Bob Smith slogged through the slush, past the dented red Festiva, and into the Shiv Wheel Saloon. As he shook off the cold and removed his mittens, he noticed there were only two empty seats in the cramped New Philadelphia, PA, bar, on either side of a ragged man in a tattered Santa Claus outfit. Desperately wanting a beer, Bob decided to sit down.

"Happy holidays," Bob said to the stranger as he dropped onto a stool.

"Go jump in a lake," the other replied.

Bob raised his eyebrows briefly and turned to the bartender. "Schmidt's," he said, tossing him two dollars. He sat there, sipping on his beer, wondering why the old man was so grumpy just the day after Christmas.

The man in the Santa suit looked up from an empty beer mug and waved to the bartender for another round. "You're wondering why I'm so grumpy the day after Christmas, aren't you?" he asked, not even looking at Bob.

"Excuse me?" Bob said.

"You heard me, you clown. Let me tell you, I have plenty of reason to be grumpy. You'd be a grumpy old man, too, if you were me."

Bob didn't know what to say. He drank some beer, instead. "It--it's the happiest time of the year," he said finally.

"Says who?" slurred the man. "Let me tell you something about Christmas."

"Mister," said Bob, "there is nothing you can say that will change my mind."

"You think so? Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Simon Claus."

"Bob Smith. Pleased to meet you."

"Yeah, if you say so," Claus slurred.

"Mister, I think you've had too much to drink," said Bob.

"Don't you tell me I've had too much to drink; I'll tell you something else! You ever been to a shopping mall this time of year Bob?" Claus downed a huge gulp of beer and belched loudly. Bob nodded. Claus continued, "Yeah, I used to love going to the mall during the Christmas season. All the decorations, the Christmas music blaring through the cheap P.A. speakers, kids crying to their parents to get them some stupid toy that costs six times what it's worth . . . it was the greatest. And I was the greatest. You know what my job was, Bob? It was the best darned job in the world."

"What was that?" Bob asked.

"I was the department store Santa at Macy's in New York. It was like 'A Miracle on 34th Street' every day. Do you like your job, Bob?"

"Yes."

"You don't know the half of it. Can you imagine, Bob, in your pitiful existence, being able to make every kid smile who ever walked up to you? That was me. I made the holidays special for thousands of kids every year. Even the little babies loved me. Never had a single kid cry on my lap, Bobby. Never! They never tugged on my beard, told me I was a fake, nothiing like it. I WAS Santa Claus. Even the real guy would have believed it. Until that one day."

Claus finished his beer, adjusted his faded cap, and reached across the bar, grabbing the bartender by the shirt and demanding more.

"What happened?" Bob asked, so engrossed in his companion's story that he forgot about his own beer.

Claus took a huge chug from his new beer. "Well, I've been known to hit the bottle from time to time."

"You don't say," mused Bob.

"Are you listening or cracking jokes? Okay then, shut up. Where was I? Oh yeah, hitting the bottle from time to time. It was never too bad, just enough to keep the chill off when I forgot to pay the heating bill. But one day, about a week before Christmas, oh, I guess it was seven years ago, I had a little bit more than I could handle."

Bob wondered how that was possible. "Mind you, now, that the next day was supposed to be my day off. I'd never have gotten blitzed the night before I was supposed to go see the kids. But the next morning I got a call that the other Santa was sick, and I had to go in to work. And I don't think you've ever had a hangover quite like that one. So, I took a shot to try and shake off the headache. Well, it worked so good, I took another. And another, and another, and...well, you get the picture. I wasn't in real good shape when I got to work. Naturally that happened to be the first day a kid called me a fraud." Claus looked down, sniffled, and took a sip of beer. "Teenage brats, they were, " he continued. "Just trying to cause trouble. Well, to make a long story even longer, I cussed them out good and got fired. Then I really got drunk."

Bob raised his eyebrows, wondering exactly what "really drunk" meant for his man. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah. Anyway, I wanted to get as far away from there as possible, so I hopped on a bus. I had enough money to get me to Lancaster, so that's where I got off. With a bottle of rum and two bucks, I set out to start a new life for myself. I was all set to take a job as a substitute Santa at Park City when I met Vinnie Russo."

"Who's Vinnie Russo?" asked Bob.

"If you'll quit flapping your gums long enough, I'll get to that. I figured the best way to get back on my feet would be the easy way. So I put big money down on the Bowl Games. Money I didn't have. Russo, you see, was a bookie. Part of the big crime sydicate in Lancaster."

"There's a crime family in Lancaster?" Bob asked in disbelief.

"No, I made it up. Of course there's a crime family in Lancaster! How do you think I got this?" Claus yelled, rolling up a pants leg to reveal a wooden prosthesis. "Thanks to Notre Dame, I look like a stinking pirate!"

Bob decided it was best not to ask exactly how it happened. It was enough to know that Claus lost his bet. Bob was thoroughly appalled. "Why are you here?" he asked.

"Because I like beer," Claus replied.

"No, I mean in New Philly."

