WOLPERTINGER SEES RED

by James Lincoln Warren

Jakob Linnaeus Wolpertinger, my friend the Mad Scientist, spends every month between December 6 and January 6 sitting in front of his fireplace in a rocking chair, staring at the empty hearth with a side-by-side twelve gauge shotgun in his lap. A few days ago I dropped by the Secret Laboratory in the Gloomy Castle to invite him to go caroling. He was having none of it.

“Bah! Humbug!”

“This is hardly what I’d call the holiday spirit,” I told him, sipping my eggnog.

“That’s what you think,” he snarled. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m waiting for Santa Claus. He shows his fat face in the old inglenook and I’m going to let him have both barrels.”

“That’s sick.”

“It’s smart. Trust me, he’s not who you think he is.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first clue is his name. Haven’t you ever noticed that ‘Santa’ is an anagram of ‘Satan’?”

“That’s just a coincidence. ‘Santa Claus’ is just an American corruption of the Dutch ‘Sinterklaas’, itself a corruption of ‘Sint Niklaas’, which is Dutch for ‘Saint Nicholas’.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean, ‘Exactly’?”

“December 6th is Saint Nicholas’s feast day. We won’t be safe until after January 6th, the twelfth day of Christmas. He could show up any time in the interim with his unholy offerings.”

“Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of children. Of course he’s bringing presents.”

He snorted. “Patron saint, my left foot. Why do you think another name for the Devil is ‘Old Nick’?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious. Here’s another clue: Where is Santa’s headquarters? The North Pole, that’s where.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“I’ll tell you so what. According to Dante, the Ninth Circle of Hell is made of ice, and that’s where Satan resides. The North Pole is made of ice, and that’s where Santa resides. Coincidence? I think not!”

He leaned forward in the rocker, warming to his theme. “Why is it that both of them wear red suits? And what about the elves? What about the elves?”

“So he runs a union shop, elves only. Big deal. I’m pro-union myself. What could be more benign?”

“You know nothing. What do you suppose elves really are? Immortal supernatural beings with magical powers, that’s what. What do you call immortal supernatural beings with magical powers that work for Old Nick? I’ll tell you. Demons, that’s what you call them. The word ‘elf’ had no positive sense until the 1870s—and that was propaganda, my friend. Etymologically, it comes from Teutonic mythology—álfr in Old Norse, ælf in Old English—where they were portrayed as bringers of fell diseases, as both incubi and succubi, as the bringers of nightmares, and as abductors of infants from their cradles. Nice, right? And that’s who are making Santa’s toys for him. It’s a clever ploy for burgling souls.”

“That’s insane.”

“You refuse to see the truth. There’s more. Another name for the Devil is ‘Beelzebub,’ a.k.a the Lord of Flies. Now how does Santa get around? He flies, that’s how. Another coincidence? Don’t make me laugh. The evidence is overwhelming. Why do you think he comes in through the fireplace, anyway? What goes on in a fireplace in the winter? Fire. Hell-fire, my friend.”

“A minute ago you said he lived in the ice.”

“Don’t quibble.”

I threw up my hands. “Well go ahead, be that way. But don’t expect any presents from anybody. By the way, where is your assistant Ivor?”

“Home for the holidays. A-wassailing and stuffing figgy pudding into his bottomless maw when he should be here helping come up with diabolical inventions.”

“If you want to be diabolical, and since you think that Santa Claus is the Devil, why are you trying to keep him out?”

“‘A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds / adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines’,” Wolpertinger quoted Emerson. “I’m none of those. I’m a mad scientist, remember?”

CRIME WAVE and PUNISHMENT

by Leigh Lundin, Louis, Josh, Dale, Mike, alisa, Jeff, Thad^[1]

Thanks to Criminal Brief readers, you may have heard Florida’s Orange County Sheriff’s Department staged armed SWAT-style takedowns against barbershops in Orlando. The raids went down something like this.

H’air Raids

“We’ve got a big ’do in Orlando, quite a hairy situation,” said Police Captain Crimp. “Barbershops in Orlando involved in the fur trade, scalping customers, veritable beehives of criminal activity. It’s enough to make your hair curl.”

“Who’s involved?” asked Inspector Mullet.

“The Hirsute gang, Moe, Curly, and …”

“And Larry?”

“No, he’s a pageboy and hasn’t had a brush with the law. It’s Shaggy Bush; he hates the fuzz.”

“Had a close shave with him. Clipped me, he did, then pelted me with abuse.”

“I knew he kept a bit on the side, but not that. You can’t afford to let your hair down around him.”

“Missed by a whisker, but that one’s got a hair trigger.”

