Shelter from the Storm

a/n a version of this appeared as the epilog of Jane's Dilemma, which takes place during the time period of the three Christmas stories posted here. So in the spirit of holiday reruns everywhere...and just for fun/ maybe you've had a couple of long hectic days, just want to sit down for a bit...and maybe smile?/ And maybe you missed it the first time or won't mind a reread...here's...

Zoe is 4, Julie is 13, Ranger is still 30, Anthony still lies about his age...[27? 28?]

Chapter Twenty Three ~ Ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas—

Part One

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Ranger

"No, Daddy, it has to be the exact thing, you can't mess around with a little kid's Christmas list."

I glanced at Julie whose teenage girl voice sounded just like mine when I was briefing my men for an op...and her face looked just like I probably do too: Determined to succeed at all costs.

But I said only, ''Yeah, I know.''

''Okay then." Head jerk, defining nod. "Let's try the big Toys R Us on Times Square." She set off through the front doors of FAO Schwartz, past the big mechanical toys clock and hiked out towards Fifth Avenue. I followed in her wake, watched her stand tiptoe on the curb to hail a cab, a determined little figure in baby-Goth black, her black nailed hand in long fingerless Bella gloves waving madly in the frigid air.

A taxi swerved across the four lanes of Fifth Avenue and pulled up with a prideful flourish of bad brakes and non-complying emission exhaust. Julie may be dressed like a little punk 'ho but she is still beautiful. Her smile could light up Times Square, I thought. Then she said those exact words to the cabby and I grinned to myself. Guess I'll find out.

But no, she gave me a frown instead.

"Daddy! Ranger...this is my first Christmas with Zoë since she's a baby. And all she wants is a pink and black striped Poopalot."

''Yes. You told me. She told me. Steph told me. We couldn't find one in Jersey. So here we are, chica." And the idea of XXXistan was getting more attractive every minute.

"You may think the Poopalot is just silly, daddy—just another "stuffy", another cuddly toy. But, no."

"No?"

"No. It walks, it talks, it purrs—"

It poops...

"—It learns your name! And it morphs."

"Morphs."

"Into a stainless steel robot with weapons integrated into its eyes and hands!"

Oh.

"It's not a toy. It's, it's—a status symbol." Her voice dropped a little. "It's web-connected, Ranger. It does—Facebook! And it Twitters!" she whispered.

The cab driver was eying me in his mirror. He was happy to pick up a child alone but not so happy when I appeared and got in with Julie. I suppose our resemblance—and Julie's way of calling me Daddy, in her chiding thirteen year old voice, kept the man from calling 911 and asking for the perv squad. Either that, or—I glanced at his hack license—Mohammed Imhad wasn't exactly as legal as he could be. I barked out, "What's your problem, goat spawn cur?" which is asshole in Pashto. The Afghan driver jumped visibly and sped up, hurtling us down crowded Fifth Avenue, eyes glued to the windshield.

Julie said, "What?"

I shrugged. If Zoë were here she'd be babbling away to the guy in his own language. It's creepy. Luckily Julie only speaks English and Spanish like a normal Miami kid.

We finally arrived at the Times Square flagship megastore Toys R Us.

We fought our way in.

We fought our way back out an hour and 34 minutes later.

Victorious.

And then it happened. A man darted from the mob of shopping-frenzied humanity (tourists, geez...why can't they Christmas shop in Oshkosh?). He made a grab for the shopping bag clutched in Julie's hand. The bag tore open and the pink and black striped Poopalot (button of authenticity in its ear!) tumbled to the dirty sidewalk. The man made a grab, Julie made a grab. I shoved her behind me and pulled my backup gun—smaller caliber, okay? I took a page from Steph's repertoire and shot the thief in the foot.

He went down hard, yelling his fool head off. What kind of cretin accosts a little Goth princess and her daddy anyway? An idiot.

Cops appeared instantly, just as soon as the action was over. "What happened, what happened, drop the gun drop the gun! Now-now-now!" I tucked Poopy under my gun arm, and with my left hand I fished out my universal federal undercover credentials, held them over my head. I said, "On the job."

"What happened?" yelled the cop. He was pumped with adrenaline and screaming. I could hear sirens too, background music.

