The Stupidest Angel Read Online Free PDF Page B

you should wipe off your prints and stuff. You didn't get any DNA on him, did you?"
    She stretched the front of her shirt out and started dabbing at the shovel's handle. "DNA? Like what?"
    "You know, hair, blood, semen? Nothing like that?"
    "No." She was furiously buffing the handle of the shovel with the front of her tank top, being careful not to get too close to the end that was stuck in the dead guy. Strangely, Tuck found the process slightly erotic.
    "I think you got the fingerprints, but I'm a little concerned about there where your name is spelled out in Magic Marker on the handle. That might give things away."
    "People never return garden tools if you don't mark them," Lena said. Then she began to cry again. "Oh my God, I've killed him."
    Tuck went to her side and put his arm around her shoulders. "Hey, hey, hey, it's not so bad. At least you don't have kids you have to explain this to."
    "What am I going to do? My life is over."
    "Don't talk like that," Tuck said, trying to sound cheerful. "Look, you've got a perfectly good shovel here, and this hole is nearly finished. What say we shove Santa in, clean up the area a little, and I take you to dinner." He grinned.
    She looked up at him.
    "Who are you?"
    "Just a nice guy trying to help out a lady in distress."
    "And you want to take me out to dinner?" She seemed to be slipping into shock.
    "Not this minute. Once we get this all under control."
    "I just killed a man," she said.
    "Yeah, but not on purpose, right?"
    "A man I used to love is dead."
    "Damn shame, too," Tuck said. "You like Italian?"
    She stepped away from him and looked him up and down, paying special attention to the right shoulder of his bomber jacket, where the brown leather had been scraped so many times it looked like suede. "What happened to your jacket?"
    "My fruit bat likes to climb on me."
    "Your fruit bat?"
    "Look, you can't get through life without accumulating a little baggage, right?" Tuck nodded toward the deceased to make his point. "I'll explain over dinner."
    Lena nodded slowly. "We'll have to hide his truck."
    "Of course."
    "Okay, then," Lena said. "Would you mind pulling the shovel—uh, I can't believe this is happening."
    "I got it," Tuck said, jumping into the hole and dislodging the spade from Saint Nick's neck. "Call it an early Christmas present."
    Tuck took off his jacket and began digging in the hard ground. He felt light, a little giddy, thrilled that he wasn't going to have to spend Christmas alone with the bat again.

Chapter 4
    HAVE YOURSELF A NASTY 
    LITTLE CHRISTMAS

    Josh wiped the tears off his face, took a deep breath, and headed up the walk to his house. He was still shaking from having seen Santa take a shovel in the throat, but now it occurred to him that it might not be enough to get him out of trouble. The first thing his mom would say was, Well, what were you doing out so late anyway? And dumb Brian, who was not Josh's real dad but Mom's dumb boyfriend, would say, "Yeah, Santa would probably still be alive if you hadn't stayed so long at Sam's house." So, there on the front step, he decided to go with total hysteria. He started breathing hard, pumping up some tears, got a good whimpering sob going, then opened the door with a dieseling back sniffle. He fell onto the welcome mat and let loose with a full fire-truck-siren wail. And nothing happened. No one said a word. No one came running.
    So Josh crawled into the living room, trailing a nice fiber-optic string of drool from his lower lip to the carpet as he chanted a mucusy "Momma," knowing that it would completely disarm her temper and get her all fired up to protect him from dumb Brian, for whom he had no magic manipulation chant. But nobody called him, nobody came running, dumb Brian was not sprawled across the couch like the great sleepy slug that he was.
    Josh wound it down. "Mom?" Just the hint of a sob there, ready to go full bore again when she answered. He went into the kitchen, where the memo light was