The timing can be a little irregular, as early as October some years; but no later than December first, there's always a cheque waiting for Mac at the post office. Postmarked from Skagway, Alaska, for a thousand dollars. Sometimes it goes into savings, sometimes it goes towards the shop. A diamond ring, one year. A lawyer's fee. His mother's funeral expenses.
This year, it's earmarked for Becky. Anything she's so much as hinted at wanting- a red Victorinox knife just like his, more sewing material, a set of brown buttoned boots for the snow- Mac's determined to get for her.
And there'll be plenty left over for all the trimmings, and a proper donation to her choir fund. Maybe I'll even try to wrangle a goose again. After the year we've had, Becky deserves a proper Christmas- and so do I, at that.
He has no idea whether his Grandpa Harry even gets the annual letters, or reads them. But Mac likes to think he does.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"I know what you want this year," Jack says, as they studiously ignore the Thanksgiving football (first one to succumb to temptation and comment on the game loses). "One, a brand-spankin' new VCR and some Westerns to watch. That videodisc system of yours is an antique, these days."
"There's a lot to be said for records as a long-term storage medium," Mac protests. "And I already own the Dollars trilogy, what more do I want?"
"But a VCR lets you record reruns. Just think of all those episodes of 'The Wild Wild West' that you could play back whenever you like."
"I'll admit, that's a pretty tempting prospect…Becky, you asleep? I think she fell asleep." He looks fondly at his niece, tucked up in a nest of half-constructed blankets.
"The way you have with a turkey, I can believe that- hey, I can swear again! So, two. Revenge on that bastard who waltzed off with Ellen."
"Are you kidding? I'm grateful to the guy. No more alimony to pay, Ellen's off my hands for good…and I was worrying about her despite everything, so that's a relief."
"Put it this way, then. Who else in town is as rich as Ralph Jerico?"
"Penny Parker, I guess. You know her, right? Parents are nuclear physicists at MIT, or something."
Jack gives an exaggerated shiver. "The one with the crazy drink orders? Wish I could forget her- but you can't rip off a poor little rich girl at Christmas. Bad karma."
"Uh-oh. Do I detect another Dalton flimflamm in the works?"
"Coming right up. As soon as I think of a good one- wanna lend your brainpower to the task?"
"Nah. That's one field I'm happy to let you have the edge over me."
"Hey, that was a pretty good pass," Becky says sleepily. "Nice one."
She's not sure why the comment should provoke such gales of laughter; but the sound's as comforting as her quilts.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Ralph Jerico is a man with a plan.
Ever since the prison shut down, Mission City has been a community of lost bawling sheep. Somebody needs to take charge; somebody needs to fill the vacuum. Start rebuilding the town from scratch, based on a foundation more dependable than the vagaries of federal funding.
Such as blackmail, for instance. He takes a delicate sip at his drink, watches MacGyver down half his glass of Scotch at one gulp.
"Why me?" he manages, after a moment. "If it's Dalton you really want."
"Oh, there's no use trying to blackmail him," Jerico explains, lightly. "He's already a convict, a public scandal, and even the much chewed-over question of whether you were cheating on Ellen with him is old hat. I couldn't get anyone interested in that question if I asked it at town meeting."
"No. That isn't me."
"I doubt anyone would believe the pair of you. But I don't want him to flee town, either- and your background offered just the right type of leverage. I've tracked down the editor who published Mike Forrester's article. There's a rather gracious thank-you letter he's written for you, signed and dated. You won't be able to give away coffee in this town if I ever make that public."
Outside, the snow's falling, carolers are practicing. There's a roaring fire going, in Jerico's well-appointed home office; but it doesn't make Mac feel any warmer.
"And in exchange for keeping this silent, you want- what?"
"A thousand dollars a month?- no, I won't ask that, but it was amusing to see your expression. Talk your friend Dalton into accepting an ongoing piloting job for me. No questions asked, and he'll be rewarded handsomely."
"If it was anything halfway decent, you wouldn't be going to all this trouble. You'd just go ahead and hire him."
"Some people object to drug-running, even ex-cons. We're halfway between Duluth and the Twin Cities. Excellent location, with a discontented and underemployed populace. Same principle as the Prohibition bootleggers- and you know how everyone romanticises them."
"Cocaine and heroin aren't the same as alcohol."
"The morality concerns me not in the slightest," Jerico says, refilling their glasses. "You see, unlike you I genuinely appreciate this town. The atmosphere appeals to me."
"It would. Sanctimonious batch of…oh, never mind."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"We gotta talk."
"How'd it go?" Jack asks smugly, as he locks the shop door. "You remembered to turn on your recorder gadget, right?"
