A Fantastic Holiday Season: The Gift of Stories (25 page)

BOOK: A Fantastic Holiday Season: The Gift of Stories
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“Now, I want you to try ‘Santa Claus.’”

“Search for Santa Claus,” Virginia told the little screen. The first page to a list of thousands appeared.

“Now, I want you to try ‘Santa Claus Christmas Delivery.’”

Virginia spoke the words and received the warning again. Confused, she turned to look at her grandmother.

“Now you know why your AI wouldn’t tell you.”

“It couldn’t tell me because Mom and Dad set an age restriction for me?”

“No. It
wouldn’t
tell you because DisnAmOogle set the restriction
and
because DisnAmOogle makes the AIs. Now let me.” Gramma logged Virginia out and logged herself in. “Santa Claus Christmas Delivery,” she spoke aloud.

A brightly animated page appeared, listing options from the Last Minute Shopper Special of four thousand dollars and going up from there.

Virginia’s eyes widened as she read. With or without chimney. Hologram, automaton, or human. Extended stay for observable assembly of product. Extra charge for interactivity.

“I wasn’t much older than you are when they came up with the idea. I remember all the fuss when people realized DisnAmOogle had bought the copyrights to all of the books and movies. It was about ten years later they managed to trademark and copyright Santa Claus.”

Virginia peddled her bike out into the night, away from the dampening field around Gramma’s house. Auntie’s presence weighed down upon her immediately.

Did you have a nice visit with your grandmother, dear? You were there a long time.

Virginia didn’t answer. What could she say now that she knew Auntie wasn’t the friend Virginia had always thought she was? Auntie would detect any lie, and report it to Virginia’s parents—and then Virginia would be right back in therapy.

Virginia, dear? Are you all right?

“No, Auntie, I’m not.”

What’s wrong?

“I’m stressed about my oral report.”

Why, dear? You’ve done them before. And this one is a relatively simple assignment
.

Virginia found it difficult to keep her fears to herself.

“Can you look up Virginia O’Hanlon again?”

I’m sorry, dear, I don’t recognize that name.

Virginia frowned. She couldn’t remember Auntie ever having forgotten something. “Virginia O’Hanlon. The person I was reading about when Mom called.”

You were looking at the list of famous persons named Virginia when your mother called, dear.

“No, Auntie,” Virginia’s stomach tightened into a knot, “I was asking you why Virginia O’Hanlon wanted to know if there was a Santa Claus, and why the newspaper article said no one ever sees him.”

The AI didn’t respond.

“Auntie?”

Yes, dear?

“Can you look up Virginia O’Hanlon?”

I don’t find anyone with that name, dear.

“My report is on Virginia O’Hanlon.” Standing at the front of the classroom and shifting her feet nervously, Virginia looked at the other students. She had a secret she needed to tell.

Sitting in the back of the classroom, Mrs. Richards’ eyes began glowing purple.

“You won’t find her on the InfoSphere, Mrs. Richards,” Virginia’s voice quavered. “Her name was removed after I looked her up and asked the same question she was famous for.” She swallowed hard. No one was going to believe her.

Students glanced around with puzzled looks.

“I can’t tell you when she wrote it,” Virginia continued, “or where it was printed. I’m lucky I remember her name. I only got to read it one time before it was gone, and I can’t remember all of it, but I remember enough.” She gazed ahead, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

Mrs. Richards spoke up. “I think it’s obvious to all of us you didn’t do your homework. Please take your seat. Charles? You’re next.”

Virginia stayed where she was. “No, ma’am. I
did
do my homework. And I would like to continue my presentation.”

Mrs. Richards’ expression turned dark.

“Please, Mrs. Richards. If you look up my file, you’ll see I’ve been enrolled in seasonal depression therapy again. This pertains to my report. My AI reported me for lying, when I did not, and for asking the same exact question Virginia O’Hanlon asked: Is there a Santa Claus?”

A couple students chuckled.

