Santa 365 Read Online Free PDF Page A

“How about you two hanging out for a bit? Chet and I have work to do.”
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    â€œNever liked elves, myself,” Bernie said, as we drove off in the Porsche, Bernie behind the wheel and me in the shotgun seat, our normal seating arrangement, although once we’d gotten it reversed, meaning Bernie riding shotgun and me behind the wheel. What a night that was! No time to go into it now, and no point, either, since I doubt we’ll be visiting that part of Mexico anytime soon. “Always found them kind of creepy.”
    What was this? Elves? Was this a case about elves? I went over everything I knew so far, an excellent technique in our line of work, but was unable to come up with fact one. Did that bother me? How could anything bother a dude riding shotgun? I sat up tall and straight, a total pro, on the job.
    Bernie got on the phone, called Rick Torres.
    â€œHey!” Rick said. “Mr. Christmas himself. I’ll be drinking off the top shelf for the foreseeable future.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œDon’t go aw-shucks on me, Bernie. I’m talking about that case of single malt.”
    â€œA whole—”
    â€œBest Christmas party I can remember, and I actually can’t remember much of it. Your mother is one tough babe, if you don’t mind me saying so. Is she dating anyone, by the way?”
    â€œYou’re married, among many other things.”
    â€œI was thinking of my uncle Hector.”
    â€œWhat’s he like?”
    â€œBetter than he used to be.”
    â€œHow about we aim higher?” Bernie said. “Meanwhile I need a favor—address for Norbert Norwood Bonaparte, a.k.a. Plumpy. Parole Board should have it.”
    â€œYours for the asking, Mr. Christmas.”
    â€œKnock it off.”
    Rick called back almost right away with an address in El Monte, not far past the airport. Bernie calls it Subprimoville, for reasons of his own. Subprimoville is just about the biggest development in the whole Valley, detached and semidetached and not detached at all houses built in what Bernie calls faux adobe style—or sometimes faux-a-dough, when it’s only him and me in the conversation—going on and on to the edge of the desert. Soon we were stopping in front of a small, detached faux-a-dough with vacant lots on both side, the driveway already occupied by a small van. Bernie parked right behind the van, blocking it in. Just another one of our techniques at the Little Detective Agency. We’ve got many, one of the reasons we’re so successful, except for the finances part.
    We hopped out of the car, me actually hopping, and . . . what was this? Bernie hopping, too, despite his poor leg, wounded in the war? That lovely feeling of somehow being better than evercame to me again. What a life! And Bernie had the .38 Special in his belt. That made it even more better!
    A little path lined with wilted flowers led to the front door. We didn’t take it, instead walked around to the back. Fine with me. As for why, I had no clue. All I knew was that someone was moving around inside, either a woman or a small man. I listened more carefully: yes, a small man, men and women having different strides, no matter their size.
    A little lawn lay at the back of the house, the grass all brown, litter stirring in the breeze. We closed in on a window, peeked inside, me with front paws on the sill, Bernie looking over my head. On the far side was a living room, pretty much trashed: everything upside down, cushions slashed, holes poked in the walls here and there.
    We moved on toward a door, the glass kind with a metal frame. It led to a kitchen, also pretty much trashed, and in fact still being trashed at that very moment. The dude doing the trashing was small and thin, wore jeans and a muscle shirt that showed he had none. He looked like a lot of dudes, especially those of the short, brown hair and smallish features type. But was there something