Silent Night, Deadly Night

by Charles Schaeffer

Mort Grogan ran his palm over two-day stubble. “Would you look at that?” he said, facing a stained kitchen calendar. “Already Saturday, December 15. Ten days till Christmas.”

“That's how it usually works,” Dotty Grogan said.

“I only meant it's coming up fast.”

“Yeah, and you meant the lottery ticket deadline's pretty soon.”

Dottie Grogan spoke, her nose poked in the newspaper she'd been reading at the kitchen table. An odor of boiled cabbage drifted up from a pot bubbling on the stove. She stood up, moved her plump middle-age body toward the stove, and spun the gas flame off. “The ticket's perfectly safe in the locked metal box on the highboy where it's been all along. Nobody can cash it but me.”

“Yeah, twenty-five million,” Grogan said. “But if you cashed it now, we'd be able to buy the kids something really nice for Christmas.”

“Like Eddie needs new Persian rugs for his fancy beach house. Where we've never been invited.  And Lorna  Jane, maybe a Cessna so's she can fly in from Palm Springs and spend the holidays with us for the first time in five years.”

“But, there's us. We could get out of this dump and into a five-bath McMansion up on The Heights. Donate the two junkers in the driveway to the Purple Heart and pay cash for a Benz and Lexus with surround sound.”

“I told you before I'm going for the annuity, life time security, soon as I decide to take the ticket in.” Dotty shook a cigarette from the pack, closed her heavily-painted red lips around it, and  flicked a lighter to life.

Grogan pulled at a loose thread on his blue denim shirt. “Aw but all those millions in the lump sum. How many people ever get a chance like that?”

“Only one other on this lottery, the bozo who shared the winning numbers. Know what happened to him last month?  Got drunk at a bar over in Central City. While he was setting up rounds, some fast operator grabbed  $200,000 the bozo kept in his car.”

“Well, he still has plenty more.”

“Not for long, you can bet. Already paid out half in taxes. They call it lottery winner's fever, ‘afluenza,' What else? Oh yeah ‘sudden wealth syndrome'.  I read about it. The stupid big winners come to no good end.”

“Yeah, but we're smarter than that.”

“Smart enough to hide from that gang of leeches you call relatives?”

“They don't need to know.”

“The state releases the name when the winner turns in the ticket,” Dotty Grogran said, folding the newspaper and placing it on the table.”

She slipped into a worn tweed coat. “I've got some shopping to do. Wouldn't hurt if you'd clean up that sty you call the den while I'm gone. I'll be back about five.”

“You got your cell phone? I might think of something I need.”

Dottie nodded in exasperation.

* * *

After her car left the driveway, Grogan picked up the paper and looked at the story she'd been reading on page seven. It described how a Harry Griffin, convicted of attempted murder five years ago, was out on parole. He'd fired a gun during a bank heist, but the bullet missed, so nobody was hurt.

He'd copped a plea with the prosecution and had gotten a shorter sentence on a reduced-mental capacity loophole. Harry's career on the other side of the law included stints as getaway driver in half a dozen gang bank hits. With the prison upstate bursting at the seams with miscreants, the parole board was happy to cite the Christmas Holidays as a humanitarian reason to release Harry early. Now he was back in his old home on Dawson Avenue, just three blocks away. 

Grogan put down the paper and shuffled into the den, shaking his head. Imagine, he thought, a real live gangster living in our neighborhood. For a few moments, Mort made a halfhearted effort to move a stack of hunting magazines from a sagging couch, but soon tired of the labor. Rummaging in a box, he fished out a Christmas decoration he'd made years before from kids' alphabet blocks glued together. It said ‘MERRY CHRITMAS'. Dotty had snickered at the misspelling.  The sting of the insult lingered.  

Moments later, in the driveway, the starter on his own battered Ford 150 pickup turned over six times before the ignition kicked in.  Marty's “Snug Harbor Bar and Grille” was only a ten-minute ride away.

Marty himself was manning the bar, wiping the shiny oak surface like the  deck of his 30-footer bobbing at anchor out on Timmon's lake. “Hey, Morty, what's up. Ol' lady throw you out of the house again?” 

Climbing on the stool, Mort grinned weakly. “Naw, never happen. Gimme a house bourbon, straight up.” Mort held the newly-arrived glass of elixir to the light in admiration, then downed the liquor. He emptied a second, then a third with equal deftness. Marty left to tend to two other customers mounting stools in dusty work clothes.

Mort replayed the news of the release of convicted crook Harry Griffin, over and over through his mind. Wouldn't most employers slam the door in an ex-gangster's face? That's the way it usually worked. A felon has to eat. Wouldn't a felon be interested in a better life? At the thought of Dotty's refusal to share the lump sum lottery winnings with him, anger welled up in Mort Grogan  For reasons Mort couldn't quite put his finger on, he slipped off the bar stool, paid up, and drove towards the home of Harry Griffin. On the way, he stopped, bought a bottle of discounted bourbon and a bag of burgers and fries. Mort parked the pickup a block away and walked to the address on Dawson Avenue where Griffin lived.

Expecting trouble, Griffin opened his front door a crack. “Whatever it is, I ain't buying.”

Mort managed his second weak grin of the day. “Just a neighborly call. I can guess how it must be getting out of stir and all---”

“How would you know?”

“Brought some burgers and fries. Thought you might like a bite and a drink,” Mort said holding up the bourbon.

Griffin's face registered no surprise at Mort standing on his stoop, and motioned him in, stubbing out a cigarette. 

“Place looks okay,” Mort said, glancing at the worn furniture. “I mean on account of its being empty five years.”