“Hair-raising driver. He gave a hitchhiker on the berm a shave.”

“How do these clip joints operate?”

“They take a bit off the top before everyone gets their cut.”

“That’s a bald lie!”

“Relax, Mullet. It’s a shock, but sharp practice is the way they fleece customers and shave profits. Quite a payout.”

“They’re Jewish?”

“No, payout with a U. I’m ready to pull my hair out.”

“I’m sorry I bristled, but that frosts me, even with razor thin margins.”

“I dread dealing with fringe elements. We want you to beard their den. Our informant says they operate out of the Hair Moose Club.”

“Where they keep the Moose stash?”

“Yes. We learned about it from a mole.”

“These crime rings… nothing worse than a ring worm. Who else is on the barbershop case?”

“I wanted a quartet, but I sent in Harry Callahan.”

“Isn’t Dirty Hairy underarmed?”

“’Fraid so, but I want you and Tress to roll on this one.”

“Er, sir, she was killed in the last episode.”

“I forgot. Wasn’t the crew cut short?”

“Yes, Al O’peesha and the whole she-bang, Tress along with them. Snippy thing she was.”

“Well, too late to upbraid her. Go with Dee Foliate and Dan Ruff, then.”

“No one likes Dan Ruff, sir. He’s a tad highbrow and a bit, well, flaky. That patch of his …”

“Sore eye is it? Don’t split hairs or pick nits. He stands head and shoulders above the others.”

“The boys will queue to mop up that gang. What do you want me to do, sir?”

“Get to the root. Pull the rug from under them. Comb Main Street down by the locks where the split ends. Find Moe Hirsute and his gang. Make a clean sweep of every barbershop on the Strand and see no one dies.”

“I’d love to clap Curly in irons.”

“They’re a public nuisance.”

“I’m so glad Criminal Brief now uses ‘L’s, sir.”

(Leigh may still be a little feverish.)

^[1] Thank you!

Today’s article comes to us thanks to Criminal Brief readers. To my delight, contributors wrote most of my column last week as I spent a few days with a soggy cold buried under blankets.

Louis and Yoshinori came up with the story behind today’s article. Dale, Josh, Jeff, and alisa critiqued and commented on a featured Hitchcock episode and others. Thad said I had to get my edge back. Mike Doran gave us the lowdown on victim in the plot while Dale suggested another Hitchcock episode. (I’m not sure why some are available and some not, but television productions are often beholden to interests that make little sense to the viewing public.)

Thanks, gang!

STEP INTO MY LABORATORY

by John M. Floyd

Recently several of us at Criminal Brief have done briefs about our own workspaces and home offices. What I’d like to do this week is take that a bit further, and cover what’s in my little writer’s retreat (besides me, that is).

The following is a partial list of the fiction I have sitting on my own floor-to-ceiling shelves here at home. For each author, I’ve also included what I consider my favorite novel/story by him or her. Why add that little tidbit? Because it’s fun, I guess.

Okay, here goes. I’m swiveling my chair away from the computer, looking up at the shelves, and tilting my head so I can read what’s on the spines. The contents of my writing cave include, in no particular order . . .

All of the novels by:

James Michener (Centennial)
Michael Crichton (Jurassic Park)
Stephen King (The Dead Zone)
Nevada Barr (Deep South)
Peter Benchley (Jaws)
Martin Cruz Smith (Rose)
Ian Fleming (Goldfinger)
Arthur Hailey (Hotel)
Robert Ludlum (The Matarese Circle)
Thomas Harris (The Silence of the Lambs)
Charles Wilson (Extinct)
James Clavell (Shogun)
Greg Iles (Turning Angel)
John Grisham (A Time to Kill)
Martin Hegwood (Jackpot Bay)
Ken Follett (The Eye of the Needle)
Scott Smith (A Simple Plan)
Nelson DeMille (Plum Island)
Ira Levin (A Kiss Before Dying)
Tom Clancy (The Hunt for Red October)

Most of the novels by:

