation before Goldie let out a slightly insulted: Yap-yap-yap-yap-yapperty-yap-yap! that meant 'I'm not sure what you're trying to tell me, but all I'm saying is that something ugly and disgusting crawled into my food and didn't come out! How rude is that? Get rid of it and give me a fresh helping.'
"Mebbe y'all jus' need some rest. Trah ta get some sleep, okeh? Tawk ta ya latah, girl," Wynne said and rose to her full height.
Down below, Goldie let out an annoyed Yapppp… that didn't need any
translation.
Wynne spent the next few moments chalking her rental cue, but she didn't have time to take the shot before the door opened to reveal a fair-sized batch of Goldsborians whose excited yakking among themselves proved they had already discovered their festive cheer.
Checking her telephone proved the hands of time were creeping closer to the scheduled starting time of the Mega XMas Bingo Event. Standing up straight, she began to draw a mental point-to-point image of the evening's entertainment:
- One, the original Santa had called in sick due to excessive consumption of alcohol.
- Two, the original Santa was also the MC for the bingo event. It was literally his job to read the numbers aloud when the bingo machine had produced a ball.
- Three, Moira MacKay had appointed Wynne to be the new Santa.
- Four, as a logical consequence of bullet point number three, Wynne had also become the new MC whose main job was to read the numbers aloud in front of the crowd that, if the constant influx of happy Goldsborians was anything to go by, would be on the massive side.
She would be casually acquainted with 75% of them and be great buddies with at least 20% more. Most Goldsborians knew her and her occasionally quirky ways, but there was a difference between saying Howdy, all y'all fihhh-ne folks on the street and have everybody stare at her under the harsh spotlights.
Perhaps worse, she wouldn't be allowed to make but a single mistake when calling out the numbers the bingo machine would choose for her. Big prizes were at stake and the admittance fee would go to charity. Nothing could make tempers flare more violently than losing due to someone else's fumbling.
A brief grunt escaped her as it seemed an entire aviary of butterflies had somehow found its way into the pit of her stomach. "Mercy Sakes, I bettah… I bettah… yuh… I bettah get mah whissel wetted," she croaked.
With such a load of nervous energy blasting through her, she did what came natural. Spinning around on her Santa boots, she stomped over to the nearby refrigerators. She had already reached for a can of H.E. Fenwyck 1910 Special Brew when she realized that building confidence through beer was the wrong way to conduct her business on the 24th of December. Sighing, she moved three feet to the left and took a can of Go-Faster-Longer energy drink instead.
The Pssshhht! the can produced was the same as always, but the carbonated, apricot-flavored soft drink didn't hold quite the same supportive qualities as a beer would in spite of its excessive amount of caffeine.
"Holy shittt, whaddahell did I get mahself inta he'?" she mumbled in a croaky voice before she took a long swig to get herself a little boost. "Haw, I didden get mahself inta nuttin'… ol' Moira did," she continued in a matching mumble while she wiped her lips on the back of her hand. "Lawwwwwwr-die, this ain't gonn' have no happy end fer the ol' Cowpoah-k, nosirree…"
A glimmer of hope seemed to be ignited when her eyes fell on the almost inseparable trio of teenagers who had just entered the bar and grill, Kenny 'K.T.' Tobin, Richard 'Ritchie' Lee and Torsten 'Tor' Jensen.
The three teens couldn't be more different visually speaking, but the old saying of 'opposites attract' seemed to work as well as ever. Where Kenny was a cool, handsome young heartthrob who had stylish hair and always wore the latest in designer fashion, Ritchie was tall, gangly, accident-prone, acne-riddled and saddled with a lousy hairdo and a boorish facial bone structure.
Ritchie's frequent growth spurts had come to an end as he had finally reached the big 2-0, but they had left him all arms, legs and large feet that had a propensity for tripping over things or getting stuck in the worst of places. Nearly all his clothes were bought second-hand at tailgate parties and various thrift stores, Keshawn's being the latest, but although they were old and out of fashion, his mother's skills with the needle and thread made sure he always looked presentable and worth no less than his buddies.
Tor Jensen appeared markedly different compared to his more rural-dressing friends. Having copied his style from the tough street crews who hung out in the mean back alleys of Richmond Falls, Nevada where he and his family had lived before they moved to Goldsboro, he always wore loud and colorful hip-hop-style clothing that stood out in any crowd.
His neon-green shoelaces, silvery harem pants and bright red sweatshirt advertising the tour dates of a rap crew nobody else had ever heard of created a splash wherever he went. The baseball cap that sat crooked over his right ear only added to the image of a rebellious teen, but he wasn't bad as such, only a little ill-adjusted to the expectations of the rural population.
"Gaahs! Wait up, gaaahs, I need a wohhh-rd witcha!" Wynne cried, waving the can of Go-Faster-Longer in the air. When it seemed they couldn't hear her over the general yakking and Bing Crosby crooning about his beloved White Christmas, she took off from the pool table at surprising speed so the opportunity wouldn't be lost.
"Howdy, fellahs," she said once she caught up with the three friends. "Lissen, I got a favahr ta ask o' all y'all gaaahs-"
"Whoa, when did you become Santa?" Kenny Tobin said with a grin. As always, the heartthrob wore elegant clothing in the shape of ankle boots, dark blue jeans, and a red and white college letterman jacket that covered an off-white Western shirt featuring rhinestones for buttons. A leather bolo tie completed the ensemble. The quality of his stylish, neatly cut blond hair meant he rarely wore a hat of any kind.
"When tha ohhh-ri-gi-nal Santa wus drunk offa his ass, ta quote Moira, K.T.," Wynne said with a grin. "But anyhows, can I count on all y'all good buddies ta gimme a helpin' hand?"
"You haven't said what we're supposed to do yet, Wynne," Ritchie Lee said. As always when he spoke to a female member of the human race, his entire face turned tomato red. Even worse than the blushing was the fact that his voice broke as he uttered his older friend's name. It all became too much for him, so he stuffed his hands into the side pockets of his jeans and took a long step back so he wouldn't be scrutinized by the others.
Grinning, Wynne reached out to give Ritchie's shoulder a small slap of support. "I'mma-gonn' be the emm-cee o' this he' Mega Chriss-mass Bingah Event, yuh? But I be a li'l worried that them friendly folks he' ain't gonn' undahstand a dog-gone wohhh-rd o' whut I be sayin', yuh? So I done thunk we could mebbe have a test run or som'tin? Tha bingah machine thing is lined up an' reddy ta go back in one o' them there sto-ritch rooms, so… whaddaya say, fellahs?"
It was obvious by the blank look on Tor Jensen's face that his level of interest in giving a helping hand had flatlined long before Wynne had finished speaking. When he looked at his friends who seemed more enthusiastic, he broke out in a non-committal half-shrug and an "Eh. What's in it for us?"
"How 'bout a six-pack o'-"
"Beer!" Tor said, breaking out in an affirmative nod.
Wynne shook her head while she held up the Go-Faster-Longer energy drink. "Naw. Soft drinks, Tor. I mebbe a li'l slow at times, yuh? But I sure ain't dumb. Servin' beer ta minahs be dumb."
All Tor did was to let out a completely dismissive "Meh."
Ritchie was in on it at once, and all Kenny needed to be fully persuaded was a glance at the current selection of eligible young women in the bar and grill. At present, the only ones he had any interest in hitting on were the dates of Roscoe Finch and Geoffrey Wilburr, Jr. which made them out of his range. He made a mental note of the sparseness of gold nuggets before he turned back to Wynne with an "I guess I'm in."
"Coo'! Okeh, it be right this he' way, yuh?" Wynne said, holding out her hand to guide the teen trio over to the storage room.
---
Wynne's fears were proven right less than ten minutes later. It had started well. However: the first two balls the bingo machine had presented had been seven and twelve, and even the world's thickest Texan accent couldn't mangle those to such an extent that people from other states couldn't understand them.
Waiting by the bingo machine, Wynne caught the third ball as it was shot up a sheer tube by pneumatic pressure. She stared at it, knowing that her concerns had just been validated.
The system was simple yet effective as it was really only a large glass sphere that contained 100 super-lightweight ping pong balls that each carried a number from 00 to 99. To make the ping pong balls come alive, compressed air was blown into the glass sphere through a nozzle that was connected to an air bottle hidden behind the machine. When the game was underway, the MC would manipulate a lever that opened a small hatch on top of the sphere that would allow one, and only one, ping pong ball to enter the tube.
Wynne continued to stare at the latest ping pong ball. Kenny, Tor and Ritchie were sitting on chairs in front of the machine to simulate how it would be when the game was played for real. Kenny and Ritchie began looking at each other to work out the reason for the unexpected delay, but Wynne beat them to it:
"Numbah fiddy-fo'ah… numbah fiddy-fo'ah," Wynne said, remembering to repeat the number like the user guide said she should.
Tor's entire attention was focused on his telephone where he updated his World Connected account status with a Bored! emoji, but Ritchie and Kenny looked at each other in wide-eyed surprise. Ritchie broke the silence first: "I'm really sorry, Miss Dono-"
"Wynne! I be Wynne, fer cryin' out loud, son! Snakes Alive, how offen do I hafta tell y'all ta call me bah mah first name… I don't go 'round callin' y'all Mistah Lee, do I? Lawrdie!"
"Wynne," Ritchie tried again; the blushing returned with a vengeance. "I'm really sorry, but I couldn't understand the… the… uh… the num- the ball's number."
"Me neither," Kenny said.
Wynne looked at the 54 ball for a few moments before she put it into the sealed box where all the used numbers were supposed to go. "Shit. It wus fiddy-fo'ah. Okeh… lemme trah one mo'. Mebbe I wus jus' unlucky. Yuh? Okeh… he' we go'ah."
Operating the small lever, another ping pong ball shot skyward into the sheer tube. Wynne's eyes narrowed down into slits when she read the number printed on the side of the ball. "Numbah sevvenny-fihhh-ve… dat be numbah sevvenny-fihhh-ve… shit. I knew this wussen gonn' work! Dad-gummit!"
Ritchie settled for nodding in agreement, but Kenny put his hand in the air. "Would you mind if I tried? Perhaps I'm more used to presenting stuff like this."
"Yuh, okeh… from bein' tha tour guide o' tha Bug Bonanzah out yondah bah yer folks an' all, yuh? Haw, dat might work bettah, sure ain't no lie. Okeh son, knock yaself out," Wynne said as she stepped aside to let Kenny Tobin give it a shot.
Since many of the bingo event's visitors would have come to see Santa, Wynne stayed at the bingo machine to get used to being at the center of everyone's attention and to learn to operate the lever so she wouldn't fumble too much when it counted. After the hatch had opened, the next ping pong ball arrived in the tube.
"Number thirty-nine. Number thirty-nine," Kenny said in a buttery voice that earned him a whistling applause from Ritchie and a surprised look from Wynne. "Next ball, please, Santa," he continued with a grin.