"If you were wanted for gambling debts by the Lancaster mafia, where would you go, Bobby? To a little hole-in-the-wall town like this, of course, where people don't ask questions about a peg-legged guy swilling beer at the bar in a Santa Claus suit." Claus scowled at Bob. "Well, most people, anyway." He turned back to his beer.

A younger, burly man in an oil-stained shirt and Dickies work pants walked into the bar and took the other seat next to Claus. "Hey, man," he said, "it's almost midnight."

Claus nodded and scratched his scraggly beard. "Almost time to go. Let me run to the bathroom first."

As the old man disappeared into the smoke at the back of the bar, Bob turned to the younger man, whose name tag clearly identified him as Joe. "You know that guy?" Bob asked.

"Pizza Claus? Yeah, I've been fixing that matchbox of his for years. Every time he tried to drive home from here and hits a mailbox or something. Great guy. A laugh a minute."

Bob wondered if there was some hidden sarcasm in that statement. "Yeah, a laugh a minute," he mumbled.

"You don't like him too much, do you? Most people don't, that don't know what he's all about."

"What do you mean?" Bob asked.

Joe E. Martin scowled. "Do you know where we're going when we leave here?"

"Would an AA meeting be out of the question?"

Joe laughed. "You're a funny guy, Bob. For a moron. Do you know how much he means to the kids?"

"I thought he lost his department store job," said Bob.

"Did I say moron? I meant idiot. What department stores are open at midnight, Bob? Hello? Earth to Bob!"

"Hey--"

"Hey, nothing, Bob. Shut up and listen. Pizza Claus is going to be back soon, and I doubt that he wants you to hear this. If he cared at all what you thought of him he would have told you how he helps people. Like me. He was the one that got me my job with that mechanic in Pottsville. You know how hard it is to get a job around here when you're fresh out of Schuylkill Penitentiary? But that ain't the half of it. Tonight, like every December 27th Eve, Pizza Claus travels the U.S. and parts of Canada to pay off an old debt. And not the one to Vinnie Russo."

"Parts of Canada?" Bob asked.

"Yeah, we stay away from Quebec. You can't trust anyone who don't speak English. Anyway, it started with some of the neighborhood kids, friends of the family, you know, who fell on some hard time, but the old man won't be satisfied until he can give to all the kids in the country--and parts of Canada. He's obsessed with making up for the money he stole from the orphanage six years ago."

"He stole from an orphanage?" Bab asked.

Joe stuck a finger in Bob's chest and made a fist with his other hand. A skull-and-crossbones tattoo smiled at Bob from Joe's left bicep. "When you're wanted by the mob, you don't think about where you get the money, goon boy. You got a problem with that?"

"No, I, uh . . . no." Bob stammered.

"Good. I'd hate to have a problem with you," Joe replied frostily. By this time, Pizza Claus was returning from the bathroom.

"Sorry I took so long, Joey," he said, "but I fell down in there. You ready to go?"

Joe nodded and glared at Bob as he and Pizza Claus left the bar, stopping only to break a beer bottle over the head of a drunk who made fun of Pizza Claus' suit.

The bartender pulled out a thick three-ring binder and jotted down some numbers. "That brings his total tab to twenty-six thousand, two hundred and eight dollars and seventy-five cents," he chuckled, knowing he'd never see the money.

Joe Martin pulled the Festiva to a stop between two snowpiles and put on the parking brake. "This is one of the places on your map, Pizza Claus," he said.

"You sure?"

"It's in your own handwriting."

"You should have let me drive."

"Grab a pie and let's go," Joe grumbled.

Pizza Claus leaned back and grabbed a pizza box from the back seat. He opened the box and looked at the pepperoni and sausage masterpiece, a tear in his eye. "Even when they're frozen they're beautiful," he slurred. Then, in a flash he leaped from the passenger door and slipped on a patch of ice. He staggered to his feet, muttering and cursing. "Let's go," he said once he regained his footing.

The two men sneaked up to the door, watching for police over their shoulders. Pizza Claus, upon assuring himself that there were no witnesses, reached out to open the door. "Stupid thing's locked," he hissed. "Did you bring it?"

Joe Martin went back to the car and reached into the back seat, emerging with his trusty machine gun. "I never forget," he said. After making sure the silencer was firmly in place, he moved Pizza Claus out of the way, propped open the storm door, and levelled the gun at the lock. He was about to open fire when the door mysteriously opened. There, wide-eyed and terrified, was a six-year old girl.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Now that's a little bit better," said Pizza Claus, not noticing the little girl. "I wonder if there's any beer in the fridge."

"Boss," said Joe, "give her the pie and let's go. We've got at least twenty more houses to get to tonight."

"No we don't," said Pizza Claus, "not that many people know about us."

"It says so on your map!"

"Ah, but I was drunk when I drew that. But anyway, I want to stop in Schuylkill Haven at the Downtown Tavern and grab a six-pack for the road. Here you go kid."

The child accepted the pizza in terror, trembling as Pizza Claus handed it to her. She backed nervously away from the two men.

"Go back to bed, kid," said Joe in as soothing a voice as the ex-con could manage.

"Yeah, and enjoy the pizza," Claus added. "Happy December 27th. Now let's go, Joey, I need that beer."