“Had it rented out,” Griffin said. “You know all about me, huh?. That's the press for you. Never let anything go. What about that drink?” He reached up and pulled down two tumblers from a cupboard. “Just hope my parole shadow don't decide to drop in.”

Mort finished off the last of his burger. The liquor had loosened up both men. 

“If you don't have a job, I think I might be able to come up with something. Something big. Enough to get you out of this out house. Out of this town. Even out of the country if you want.

Griffin splashed bourbon into his tumbler.” You a travel agent or something?” Mort explained  the lottery ticket, and his stubborn wife's refusal to cash it or even think about sharing it with him. “What's a marriage for?  Harry said. 

“Yeah, what?”

“I can tell you it's a lottery ticket, worth twenty-five K, but with one  catch. My wife is the only one who can cash it. And when she does she's going for annuity instead of the lump sum. I'm  aced out, while  the state dribbles out payments to her over the years.”

“What's that got to do  with me? Harry Griffin asked. 

“Just this. If any winning ticket owner somehow suddenly expires, the ticket goes into the estate. Who is the estate? Me. Just like I was inheriting the family silverware, ‘cause I'm sole heir. She wrote the kids out of her will three years ago. The proceeds could set you and me up for life. You, Harry, maybe in another city, even another country.”

Harry smirked: “So you're looking for a professional dispatcher.”

Mort was pleased at how quickly Harry had picked up on the plan. “Whatta you got to lose? You got a rap sheet for using a deadly weapon in an attempted crime. The jury agreed you were all set to kill someone, even though you didn't. Now, you got no life to speak of. I'm offering a future.”

Harry fired up another cigarette and gulped the remaining bourbon in his tumbler.  “I'm taking the big risk. What figures you got in mind?”

“I'm thinking one mil.  Taxes take a big chunk of the lottery winnings you know.”

“I like the sound of two better.”

“Two's as high as I'll go.”

 And how do I know you won't vamoose  with the payoff?”

“You gotta trust me. I swear this is fool proof,” Mort said. “I'll put a thousand K up front  earnest money. All I got in the world.”

Harry said,  “I want you to call me back with the ticket's numbers. I'll check up on them later, ya know. So this better be a real deal.”

“Of course, Harry,  of course. The plan is text book. A smash-and-grab burglary. All the rage these days. Dotty owns a Chinese statue, passed down from a traveling aunt. Maybe worth $3,000. That's what you'll grab.

“The breaking door glass will bring Dottie out running. Later the cops dope it out--a  trigger-happy burglar--caught by surprise-- lets off a round with his silencer-equipped pistol---you can get a silencer, right?”

Harry nodded.

“Here's how it'll work. I come home late from the Snug Harbor Bar and Grille, where I've been in plain sight all evening. Built-in alibi. The bereaved husband--that's me-- discovers the mayhem, calls the cops and reports the tragic confrontation--all over a Chinese vase.” 

Harry stared at Mort through slitted dark eyes. “I gotta wait till settlement, till the cash is yours. You're asking a lot.”

“Promise. It'll work like a charm. The will is simple simon. It'll sail through probate. No lawyer involved.”

“I'll be checking on you, Mort. Often.”

“I don't expect less, Harry. But don't make it too obvious. When the dust settles you get yours--in a cashier's check.”

They agreed on a date, the following Wednesday evening, for the unfortunate tragedy to take place. Mort headed for the door.

“Go out the back way,” Harry advised.  “You're in the book?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Precaution. Something might come up.”

Mort arrived home around 5:30. Dotty was at the stove, poking at the smelly cabbage.

***

On  Tuesday, around midnight Dotty shook Mort awake. “Didn't you hear that?”

“Hear what? Mort asked in an irritable voice of the suddenly-awakened.

“Glass. Breaking. Downstairs. Get the gun. Do something for a change.”

“It's only a .22,” Mort  said, edging toward the bedroom door--hey, isn't this Tuesday?”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

 In minutes he was downstairs, facing an intruder's flashlight. Mort could make out a masked face behind the glare, and a hand with revolver pointed at him. “It's Tuesday, you dummy. I said Wednesday,” he whispered in alarm.

 Dotty's voice behind him said, “Yeah, that's right, you had it all set for Wednesday, didn't you Morty?  And you, Harry, take off that silly mask.”

Harry peeled off the ski mask off and shook away a halo of new snow. In the dim glow of a night light, Harry's dull, dark eyes bored into an unbelieving Mort. “Sorry, Mort, your old lady's got more style.  When I called her she didn't blink at raising the ante to three mil.”

“Too bad, Mort. You pressed your luck.,” Dotty said, smiling thinly.

“Yeah, I like your style, babe” Harry said. All we had to do was move the break-in a day ahead and he bit like a wounded coyote.” 

Mort's face flushed a tinge next to scarlet.  “You double crossing bastard,” he shouted at Harry. “You won't get away with it. Mort raised the .22. Before he fired, Harry's pistol sent a silent bullet into Mort's chest.  The errant .22 shell lodged in the door frame behind Harry.

Harry looked down at the fallen Mort Grogan. “Guess you'd call it ‘best laid out plan' or something, huh?”

Dotty said, “Okay, Harry, cut the comedy. You got the bum out of my life, as we planned. You've got Mort's thousand down payment. Take the Chinese vase. I'll report the break-in and shooting. With a little prompting, even the cops can figure it--murder during a burglary gone bad.  Now make tracks out the back.

“After I recover from my grief, I'll switch my annuity request to a lump sum.  You'll have the guaranteed three million and you can kiss your gangster career goodbye.”  

Pale light from the falling snow filtered through the window. From street drifted the sound of carolers, singing, “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay....”