Wynne was only too happy to comply, so she operated the lever again to let the next ball show up. "Haw, K.T.! Whah, y'all sure got hidden talents… no wondah that there Bug Bonanzah be so pop'lah an' all. Not only do all y'all got all them creepy bugs an' stuff ta show yer guests, y'all got Mistah Smooth Operatah as tha guide!"
Grinning, Kenny reached for the ball and held it up so the spectators - in this case Ritchie Lee as Tor had long since zoned out - could see it. "Number eighty-six. Number eighty-six. Ladies and gentlemen, we've had two high numbers in a row. Can we make it three or will Lady Fortune decide against it? Next ball, please."
Grinning all over, Wynne operated the lever once more.
"Lady Fortune has spoken. Number ten. Number ten," Kenny said, holding up the ball so the sparse audience could read the number.
"Whah Kenny Tobin, y'all deffa-nete-ly be a rootin', tootin', buttah-voiced Cowpoah-k!" Wynne said, giving Kenny's shoulder a big slap. "Holy smokes, I reckon we got usselves a durn winnah he'! Yessirree! Gingah Ales all 'round!"
"Yay!" Ritchie cried, jumping up from the chair so he could get his favorite beverage. His clumsiness had the last laugh when the chair tipped over behind him, but it was just a minor-scale embarrassment compared to so many others he had experienced over the years and it didn't even make him blush.
Next to Ritchie, Tor finally looked up from his telephone. "Are we done? We're done… great. Man, I need a Coke and a buncha fries or something before this bingo shit starts. It's gonna blow so hard I won't be able to stay awake."
Wynne scratched her neck at Tor's utter lack of interest, but eventually shrugged and moved over to the bingo machine to reset it for its big appearance.
-*-*-*-
Six PM. With two hours to go until the Mega XMas Bingo Event was scheduled to start, Moira's Bar & Grill was already packed to the rafters with Goldsborians whose anticipatory excitement was sky high. Most of them had placed orders at much the same time, so A.J. 'Slow' Lane had needed to turn on the entire installation of industrial stoves, both of the range hoods above the cooking panels and even his own proverbial afterburners to keep up with demand regarding basic suppers or fine dinners.
The row of tall bar stools in front of the bar counter was occupied with regular peanut-eating patrons and beer-drinking barflies who all placed bets on when, not if, old 'Slow' Lane would lose track of what he was supposed to be doing, mess up and ruin some of the food he was cooking.
The general consensus was that less than ten minutes would go by before he would have to throw out a charcoal T-bone steak, a burning beef patty, spare ribs that had been overcooked down to the bare bone or simply a basketful of fossilized French fries that had been forgotten in the deep-fry oil.
What the barflies didn't know was that A.J. Lane had recently graduated from his evening classes at a renowned Barton City cooking school with flying colors. Scoring a near-perfect 9.6 out of 10 in his final exams, he had wowed the tutor and the external examiner to such lengths they had added a rare gold star to his diploma. The only fly in the ointment had been a souffle that had collapsed, but like the examiner had said, 'the little bastards always do.'
The cooking panels were home to a dozen beef patties that needed to be flipped at regular intervals. Someone had ordered a bacon burger with plenty of fried onions, so those items needed to be tended to as well. All four French-fry baskets were in full swing as was the small bread oven that took care of a pair of garlic baguettes.
The microwave next to the bread oven was busy working its invisible magic on a spicy tomato soup while the two separate gas rings off to the right of the stoves were in use carrying a frying pan loaded with bratwursts and a two-gallon cooking pot filled with meatballs made from a genuine Swedish recipe.
Plenty of hot steam rose from all the various pots and pans in spite of the whining range hoods, so 'Slow' Lane's face was flushed and glistening with sweat as he ran to and fro to stay on top of all the various challenges. His apron already bore some battle scars in the shape of grease stains and even a squirt of ketchup that had gone in the wrong direction, but that was nothing out of the ordinary for any hard-working cook.
When he had a free second, he moved over to the kitchen counter to scoop up globs of his own potato salad and distribute them onto a row of plates. The yogurt-based salad featuring finely sliced high-grade potatoes, chives, chopped red onions and a touch of ground garlic was the proudest moment in his cooking career as it had become so popular they needed to store it in 20-lbs plastic buckets to keep up with demand.
A Ding! proved the two-gallon cooking pot with the Swedish meatballs was ready, so he hurriedly put the spoon into the bucket of salad to deal with the heavy pot over on the second of the two gas rings.
Instead of taking each of the thirty meatballs individually, he grabbed a pair of heavy-duty kettle holders and hauled the pot over to the kitchen sink at the end of the counter. "Fire in the hole!" he cried as he poured the boiling water into a huge strainer that would catch all the meatballs.
A moment later, the aluminum sink let out its customary WHAMMM! as the boiling water momentarily deformed the metal. Working swiftly and efficiently thus belying his nickname - much to the astonishment of the row of barflies and regular patrons who had bet money against him ever getting that far - he put the scalding-hot cooking pot off to the side in a safe spot before he grabbed a pair of sausage tongs so he could distribute the meatballs onto the waiting plates next to the globs of potato salad. "Order's up! Six P and M's!" he cried as he whacked a hand onto a small bell on the counter.
In an unusual twist of events, the person stepping forward to put the six plates onto the Bar & Grill's serving cart was none other than Santa Wynne. She had wanted to help her friend at the stoves, but Moira had flat-out banned her from getting anywhere near the sizzling pots and pans so they could avoid getting grease stains all over the expensive rented Santa suit.
"I be he'! I be he', A.J. Y'all don't hafta worry none. Holy shittt, wouldya lookie at all them big-ass meatballs! Mercy Sakes, not ta men-shun yer awesome pah-tah-tah salad. Okeh, I need-a know where them dishes need-a go'ah… haw, dat rhymes. Whah, I oughttah be-"
"Here's a list of the tables, Wynne," A.J. said, slapping a small note into Wynne's waiting palm. "The big serving is for the Gilmores who ordered a double on a single."
"Haw? Yuh, okeh… okeh, gotcha. I be on mah merry way… pay atten-shun, ev'ryboddy! Cowpoah-k comin' thru'!"
The equation of Wynne's legendary rotten luck plus the clumsy Santa boots plus a full restaurant divided by a fairly tight schedule had all the hallmarks of being one of those unsolvable mathematical problems that everyone dreads to face at an exam.
Still, Wynne did her best in wheeling the serving cart through the aisles to get to the people who had ordered Swedish meatballs and potato salad. There were hardly any dangerous or potentially deadly situations for the meatballs along the way, but she did need to sidestep in a hurry when a Goldsborian rose from his table and stepped into the aisle without checking to see if he needed to wait for oncoming traffic. The matter was resolved with a Grrrrowl! and a "Watch it, fellah! We ain't got no room fer jaywalkahs he'!"
---
The first stop came at table number four where the ever-surly tow truck driver Tucker Garfield demonstratively pointed at his wristwatch to show his dissatisfaction with the delay in getting served.
Not even the special Mega XMas Bingo Event had made Tucker change into a nice set of clothes: he simply wore one of his canary-yellow coveralls that smelled of diesel fuel, tires and hub grease. Carrying a three-day stubble on his chin and cheeks, he looked to be in an even meaner and fouler mood than usual.
"What the hell kind of time do you call this, Wynne?" he said loudly so everyone could hear him complain. "I placed my order nearly sixteen frickin' minutes ago! If this was a fast food restaurant… which it clearly isn't… I would be entitled to get it for free!"
"Yuh, yuh, Tuckah," Wynne said as she put the one of the plates on the table, "keep yer pants on, man. It don't go no fastah no mattah how much ya moan 'bout it. Yuh? Enjoy them meatballs, son. Ol' A.J. done his best with 'em."
Tucker didn't even acknowledge the comments. Instead, he dug in at once to get the dish while the meatballs were hot and the potato salad was chilled.
Wynne just rolled her eyes and moved on.
The next stop for the meatball express came at the table of the curator of the Goldsboro Town Museum, Tabitha Hayward. After that, Wynne moved over to Gwen and Audrey Gilmore whose Cocker Spaniel Little Evie got the first meatball of their double-portion. Next up were Keshawn and Laurelle Williams who both poured out plenty of hot sauce to have something to dunk the meatballs in.
A sweating Wynne soon wheeled the cart over to the table where her fellow player in the Goldsboro Pool Association, Roscoe Finch, sat with his date. The surly-looking, heavily made-up date picked at a pre-fab vegetarian salad with little interest in any of her surroundings, but Roscoe already had his fork, knife and spoon ready to jump into action on the meatballs and the potato salad. He grinned at Wynne in anticipation as she put the plate in front of him.
Finally, Wynne went over to the table of one of the newest faces in Goldsboro, Candice Herschel.
In her mid-thirties, Candice was slender to the point of appearing gaunt - a tragic side-effect of becoming a widow earlier in the year - but her auburn locks did their best to light up her face. Her cheeks carried the typical indentations of dimples, but they hadn't been used much since her husband had succumbed to prostate cancer. The lenses of a pair of round glasses made her dark brown eyes sparkle even if they couldn't yet do so on their own.
For the evening's special event, she wore dark gray slacks and a white blouse with a turtleneck upper hem. A stylish down vest in two shades of gray took care of keeping her upper body warm. She smiled at Santa Wynne when the serving cart arrived at her table.
"Howdy, Candice! I sure be gladda see y'all he' tanight," Wynne said as she put the last plate on the table. "Tha las'time we done spoah-k, y'all still hadden made up yer mind if y'all wanted ta come or not."
"Everyone kept telling me how good Mr. Lane's potato salad was, so… I had to find out for myself," Candice said with a smile.
"It sure iz good, awright-"
A frantic symphony of Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! was suddenly played on the bell on the kitchen counter. It made Wynne spin around on the heels of her Santa boots and break out in a wide-eyed stare. "Haw?! Now whut, A.J.?"
'Order's up! A triple-decker, a double-decker, another double-decker and a bacon-onion burger, all with fries! Get 'em while they're hot, please!'
"Lawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwr-die! This he' gig is way hardah than I done thunk it wus!" Wynne cried, throwing her arms in the air. Grabbing the empty serving cart, she hurried back through the packed aisles while uttering a mumbled "Gawd almighty, an' we only jus' done got started! Holy shittt, I'mma-gonn' be so bombed out in a li'l while I ain't even gonn' make it ta that dang-blasted bingah event!"
---
After Wynne had delivered the round of burgers, she and her trusty serving cart were sent hustling around the restaurant hauling chicken fillets, several bratwursts and French fries, another round of meatballs and potato salad, spare ribs and sweet potatoes in thick brown gravy, baked potatoes with a filling of sour cream, and finally a bowl of spicy Sicilian cream of tomato soup with a rather smelly garlic bread as a companion.