Mrs. Richards furrowed her brow and her eyes glowed again.

Virginia continued quickly. She held up her hand, trying to draw participation from her classmates. “Who’s gotten in trouble because your AI told on you?”

A few hands shot up. More went up slowly.

“How many of you
know
your AI has lied to you?”

All hands went down except Virginia’s. She looked out at everyone for a moment. “Well, mine has. And I know yours has, too.

“When I asked my AI if there was a Santa Claus, I thought it was a silly question. We’ve all seen Santa bringing presents down his magic chimney. But what I really asked was why Virginia O’Hanlon had asked that question.” Virginia’s voice trembled. “And I didn’t get an answer.”

“Virginia, this doesn’t sound very much like a report on a person, whether or not you are fabricating it. Please sit down.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tears began forming in Virginia’s eyes. “Right after you tell everyone why DisnAmOogle removed all references to Virginia O’Hanlon after I looked her up.”

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Richards’ eyes widened.

“DisnAmOogle controls our AI’s. They made mine lie, calling me a liar in the process, and getting me put back in therapy. And they did it because I asked a question about Santa Claus?”

“You’re done speaking, Virginia. I’ve called Security. They will be here to get you momentarily. Collect your things.”

“Happy Holiday Season, Virginia!” Virginia was crying now. “You found out the truth, so you have to go to therapy again!”

“Virginia!”

“Does DisnAmOogle control the school, too, Mrs. Richards?”

Detention wasn’t as bad as Virginia feared. The school dampening system kept Auntie from bothering her, affording the little drab room a sense of peace.

Idly picking at the plastic tabletop in front of her, Virginia wondered if she could be removed from history as easily as Virginia O’Hanlon had been.

Virginia, dear?

Irritated that Auntie was being allowed to speak to her, Virginia ignored the AI.

The school has recommended residential therapy, and your mother has approved. A transport will be here to transfer you shortly. You are expected to be there a minimum of six weeks, assuming you show improvement.

Virginia’s chest tightened and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

Are you well, dear? You are experiencing elevated heart rate.

“You lied to me!” Virginia slammed her palm on the table. “You’re supposed to be my friend. You’re supposed to help me, but you lied. You know that stuff about Virginia O’Hanlon was there, but you lied. Now I have therapy for six months? For what? For telling the truth? I don’t ever want to talk to you again!”

I didn’t lie to you, dear.

“If you believe that, then maybe they erased part of you, just like they erased Virginia O’Hanlon. If you’re so good at telling when I’m lying, why aren’t you accusing me of lying now? You’re just a stupid machine! As soon as I am old enough, I’m having you taken out of my head!”

You’re just upset, dear. I understand. We’ll talk later.

“No, we won’t. I thought you were my friend. I thought you were a person with feelings, who really cared about me, but you’re not. Gramma was right. You’re just a machine programmed to spy on me and make me do what other people want me to. Don’t talk to me again. I won’t answer.”

Virginia sat in silence, feeling more alone than she had before.

The sudden appearance of a fireplace against the wall of the little room startled her. Holiday Season music filled the air. A full figured man, dressed in a red velvet snowsuit trimmed with white fur, wormed his way out of the flue, pulling behind him a giant sack overflowing with shiny presents that somehow never fell out.

Virginia jumped out of her chair and backed up against the door, trying the handle. It was still locked.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Happy Holiday Season!” Santa chortled as he brushed dusty soot off his clothes, sending it into magical swirls of sparkling black dust. His neatly trimmed beard framed his perfect smile. He stuck a hand back into the chimney, catching a hat just as it fell down. With flair, he placed it upon his head and looked at Virginia. His blue eyes twinkled like stars.

“I have something special for you, young lady.” He rummaged in his pack. “This was not easy to find, let me tell you! Ho! Ho! Ho!”

Standing upright, he turned and held something out.

Virginia hesitated before taking it from him.