Julie elbowed me aside and told the cop, "Daddy just shot a bad guy."

"Call it in, Carlucci, see if this guy is legit."

Toys R Us security came out to see what was happening. Julie stormed over to them, said, "That man tried to steal my little sister's Poopalot!"

"Your sister poops a lot? Huh?"

"No! It's a freakin' toy. We stood on line for almost two hours! And it cost four hundred dollars! Now go get me a new bag for it. Now!"

She stamped her foot in the black Doc Martens, added her famous smile and the man hustled off. I reached over and held her hand.

We watched paramedics bandage up the thief's foot while the cops clamped cuffs on his wrists. I said to the cop on the phone, "Try the mayor. He'll vouch for me."

"Yeah, right."

"Here—I have him on speed dial." I offered my business cell phone. "Or wait, how about the chief of police...he's in here somewhere." I squinted at the tiny screen in the suddenly bright sunlight.

The ToysRUs guy came out, followed by a store manager who had a new shopping bag for Julie. I reached under my arm, made to drop Poopy back into safety. And the thief burst into tears.

We all turned and stared at him.

I nudged him with my toe. "What?"

In a mixture of bad English and muddled Armenian the man said he'd stolen the doll for his daughter. Blah blah blah.

"Yeah, right," we chorused. Cute.

"Please." He held up his handcuffed arms and begged.

"Don't grovel, man," I said. His eyes widened with shock, hearing his language come from my mouth. Had me pegged as rich clueless American? Shit, the gunshot in his toe should have given him a hint.

Now the crowd around us went, "Aaaww." And, "Oooooh." Nothing like a NYC sob story.

I waved over the Toys R Us guy, the manager. He had a plastic ID on his lapel and wore a cheap suit. Jackson Wankawski. I handed him my card. I said, "Get the guy's name and his kid's name. And get the kid a Poopalot doll." I added a handful of hundreds."Keep the change."

The cop snickered. "Gonna have to deliver that to Riker's, sir." Riker's Island is the local lock-up, the jail, in New York City.

I turned on him and he quailed. "It's Christmas. No changes will be filed. Will they?"

The other cop closed his cell phone and returned my credential wallet. "No sir. I mean yessir. Whatever you say."

"Uh huh."

"You are free to go, Mr. Manoso. Enjoy the rest of your day in New York City. Uh, the mayor and the cheif send their regards."

I gave them a curt nod, turned to the thief who was now on a gurney headed for the hospital, I guess. I said in Armenian, "Merry Christmas."

He replied, "I am a Muslim, mister."

I sighed. "Merry Christmas anyway."

Julie and I walked away in silence. After a block or two she turned to me, said, "Feel better now? You got to shoot someone."

"Yeah."

"I'm hungry, daddy. You wanna get pancakes? Waffles, maybe?"

"It's 3 PM."

"And your point is?"

"Oh okay."

... ... ...

When we got back to Trenton we found Steph and Zoë and Britta, Zoë's nanny, and Monster, Zoë's bodyguard, and Ella all glued to the local tri-state news. Steph looked up at me when I kissed her cheek. She said,"Big ruckus in Times Square."

"Hmmm." I did my best blank face while Julie tried to sneak by with the distinctive ToysRUs shopping bag. But as she sidled by, a commercial came on and Zoë saw her. And the bag.

"Oh! That's for me? Right? Yes it is! I am sure it is. Oh boy you got the Poopalot! Didn't you, didn't you!"

"Uh," said Julie and I.

''But I don't really need a Poopalot! Even though they are very cool and amazing...cos I have Killer—" She held up her chubby pug dog, her arms clasped around his fat tummy, little legs dangling sadly, little face set to mournful, "—who is awesomely much cuter!"

"And poops a lot," muttered Monster.

"And then daddy caused the ruckus! For a Poopalot!" Zoë cracked up laughing.

Julie scowled and whispered to me, "Can I just shoot her now?"

"No," I said. Merry Christmas, everyone. Ho frickin' Ho.

Part Two

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Anthony

''Lancelot! Lalalala-LAAAnce-a-lot! The Pooooh-pa-lot! He's stripey like an ocelot! I love him a lot, a lot, my pretty, pretty Poopalaaaaaaht!'' Zoe sang tunelessly.