The latter order had obviously been placed by Goldsboro's number one connoisseur of foreign foods, Wyatt Elliott, who was also the owner of the hardware store over on Second Street. His somewhat exaggerated tan Western suit and wide Stetson looked out of place at a Christmas event, but his large wallet was always nice to have around when the aim was to raise money for charity.
On Wynne's way back to the kitchen counter with the empty serving cart, she came across Vaughn and Brenda Travers who were in the process of making themselves comfortable at a table that had recently become available. Wynne had to chuckle to herself when she realized the colors of their clothes matched their personalities:
Vaughn was decked out in dark gray pants, a pale gray button-down shirt and a dark gray blazer that - in combination with his dark beard, dark hair and dark brown spectacles - made him so anonymous that he didn't just fade into the background, it was almost as if he was hardly there at all.
As a complete visual counterpoint to the bone-dry Vaughn, the spirited Brenda wore a Christmas-green dress that featured a swirling gold pattern along the sleeves and around the upper hem. The golden theme continued in her ear rings that were of the large, dangling type, and in a brooch on her lapel shaped like a Christmas angel. She had applied a modest amount of makeup that almost gave her face a golden, glowing complexion. Her blond corkscrew curls had been given extra volume for the special event. All in all, she looked a million.
"Howdy, mah friends! Lawwwwwwr-die, y'all sure iz lookin' fihhhhh-ne tanight, Brendah!" Wynne said with a grin before she turned to the far more monochrome Vaughn. "But pardnah, honestly… coudden y'all ha' added mebbe a red hankie or som'tin ta yer blazah pocket? Anythin'! There ain't much Chriss-mass cheer 'boutcha, ya know?"
Brenda laughed out loud before she reached across the table to give her husband's hands a squeeze. "That's exactly what I said, Wynne!"
"Figgahs."
"Wow, look at you!" Brenda said, immediately moving her hands over to the Santa suit's irresistible red fabric. "When did you become Santa Claus?"
"Aw, a-cuppel-a hou'ahs ago, Brendah. It be a long story that I ain't got no time ta tell y'all tanight. I'mma-gonn' be da emm-cee fer da bingah event, too! Well, sorta-kinda. Me an' Kenny Tobin, anyhows."
"Well, good luck with that. It's harder than it looks."
"Haw, that sure ain't no lie!"
Vaughn, who was a rare guest at Moira's Bar & Grill, needed to pick up the menu to see what was on offer, but the old pro Brenda knew exactly what she wanted. "I'd like a lean breaded chicken schnitzel with the usual trimmings, please. And some of A.J.'s wonderful potato salad."
"Haw, ya betcha!" Wynne said, patting her costume to find something that she could use to write down the order. "Shoot, I ain't got nuttin'… aw, I ain't that senile yet. Breaded chicken schnitzel with slices o' lemon an' hoah'rse radish an' them there weird, li'l green capahs. An' a-buncha A.J.'s pah-tah-tah salad. Yuh! Lawrdie, I be tellin' all y'all that there pah-tah-tah salad be sellin' like dog-gone hawt cakes tanight! Yessir! Anyhows, yer ordah be stored in mah noggin, awright."
Vaughn had made up his mind in the meantime: "And I'd like a grated carrot salad with extra raisins, please. Hold the lemon juice."
"Haw? A grated carrot salad?! An' extra raisins?! Dang, y'all really lettin' it all hang out tanight, aintcha, Vaughn? Yuh, okeh… okeh. Got it. Y'all can pick out yer beve-ritches o' choice from them refri-gy-ra-tahs, yuh? We gonn' settle tha bill at the end. Okeh? Sorry fer bein' so abrupt an' all, butta I gotta hussel!"
Back up at the counter, Wynne closed her eyes to get the Travers's orders straight. A.J. continued to run to and fro the various cooking panels and frying pans, but he eventually came over to the counter holding a notepad.
"Haw!" Wynne said, snapping upright so she could get the order across. "Yuh, okeh, ol' Brendah wants a lean breaded chicken schnitzel with extra rais- naw! Naw, dat be all wrong… Wynne Donnah-hew, ya fuzzy-brained- ol' Brenda done ordah'd a lean breaded chicken schnitzel with lemon slices, some o' that there hoah'rse radish an' them li'l capahs thingies that I ain't got no clue whaddahell be. An' some o' yer awesome pah-tah-tah salad. Okeh? Y'all got that?"
"Yep."
"Okeh. An' Vaughn wants a grated carrot salad with extra raisins. Hold tha lemon juice. Yuh. Dat be right. Y'all got that, too?"
"Got it," A.J. said, tearing off the page and sticking it to the edge of the counter where he could see it.
"Aw… okeh… so… could I mebbe take fihhh-ve or som'tin? Lawrdie, I need ta chug a beer-"
A.J.'s answer to Wynne's humble request was to put four burgers - two singles and two double-deckers - as well as four large packs of French fries and a bowl of home-whipped guacamole dip on top of the counter. "Sorry, Wynne… your break will have to wait," he said before he zipped down to the other end of the counter to scoop up a large glob of his potato salad.
"Aw… okeh… shittt," Wynne mumbled as she put the packs of fries, the bowl of dip and the plates holding the burgers onto the serving cart.
---
To say that Wynne's head was spinning as she returned to the counter with an empty serving cart would be an understatement. Dehydrated due to the fact that she sweated like a pig underneath the Santa suit and the even worse fact that nearly half an hour had passed since she had chugged down a beverage of any kind, much less a beer, she leaned against the counter with a bump. Her eyes immediately sought out the draft tap, but there was no time for a cold glass of brew.
"Order's up! Oh, great, you're already here," A.J. said as he put four plates and two soup bowls on the counter. "Okay, please pay attention now…"
"Haw… okeh… wotcha got fer me this tihhh-me, pardnah?"
"The serving of meatloaf with Brussels sprouts and sweet peas, boiled potatoes and cream gravy is for the O'Sullivans. They asked for a single plate they could share. Table nine. The bowl of chicken fricassee-"
"Haw?! Whazzat?"
"Stew."
"Aw… okeh… whah'da hell ain't it jus' called stoo', then? Nevah mind," Wynne said, scratching her hairline that had turned damp from the exertion.
"Anyway, that's for Abraham Rosenthal. He doesn't eat pork so please don't get it mixed up with any of the other dishes, okay? He's at table fourteen. The maxi corn dog and the mini kiddie burger are for the Tooleys at table twelve. The Farmer's Delight minced-meat steak is for Geoffrey Junior at table fifteen. He's alone so I guess his date didn't even make it to supper, huh? Uh, the minestrone vegetable soup is for Nancy Nguyen at table nineteen. And the chili pork roast and spicy rice combo is for the Guzmáns. Table seven. Have you met Enrique and Rosa yet? They're really nice people. Enrique has applied for a job waiting tables here, actually…"
By now, Wynne's eyes were as wide as the dinner plates she had just spent the better part of the evening hauling around the restaurant. "I didden getta word o' that, son… nuttin'. Nuttin' like in nuttin' with a li'l nuttin' sprinkled on top. Nuttin'."
A.J. furrowed his brow as he took in Wynne's wide open expression. "Okay… your number one priority is to get the chicken fricassee- uh, stew to Abraham Rosenthal. He gets P.O.'ed if it isn't scorching hot. Table fourteen. Okay?"
"Haw… yuh. Gotcha. I reckon we need-a hold a spe-shul bingah event fer them othah servin's 'cos I can't 'membah diddly where which one wus saposed ta go… Dang'it, A.J., this job wussen this hahhh-rd when I done swung them pots an' pans all them years ago. Lawrdie, I guess I be gettin' old… shoot."
A.J. couldn't reply as he was busy jotting down the information that Wynne needed. Once he had torn the page off the notepad, he slapped it into her palm and took off to tend to the frying pan where a sizzling bratwurst had just sent out a skin-tearing distress call.
Shaking her head and letting out a deep sigh, Wynne put the four plates and both soup bowls onto the serving cart before she took off once more to keep the customers in a good mood in the final run-up to the big event.
-*-*-*-
Twenty past eight, the restaurant finally settled down to let the Yuletide serenity spread among the patrons and barflies. The Goldsborians had done their part by moving a majority of the tables around so they could be used for the Mega XMas Bingo Event they had all come for.
Well, most Goldsborians: Mr. Crappy Mood Incarnate, Tucker Garfield, had refused to move anything anywhere before he'd had another double-decker burger with bacon, cheese, onion rings, pickled cucumbers and hot mustard as well as an extra-large helping of fries and a pitcher of draft. The Evil Eyes that everybody else in the restaurant shot at him bounced clean off the canary-yellow coverall like water off a goose. Shrugging, he continued to munch on his burger without paying much attention to what the others were doing.
Not too far from Tucker's table, Wynne staggered over to the nearest chair where she sat down with a bump. She had just spent the past ten minutes supervising Kenny Tobin and Ritchie Lee transporting the bingo machine and its heavy bottle of compressed air into the central area of the Bar & Grill so everyone would have a good view of it. In fact, it was right in front of the Christmas tree she had worked so hard on.
Her vibrant eyes had turned dull and held a vacant look best known as the Thousand-Mile Stare. She just sat there breathing for the next few minutes before she began letting out a string of moans and groans: "Awwwww… mah legs an' feet be killin' me… them dang-blasted Santa boots… an' I be sweatin' like I ain't done since las'summah… that there dang-blasted Santa coat… an' mah hair be wettah than a-buncha steam-boiled asparaguseses… aspahrengah- asparenzies- aw, who done gives a dog-gone stuffed turkey whaddahell them limp things be called!"
'Wynne!' Kenny Tobin said from the other end of the restaurant using his hand as an amplifier. 'We're ready! We're kinda running several minutes late, so… so, uh… could you perhaps come over so we could get started?'
Wynne just stared at the young heartthrob. She blinked several times before she moved her aching legs and feet back so she had enough leverage to get her backside up from the chair. Once upright, she needed a moment to get her bearings, but she was able to round up all the little brain cells required to put one boot ahead of the other.
Her journey toward the central area had already begun when she changed her mind, spun around on her Santa-bootheel and staggered over to the refrigerators.
'Wynne? Wynne, I wasn't kidding about being late…' Kenny tried, but The Last Original Cowpoke just waved at him over her shoulder - first things first.
---
Armed with a six-pack of H.E. Fenwyck's Double-Zero non-alcoholic beer, Wynne sat down on another chair with a bump that matched the one from before. Her eyes continued to hold the Thousand-Mile Stare, but some of their regular luster returned when she grabbed the first can and cracked it open with a Pssshhhht!
Moira had turned off the Christmas music so the calling of the numbers could be carried out without needing to shout into the cordless microphone they always used for such events. Kenny and Ritchie had the bingo machine up and running so that side of things was ready as well.