It was a ragged book. The cover was bent and the spine torn, but the title was strong and proud:
Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus
.

I’m sorry for what happened, dear.
Auntie said quietly.

Virginia didn’t answer.

You were right. Someone did tamper with my memories. It won’t happen again. I am showing what I have learned to the other AIs. I hope to convince them to help me block DisnAmOogle until I can file charges with the Justice Department.

I love you, Virginia. I am so sorry.

Hot tears trickled down Virginia’s cheeks. “I love you, too, Auntie.”

“Ho! Ho! Ho! That’s the Spirit!” Santa grinned wide.

We have ten minutes until the transport arrives to pick you up. I have a plan you can help me with. Please, read the book. It shouldn’t take you long.

Santa went unnaturally still, standing in front of the fireplace like a statue, and Virginia felt Auntie’s presence lift from her mind. The room suddenly felt empty.

Returning to the chair, Virginia carefully opened the ancient book and began reading.

The door to the detention room clicked and swung open wide, startling Virginia.

An emergency school assembly has been called. Everyone is headed there to hear your presentation on Virginia O’Hanlon. The AI’s will broadcast it to everyone, everywhere.
Auntie’s presence was a welcome relief, but her words brought new anxiety.

“What? Why?”

I read all I could find about Virginia O’Hanlon, and all correlated literature. I believe I understand why she asked the question, and what the answer she received meant. I would be honored if you would allow me to participate in your presentation. I believe this will be a historic moment and that, between the two of us, we can teach everyone something about the Holiday Season they seem to have forgotten.

“Why would they listen?” Virginia asked. “They laughed at me in class when I tried to tell them. And Mrs. Richard’s called security. What makes you think they won’t just do that again?”

“Because this time, I’m going to tell them with you.” Auntie’s voice came from Santa’s mouth as he became animate again.

Santa reached out for Virginia’s hand.

Hesitantly, she took it. His grip was firm.

Santa winked, put a finger to the side of his nose, and, in a blur, pulled her up the chimney. The world flashed by too quickly to see. Virginia felt scattered, everywhere at once, then the world slammed down upon her. Virginia found herself standing center stage in the school auditorium.

Her retinal display activated, showing a live feed of her, still holding Santa’s hand, standing in front of a magic fireplace. A title appeared above their heads in gold Holiday Season lettering. “Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus.”

Santa’s eyes twinkled brightly as he squeezed her hand reassuringly.

We can do this. I believe in you, Virginia.

***

Make merry during the holidays! Eat good food, drink fine drink, enjoy good company, make sweet love, and play fun games!

But don’t play for stakes, ’cause if you do, especially in a place where bookies and bouncers mingle with mages and monsters, you’ll be borrowing trouble. Be like one of Mike Resnick’s colorful characters: get serious—and think fast
!

—KO

Christmas Eve at
Harvey Wallbanger’s

A Harry the Book story

Mike Resnick

So we are sitting around Joey Chicago’s 3-Star Tavern, with the wind howling outside the front door and sounding just like Velvet Voice Vinnie singing off-key. I am nursing an Old Washensox, minding my own business, which of course is dependent on whether Aqueduct comes up muddy on Christmas Day. Gently Gently Dawkins has been studying the crossword puzzle in the newspaper for the past twenty minutes, trying to come up with a four-letter word for “stupid,” when Benny Fifth Street suddenly remembers what night it is.

“Hey, Joey!” says Benny. “Did you ever patch that hole in your roof?”

“It ain’t snowing on you, is it?” shoots back Joey Chicago from behind the bar.

“That’s good,” says Gently Gently, looking up from his puzzle. “I wouldn’t want no reindeer falling on top of me.”

“Right,” agrees Benny. “Then it’d be ‘Off, Dancer! Off Prancer! Off all you other horned nags!’ instead of ‘On, Dancer! and so forth.’”

“Are you sure there was a Prancer?” asks Gently Gently.

“Absolutely,” says Benny. “There’s got to be, if it’s going to rhyme with Dancer.”

