The Christmas Thief (5 page)

I
feel like I’m at the Waltons, Milo thought as he raised the lid of the big pot and sniffed the beef stew that was simmering on the stove. It was early Sunday evening, and the farmhouse actually felt cozy with the aroma of his cooking. Through the window he could see that it had started to snow. Despite the heartwarming scene he couldn’t wait for this job to be finished so he could get back to Greenwich Village. He needed the stimulation of attending readings and being around other poets. They listened respectfully to his poems and clapped and sometimes told him how moved they were. Even if they didn’t mean it, they were good fakers. They give me the encouragement I need, he thought.

The Como twins had told Milo that they expected to be back at the farmhouse anytime after six on Sunday evening and to be sure to have dinner ready. They had left on Saturday afternoon, and if they’d seemed nervous when they arrived with the flatbed, it didn’t compare to how they acted when they took off in the van. He had innocently asked them where they were going, and Jo-Jo had snapped back, “None of your business.”

I told him to take a chill pill, Milo remembered, and he almost blew a gasket. Then Jo-Jo screamed at Benny to take the skis off the roof of the van and load them back again properly. He said one ski looked loose, and it would be just like Benny to load a ski that would fall off on the highway and hit a patrol car. “All we need are state troopers on our case, pawing our phony licenses.”

Then fifteen minutes later he had yelled at Benny to come back inside because a bunch of cross-country skiers were passing across the field. “One of them skidding around out there could be an eagle-eyed cop,” he snapped. “Your picture was on TV when they did the story on Packy, wasn’t it? Maybe you want to take his bunk in the pen?”

They’re scared out of their minds—that had been Milo’s assessment. On the other hand, so was he. It was clear to him that wherever the twins were going involved risk. He worried that if they were arrested and talked about him, he could at the very least be accused of harboring fugitives. He shouldn’t be doing business with people on the lam, and he was already sure that their little excursion had to do with Packy Noonan getting out of the can. Would anyone believe that thirteen years ago he didn’t know that the twins had disappeared at the exact time Packy was arrested and that he had had nothing to do with them since? Until now, of course, he corrected himself.

No, he decided. No one would believe it.

The twins had eluded capture for years, and from the well fed look of the two of them and their new bright choppers that didn’t even look fake, they had been living well. So they certainly had at least
some
of the money that the investors had lost in the scam. Why did they risk coming back? he wondered.

Packy had paid his debt to society, Milo thought, but he’s still on parole. But from the way the twins were talking when they didn’t think I could overhear them, it’s obvious they’re all planning to skip the U. S. of A. in the next few days. To where? With what?

Milo forked a chunk of beef from the stew and popped it in his mouth. Jo-Jo and Benny had stayed with him for less than twenty-four hours, but in that short time all the years they hadn’t laid eyes on each other melted away. Before Jo-Jo got crabby, they had had a few laughs about the old days. And after Benny had downed a couple of beers, he had even invited him to come visit them in Bra—

At that memory Milo smiled. Benny had started to say “Bra—” and Jo-Jo had shut him up. So instead of saying “Brazil,” which he clearly meant to say, Benny had said, “Bra-bra, I mean, Bora-Bora.”

Benny had never been all that swift on the uptake, Milo remembered.

He began to set the table. If by chance the twins showed up with Packy Noonan, would Packy enjoy the stew, or had he gotten his fill of stew in prison? Even if he did, it wouldn’t be anything like the way
I
make it, Milo assured himself. And, besides, if anyone doesn’t like stew, I have plenty of spaghetti sauce. From all the stories he had heard, Packy could get pretty mean when things didn’t go exactly his way. I wouldn’t mind making his acquaintance, though, he admitted to himself. There is no denying that he has what they call charisma. That is one of the reasons his trial got so much coverage—people can’t resist criminals with charisma.

A green salad with slivers of Parmesan cheese, homemade biscuits, and ice cream would complete the meal that would satisfy the queen of England if she happened to show up on her skis, Milo congratulated himself. These mismatched chipped dishes aren’t fit for royalty, he thought, but they didn’t matter. God knows it shouldn’t matter to the twins. No matter how much money they got their hands on, they’d still be the same goons they always were. As Mama used to say, “Milo, honey, you can’t buy class.” And, boy, was she right about
that!

There was nothing more he could do until they returned. He walked to the front door and opened it. He glanced at the barn and once again asked himself the question: What’s with the flatbed? If they are headed back to Bra Bra Brazil, they sure can’t be traveling there by way of a flatbed. There had been a couple of scrawny-looking spruces on the flatbed when they arrived, but yesterday Benny threw them into one of the stalls.

