"Stuck. In the chimney." Blair shook his head, his skepticism plain.
"Come on, guys. I know it's Christmas Eve, but enough with pulling my
leg, okay? I'm an anthropologist; I know a tall tale when I hear one."
Rafe looked hurt. "I shwear -- swear on my mother's grave --"
"She's not dead," Henri said, scooping up a handful of peanuts from the
bowl on the table. "But you will be if you turn up for turkey with a
hangover, so better make that your last beer, my friend."
"I'm fine," Rafe said with great dignity. "Unlike some of us at
the table, I can hold my liquor."
They all turned to look at Jim, snoring softly in the corner of the
booth, his head cushioned on Blair's coat.
"He's had a long week," Blair said apologetically. "You know how it is."
Rafe patted Jim's arm clumsily. "Sure do. Good old Ellison. Good old
Jim --"
"Yeah, he's a peach," Blair said, easing Rafe off Jim before Sentinel
reflexes kicked in and Jim patted back with his fist. "Go back to the
lie -- I mean, story."
"S'true," Rafe insisted.
Henri nodded agreement. "He thought it was the one place no one would
look for the money, so he hid it up there. Mildest December in fifty
years. Then a cold front moved in and his wife lit a fire. He came in,
saw it, and dived up the chimney. He threw a rug over the logs to
smother the fire, but he still got burned and half-choked from the
smoke --"
"And then he got stuck," Rafe chimed in, "because he was still wearing
the Santa Claus costume with the padded stomach. Great cover when
you're selling drugs to kids, see? Asshole. So when we were called out,
we caught him red-handed with the money from the drugs. Get it? Red,
because his hands were all burned and --"
"Got it," Blair said hastily. Cop humor needed a dissertation all of
its own.
Rafe shrugged. "So that's how we booked Santa on Christmas Eve. And you
can buy the next round for doubting us, Sandburg."
Blair would've put money on Jim being fast asleep, but the snores that
followed Rafe's words sounded a lot like 'Ho-ho-ho'.