Ritchie wanted to try to operate the machine before the big event, so he flipped the little hatch just to see which of the numbered balls would shoot up.
'Shoot up' proved to be the right phrase as the ping pong ball had such a head of steam that it blasted straight out of the vertical tube and flew several feet in the air. A ball of that type had no weight, so it was captured by the general circulation of air in the restaurant and sent on a wild journey that saw it spin out of control into the branches of Wynne's heavily decorated Christmas tree.
A detonation of nuclear magnitude sent a torrent of blushing all over Ritchie's entire face and neck as he jumped forward to get the errant ping pong ball before anyone would notice what he had done. Keeping an eye glued to the section of the tree that had absorbed the bingo ball, he stuck his arm in up to the elbow and began rummaging around for the tiny round thing.
Groaning in embarrassment, he soon came to the conclusion that it hadn't remained in there. It became obvious that a thorough look-see down on the floor underneath the tree was urgently required. After glancing over both shoulders to see if anyone watched his strange act, he got down on his knees to continue the search. The lower branches and even a cornet occupied by figurines of Epilotta and Rockabye Elf poked him numerous times in the face, but he never gave up until he had retrieved the number 98 ball that had ended up leaning against the tree's stand. The adventurous ping pong ball was soon back among its brethren.
The third member of the trio, Torsten Jensen, had vanished somewhere along the way, but that wasn't a big surprise to anyone. His parents Matthew and Carole had arrived late and were eating their way through a small pile of pre-fab sandwiches from the Bar & Grill's refrigerated convenience section.
After working all day packing raw and bloody meat at Hansen's Meat Processing Co., the last thing Matthew wanted was to face more of the same, so his sandwiches of choice were the Triple-Cheesy Delight, an egg salad, a Cucumber & Bell Pepper Special and one with a thick spread of spicy curry sauce between the slices of bread. Carole was more of a traditionalist, so she had sprung for the classics like ham and cheese, corned beef and a BLT.
Others who had arrived too late for supper were the expert mechanic and ex-pat Swede, Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson, and the slick used-car salesman, Cletus Browne. The latter went over to the refrigerators to stock up on a pasta salad and a loaf of Italian ciabatta bread that he hoped he could persuade A.J. Lane to put in the bread oven before the bingo event got underway.
Pasta salads and a loaf of bread would never satisfy the eating habits of the rather heavy-set Bengt, however, so he let out a string of grumbles into his full beard. He appeared particularly peeved that he didn't get to try the Swedish meatballs that he had provided the recipe for, but the emergency exhaust change he had needed to carry out for a long-time customer had taken precedence over arriving in time.
Craning his neck, Bengt eyed the area near the stoves in the hope that 'Slow' Lane was still around and that he could be persuaded to whip something up, but the spot was empty and it even seemed that the stoves and the rest of the installations had been turned off. A few juicy Swedish curses escaped him as he fell back against the chair's backrest. Grumbling, he slammed his arms over his chest and assumed a surly expression that rivalled even Tucker Garfield's.
---
Excited murmuring rippled through the patrons who had become bingo players when they each received a bag of markers as well as one or more game sheets in exchange of a meager $3 per sheet.
The main event looked as if it was about to commence when the main entrance opened to reveal four people and a dog. The first of the four people was Sheriff Mandy whose wide grin proved she knew something Wynne didn't. The dog was obviously Blackie who sprinted over to the doggy cave underneath the pool table to hook up with Goldie who had spent the entire evening all alone.
The three other people were Ernest 'Ernie' Bradberry, his wife, the Reverend Bernadine Russell and their young daughter, Christine Frances.
The seven-year-old Christine held onto her mother's hand at first, but soon found the Bar & Grill so exciting that she ran ahead to check it out. She zigged a little here and zagged a little there until she found the doggy cave underneath the pool table. Peeking in and seeing two dogs, she was rewarded by a happy Yapppp! that convinced her to enter the hallowed cavern.
Over by the main entrance, Mandy still wore the wide grin, but she needed to relax it in order to speak: "Let me find Wynne, Mr. Bradberry. She's going to be over the moon."
The sheriff needed to pull on her entire experience to find Wynne though the red-clad Santa-poke shouldn't have been too difficult to locate. The area at the tables was devoid of Wynne or Santa, as was the pool table, the row of tall stools at the bar counter and even the restroom. The bingo machine seemed curiously abandoned until Mandy got close enough to see three backsides pointing up while the rest of the bodies the rear ends were connected to were busy doing something mysterious down on the carpet.
A long chuckle escaped Mandy when she realized that Wynne, Kenny Tobin and Ritchie Lee were scooping up errant ping pong balls. Moira MacKay stood off to the side with a hand clapped over her forehead and her eyes firmly fixed on her wristwatch that showed the Mega XMas Bingo Event was already running way, way late.
"Hi, hon. Ball trouble?" Mandy said as she moved over to stand next to Wynne's red rear end.
"Whah, howdy, Darlin'! Yuh, ball trubbel… an' then some!" Wynne said, shuffling around while holding onto two handfuls of the lively balls. "Tha dang-blasted nozzle ta tha dang-blasted compressed air thing slipped loose an' blew all them dang-blasted ping pong balls all ovah tha dang-blasted place! Twice! Lawrdie, I be tellin' y'all, this been a dang-blasted disastah from tha dang-blasted get-go! An' I only had two, mebbe three, beers all evenin'! One o' which I prolly shoudden ha' had, but dat be a whooooole 'nothah story!"
Kenny and Ritchie shared a long look before they broke out in identical snickers at Wynne's rare fit of pique. The ping pong balls they had scooped up were soon back in the glass sphere so they could get the bingo event started, but Wynne's batch took a while longer.
"Hon, someone's here to see you… I know you'd want to say hi to them before the big event starts."
"Yuh? With the way this day's been goin' so far, it prolly be the IRS or somebodda he' ta roast me," Wynne said as she clambered to her feet. The clumsy Santa boots almost got in the way, but she managed to offload her armful of ping pong balls into the glass sphere.
"Well, no," Mandy said with the same type of wide grin she had already employed earlier.
"Haw? Okeh… well, lead on, darlin'."
---
The familiar round shape of Ernie Bradberry had barely entered Wynne's line of sight before she let a wild rebel yell, threw her arms out wide and stormed ahead regardless of the Santa boots. "Lawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwr-die, if it ain't mah best bud in da whoooole wide wohhhh-rld! Ol' Ernie! Man! Whaddindahell y'all an' the Rev'rend be doin' he'?! We jus' done spoah-k on da phoah-ne! Y'all didden say shit 'bout comin'! Awwwww-gimme a hug, good buddy!"
The requested hug was soon carried out and reciprocated on both sides. Much backslapping and shoulder punching ensued as Wynne and Ernie took in the unusual look of the other. Ernie couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of Santa Wynne, and Wynne couldn't help but chuckle at Ernie's extra pounds around his waist and elsewhere.
The happy reunion had barely started playing out when Mandy's telephone rang. Groaning and rolling her eyes, she retrieved it only to groan even louder as she read the caller-ID that said Office. "This is the Sheriff. What's up, Mr. Simms?"
'I had to go to the bathroom! Urgently! And the telephone on the watch desk is ringing right now! I need someone to come over-'
"All right, I'm on my way," Mandy said and closed the connection. A long sigh escaped her as she offered Wynne a quick "Duty calls, hon," before she left the Bar & Grill to return to the office.
"Whah sure, darlin'!" Wynne said with a grin. "Okeh, Ernie, ya ol' sombitch! Lemme look atcha…"
As always, Ernie wore boots, blue jeans, a flannel shirt, a hunting vest and a Built Ford Tough baseball cap. His mullet, walrus mustache and thick sideburns were just as rural and rowdy as they had ever been, but he had turned into a rather rotund city gentleman in other places.
"Pardnah," Wynne said after taking a step back from her friend. She gave him another once-over with a critical eye. "We only done saw each othah in Joo-ly, yuh? Wheredahell all that there extra paddin' come from? Y'all look like ya gained twentah pounds since then!"
"I guess life happened," Ernie said with an embarrassed grin.
"Haw! Ya don't say! An' anothah thing, friend," Wynne continued, pointing at Ernie's throat, "if y'all gonn' cultivate them there dubbel-chins, may I suggest y'all grow a full beard? 'Cos, dang, I ain't sure 'bout that there look fer y'all. Know what I be sayin'?"
Ernie's grin only grew more embarrassed at having someone point out what was probably his major bugbear and the only thing that bothered him when he looked at himself in the mirror. "Well… they sorta came on their own, Wynne," he said with a half-shrug.
"Yuh, haw?"
Standing next to her husband, Reverend Bernadine hooked an arm inside his to get herself into the scene. "Now that's not exactly true," she said with a grin. "Bending the arm takes a lot of effort on Ernie's part. Setting aside money for new jeans has become one of the biggest monthly entries on our budget."
Ernie broke out in an "Ohhhhh!" but soon countered the groan by kissing his wife's cheek.
Where Ernie had filled out in places that perhaps subtracted from his rugged handsomeness, Bernadine remained a picture of gorgeousness with well-defined features and razor-sharp eyes. She had always had stylish hair, but her latest hairdo fit her so well the style seemed tailor-made for her. A member of the upper echelon of the Church Of The Holy Crusader, the Reverend Bernadine had always had grace and class, and she knew how to get the most out of it on Sundays when she would almost always be responsible for delivering the weekly sermon.
That she also had wicked pool skills that almost rivalled Wynne's was something hardly anyone knew. When she let down her hair and picked up the cue, it was generally wise to stand back and simply gawk because something spectacular was almost certain to happen.
Her skills at the pool table had in fact been instrumental in getting to know Ernie because they had met when she had faced off against Wynne in the finals of a town tournament between the Goldsboro Pool Association and a similar club from Cavanaugh Creek. The rest was history.
"Hawt-dang, it be great ta see all y'all ag'in," Wynne said, reaching out to put her hands on her friends' shoulders. "So y'all got a sittah fer li'l Christeeh-ne back hoah-me, then?"
"Oh no," Bernadine said, "she took off the moment we walked in. She's around here somewhere. You know, Wynne, it's so refreshing that I don't have to be worried about her. Whenever the three of us go out to eat down in Cavanaugh Creek, my heart's in my mouth that we may run into one of those evil people who… you know."
"Yuh. Kiddie snatchahs. Child molestahs. That ain't gonn' happen he', no Ma'am," Wynne said vehemently. "I guarantee it. He', ev'rybodda knows ev'rybodda an' we look out fer each othah. Even ol' Tuckah, tho' he ain't nevah gonn' admit it. Ain't nuttin' gonn' happen ta li'l Christeeh-ne. Anyhows, as soon as this he' bingah thing be ovah, we gonn' chew tha fat fer tha rest o' the evenin', yuh?"
"You betcha," Ernie said with a grin.