Harlan Coben (Tell No One)
William Goldman (Magic)
John Sandford (Mind Prey)
Dick Francis (Come to Grief)
Robert Crais (The Two Minute Rule)
Janet Evanovich (Three to Get Deadly)
Dennis Lehane (Mystic River)
Pat Conroy (Beach Music)
Tom Wolfe (A Man in Full)
Scott Turow (Presumed Innocent)
John Irving (The World According to Garp)
James Lee Burke (Cimarron Rose)
John Godey (The Taking of Pelham One Two Three)
Peter Straub (Ghost Story)
Christopher Buckley (No Way to Treat a First Lady)
Frederick Forsyth (The Day of the Jackal)
John Fowles (The Collector)
Alistair MacLean (Bear Island)
James Carroll (Family Trade)
Colleen McCullough (The First Man in Rome)
Trevanian (The Eiger Sanction)
John Le Carre (Smiley’s People)
Steve Hamilton (A Cold Day in Paradise)
Robert B. Parker (Night Passage)
Marcus Sakey (The Blade Itself)
John Dunning (Booked to Die)
Elmore Leonard (Out of Sight)
Clive Cussler (Raise the Titanic)
Mario Puzo (The Godfather)
Irving Wallace (The Fan Club)
Louis L’Amour (Hondo)
Ernest K. Gann (The High and the Mighty)
Carl Hiaasen (Nature Girl)
Len Deighton (Berlin Game)
E. L. Doctorow (Ragtime)
Douglas Preston/Lincoln Child (The Relic)
Edward Rutherford (London)
Tom Franklin (Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter)
Larry McMurtry (Lonesome Dove)
Joe R. Lansdale (The Bottoms)
Herman Wouk (The Winds of War)

Short story collections by:

Jack Ritchie (“The Green Heart”)
Jeffery Deaver (“The Weekender”)
Richard Matheson (“Nightmare at 20,000 Feet”)
Frederick Forsyth (“There Are No Snakes in Ireland”)
Edgar Allen Poe (“The Tell-Tale Heart”)
Eudora Welty (“Why I Live at the P.O.”)
Alistair MacLean (“The Dileas”)
John Grisham (“Michael’s Room”)
O. Henry (“A Retrieved Reformation”)
John Cheever (“The Swimmer”)
Dick Francis (“Blind Chance”)
Agatha Christie (“The Witness for the Prosecution”)
William Faulkner (“A Rose for Emily”)
Somerset Maugham (“Rain”)
Maurice Walsh (“The Quiet Man”)
Shirley Jackson (“The Lottery”)
Louis L’Amour (“The Ghost Maker”)
Jeffrey Archer (“The Commissioner”)
Lawrence Block (“Strangers on a Handball Court”)
Joe R. Lansdale (“The Mule Rustlers”)
Stephen King (“The Last Rung on the Ladder”)
Woody Allen (“The Kugelmass Episode”)
Ernest Hemingway (“Hills Like White Elephants”)
John D. MacDonald (“Noose for a Tigress”)
Tom Franklin (“Poachers”)
Roald Dahl (“Man From the South”)
Bill Pronzini (“Incident in a Neighborhood Tavern”)
James Lee Burke (“Jesus Out to Sea”)
Anton Chekhov (“In the Ravine”)
Elmore Leonard (“The Tonto Woman”)
Ray Bradbury (“A Sound of Thunder”)

Other favorites:

To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
The Big Sleep, Raymond Chandler
Voyage, Sterling Hayden
Giant, Edna Ferber
The Thin Man, Dashiell Hammett
The Searchers, Alan Le May
Seabiscuit (nonfiction), Laura Hillenbrand
The Sands of the Kalahari, William Mulvihill
Double Indemnity, James M. Cain
The Sundowners, Jon Cleary
Fail-Safe, Eugene Burdick and Harvey Wheeler
L.A. Confidential, James Ellroy
Gone With the Wind, Margaret Mitchell
The Exorcist, William Peter Blatty
From Here to Eternity, James Joyce
The Last Child, John Hart
Time and Again, Jack Finney
The Perfect Storm (nonfiction), Sebastian Junger
Seven Days in May, Fletcher Knebel and Charles Bailey II
Shane, Jack Shaefer
Deliverance, James Dickey

What good, you might well ask, is a list like this? Well, not much, I admit—at least not to most people. To me, though, it was helpful in a couple of ways: (1) In the process of taking this inventory I discovered several books I should donate to the library, and (2) it fulfilled my need for a column for this week.

For next Saturday, maybe I’ll list my favorite DVDs. . . .

VISITING PAT AND REMEMBERING ED

by Steven Steinbock

As I mentioned in last week’s column, my son and I were traveling through upstate New York looking at colleges. It’s not a good time of year to be travelling to upstate New York. But we managed safely and found the region beautiful. (It was my first time in western NY). We saw some beautiful campuses, Cornell and University of Rochester in particular. But the highlight of the trip for me was seeing Patricia Hoch.

I’ve written about Edward Hoch in my columns before. (In the days immediately following his death in January 2008 I wrote this and this). In case you missed, not only was Ed the consummate short story writer (with nearly 1,000 published tales), but he was a gentleman in every sense: a gentle man with a kind heart and a constant sparkle in his eye. He was also a dear friend.

