About the Author: Frank Oreto is a writer of weird and mysterious fiction, living in the wilds of Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. His stories have appeared or are upcoming in Pseudopod, Flame Tree Press, and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. When not writing, Frank spends his time creating elaborate meals for his wife and perpetually hungry kitchen.
“Santa Claus walks into a bar,” Paul said the words slowly. An opener like that and you have them smiling right away. People know a zinger is coming. Except Paul didn't have a punchline, and after ten years he didn't think one was forthcoming.
He got lucky and found an empty parking space right across from Drake's Bar and Grill. The official-police-business placard on the visor let him ignore the parking meter. Paul's business tonight was about as personal as you could get, but being a cop should have its perks.
In a few hours, college students would fill East Carson Street for one more night of debauchery before heading home for Christmas with the family. It was early though, only six p.m. and relatively quiet. Of course, you could still find trouble if you went looking for it. Paul wasn't looking for trouble. He was looking for a skinny, bald probation officer named Ivan Guskov and he knew where to find him.
Ivan sat on the same barstool as always. He wore his usual monkey-brown corduroy blazer with a green plaid scarf looped about his thin neck. He looked over his shoulder as Paul walked toward the bar and his face broke into a wide grin. Paul knew from that smile he was right on time.
They'd become friends through work and bad habits. Paul helped bring in a few of Ivan's clients over the years, and they discovered gambling and drinking were pastimes they both appreciated more than they should. These days, Paul might still put fifty down on the Steelers, but he'd given up the booze. He had Ivan to thank for that.