"Yeah, and I don't think he noticed it, but it was still a complete disaster! He said more than enough incriminating stuff, but there's no way we could threaten to tell it to the cops. It was all about me."
"Uh-oh. What was it, us? The smuggling racket? That time you served everybody decaf for a week, because you'd run out of real coffee?"
"Worse than any of that," Mac says, not even smiling. "It was about Mike's letter, the one that shut down the FCI. My first foray into prison-breaking...and he has documentary proof."
Jack doesn't say anything. Just pulls off his leather jacket, and hands it over.
"Put this on. You look like you're freezing."
"It's got pretty cold out there," Mac mutters, gratefully slipping into the cosy garment. "Thanks…so now we're in a bind. Either you agree to start flying in shipments of crack for him, or I get a lynch mob trying to burn down the shop with me and Becky in it."
"Not much of a choice, is it? Guess I'd better brush up on my drug slang."
"No! I mean- I can't- you've never ended up in prison because of anything I've done. I can't ask you to do a thing like this."
"It's kinda my fault for trying to outthink a paid-up member of Mensa," Jack muses. "So much for my cunning plan- cheer up, Mac. He's going to all this trouble because he thinks I'm a competent pilot, right?"
"I guess."
"So what happens if I crash his plane? A couple of them, if necessary. He won't have any more reason to blackmail you then. Maybe somebody else will bring in the drugs anyway, but that'll be on them."
"If he gets the idea you're doing it on purpose, we're both dead."
"Good point. So it'll have to be under irreproachable circumstances. Say, if I'd be putting my best friend's life at risk."
"Jack, please no. You know how I feel about heights."
"You got a better plan, now's the time to mention it."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
He doesn't come up with a better plan, so come Friday they're standing in a cold field, with a plane that to Mac's jaundiced eye looks terrifyingly decrepit.
Jack coos at it, running his gloves over the nose with a perturbing sensuality.
"Better you than me," the pilot says with a shudder. "Couldn't pay me enough to take that thing up again."
"Anything broken?" Mac asks anxiously.
"Probably easier to tell you what isn't. I think the floormats are still in one piece?"
"We're only taking a short hop," Jack reassures him. "So I can get the feel. Up and over the Lakes and back again, you'll hardly notice you're off the ground."
It's for Becky. You're doing this because you have to look after Becky, and you can't do that without the shop.
That line of thought gets him into the plane, even keeps him calm during the warm-up; and by the time the wheels start rolling, it's too late. Jack, bless his heart, seems to be trying to make the trip as smooth as possible. Though there's only so much he can do, with an engine this choky.
"I think she's misfiring."
"Ignore him," Jack tells the plane tenderly. "He's just jealous because I know how you work and he doesn't."
"I'm on a kamikaze flight. Tell me why I shouldn't panic. Tell me why I shouldn't descend into two hours of complete gibbering panic."
"You'll put me off my game."
"Shutting up now," Mac says immediately.
"Well, don't do that, or this'll be a long dull flight. Want some whiskey?"
"I'm on a kamikaze flight with a drunk pilot?"
Jack sighs. "Mac, even I'm not that thick. It's for you. Just make sure you've got those air bags rigged up before you get stuck in."
"Bet you I'll finish the bottle before we even turn around."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
He doesn't, but there's only a couple of inches left by the time they're making the descent.
"I thought you were gonna make for the park."
"Had a better idea. He'll really get the point if we crash in town, right?"
"You might hurt someone!"
"Nah, don't think so. I've been keeping a pretty close eye on Jerico's house, this last week. They won't be around this time of day."
"I dunno if my improvisations are gonna hold up to that kind of strain. Actually, I'm almost sure they won't."
"Mac. You gotta have more faith in yourself."
He closes his eyes and simply prays, as the plane drops sickeningly downwards. They slam into his homemade cushions, as it screams its way through an unholy crunch, and screech of torn metal. And, a millennium or two later, finally stops.
"See? We're still alive. Your wacky invention worked, it's all good."
Mac blinks. "I guess I was a lot more scared of what was going to happen than I was when it was actually happening."
"Have I cured your fear of heights yet?" Jack enquires, as they fold up the telltale plastics.
"No."
"Shucks."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Of course he didn't put Dalton up to it," Ellen says. "He wouldn't have the backbone."
"Is that so," Jerico says, eying the smoldering remnant of what had been a very expensive home office (what's left of it is rather oddly decorated with bits of shattered plane wing). "I'm glad you say so, because if I thought he had, I'd be suing him for every penny he's got."
"Don't tell me you're concerned about the money," Ellen says, her lip curling. "Anyone in town could have told you not to hire drunken Dalton. What possessed you?"
He does quite a bit of shouting, in the ensuring argument.
It's nice having someone she can shout at back with wholehearted enthusiasm.