I hadn’t seen Patricia since Ed’s passing almost three years ago. So this was a special reunion for us both. At their home, Pat took me and my son into Ed’s inner sancta. In his former office Pat had displayed some of Ed’s awards: several Anthonys, a pair of Edgars (including his Grand Master Award), an Arthur Ellis Award. Along with them was the framed 1955 acceptance letter for his first sale (“Village of the Dead,” the first Simon Ark story) as well as a quote from Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass (containing the White Queen’s claim about “impossible things” which Ed used in many of his Nick Velvet stories – and may have been the very motto of Ed’s storytelling):

“There’s no use trying,” said Alice; “One can’t believe impossible things.” “I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.

The opposite was covered with framed photos, magazine covers featuring Ed’s photo, articles about Ed, and various other awards and honors.

In the basement were two entire walls of shelves, thousands of feet of them, filled with copies of books, magazines, and short story collections containing Ed’s work. It was staggering. Books in Chinese, Japanese, Swedish, and French. Copies of MWA’s Best Detective Stories of the Year edited by Ed. A foreign copy of Jan Burke’s anthology Eighteen for which Ed had written the introduction. What surprised me most was how many science fiction magazines had stories by Ed.

Later that night Pat took us, along with several members of her family, out to dinner at the Crescent Beach Inn on Lake Ontario where we beheld the most beautifully gaudy display of Christmas lights and décor I’ve ever seen.

HO, HO, HUMBUG

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

Holiday themed cartoons, movies and sitcoms are rampant this time of year. “Scrooged” starring Bill Murray has been listed on at least one channel every night for a few weeks and last night it was back-to-back on the same channel. Isn’t it time someone wrote a new Christmas-themed story? Why do they all seem to be based on someone else’s story?

Ebenezer Scrooge has been done to death, yet each season someone takes a stab at retelling the story about a workaholic who doesn’t like people any more than they like him.

I’m tired of re-makes. Surprisingly, there are many talented writers out here who would love to create new characters, but it seems the moviemakers think that redoing “True Grit,” “Harvey” and “Total Recall” makes more sense. One of the best things about those movies were they were new and different.

But, back to holiday stories. My favorites are (in no certain order):

• A Christmas Story
• Miracle on 34th Street (the original with Maureen O’Hara and Natalie Wood)
• The Bishop’s Wife (the original with Loretta Young, Cary Grant and David Niven)
• A Charlie Brown Christmas
• Christmas Vacation
• Home Alone
• White Christmas
• The Santa Claus

And my favorite:

• It’s A Wonderful Life

Sure, I like a little Grinch, a little Scrooge, and a bit of Rudolph. But aren’t the taking-place-during-the-holiday movies combined with a bit of action and mystery pretty darn good, too? Throw a bag of popcorn in the mix, grab a blanket, and let’s cuddle on the couch, watch “Die Hard,” and see John McClane save the world (or at least Los Angeles) on Christmas. Yippee, ki, ya, yea!

This year for Christmas I want a brand new holiday mystery. Something with Johnny Depp would be nice, but now my thoughts digress. Maybe I’ll go watch “The Tourist.”

YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK

by Rob Lopresti

Okay, this week’s rambling has nothing to do with mysteries. However, we have had fun with discussions of interesting titles before (see here and here and here), and I realized I was sitting on a gold mine of them. So it is time to share.

As I have mentioned, in my day job I am a government information librarian. So what follows are actual titles of U.S. federal publications. Many of them come from the website Free Government Information, where people in my trade gather to swap war stories.

But this column was inspired by a Congressional publication I recently discovered in the stacks. Here is the genuine title:

Combatting Terrorism of the United States Senate Committee on Indian Affairs

Perhaps you are surprised that a Senate committee was engaging in terrorism. I suspect some Native Americans were only surprised that someone was combating the committee’s evil deeds. But let’s move on to a few more classics of my field.

Some of these titles no doubt made sense when they were published. Some make sense now if you look them from the right point of view. Some – like the terrorism one above – are just a garbled mess. And some are artifacts of one of the most tragic impulses that can occur to a government author – the desire to be clever or “hip.” Dullness is your friend, Mr. Bureaucrat. Embrace it. If you are putting an exclamation point in a government title, you are on the wrong track.

(At the other extreme you have the Government Accountability Office, formerly the General Accounting Office, which is famous for producing publications with riveting, edge-of-the-seat titles like this one:

Oversight of food safety activities: federal agencies should pursue opportunities to reduce overlap and better leverage resources

Not amusing, I admit, but it suggests you can also err on the un-hip side.)

Okay, here we go. As promised, all of these are true, with links to prove it.