"What the fuck?"

Grouchy guy with cornrowed hair wearing cargo pants and a grey hoodie stood across the room and glared.

"Uncle Anthony! You're home!"

"Sort of."

The little girl hurled herself into his arms. Obligingly he caught her, hoisted her up into his arms and gave her a big hug. He didn't wince at all.

Her skinny little monkey legs wrapped around his waist. She gave him a big smacking kiss on the cheek, then sniffed. "Eeeew. You don't smell too nice, Uncle Anthony."

"Uh..."

"I hope Santa got you some nice shave stuff, like boy perfume for Christmas!" The child wriggled down. The man allowed himself a sneaky pained grimace and sleepily watched the little girl run over to the enormous twenty foot tree that stood in his mother's two story ceilinged living room. The tree was sparkly crystal white and tarnished silver and faded red against the deep pine green. Everything else in the room was white. Except the white nightgowned child who had rosy red cheeks and wild black curls. And the ugliest god-awful neon pink and black striped stuffed toy imaginable. Zoë had a thing for white, frilly ankle length Wendy—like in Peter Pan?—nightgowns.

No rational explanation for the ugly pink and black creature though.

The kid flopped down and rummaged under the tree, came up with a small nicely wrapped present. She crooked a finger at the man who went obligingly to her side. He sat next to her by the big tree, same tree they'd always had since he was a child himself. That seemed like a long time ago, a long, long eons-type time since he'd been four. Or six, or ten.

''Mommy asked Santa to get this for you. She says it's why you smell yummy." She set the box in his lap.

''We should wait for your mom, baby. And your daddy.''

''They're asleep.''

"Yeah, well, it's really early. Or late."

The child craned her neck around to look at his mom's white grungy-chic, French country clock on the mantel. It was half hidden by pine and holly and antique silver mercury glass ornaments and dozens of white pillar candles. But the little girl said, "It's four forty-seven." Then, "Did you just get home?" A bit of scold in her tone.

He smiled. "Yeah."

''You missed Christmas. You missed Santa and presents and dinner with mommy's family, even Aunt Valerie and the Clown were there..."

"Oh too bad," he yawned.

"And you missed Christmas dinner, Aunt Olivia makes the best Christmas dinner in the whole world."

"I know, honey. She's my mom."

"And she was sad."

"Why?"

"I think she missed you."

"I missed her too. All of you." He had taken the solo op, one of Ranger's deep black jobs, so that Ranger could spend Christmas with this little girl and Steph and Julie and—and, family.

Exhaustion washed over him. His mother's home had bleached white—well, ivory—heart-pine floors but in this room the cold wooden floor was covered with a soft hand-tufted white wool rug. He succumbed to temptation and stretched out by the Christmas tree. Closed his eyes. Pain and fatigue swamped him; he drifted.

Almost asleep he felt something nudged under his cheek. Zoë was stuffing a velvet throw pillow under his head. He moved enough to accept the offering. The gift box was twitched out of his lax grasp. The child whispered, "You can use this later." A soft cloud, a cashmere throw, floated over his cold tired body. Then silence.

Clunk. He opened an eye. Zoë was setting down a glass of milk and a plate of beautiful cookies, on the edge of the hearth nearby. "For if you wake up and feel hungry," she whispered. Then something was tucked into his arms. Other eye opened and he glanced down. "Poopalot will guard you and sleep with you."

"Uh."

"Just don't push any of his buttons. He shoots real bullets."

"Yeah, I know how that is."

"Real toy bullets, I mean."

"Oh, okay."

"Goodnight, Uncle Anthony."

"Merry Christmas, baby."

He fell into an empty pit of sleep. After a few minutes, his three little pug dogs, Rosie, Alfonso, and Popeye, waddled into the room. They snuffled up the cookies and lapped up the milk that they efficiently spilled. They were a little afraid of the Poopalot but they loved the sleeping man dearly...so they courageously nudged Poopalot onto their charmed midst, snuggled up against the young man like little sacks of warm furry cement. And all was peaceful on the morning after Christmas.

the end of the story/ series tbc

Reviews would be fun! Awesome. Appreciated. hugs, sunny.