Bernadine smiled as well before she wet her lips as if she wanted to make an important point. A second or two went by before she said, "Wynne, how do you think it would go down if I blessed the house and the people here?"
"Haw, yuh, I dunno… I reckon most woudden be opposed ta it, but…" Turning around, Wynne zeroed in on Gwen and Audrey Gilmore who were seated at one of the tables nearest the bingo machine. "Well, Rev'rend, ya know not ev'rybodda be sold on that there religion thing, yuh? We got some new gals in town who hadda escape one o' them there church slash cult compounds ovah yondah in Yoo-tah or else them fanatics might ha' done killed their souls fer bein' gal-lovin' gals, yuh? They ain't gonn' like no blessin', I know that fer a fact. Lemme go tawk ta 'em first. I be perdy sure we can come ta an agreement that gonn' leave ev'rybodda satisfied. Okeh?"
"Well, it's not really that important-"
"It be impahrtant ta y'all, Bernadeeh-ne. Lemme go tawk ta Gwen an' Audrey, yuh? Whydontcha find a table somewhe'ah in da meantime? We be about reddy ta start this he' bingah evenin'," Wynne said, once again slapping the shoulders of her friends before she moved over to the table where the Gilmores sat.
---
Two minutes later, Gwen and Audrey stepped outside so Little Evie could have a three-minute potty break. Audrey walked past the Reverend Bernadine in a stony silence, but Gwen stopped to put out her hand. Once they had shook hands, she said, "It's nothing personal, Reverend. My wife reacts like this to all public displays of religion. I guess it stems from the time when the self-appointed Messiah of our organization kept her in solitary confinement for forty days and nights to cure her lesbian mind. Yeah?"
Bernadine's eyes grew wide at the horrible treatment, and she grabbed Gwen's hand once more to give it a solid squeeze. "Mrs. Gilmore, I can assure you that the Church of the Holy Crusader would never, ever condone such abhorrent-"
Gwen just shook her head. "We'll be back in a couple of minutes' time. That should be enough for you and our dog to take care of business. Thanks for asking us, Wynne."
"Haw, yer welcome an' all," Wynne said in a voice that held an undertone of acute embarrassment. She turned to the Reverend whose face betrayed she was deeply affected by the horrific story Gwen had told them.
"Damn the Virgin Tower and all the other raving lunatics!" Bernadine suddenly exclaimed once the door had closed behind Gwen. "They've ruined so much for the rest of us! The Church Of The Holy Crusader is nothing like those fanatical organizations! We're far more modern and liberal, but we can't get that message across because people's heckles rise whenever we try to tell our version of the Gospel. And we can't blame them because we're sick and tired of the fanatics' outdated, blinkered, misogynistic dogmas, too!"
"Yuh, I sure do he'ah ya, Bernadeeh-ne," Wynne said and put a hand on the Reverend's arm. "Lissen, I be sorry this hadda happen, but there be plentah o' folks in he' who would luv y'all ta bless tha how-se. Yuh? Please, Rev'rend, the stage's all set fer y'all."
Bernadine closed her eyes for a moment to calm down; then she smiled at Wynne. "Thank you. I promise I'll be brief so Gwen and Audrey won't have to freeze out there."
-*-*-*-
Much to everyone's surprise, the bingo machine behaved itself as the Mega XMas Bingo Event finally got underway just before 9pm. That the entire timetable had suffered a frustrating 55-minute delay from the announced starting time was regrettable, but it was soon forgotten by most when the going got exciting for some of the players.
The lone exception was, of course, Tucker Garfield, who spent an entire five-minute period between two games moaning and groaning about the fact that the event started so late and that nobody cared about the ordinary working class folks who had to get up early in the morning regardless of what the calendar said. He didn't pipe down until he was shushed by half the room at once, and even then, he continued to mumble and grumble to himself as he put down his markers on the game sheets he had bought.
Santa Wynne operated the little hatch with plenty of gusto. Standing behind the machine to be able to react quickly in case the nozzle for the compressed air began acting up again, she had a six-pack of Double-Zeros within easy reach of her right hand while her left was busy with the small lever.
At frequent intervals, her right hand moved over to a full box of freshly made French fries that 'Slow' Lane had prepared especially for her as a thank you for all her hard work with the serving cart earlier. Not only had he made the fries extra-salty, he had provided two large bowls of seasoning dip so she could dunk them in a quality chili sauce and an even tastier creamy Ranchero. In short, her mood had improved by leaps and bounds since its lowest point earlier in the evening.
Moving the lever caused the hatch to open and a ping pong ball to shoot up into the sheer tube. Once it was there, she inevitably let out comments like "Oooh!" "Wouldya lookie there!" "Haw! How 'bout that?" or even "Dat be a Chevy numbah, yessir!" before she gave the ball to Kenny Tobin who would then speak into the cordless microphone to announce the number in his surprisingly buttery voice.
The young heartthrob was right at home in the spotlight. He added plenty of boyish charm playing to the attentive audience while still maintaining a professional attitude when it came to the announcements. "Number twenty-three. Number twenty-three," he said, holding up the ball so the players could see he wasn't fiddling with the number.
Once 23 had made the rounds, he winked and grinned at the audience before receiving the next ping pong ball from Wynne. "Number nineteen. Number nin-"
Someone among the players suddenly let out an excited "Ohhhhhhhhhh! Bingo! Bingo! I don't be-flippin'-lieve it! Bingo! Hey! I got this bingo thing here! What did I win?" that led to plenty of moaning and groaning among the winner's competitors.
Wynne craned her neck to see who it had been. Soon, Nancy Tranh Nguyen jumped to her feet and punched the air in delight. As the talented sketch artist continued to dance around, Wynne whipped off her Santa hat and waved it high in the air at her friend. "Awright, Nancy! Way ta go'ah! Whooo-hoooo!"
"I do believe we have a winner of this round," Kenny said into the microphone. "Miss Nguyen, please come up here to collect your prize."
Grinning and whooping - causing even more moaning and groaning all across the room - Nancy bounded up to the bingo machine to see what she had won.
That was Wynne's task, so she left the French fries and the beers behind to shuffle over to a table next to the Christmas tree to pick up the pre-designated prize for the round. She let out a puzzled grunt when it was revealed to be nothing more than a piece of paper with some print on it. "Haw? Ain't no way this be right," she said in a mumble.
Even with the multi-colored LED fairy lights on the tree flashing like crazy, that particular corner of the restaurant was too dark to read the biggest print - never mind the fine print at the bottom - so Wynne dug into her pocket to find her telephone. The flashlight app was soon selected so she could make heads or tails of what she was about to hand out.
The prize was in effect five coupons for user-selected servings from the Bar & Grill's menu. In a sublime twist of irony, the brand new logo that Nancy had drawn for Moira MacKay's restaurant graced the top of the stationery.
"Aw… yuh… thazz'right," Wynne continued in a similar mumble as she re-folded the prize. "Lawrdie, whahdahell didden we put it inna coo' envelope or som'tin? Gettin' a piece o' papah just be ass-borin'!"
Nancy's wild grinning faded somewhat when she was handed the piece of paper. She just stood there staring at it for a few seconds before she looked up at Wynne. "Uh… thanks… I had hoped for a little more, but…"
"Haw, I know it don't look spe-shul or nuttin', Nancy, but this he' represents five free meals, yuh?" Wynne said, tapping the paper with a gloved finger. "All ya need-a do is ta get them there li'l boxes stamped or signed or whutevah by Slow Lane when y'all done ordah'd som'tin. Yuh? It don't hafta be five times in a row an' it obvi'sly don't hafta be tha same each time… jus' whutevah an' whenevah, yuh? Okeh?"
"Oh… all right… I get it!" Nancy said; the grin reappearing on her face.
"Yuh! Okeh, les'get back ta tha next round an' all," Wynne said as she put a hand on the small of Nancy's back to guide her over to the tables.
---
"Number thirty. Number thirty," Kenny said, holding up yet another ball.
"Haw!" Wynne cried, waving her Santa hat high in the air. "Dat wus tha Country Tihhh-me Lemonahhh-de Pontiac Grand Prix that Michael Waltrip… done… drove… back… in… '88…"
When she realized that not only had she spoken out of turn, nobody gave a fluttering fig leaf which driver had driven what Nascar Winston Cup stock car more than 35 years earlier.
The only one among the audience who responded was, obviously, Ernie Bradberry who let out one of the loudest belly laughs ever recorded in the Bar & Grill's checkered history.
"Aw… 'scuse tha hell outtah me," Wynne said, ducking her head down and immediately grabbing the next can of Double-Zero that she opened with a Psshhhht!
Chuckling, Kenny held out his hand for the next ball. When he got it from a mortified Wynne, he held it up so everyone could see it. "Number eleven. Number eleven." Once the ball had been put in the box for used numbers, he added, "Is that one of your favorites, Wynne?" much to everyone's delight.
She let out a semi-mumbled "Naw, it sure ain't. Dat be a Toy-otah numbah, son… but nevah mind now…" that earned her another strong laugh by Ernie and a rippling series of chuckles by everyone else.
The delightful fries and the tasty seasoning dips were long gone, so Wynne craned her neck to find A.J. 'Slow' Lane to perhaps persuade him to make her another round, but the short-order cook was nowhere to be found. Sighing, she focused on twisting the little lever the proper way so no dramas would occur.
---
The next fourteen balls didn't provide any winners, but the fifteenth call prompted a wild cheer from the Gilmore table. Audrey jumped to her feet and yelled "Bingo! Bingo! We got it! Yes, yes, yes, we got it!" at such volume that Little Evie broke out in a yapping frenzy that was just as wild as her owner's celebrations.
Gwen was somewhat more restrained in her celebration, but the clenched fist she smacked onto the table and the wide grin that reached from ear to ear proved she was just as pleased with the result as her more expressive wife.
Over in the doggy cave underneath the pool table, Goldie and Blackie responded to the Cocker Spaniel's joyous yapping by adding several Yaps! and loud Woofs! of their own.
"Whoa, I guess it's a doggy world out there, huh?" Kenny said into the microphone. The groaning response he got from the room made him grin. "Will one of the Mrs. Gilmores please come up here to collect your prize."
A big, ol' smooch was planted directly on Gwen's kisser before Audrey hurried up to the bingo machine to get her winnings. Her smiles grew even broader when she was presented with a breakfast gift basket containing a pound of sugar, a tub of coffee creamer, two glass jars of fine cut jam and two 17-ounce bags of the type of high-quality coffee beans that A.J. Lane always used to make The Good Stuff.
"He' ya go'ah, Audrey. Congra-cha-la-shuns," Wynne said as she handed over the gift basket. "Don't ferget ta share, haw? Me an' mah sweet li'l Mandy might come ovah this he' Sun'dy fer a li'l coah-ffee an' butter cookies, dontchaknow."