AARUGHA!

Cooking up solutions: cleaning up with lasagna

Do you know oatmeal?

Draft Programmatic Environmental Impact Statement for the Mars Exploration Program.

Easing the Thumbprints of Society

Everything you always wanted to know about shipping high-level nuclear wastes

Exploring the U.S. Role in Consolidating Peace and Democracy in the Great Lakes Region

Fertilizers in a national emergency

Getting a job on the moon

The golden age of bathing

How large is China’s economy? Does it matter?

Index of Blank Forms

Let’s Use TV!

Manual for Medical Examination of Aliens

Plane Clothes: Lack of Anonymity at the Federal Air Marshal Service Compromises Aviation and National Security.

Public Dance Halls: Their Regulation and Place in the Recreation of Adolescents

Request for Assistance in.. Preventing the Injury of Workers by Robots

State-of-the-art dummy selection

Step into action! A guidebook for the above-knee amputee.

Wake Up America! A National Sleep Alert.

What color is your green card?

Whether the attempted implementation of the Reid-Kennedy Immigration Bill will result in an administrative and national security nightmare

A winning combination: wild horses and prison inmates

And you thought my job was dull. Come to think of it maybe you still do.

THE CHRISTMAS PARTY

by Melodie Johnson Howe

I glanced quickly into the rearview mirror, the paparazzi were speeding close behind us. Except there was only one of them now.

Bones pops his head into my office. “Are you ready? Christmas party?” He points to his watch. He doesn’t wear a watch. He’s pointing to where he used to wear a watch.

“What’s the word for a single paparazzi?” I asked.

“Paparazzo.” Ryan Johns pressed his hands against the dashboard. “Jesus, slow down, Diana. The term comes from a character’s name in the movie La Dolce Vita. A photographer who took the pictures of stars by hiding in bushes and stalking them. The character was based on a real man who Fellini knew. Why?”

I have a drink in my hand and I’m standing in the main room of a country club. I always feel like I don’t belong in these places even though I look like I should. An enormous tree is perfectly decorated with expensive ornaments. Beautifully wrapped presents abound under the tree. I want to shake one to see if it’s empty inside. A roaring fireplace, so big you could cook a grizzly bear in it, is draped in long fir boughs tired with red velvet bows. A Wasp’s wet dream of Christmas.

I look down to make sure I’m dressed appropriately. “Dressy casual”, that’s what the invitation had said. The other women seem to have opted for the dressy while I am firmly in the casual.

(I think I should take out Ryan Johns’ information about the paparazzi. Clever but slows the action.) A man is talking me. He’s young and I don’t remember his name. I’m nodding and sipping. (Maybe I’ll leave it in. And make Ryan babble the information in a more desperate way to add tension.) The man is looking me at quizzically. I stop nodding. He’s obviously asked me something and I wasn’t listening.

“I’m sorry. It’s so loud in here. I didn’t hear what you said.”

He leans closer as if I’m a deaf old lady and yells, “How are you?”

Whoa tough question. How am I? My mind is blank. I know there’s one appropriate word that would answer this very intrusive question. If I could only remember it. (But I’m in the car with Diana and Ryan and he’s still telling her about the damn paparazzi. Cut it, Melodie.)

“Fine!” I hear myself blurting to loudly

The man’s head jerks back. “Well, good. Nice talking to you.”

I smile, nod, and sip my way to the roaring fireplace. (What comes after Ryan’s boring dissertation on the paparazzi?)

“Look behind us, Ryan, there is only one of them following now. Why is that? And why didn’t they take a picture of you mooning them with me standing next your bare ass? That’s a money shot.”

“What are you saying?”

“What if they’re not paparazzi?” I pressed down on the accelerator.

I’m wearing a sweater and I’m hot from the roaring flames. A man is standing next to me in a sweater vest and heavy tweed jacket. His face is bright red and he’s hot too. Why are we pretending it’s snowing outside? We live in California.

“How’s your writing going, Melodie?” He asks.

“Fine.” I have found the perfect word and I’m not letting go of it. (If Diana thinks they’re not paparazzi then she must think they are Parson’s thugs. Make the connection.)

I’m standing alone again. Oh God, was I rude to the man? Now I’m going to be up all night worried about my behavior. When I should be worried about Ryan’s and Diana’s.

I wander through the crowd of merry makers and find Bones. I put my hand in his and whisper, “Do you want to go?”

He nods. Soon we excuse ourselves and leave.

In the car, he asks,” Did you have a good time?”

“I decided take out the Ryan Johns’ dialogue on the derivation of the word paparazzi.”

“I like that. I’d leave it in.”

Oh, hell.