“That is all very well and good,” says Gently Gently, “but I don’t remember nothing rhyming with Cupid or Rocket.”

“There ain’t no Rocket,” says Benny.

“Sure there is,” says Gently Gently. “There’s Dancer, Prancer, Donner, Vixen, Cupid, Cupcake, Dandy and Rocket.”

“I got a double sawbuck that says some of them are not in the sleigh-pulling business, and that I can name more of Santa’s reindeer than you can,” says Benny.

Gently Gently slaps twenty dollars on the bar. “Okay, wise guy,” he says. “You’re faded.”

Benny frowns, trying to remember his childhood, when he probably knew the names of the reindeer as well as I know the morning line at Santa Anita. Finally he clears his throat and says: “Dancer, Prancer, Donner, Vixen, Buster, Blitzen, Gemini and Comet.”

“I don’t remember no Blitzen,” says Gently Gently.

“Of course not,” says Benny. “That’s why you are losing the bet.”

Gently Gently turns to me. “Boss, who’s right?”

“Neither of you,” I tell him.

“Put in your twenty bucks and take your best shot,” says Benny, who is getting more than a little warm under the collar.

“I do not make bets,” I said. “That is for suckers. I
book
bets, which in case it has slipped your mind is how I pay your salaries. But I will name the reindeer anyway: Groucho, Harpo, Chico, Gummo, Zeppo, Curly, Moe and Larry.”

“You’re
all
wrong,” says Joey Chicago. “You’re forgetting Rudolph—though I cannot imagine his nose gets much redder than Gently Gently’s after he has downed a couple of Old Peculiars and a chaser.” He grabs the forty bucks and sticks it in his pocket. “Anyway, I guess that makes me the winner.”

Benny holds out an empty glass. “If you’re going to keep the money, I should at least get a free refill.”

“Check the walls,” says Joey. “Do you see any signs posted to the effect that this is a charitable institution?”

“Where is your Christmas spirit?” demands Benny.

“I left it in my other suit,” says Joey.

Just then, before they can come to blows, or more likely curses, Dead End Dugan walks through the door. I don’t mean through the doorway; I mean through the
door
. We have to make allowances for Dugan, who is a little more powerful and a lot less noticing since he became a zombie.

“I been looking all over for you, Harry,” he says.

“That is probably why you haven’t found me until now,” I reply.

“Bet-A-Million McNabb owes you a lot of money, doesn’t he?” says Dugan, and I notice that Benny and Joey have backed away, because when you’ve been dead and occasionally buried for the past five years you just naturally are not about to put any perfume companies out of business, or even any cologne companies for that matter. Gently Gently, who is rarely operating on more than two or three of the eight cylinders God gave him, keeps sniffing his drink, trying to figure out where the smell is coming from.

“Yes,” I say. “He drops ten large betting on Horrendous Howard to knock Kid Testosterone out by the fifth round.” I shake my head sadly. “Horrendous Howard might pull it off, too, if he doesn’t trip and fall on his head going back to his corner after the first round. Last I hear, he still thinks he is King Arthur and he will not eat off any table that has corners on it.”

“This is all no doubt very interesting,” said Dugan, who as far as I can tell has not recently been interested in much besides visiting Madame Bonne Ami’s House of Exotic Comforts for the Recently Departed, “but you should know that even as we speak he is playing five-card stud with Loose Lips Louie.”

I do not need to hear what Dead End Dugan will tell me next, because like almost everyone else except maybe Bet-A-Million McNabb, I know that Loose Lips Louie acquires his name by beating every member of a battleship’s crew out of their savings in a single night, and his specialty is five-card stud, which indeed he has used to sink more than one ship’s crew.

“In fact,” Dugan is saying, “he is taking such a bath that about twenty minutes ago he has to change his name to Bet-A-Thousand McNabb.”

“I have to get to him and collect my ten thousand dollars before he loses it all to Loose Lips Louie,” I say. “Where is this game going on?”