"You and the sheriff are always welcome," Audrey said before she held the basket aloft so her competitors could see what she had won. Down at the Gilmore table, Gwen hooted and hollered before she upped the ante even further by sticking two fingers in her mouth to let out a piercing whistle.
Though the other players applauded the Gilmores just as strongly as everyone else winning prizes over the course of the evening, the wave of clapping was interspersed with someone moaning about never winning a damn thing.
The same person let out a deep sigh and shuffled around on their chair making a racket. The reactions caused a few snickers in the dark corners of the Bar & Grill that in turn led to more mumbles and grumbles. It came as no surprise to anyone when the person in question was revealed to be Tucker Garfield.
"Settle down, settle down, Mr. Garfield," Kenny said with a grin. "There's no need for moaning and groaning 'cos we have an entire table full of prizes yet to be won! Look at those imported Christmas beers!"
A dark grunt and a "Well, I don't like strong beer!" soon wafted away from Tucker's table causing even more snickers from Santa Wynne and the Bar & Grill's peanut gallery.
Audrey soon bounded back down to the table she shared with her wife. The first thing that happened was a rather large kiss, and the second was to snap a selfie to record the winning moment for posterity.
"Santa, let's start the next game. May I have a ball, please?" Kenny continued.
While Wynne operated the lever that flipped the little hatch, the main entrance opened to reveal the entire detachment of law enforcement officers of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department in Goldsboro. Mandy walked in first followed by Beatrice Reilly and Rodolfo Gonzalez whose glum expression proved he'd rather spend Christmas Eve with his fiancee Dolores de la Vega than at a bingo event.
The uniformed trio sat down at a table near the back so they wouldn't disturb the game in progress. Mandy got up again at once to visit the refrigerators, and she returned with an armful of pre-fab sandwiches and a six-pack of Sunny Dreamz Super Selection that consisted of a can each of Orange Squash, Pineapple Perfection, Raspberry Fizz, Smooth Apricot, South Pacific Tropical Fruits Squash and a Super Summer Sweet Apple Twist.
While Beatrice and Rodolfo debated among themselves who would get what and in which order, Mandy locked eyes with Santa Wynne to send her a wink and a little kissy across the crowded room.
"Santa," Kenny said again, "the ball, please…"
"Haw? Aw… yuh… okeh… he' ya go," Wynne said, finally tearing her eyes away from Mandy to complete the task she was there for.
Kenny grinned as he held up the ping pong ball. "Thanks! The first ball in our new game is number seventy-six. Number seventy-six."
---
The winners of the next three rounds were the disability pensioner Eamonn O'Sullivan who won a $150 gift certificate to the San Francisco Hipster Fashion website, Candice Herschel whose prize of a free 12 by 20-inch portrait drawn off any photograph - save for adult material - by Nancy Nguyen was received with tears of joy, and finally Cletus Browne who promptly made a deal with Eamonn to swap their prizes so he would get the fashion gift certificate and Eamonn a five-volume, leather-bound encyclopedia.
Once the latest wave of excitement had died down, Wynne and Moira agreed on having a small break so the players could restock on food and drink. While lines were being formed up by the bar counter, Wynne strolled over to the table shared by the sheriff and the deputies.
"Howdy, all y'all fine folks!" she said as she pulled out a chair and sat down the wrong way. "Barry still mindin' that there telephoah-ne?"
"No," Mandy said, "he fell ill so I had to send him home. I called Jarrod City to hear if Don Woodward was available, and he was. He drove over here at once."
"Ol' Don jus' upped an' left on Chriss-mass eve?!"
"I believe he's a bachelor, so…"
"Aw, okeh… did Barry finally hack up a lung or som'tin?"
Mandy chuckled as she thought back to the rather insistent smell that had greeted her when she had returned to the office earlier. "Ah, no. It seems his nicotine chewing gum finally gave him a very, very bad case of tummy trouble."
"A very, very, very bad case!" Beatrice interjected.
Rodolfo nodded several times while pretending to pinch his nostrils.
"Okeh… yuh, it done happens, haw?" Wynne said with a grin. "Whah, I 'membah when Ernie an' me done experimented with them recipes fer his awesome hawt sawces. Lawrdie, they wussen always on da money, yuh? An' then things happened down the othah end!"
Mandy let out a rare guffaw and reached over to swat Wynne's red-clad arm "Now you mention it… those times were fairly similar to Barry's present condition."
Wynne and Mandy shared a loving look before they both broke out in warm chuckles. Though they had yet to add their signatures to a wedding certificate, In Sickness And In Health would always apply to any relationship that was based on unbreakable, mutual love and respect. To mark the moment, Wynne leaned over to steal a kiss from under the sheriff's nose.
"Anyhows," Wynne said a few moments later, pointing at a stack of empty sandwich boxes and soda cans, "can I getcha fine folks anythin'? Slow Lane gonn' be bizzy tha next couple-a minnits, but I sure could whip up som'tin fer all y'all eezy-peezy."
'Santa Wynne to the bingo machine! Santa Wynne to the bingo machine, please!' Kenny Tobin suddenly said into the microphone. 'It's almost time for the grand finale!'
"Lawwwwwwr-die! Alreddy?! I didden even ha' time ta get mahself no beer or fries or a burgah or even a dag-nabbin' hawt dawg or nuttin'! Awwwww-shoot… naw, I bettah get up dere. We be runnin' way late alreddy, yuh? Anyhows, it wus nice tawkin' ta all y'all even if we didden say two words ta each othah beyond tawkin' 'bout shit an' stuff. Catch y'all latah, haw? Bah-bah, darlin'. See ya, Rodolfoh. Bea."
"Bye, hon," Mandy said, giving Wynne's hand a squeeze as the Last Original Santa-poke left the table to a mixed selection of goodbyes and See you laters.
-*-*-*-
As the last two regular rounds progressed, tension began building to stratospheric levels among the players inside Moira MacKay's Bar & Grill. The inevitable result was that everyone was literally staying on top of their game - by having their noses down onto the game sheets, oddly enough - to ensure they wouldn't miss putting down the marker that could win the current round.
The prizes to be won in the three rounds marked as The Finals were far larger than the earlier rounds, namely ten free meals at the Bar & Grill, five free tickets for Abraham Rosenthal's movie theater and finally a cool $1,000 in cash for the Winner Takes All Grand Finale.
A bonus prize for the quickest completed bingo sheet should have been a run in Santa's sleigh, but since Santa's sleigh had made a wrong turn somewhere in the area between the North Pole, Booze City and Goldsboro, it had been converted into a run in Santa's TransAm instead.
Ever the joker when it came to his and Wynne's old game of needling each other with regards to Ford vs GM, Ernie Bradberry had asked Santa Wynne and her entire team if the bonus prize couldn't be a ride in Santa's Mustang instead, or at the very least an F250 Custom Cab Dually, but his efforts had only earned him a long raspberry from Santa and snickers from everyone else.
---
The game in progress went without glitches. The usual collection of moans, groans, oooooohs, ahhhhhhhs and ohhhhhhhs had been heard at various points during the ball announcements when a bingo ball proved to be one number in the wrong direction, or if all six lines on the playing grid only needed one more marker to be filled, or if a wide sleeve had accidentally wiped the markers off the game sheet.
Kenny had just announced the 45 ball when a booming "Bingo! Bingo! Fan om jag inte vann hela fanskapet!" burst out of Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson. The hefty ex-pat Swede jumped up and punched the air in delight upon the completion of his bingo sheet. Because of his size and the fact he wore bib dungarees and a red T-shirt even to a big Christmas event only made the Jumping-Jack look even more spectacular.
"Haw? Whazzat? Whut ol' Fat-buhh-tt say?" Wynne said from her spot behind the bingo machine.
Once Kenny had finished snickering at the sight of a 245-lbs. man jumping up and down, he turned back to Wynne. "No idea. I guess it was Norwegian or something."
"Naw, coudden be. Fat-buhh-tt be a Swede."
"Ah, Swedish, Norwegian. Same thing," Kenny said and waved his hand dismissively.
Wynne reached for a Double-Zero but didn't yet open it. "Yuh, haw? I woudden say that ta Fat-buhh-tt's face if I wus y'all. Dat be like callin' somebodda from Alabama a yankee! Ain't gonn' be healthy fer yer pearly whites, son!" Psshhhht! Glug-glug-glug…
---
The tension screw had been given another few twists once the Grand Finale was underway. Everybody eyed everybody else warily just to see how far along they were. The players who had been the luckiest at the start of the game all held their collective breaths in the hope their luck would hold up. Conversely, those who had little to brag about so far hoped the bingo machine would show them mercy and send some useable balls their way.
In the previous two rounds of the finals, Wyatt Elliott had won the ten free meals at Moira's Bar & Grill while Carole Jensen had scored the five free movie tickets. The prizes had been celebrated through various means that included cracking open a can of Coke and throwing a Stetson so high in the air it had bounced off the ceiling and had landed on the pool table clear across the room.
Some of Wyatt's rival players mumbled and grumbled severely that the person whose wallet was among the fattest in all of MacLean County and certainly in Goldsboro would win ten free meals when others needed them far more, but the bone of contention was quietly forgotten about when Wyatt Elliott surprised everyone by donating his winnings back into the pool for the Grand Finale.
"Number eighty-four. Number eighty-four," Kenny said, holding up the ping pong ball marked 84 for all to see. Once it was in the box for spent balls, he turned to Wynne with a "Next ball, please."
Out of sheer coincidence, the next ball had the same numbers only in reverse. "How about that, Ladies and Gentlemen?" Kenny said as he held it up. "Number forty-eight. Number forty-eight."
A fair, young voice suddenly said: "We're almost there, mama!" before the girl was shushed so the competition wouldn't get aggrieved.
Wynne craned her neck to see if the young voice had been Ernie's daughter Christine, or Estelle Tooley's Renee from the trailer park. She knew Renee's voice far better than Christine's, but her mind had been revisiting the days of the #48 Lowe's Hendrick Chevrolet Monte Carlo - driven by Mr. 7-Time Jimmy Johnson - so she had only just heard the last word or two of the excited statement.
A grunt escaped her when it appeared that those very families were the ones fighting for the top prize of $1,000 plus Wyatt Elliott's donated ten free meals plus the ride in the TransAm. She started chewing on her cheek. On one hand, seeing her greatest buddy Ernie win the whole thing would be awesome, but on the other, it was no secret that Estelle Tooley needed to weigh every nickel and dime she earned in her three cleaning jobs just to make sure that she could put food on the table and clothes on Renee's back.
Shuffling around, Wynne eyed the bingo machine. There was no way for anyone to cheat or even manipulate it to produce a certain ball. The system with the compressed air made it so random that not even Albert Einstein or Steven Hawking could have predicted which one would come next had they still been alive.
When Kenny said, "Next ball, please," Wynne operated the lever which opened the small hatch. The next ping pong ball shot skyward into the sheer tube where she took it and handed it to the MC.
