Page 82 of The Santa Claus Con

Maui

On my way to the bar, Hawk cuts me off.

“Well, well,” he says smugly. “We meet again.”

For appearances’ sake, I hold out my hand to shake his. “We don’t know each other.”

He gives me an unblinking smile as he goes along with my handshake. Subtly, he flicks his head toward the table where Nathan’s sitting with Bijoux and her crew. “You two being late put everything on the line, my life included. This is my chance at freedom, too, you know,” he says, his smile now a hard line, his eyes steely.

“I don’t think I need to remind you that we’re giving you a deal. It was reduced time for helping us. You had the choice,” I say through a forced smile. “What you don’t get to do is call the shots.” It seems Hawk’s failing to accept his own responsibility in all of this, or he genuinely believes what he’s done was justifiable. A server passes by with a tray full of coconut shrimp. “Ooh, I love these!” I pull my hand from Hawk’s to grab two.

Hawk doesn’t take one. Instead, he just glares at me with sharp, gray eyes. “If you think I’m going to play along forever, you’re mistaken.”

“Then help us end this,” I say. “Here, have a shrimp.” I hand one to him, which he takes begrudgingly. “It’s Christmas. We’re supposed to be jovial, or whatever.”

Hawk lets out a belabored sigh. “I hate Christmas.”

“You and me both, pal. See you on the other side.”

I bite the head off my shrimp and do a loop, capturing everyone’s face on my necklace so they can later be analyzed and identified by software. There’s a mix of people in their late twenties up to their late seventies, all dressed for a night out on a tinsel-wrapped boat in Hawaii.

I move over to the U-shaped bar where I get a clear shot of Nathan. I claim a spot a seat away from another guest and put my snorkel set on the ground next to my chair. Nathan’s conversation is being captured on the open mic embedded in his linen jacket so I can hear everything they’re saying. He’s talking with the woman in the center of it all. She must be Bijoux.

As I watch him, something the Coopers always reminded me of surfaces to the top of my mind. Getting attached is a risk. To traditions, to holidays, to people. In this line of work, you’re rarely around. You miss time with loved ones when you’re spending your life trying to save them. Attachments are a vulnerability, a distraction.

But long before I ever came into the picture, the Coopers went against their own advice and got attached to each other. I never pointed this out. Though in the end, I learned firsthand what they meant when they warned me that attachment would one day break my heart.

I tear my eyes from Nathan and grab a few more coconut shrimp from a server. Christmas might’ve actually been a pretty magical holiday to celebrate had certain bad things never happened. The music is undeniably catchy, the decorations are pretty, the sweaters are fun, and there’s a general celebratory demeanor in people that spans weeks, even months.

“How are the apps?” a voice asks beside me.

I turn to find a man with a long, scruffy beard, wavy from saltwater and wind. He has a large build, his skin tan from days in the sun. The lines in his face tell me he’s likely in his fifties. There’s something so familiar about him.

I offer a polite smile. I’ll look either suspicious or awkward sitting at the bar on my own, and both of those things draw attention, so having a conversation wouldn’t be the worst thing, as long as I can still pay attention to Nathan.

“Crispy,” I say, holding out a shrimp for the man to try. “Want one?”

He holds both hands up. “Allergic. But they smell good.”

I’ve met this man before, I’m sure of it.

Then he smiles, and it hits me. Suddenly, I’m back in Times Square, dressed as Elvis, and the man I’m trying to distract from shooting Nathan is flashing me a gap-tooth smile.

Arnold Rossetti.

On the boat for less than fifteen minutes and I’ve already had two reunions from the ghosts of my Christmases past.

Arnold, it seems, doesn’t recognize me without my Elvis wig and costume. In fairness, it has also been a couple of years. Besides the smile, he looks different, too. I scan for a firearm, but he has none on him. None that I can see, anyway. Gone, too, is the ferocity in his expression. The Arnold sitting in front of me does not look like someone who would shoot another person dead in public. The man’s got on a fedora and a candy cane short-sleeve button-up.

“What’s the Peppermint Bling?” I ask to keep the focus on food. I ignore the ingredients—gin, Grand Marnier, peppermint liqueur, pineapple juice, guava juice, and club soda—listed under the name.

“Birthday girl’s featured drink of the night,” he answers. “I’m also allergic to peppermint, so mine’s just a Hawaii Bling. I like to have a drink on momentous occasions. It’s kind of a tradition.” Arnold nods to his own drink sitting in front of him before gazing toward the ocean. The view is situated directly behind Nathan, Bijoux, and her crew. Very convenient for my sole mission of keeping an eye on things.

“I’ll do the same,” I say to the bartender. “Hold the alcohol.” I shrug to Arnold. “Makes me sleepy.”

Also, I never drink while working.

“So, what kind of party is this? I saw a cake earlier,” I say, playing my role.