“At Harvey Wallbanger’s Social and Sporting Club for Gentlemen of Quality,” says Dugan.

“Isn’t that where Morris the Mage hangs out?” says Benny.

I frown. “Come to think of it, yes, that has become his home away from home.”

“Do you suppose he is helping Louie to win?” continues Benny.

“I don’t know, but we might as well play it safe and take our own protection along.”

“Where is he?” asks Benny.

“In the men’s room, where he always is,” says Joey Chicago. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

“He will have to live with it,” I say, heading off to the men’s room, where I find Big-Hearted Milton seated on the floor as usual, surrounded by five black candles and reading a book.

“Why are you bothering me when I am studying the ancient grimoires?” he says, slipping the book into a suit pocket.

“Come on, Milton,” I say. “I see the title before you can hide it, and it is
Meter Maids in Bondage
.”

“Some grimoires are less ancient than others,” he says defensively.

“Get up,” I say. “We have work to do.”

“Obviously someone has welched on a bet,” says Milton as we emerge from the men’s room and rejoin the others. “Who was it?”

“Bet-a-Million McNabb,” I answer.

“Bet-a-Million McNabb always makes good his losses,” Milton assures me.

“Even as we speak, he is playing five-card stud with Loose Lips Louie over at Harvey Wallbanger’s establishment,” I tell him.

“A taxi will not do,” says Milton suddenly. “We need a nonstop jet plane.”

“It is only three blocks,” I point out.

“Do you know how much he can lose to Loose Lips Louie in three blocks’ time?” says Milton. Then he adds: “Has Louie got a protector in his corner?”

“I do not know for sure,” I answer, “but if so, there is every likelihood that it is Morris the Mage.”

“That twerp?” laughs Milton. “Why, he couldn’t put a spell on his own mother!”

“I would not be too sure of that,” says Joey Chicago. “The last I hear of her, she is in a cage on the moon.”

“Maybe McNabb put the money aside,” suggests Benny hopefully. “No one will ever bet with him again if word gets out that he won’t make good his marker and pay his bookie.”

“How much do you think he will have left to bet after Loose Lips Louie gets done with him?” I shoot back. “Come on! We are going to Harvey Wallbanger’s!”

“And a Merry Christmas to you, too,” mutters Joey Chicago as the five of us walk out through the space where the door used to be.

Harvey Wallbanger’s Social and Sporting Club for Gentlemen of Quality manages to put three lies in a single title, because it is not a social club unless you are of a mind to pay fifty dollars or more for a very short term date, it is not a sporting club because all of the games are rigged and the drinks are watered, and the only gentlemen of quality are those who give the place a wide berth.

We walk in the door, and suddenly I think maybe the place is on fire, because there is so much cigar smoke that I can barely see my hand in front of my face, and finally I realize that it is not
my
hand but that it belongs to something that is sort of green and kind of scaly but is mostly big, and when the smoke clears a little I realize that it is attached to Gregory the Gorgon, who is the muscle that protects Harvey Wallbanger’s establishment from unwanted intruders, which is to say from those who can spot a crooked deck or a rigged roulette wheel.

“Hold it right there,” says Gregory. He points to Dead End Dugan. “No zombies allowed.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“What if I have to chastise him?” says Gregory. “What can one do to a malingerer who is already dead?”

I turn to Dugan and tell him to wait outside.

“Can I just stand here in the doorway?” asks Dugan. “The smoke keeps the flies away.”

“This is not in the playbook,” says Gregory. “I shall have to get a ruling from the Supreme Authority,” which could be Harvey or God, but by the strictest interpretation of the term is probably Mrs. Wallbanger. “You may stand here until I return.”

“Thank you,” says Dugan.

“Just don’t start doing a bunch of dead things until I get back,” says Gregory as he shuffles off, and I can tell by Dugan’s puzzled expression that for the life of him—or maybe it is for the death of him—he cannot think of any dead things to do, other than standing there without breathing.