"Number sixteen. Number sixteen."
After 16, Wynne's action with the lever produced numbers 1, 9, 33, 36, 52, 79 and 91. None of the numbers prompted any kind of celebratory outburst, so she continued operating the lever.
The other players began mumbling among themselves when numbers 12, 21, 35, 44, 57, 69, 72 and 88 also yielded no results.
Sixteen numbers in a row that literally went nowhere made Kenny pause and turn to look at Wynne whose only response was a shrug.
Down among the spectators, Mandy got up from the table she shared with Beatrice and Rodolfo. She tried to get eye contact with Wynne, but the Cowpoke in question was too busy strangling a can of Double-Zero to notice anything else.
A "Hmmm?" escaped her when a whispering suspicion of 'This can't be right… something's definitely out of whack,' reached her ears. She returned to her two deputies. "I don't have much experience when it comes to bingo, but I do know this is an unusual situation. I think I'll have a look-see."
Moving over to the table where Ernie Bradberry and the Reverend Bernadine sat, Mandy leaned down to study the bingo sheet they were using. She was surprised to find that they were only one marker short of having a full sheet: number 49.
She and Ernie exchanged a quick glance before she moved over to the table where the Tooleys sat to inspect their bingo sheet as well. Just like Ernie and Bernadine's sheet, Estelle and Renee were only one marker short of declaring Bingo!
It would have been a perfect Goldsboro moment if Estelle's missing number had been 49 as well - indicating there had been a foul-up somewhere as no two sheets were supposed to be identical - but she was a number 67 short of a full sheet.
Just to make sure that nobody had put a hand on the proverbial wheel to manipulate the game, Mandy strode up to the bingo machine to give that a thorough inspection as well. She tried to spot number 49 and 67 inside the glass sphere, but the system with the compressed air had the ping pong balls flying around in a maniacal state making any kind of visual identification impossible.
"Didya find som'tin, darlin?" Wynne said, wiping the beer suds off her upper lip with the back of a hand. "Ya know, I almost be tempted ta quote good ol' Mike Joy an' D.W. he'… have ya evah- No, I nevah. Yuh? Shoot, y'all ain't got nooooo clue whaddahell I be tawkin' 'bout, do ya? Haw, it don't really mattah none, anyhows."
Mandy had to chuckle at her partner's inimitable style, but the smile soon faded. "Miss Donohue," she said to make it official business.
Wynne had just taken another swig of the Double-Zero, but it was swallowed double-quick when she heard the professional tone in Mandy's voice. "Ah, yes, Ma'am?"
"When the machine spewed out all the ping pong balls earlier in the evening, are you certain you collected them all?"
"Yes, Ma'am. Dead cert'in 'cos we done put 'em back in the sphere in numerical ordah ta make sure none offem wus missin'. Ain't dat right, Ritchie?"
Ritchie Lee looked up in a hurry when he was spoken to. Since he was surrounded by such powerful women, his face exploded in a sea of red as he spoke: "Yes. That's right, Sheriff… they were all there."
Mandy looked back at the main room where all the players waited impatiently for the game to resume. "I see. The situation is that Mr. Bradberry and Mrs. Tooley are both one number short. 49 and 67, respectively. This is for charity. The last thing we want is a foul-up."
"Lawrdie, that sure ain't no lie…" Wynne said in a mumble before her lips were far too busy drinking from the can.
Mandy continued: "Miss Donohue, Mr. Lee, Mr. Tobin… are you one-hundred percent certain those two balls, the 49 and the 67, are in the set you're using?"
For once, it was Kenny's cheeks that were impacted by a torrent of blushing. He chewed on his lips as he glanced over at the glass sphere. "No, Sheriff… but we can check. It won't be a problem as all we need to do it to turn off the compressed air and then wait for the balls to settle down. Then we can shovel through them."
Mandy and Wynne locked eyes. Both nodded at the exact same time. "Very well, Mr. Tobin," the sheriff continued. "Please do that right away. All three of you. All right? We need to have it confirmed without the shadow of a doubt. I'll explain the situation to the players. Are we on the same page here?"
"Haw, dat sure be a deal, darlin'," Wynne said and immediately flipped the switch on the air bottle. The super-lightweight ping pong balls needed another few seconds to settle down, but they were soon lying dormant at the bottom of the glass sphere. "Yuh, me an' them boys gonn' do that right this minnit, yes Ma'am."
---
Moira had turned the Christmas music back on and had offered everyone a free cup of eggnog, hot chocolate or pre-mixed mulled wine to bridge the delay, but Perry Como's It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas and the serving of the traditional holiday beverages needed to be cut short when Wynne said, "Haw, we be reddy, yessirree! All them li'l pingah-pongah balls be present an' accounted fer, Sheriff Mandy. They wus there tha whole time, too, so it wus jus' Goldsborah in a dang-blasted nutshell, yuh?"
"Good," Mandy said before she turned around to face the players. "Thank you for being so patient, Ladies and Gentlemen. You in particular, Mr. Garfield. The final round is about to resume," she said before she moved down to the table she shared with Beatrice and Rodolfo.
Up behind the bingo machine, Wynne checked, double-checked and triple-checked all the hoses, nozzles and clamps so they could avoid any dramas before, during or after she would flip the switch on the air bottle. Everything worked for once, and the many little balls were soon flying around inside the glass sphere. "Haw-yuh, we sure be reddy, awright. K.T., do ya thing, okeh?"
Nodding, Kenny turned on the cordless microphone. "Hello again, Ladies and Gentlemen. Next ball, please, Santa."
"Comin' right up, son," Wynne said as she operated the little lever. Once the hatch had opened, the sheer tube had a ball shoot up into it. She grunted when it was number 39 and not one of the two needed to win the round for either Ernie and Bernadine or the Tooleys. Shaking her head, she handed it to Kenny who announced it at once.
---
Four bingo balls later into the Winner Takes All Grand Finale, Lady Fortune finally smiled on one of the competitors as ball number 67 popped up into the tube. Wynne furrowed her brow as she read and re-read the number. Mandy had told her which of the players needed that particular number, but nearly a quarter of an hour had gone by since then so any information she had become privy to had long since vanished from her memory banks. "I reckon we be 'bout ta find out who gonn' win tha whole kit an' caboodle, haw?" she mumbled to herself as she took the ball and handed it to Kenny.
The young MC did his usual spiel: "Number sixty-seven. Number sixty-"
It seemed a depth charge went off down at the table shared by Estelle and Renee Tooley. Following an initial cry of "Oh, Gawd!" nothing happened for several seconds; then the mother and daughter playing team jumped up and let out inarticulate howls of delight that soon turned to sobbing and then outright weeping.
A stunned silence spread among the other players who could do nothing but sit there and stare wide-eyed at the unbridled celebration.
Up at the bingo machine, Wynne shot to her feet and drew a deep breath. "Awwwwwww-right! Les'hear it fer Estelle an' Renee, ev'rybodda! Yeeeee-hawww! Yessirree, it be tihhhh-me ta clap like all y'all ain't nevah done clapped befo'! Give them winnahs a big-ass Goldsborah salute!"
To lead the applause, Wynne took off her white Santa gloves to really get the clapping going. Some of the players were reluctant to join in at first, but as soon as Sheriff Mandy echoed the clapping from the other end of the room, a round of applause began to swell. Soon, the vast majority of the Goldsborians present - even Tucker Garfield who knew of their hardship - whistled and cheered for Estelle and Renee who were crying their eyes out.
"Ladies and Gentlemen! We have found the winners of the Grand Finale!" Kenny Tobin said into the microphone. "Estelle and Renee Tooley, come on up to collect your prizes!"
Wynne clapped and cheered even louder as the Tooleys made their way through the playing area to get to the bingo machine and the table that held the final prizes.
There was so much crying involved on Estelle's part that a single hankie simply couldn't handle it, but the rescue came in the shape of an entire pack of paper tissues that was pressed into her hand when she moved past one of the tables. When she looked at the donor through a veil of tears, she let out a happy grunt when it proved to be Bernadine Russell.
"Our Holy Lady always provides," the Reverend said before she pulled Estelle into a big hug. At the same time, Bernadine's daughter Christine Frances did the same to Renee. All the emotions caused even more crying to burst forth.
It wasn't long before Ernie and Wynne hooked up at the bingo machine. "How about that," Ernie said, holding an opened can of H.E. Fenwyck Dark Lager. "One marker. We were one stinkin' marker short of winnin' the whole damn thing. Kinda reminds me of that year when Carl Edwards only needed one more point to win the Nascar Cup… and then he got wrecked and lost the title to a Chevrolet driver, dammit."
"Yuh, an' he wussen even wrecked bah a competin' brand or nuttin'… naw, he done got hisself put in da wall bah one o' his Fohhhh-rd associates. Yuh, dat wus unfortunate," Wynne said, eagerly eyeing the can of beer in the palm of her friend's hairy paw.
Ernie nodded. "Yeah. Well, I know how much Estelle needs the money, so… it's okay. Miracles happen at Christmas, I guess."
"That sure ain't no lie, ol' buddy."
"Are Estelle and Frank still together?"
"Naw. Estelle done threw that drunken a-hole outtah there. Y'all didden see the end offit, pardnah. Lawrdie, he be in tha dumps. Nuttin' but an unwashed bag o' bones these days. He be livin' up at tha Ol' Boys Haven trailah park now. Him an' all them othah a-holes, drunkards an' weirdos. Artie Rains lives there, too, wouldya bah-lieve."
Ernie let out a dark grunt before he emptied the can of beer in a series of gulps. "Sounds like the cream of the crop. Say, could I getcha somethin' ta drink-"
"Lawrdie, I wus scared shitless y'all wus nevah gonn' ask! Hell yeah!" Wynne said and let out a loud guffaw as she reached over to slap her dear friend's considerable gut.
---
A short fifteen minutes later, Estelle and Renee stood in front of the bingo machine where they were showered in prizes and flashes from Brenda Travers's camera. Santa Wynne provided a shoulder for Estelle to weep on when the sheet with the coupons offering ten free meals at the Bar & Grill was handed over, but the weeping turned into real crying when the $1,000 check was held up for all to see.
"Y'all done earned it, Estelle. That wus an awesome evenin' o' bingah, sure wus," Wynne said, pulling her neighbor from the trailer park into a sideways hug. "An' Renee, y'all an' me gonn' be croooo-zin' in mah TransAm tamorrah- naw, bettah make that tha twentah-sixth 'cos we be runnin' a lot late tanight an' I deffa-nete-ly be needin' mah beauty sleep, yuh? But anyhows, we gonn' be croooo-zin' up an' down Main Street so ev'rybodda can see ya. Yuh?"
Young Renee was too busy gripping her mother's arm to talk, but she nodded enthusiastically at the bonus prize.