Maybe I should write a poem about a tree, Milo mused as he closed the door and walked over to the battered old desk in the parlor that the renting agent had the nerve to call an antique. He sat down and closed his eyes.

A scrawny tree that nobody wants, he thought sadly. It gets thrown into a horse stall, and there’s a broken-down nag that is headed for the glue factory. They are both scared. The tree knows its next stop is the fireplace.

At first the tree and the nag don’t get along, but because misery loves company and they can’t avoid each other, they become best friends. The tree tells the nag how he never grew tall, and everyone called him Stumpy. That’s why he has been plopped here in the stall. The nag tells how in the one race he could have won he sat down on the track after the first turn because he was tired. Stumpy and the nag comfort each other and plan their escape. The nag grabs Stumpy by a branch, flings him over his back, breaks out of the stall, and races to the forest where they live happily ever after.

With tears in his eyes, Milo shook his head. “Sometimes beautiful poetry comes to me full-blown,” he said aloud. He sniffled as he pulled out a sheet of paper and began to write.

F
rom the first moment he spotted the van on Madison Avenue, Packy Noonan realized that in thirteen years the combined brain power of the Como twins had not increased one iota. As he leaped into the backseat and slammed the door behind him, he fumed. “What’s with the skis? Why not put up a sign reading Packy’s Getaway Car?”

“Huh?” Benny grunted in bewilderment.

Jo-Jo was behind the wheel and stepped on the gas. He was a fraction too late to make the traffic light and decided not to risk it, especially with a cop standing at the corner. Even though the cop wasn’t actually facing them, running a light was not a good idea.

“I said you should bring skis so that we could put them on after you picked me up,” Packy snapped. “That way if someone noticed me hightailing it down the block, they’d say I got in a van. Then we pull over somewhere and put the skis on top. They’re looking for any old van, not a van with skis. You’re so dopey. You might as well plaster “Honk if You Love Jesus” stickers all over the van, for God’s sake.”

Jo-Jo spun his head. “We risked our necks to get you, Packy. We didn’t have to, you know.”

“Get moving!” Packy shrieked. “The light’s green. You want a special invitation to step on the gas?”

The traffic was heavier than usual for a Sunday morning. The van moved slowly up the long block to Fifty-second Street, and then Jo-Jo turned east. Precisely the moment they were out of view, the man Packy had dubbed Fatso came running up Madison Avenue. “
Help!-Help!
Did anybody see some guy running?” he began to yell.

The cop, who had not noticed Packy either running or getting in the van, hurried over to the jogger, clearly believing he had a nut case on his hands. New Yorkers and tourists, united for the moment in a bit of excitement, stopped to see what was going on.

The jogger raised his voice and shouted, “Anybody see where a guy went who was running around here a minute ago?”

“Keep it down, buddy,” the cop ordered. “I could arrest you for disturbing the peace.”

A four-year-old who had been standing across the street next to his mother while she answered a call on her cell phone tugged at her skirt. “A man who was running got into a van with skis on it,” he said matter of factly.

“Mind your business, Jason,” she said crisply. “You don’t need to be a witness to a crime. Whoever they’re looking for is probably a pickpocket. Let them find him. That’s what they’re paid to do.” She resumed her conversation as she took his hand and started walking down the street. “Jeannie, you’re my sister, and I have your best interests at heart.
Drop that creep.
”

Less than two blocks away the van was moving slowly through the traffic. In the backseat Packy willed the vehicle forward: Park, Lexington, Third, Second, First.

At First Avenue, Jo-Jo put on the turn signal. Ten more blocks to the FDR Drive, Packy fretted. He began to bite his nails, a long-forgotten habit he had overcome when he was nine. I’m not doing anything wrong until I don’t show up at The Castle tonight, he reasoned. But if I’m caught with the twins, it’s all over. Associating with known felons means instant parole revocation. I should have had them leave the van parked somewhere for me. But even if I was alone and got stopped, how would I explain the van? That I won it in a raffle?

He moaned.

Benny turned his head. “I got a good feeling, Packy,” he said soothingly. “We’re gonna make it.”

But Packy observed that sweat was rolling down Benny’s face. And Jo-Jo was driving so slowly that they might as well be walking. I know he doesn’t want to get caught in an intersection, but this is nuts! Overhead, a thumping sound indicated that one of the skis was coming loose. “Pull over,” Packy screamed. Two minutes later, between First and Second Avenues, he yanked the skis off the roof of the van and tossed them in through the back door. Then he waved Jo-Jo over to the passenger seat. “Is this the way they taught you to drive in Brazil? You, Benny, get in the back.”

