A Fairytale Christmas Read Free

into a mound of midwinter slush. He fell easily—probably weak from being strung out on drugs—and crashed into a heap of damp cardboard boxes.
    A fist smashed into Jack’s stomach. His mercilessly conditioned muscles tightened at the contact. Even as he grunted, more in annoyance than pain, he clipped his assailant on the jaw with a lightning uppercut. The manhowled and fled, clutching his face. His oily companion dragged himself up.
    Jack stood ready, his feet planted, his body taut and his nerves alive with the dark hum of adrenaline. The mugger sized him up for about three seconds, then stumbled off after his companion.
    Jack started to pursue them. But one glance at the pale, sweating face of the victim stopped him.
    He was a munchkin man, impeccably dressed in a topcoat, holding a brass-headed cane. He had a neatly clipped mustache and goatee. His hands, clutching the cane, shook.
    “Are you hurt?” Jack asked. He stooped and retrieved an expensive-looking hat, handing it to the man.
    “N-no. Just shaken.” The man produced a silk handkerchief, using it to mop his forehead. He put the hat on. “Thanks.”
    In the foggy glow of a streetlamp, Jack inspected the ashen, heavily jowled face. “You sure? You want me to call a doctor or something?”
    “No. I’ll just go back to the shop and call a cab. I’ve got a truck, but I don’t feel like driving tonight.” The man looked at Jack and suddenly seemed to remember himself. “Listen to me. The man saves my life and I don’t even introduce myself.” He stuck out a gloved hand. “Harry Fodgother.”
    “John Patrick Riley. Call me Jack.” He instantly placed the little man. Back when he was first starting out at the paper, he’d done a stint as a copy editor. Fodgother’s name had appeared frequently in the society column: The Donald Dazzled the Dames in His Exclusive Harry Fodgother Tux…. “You’re the tailor, right?”
    Harry’s features pinched with mock disdain. “Gentlemen’sclothier, if you please.” He laughed. “I call myself that, I get to charge double.”
    He extracted a wad of keys from his pocket and opened a heavy steel door marked Deliveries. Jack followed him, passing through a large room filled with bolts of fabric, sewing machines, dress dummies and drafting tables. The walls boasted photos of Who’s Who types sporting Fodgother’s creations.
    When they entered the shop, Jack’s feet sank two inches into the plush carpet. The showroom was done in leather, brass and hunter green, like a gentlemen’s English bar, complete with hunting scenes on the walls. There wasn’t a stitch of clothing in sight. He suspected the ready-to-wears were tucked into the antique armoires, chests and highboys.
    “Nice place,” he remarked.
    “Indeed.” Harry switched on a green-shaded banker’s lamp on a desk and picked up the phone. “There’s an icebox under the counter there. Have a beer.”
    Jack opened a beer for himself and one for Harry while Fodgother called for a cab. When he hung up, Jack asked, “Aren’t you going to report this to the police?”
    Fodgother shook his head. “They were just a couple of dopers. I didn’t really get a look at them. You came along before they took anything except my pride. Police would take all night and …” His voice trailed off as Jack drew something out of his pocket.
    “Damn,” Jack said, frowning. “I thought I threw this away.” Actually, he
had
thrown the invitation away, but on impulse he had rescued the card. Maybe to show his mother, who always wanted to hear about his highfalutin’ New York City friends. She never could get it into her head that he didn’t hobnob with John F. Kennedy, Jr., on a regular basis.
    He came out from behind the counter and handed Harry a beer.
    “You were working late,” Jack observed. “Cheers.”
    “I work all through the season.” He lifted his beer bottle. “Mazel tov.”
    Jack grinned and took a sip. “Same to you.”
    “You’re not from