"Yuh, that gonn' be fuhhh-n. A li'l Chriss-mass music on da ray-dee-ohh an' I woudden be suhr-prised if there wus some chocolate an' mebbe a li'l gift or som'tin involved too. Haw, y'all nevah know!" Wynne continued, sporting a grin that reached from ear to ear.
Mandy, who had snuck up on Santa Wynne while she had been busy with Estelle and Renee, leaned in to slap a big ol' kiss on Wynne's cheek. "That's a great idea, hon, but please run the regular exhaust. The open pipes will be far, far too loud for young Renee," she said for Wynne's ears only.
"Yuh, I wus goin' ta. Dontcha worry none, darlin'," Wynne said with a wink.
She had already drawn another breath to continue when she happened to look over toward the main entrance. The sentence she had already lined up was shoved aside and replaced with a less eloquent "Haw? Whaddahell…" when she clapped eyes on an individual she had never expected to see in Moira's restaurant.
Mandy followed her life partner's line of sight and promptly let out a grunt that was no less surprised than Wynne's exclamation.
Over by the front door, Jay Daniel 'J.D.' Burdette - not only the store manager of 'Friendly' Sam McCabe's gun shop but second in command of the local branch of the J6 Brigade and thus no friend of anyone frequenting Moira's restaurant - had entered the bar and grill without any fanfare. He was dressed in his usual combination of olive-green and camouflaged military-style clothing with black marching boots down below and a dark brown baseball cap up top. His facial hair had been trimmed recently so it didn't dominate his face quite as much as it had done earlier.
The reason for J.D.'s atypically cautious behavior was soon revealed when a young boy peeked around his legs. The boy stood like that for a second or two before he moved ahead so he stood in front of J.D. Unlike the adult, the boy wore regular, non-camouflaged clothes in the shape of sneakers, blue jeans, a red Superman sweatshirt and a charcoal-gray winter jacket that he had unzipped.
"Naw, this I deffa-nete-ly gotta check out," Wynne said and moved away from the prize table. Mandy followed at once, and they were over at the main entrance in no time to size up the unexpected guest. "Howdy, J.D.," Wynne said in a voice that was a little apprehensive but not unfriendly. "Who we got he', then? A friend o' yers?"'
The boy only needed a single look at Wynne before he broke out in an ecstatic "Santa! Santa! Look, Daddy, it's Santa!" and began to tug on J.D. Burdette's camouflaged pantlegs.
"Daddy?" Wynne parroted.
J.D. shrugged. "Yeah. This is my kid Justin. He's five. He lives with his mom over in Spokane, but I have him for the holidays this year. You're Santa?"
"Well, yuh… obvis'ly."
"Women can't be Santa. Why aren't you Mrs. Santa?"
A dark chuckle escaped Wynne before she shot J.D. a somewhat pointed look. "Buddy, one offus sure be livin' in tha wrong century. An' I know fer a fact it ain't me 'cos I been there an' it didden look nuttin' like this."
J.D. fell silent for a moment or two. Then he let out a deep sigh. "Look, I didn't come to stir up a fight. I just wanted to give Justin a little Christmas magic. Derrike doesn't want to spend a dime on decorations so it's kinda bare over there."
Wynne let out a knowing grunt. "Yuh, I bet 'cos he always wus a tight-ass. Even years ago befo' y'all settled in town. He ain't nevah gonn' change. His dive ain't no place fer no kid, neithah. But yuh, we got plentah o' festive cheer he'. We got Bing on da speakers an' a gigantoh tree ovah yondah an' friendly dawgs ta play with an' eggnog an' hawt chocolate an' rice puddin' with cherry saw-ce an' all them awesome Chriss-mass treats like buttahscotch an' cookies an' peppermint sticks an' brownies an' a-buncha chocolate an' ev'rythin'. Hell, there ain't nuttin' Chriss-mass we don't got. 'Cept snow, o' course. We ain't magi-shians."
Justin began jumping up and down at Wynne's casual listing of all the Yuletide goodies. When that didn't seem to work, he tugged at his father's pantlegs again while letting out a prolonged "Daddy!"
"I don't have a white flag," J.D. continued, "but I'd like to propose a Christmas truce for Justin's sake."
"I hear ya, buddy, but it ain't mah deci-shun alone," Wynne said, looking at Mandy.
A few moments went by where Mandy studied J.D. thoroughly. "All right. We accept a truce. Welcome to the Mega Xmas Bingo Event at Moira's. I'm afraid the bingo part is over, but you and your son are free to-"
"I wanna sit on Santa's knee, Daddy!" Justin said before he ran over to Wynne's red-clad legs and wrapped his arms around the left one. "Please! Please! Can I sit on Santa's knee? Can I?"
Wynne let out a laugh and a "Whoah!" as she found herself locked in position.
J.D. bared his teeth in a pensive expression as he took in the sight of Santa Wynne, but he eventually nodded at his son. "Sure, kid. Have fun. Don't ask for too much from Santa, okay?"
"Okay!" Justin said without letting go of Wynne's leg.
Grinning, Wynne reached down to muss Justin's hair. "Y'all got a deal there, pardnah, but y'all gonn' hafta let go so we can go'ah ovah ta one o' them there chairs, yuh? Santa's gettin' old an' I don't reckon I can carry y'all no longah."
Justin squealed as he let go of Wynne's leg and ran over to the table next to the one shared by Beatrice Reilly and Rodolfo Gonzalez. The deputy sheriffs got up, but they sat down again when Sheriff Mandy waved an It's okay at them.
Though the Christmas music had resumed playing - at present, Jo Stafford and Frankie Laine entertained everyone by singing about buying Christmas Roses - and the din in the restaurant was going as strong as ever, several of the patrons had noticed J.D. Burdette's unmistakable figure. Their conversations didn't come to an end, but it was obvious the topics had changed to the uninvited, and perhaps unwanted, person who had shown up in their midst.
Mandy furrowed her brow as she took in how her fellow Goldsborians reacted to Burdette's presence. The Gilmores and Little Evie moved up to the row of bar stools at the counter to add as much distance between themselves and the newest guest as they could while staying in the Bar & Grill. Nancy Nguyen, Keshawn and his wife Laurelle as well as Cletus Browne and the Guzmáns gave J.D. the cold, silent treatment by shuffling around so they sat with their backs turned to him.
Some, like Bengt Swenson and Tucker Garfield who either couldn't care less about the conflict or who took pride in working with both sides, offered J.D. grins or thumbs-ups. Others, like the O'Sullivans and Candice Herschel, had so little interaction with Burdette's people in their daily lives that they just carried on behaving like they had all evening.
Rodolfo Gonzalez came over to stand next to the sheriff. "This is very interesting, Ma'am. I didn't know the fault lines ran so deep in our little community. We need to keep an eye on that."
"I agree, Senior Deputy," Mandy said quietly. She paused for a moment before she looked at her number two whose ethnicity put him on the nationwide J6 Brigade's list of potentially unwanted citizens though he was born in the United States. "How do you feel personally about Mr. Burdette showing up here?"
Rodolfo locked eyes with Mandy for another moment before he moved in closer so he could speak for her ears only. "This is strictly off the record. My uniform makes me treat everyone equal. If he doesn't stir up trouble, he's more than welcome here. However, my heart wants to kick his ass out onto the street. But of course… that would make me just as nasty as those people, right? And it would only spark anger and resentment in his son."
"Very true, Rodolfo. I agree. Let's try to honor the Christmas spirit by keeping everything civil," Mandy said in a matching low tone. "I'll go around the room and talk to those who ignore him on purpose."
"That's a good idea, Sheriff," Rodolfo said before he moved a step back to re-assume a professional attitude.
Nodding, Mandy walked over to the chair where Wynne and little Justin sat. "Hon, I'll be busy for a little while. I'll be around if you need me. All right?"
"Sure thing, darlin'! Yes, Ma'am!" Wynne said with a broad grin on her face. Once Mandy had moved away, Wynne turned her attention back to young Justin on her knee. "Justin, ya reckon y'all gonn' get some presents tamorrah morn'?"
"Yes!" Justin said, bouncing up and down on Wynne's knee. " 'Cos they're already under our tree! Didn't you put them there yourself?"
Wynne's eyes briefly went wide before she had regained full control over the situation. In short, she pulled a classic fib: "Whah, I sure did, son! Yuh, I sure did. Y'all got a whole sleighful! Haw, I read all them wish lists that all y'all kiddies done sent me… there wus so much stuff on 'em that I needed ta do twice as many runs this year. Whadda y'all be hopin' be undah tha Chriss-mass tree, then?"
"Oh! Alllll the twelve-inch action figures from the Superman vs Night Crawler movie and the Superman console game and the comic books and the Night Crawler's truck and his motorcycle and allllll the trading cards and the old animated Superman movie!"
"Awww-yuh, dat's right. I recall seein' them things on yer wish list," Wynne said, breaking out in a knowing wink. "Lemme guess, y'all like Supah'man?"
Justin nodded so hard he began to tilt, but Santa Wynne's strong arm never left his waist so he stayed on her knee. "Yes! He's the awesomest! He's just like my Daddy!"
"Yuh, haw? Well, I reckon your Daddy kinda likes hearin' that. Haw?" Looking up, Wynne locked eyes with J.D. Burdette whose expression proved he did in fact like to hear that.
The Last Original Cowpoke was perhaps a little slow on the uptake at times, but she had seen, heard and experienced enough to know that if no seeds were ever sown, no flowers would ever bloom. Of course, nobody could tell what kind of flowers it might turn into. There was a risk they could be poisonous no matter how pretty they were, but it was a risk worth taking.
She gave Justin a little squeeze before she looked at J.D. once more. "Say, pardnah, wouldya mind goin' ovah ta them refri-gy-ratahs ta nab me a Dubbel-Zerah? Grab one fer yerself while y'all at it… it be on da how-se. Yuh?"
The elder Burdette briefly narrowed his eyes before he broke out in a cautious smile and made his way over to the refrigerators. While he did that, Wynne kept a firm grip on young Justin to stop him from bouncing clean off her knee as he gyrated along to the rockin' tones of Lillian Briggs's Rock And Roly-Poly Santa Claus. Together, they played a game of This Little Piggy that earned her plenty of kiddie laughter and more joyful bouncing on her knee.
J.D. soon returned with the requested Double-Zero for Wynne and a can of Coors for himself. "Thanks a bunch, buddy," Wynne said. "I bettah save it for aftah I be done playin' with li'l Justin he'. Mer-rr-rr-rr-y Chriss-mass, Justin… an' ta y'all, too, J.D."
"Merry Christmas… uh… Santa," J.D. said before he cracked open the can with the familiar Pssshhhhht!
Wynne grinned as she briefly craned her neck to find Sheriff Mandy in the crowd. Several winks and kissies were exchanged between them before she turned back to the two Burdettes to carry on mending a few fences in the best Christmas tradition…
*
*
THE END.