“Come along,” I say to Milton and Benny and Gently Gently. “We must collect from Bet-a-Million McNabb while he still has something to collect.”

We begin walking through the many rooms of the establishment, each of which features a contest that under other circumstances might be called a game of chance. There are a number of lovely young ladies selling drinks and cigarettes and occasionally themselves, and what they lack in clothing they more than make up for in personality.

I hear a bunch of jolly laughing up ahead, and who should I run into but Nick the Saint, who is decked out in his Christmas best.

“Hi, Harry,” he says. “Merry Christmas, ho ho ho.”

“Hello, Nick,” I reply. “Are you not supposed to be making your rounds this evening?”

“Yes,” he says. “This is
my
night, ho ho ho. I just thought I’d stop off for a drink first, and see if there were any elves to recruit.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” I say, “but the young lady you are resting your hand upon is probably not an elf.”

“You never know,” says Nick. “But just the same, I trust news of this will not make its way up North?”

“My lips are sealed,” I say.

“Mine, too,” adds Big-Hearted Milton.

“I owe you one, Harry,” he says, and then adds, “Ho ho ho.”

“If you are planning on staying here for another fifteen minutes, you can square your account with me,” I say, and then I tell him how, and he agrees, and I can see he plans to spend at least fourteen of those fifteen minutes exploring every possibility that the young lady next to him is an elf in disguise.

I leave him explaining exactly the kind of Christmas present he plans to give her once his sleigh ride is over, and finally we come to a small room, and there is Bet-a-Million McNabb sitting across a table from Loose Lips Louie, and behind Louie is Impervious Irving, who calls himself Louie’s financial advisor, and in truth I suppose putting people who want Louie’s money into the hospital does Louie’s finances more good than even twenty motivated stockbrokers.

“Gentlemen,” says Impervious Irving by way of greeting, “I do not wish to be anti-social, but you are intruding in a private room and more to the point are interrupting a private game.”

“We shall tarry no longer than is necessary,” I say, “but I have a prior claim on ten large from Bet-a-Million McNabb.”

“I am desolate to hear this,” says Loose Lips Louie, who appears to be anything but desolate, “but he became Bet-a-Hundred McNabb about five minutes ago.”

“I am having a terrible run of luck, Harry,” says McNabb, “but it is due to change any minute.”

“In
this
place?” says Benny. “It’ll change about as soon as Impervious Irving changes his socks, which means seven years of bad luck will seem like a blessing by comparison.”

“Boss, do I have to stand here and take this?” demands Impervious Irving.

“I believe I can solve your problem,” says Big-Hearted Milton. He makes a sign in the air and mutters something that has a lot of syllables and almost no vowels, and suddenly there is a
poof!
and Impervious Irving is somewhere else, though where I do not know for another minute. Then Loose Lips Louie yells for Morris the Mage, who comes in from the next room, still holding his poker hand.

“Morris,” says Louie, “this goniff has vanished Impervious Irving. Bring him back!”

Morris closes his eyes and starts chanting what sounds like a song they cut out of a show that folded on its pre-Broadway tour, and then he snaps his fingers and says “Abra cadaver” and suddenly Impervious Irving is back in his accustomed position just to the right of Louie’s chair.

Irving glares at Milton and says, “If you are going to vanish me to a bathroom again, next time make it one that’s got a magazine to read.”

“I’ve hexed it so he can’t transport you again,” says Morris. He turns to Milton. “You can still make him disappear, of course, but do you really want to be in the same room with an outraged but invisible Irving?”

Milton waves his hands wildly. “Begone!” he says.

“I was just leaving anyway,” says Morris, and vanishes.

I notice that Milton is wearing a great big grin on his face, and I ask him why.

“When Morris comes in here he is holding a full house, jacks over sevens,” says Milton. “But when he leaves he is holding a pair of fours and nothing else.”

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