For the next twenty minutes they sat in dead silence as they traveled north. Benny, easily intimidated, cowered in the backseat. He had forgotten that Packy goes nuts when he’s worried. So what’s going on? he wondered. In those letters he told us to find somebody we could trust to rent a farmhouse with a big barn in Stowe. We did that. And then he sends word to get a two-handled saw, a hatchet, and rope, and then the flatbed. We did that. He told us to pick him up today. We did that. So what’s it all about? Packy swore that he had left the rest of the loot in New Jersey, so why are we going to Vermont? I never heard of going to New Jersey by way of Vermont.

Sitting in the front seat, Jo-Jo was thinking in the same vein. Benny and I had ten million bucks with us when we took off for Brazil. We lived nice there, very, very nice, but not over the top. Packy tells us that he has another seventy or eighty million he can get his hands on once he’s out of jail. But he never said how much Benny and me get in the split. If it goes sour, Benny and me could end up with Packy in the slammer. We should’ve stayed in Brazil and let him slave away for a few weeks at that dumpy diner where they got him a job. Then when we came to rescue him, maybe he’d appreciate us a little more. In fact, he’d be kissing our feet.

When they saw the “Welcome to Connecticut” sign, Packy let go of the wheel and clapped his hands. “One state closer to Vermont,” he chortled. With a broad grin he turned to Jo-Jo. “But we’re not gonna be there long. We’ll take care of business and be on our way to sunny Brazil.”

God willing, Jo-Jo thought piously. But something tells me that Benny and I should have made do with ten million bucks. His stomach gurgled as he made a feeble attempt to return Packy’s smile.

A
t a quarter of eight Milo heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the driveway. With nervous anticipation he rushed to open the front door. He watched as Jo-Jo got out of the front passenger door of the van and Benny emerged from the door behind him.

So who’s driving? he wondered. But then the question was answered as the driver’s door opened and a figure appeared. The faint light from the living room window was all Milo needed to confirm his hunch that Packy Noonan was the mystery guest.

Benny and Jo-Jo waited for Packy to precede them up the porch steps. Milo jumped back to open the door as wide as possible. He felt as if he should salute, but Packy extended his hand. “So you’re Milo the poet,” he said. “Thanks for holding down the fort for me.”

If I had known I was holding it down for you, I wouldn’t be here, Milo thought, but he found himself smiling back. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Noonan,” he said.

“Packy,” Packy corrected him gently as his glance darted around the room. He sniffed. “Something smells real good.”

“It’s my beef stew,” Milo told him, the words tumbling from his mouth. “I hope you enjoy beef stew, Mr.—I mean, Packy.”

“My favorite. My mama made it for me every Friday—or maybe it was Saturday.” Packy was starting to enjoy himself. Milo the poet was as transparent as a teenager. I
do
have a natural way of impressing people, he thought. How else would I have gotten all those dopey investors to keep pouring money into my sinkhole?

Jo-Jo and Benny were coming into the house. Packy decided this was the moment to make sure that Milo joined their team for good. “Jo-Jo, you brought that money like I told you?”

“Yeah, Packy, sure.”

“Peel off fifty of the big ones and give them to our friend Milo.” Packy put his arm around Milo’s shoulders. “Milo,” he said, “this isn’t what we owe you. This is a bonus for being a swell guy.”

Fifty hundred-dollar bills? Milo thought. But he said
the big ones.
He couldn’t mean fifty
thousand,
could he?
Another
fifty thousand? Milo’s brain couldn’t handle the thought of that much money being handed to him in cold, hard cash.

Two minutes later he could not keep his mouth closed as a grumpy-looking Jo-Jo counted out fifty stacks of bills from a large suitcase filled with money. “There are ten C-notes in each of these here piles,” he said. “Count them when you’re finished writing your next poem.”

“By any chance have you got anything smaller?” Milo asked hesitantly. “Hundred-dollar bills are hard to change.”

“Chase the Good Humor wagon down the block,” Jo-Jo snapped. “What I hear, the driver carries lots of change.”

“Milo,” Packy said gently. “Hundred-dollar bills aren’t hard to change anymore. Now let me explain our plans. We’ll be out of here by Tuesday at the latest. Which means all
you
have to do is go about your business and ignore our comings and goings until we leave. And when we leave, you will be given the other fifty thousand dollars. Are you agreeable to that situation?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Noonan—I mean, Packy. I surely am, sir.” Milo could taste and feel Greenwich Village as though he were already there.

“If somebody happened to ring the bell and ask if you’d seen a flatbed around here, you’d forget that there is indeed one on the premises, wouldn’t you, Milo?”

Milo nodded.

Packy looked directly into his eyes and was satisfied. “Very good. We understand each other. Now how about some dinner? We hit a lot of traffic, and your stew smells great.”