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  Remo lifted his arms. They looked as if they had been rolled in powdered sugar. The snowman was himself. He realized that he had lowered his temperature so much that instead of melting, the snow clung to him. The reflection in the glass gave Remo an idea.

  He knocked on the storm door. His knuckles left leprous patches on the glass.

  A wide-eyed man's face appeared at the window. It was a round face, simple and without guile. Not the kind of face Remo expected. Not the face of a man who had chopped off the heads of seven children in the middle of the night and left their headless corpses under the trees for their parents to find.

  "Who . . . who are you?" the guileless face asked. His voice had a weirdly distorted quality.

  "Frosty the Snowman," Remo said seriously. "Really?"

  Remo nodded. "Really. I'm canvassing the neighborhood on Santa's behalf. Here to find out if you've been naughty or nice."

  The face broke into a frown.

  "Santa Claus isn't real. Vincent told me so." Remo blinked.

  "But Frosty is?"

  The moon face puckered like a dried orange. "Vincent didn't say you weren't real. And you're here. But maybe I should ask him before I let you in. I'm not supposed to let strangers in the house, you know."

  "Look, friend, I have eighty-seven thousand homes to get to by Sunday night. If you won't cooperate I'll just have to mark this house down as 'Naughty.' Thanks for your time." Remo turned to go.

  The doors suddenly banged open and the moon-faced man lumbered out. He wasn't wearing a Santa suit. He looked twenty-eight. Going on twelve.

  "No, no, wait!" he pleaded. "Come in. Please. I'll talk to you. I will."

  Remo shrugged. "Okay." He followed the man in. Remo decided that he tipped the scales at nearly three hundred pounds. Almost none of it muscle. The guy's stomach flopped over his rope belt like a glob of marshmallow fluff. He had enough chins to distribute among the Jackson family and still have one left for himself.

  And as Rema followed him into a cheerful if unkempt living room, he noticed that the guy's upper thighs rubbed together. He was wearing corduroy, and the sound was loud enough to frighten mice.

  "Please sit down," the fat man said. "My name is Henry. Are you thirsty? Would you like hot chocolate?" His voice was pathetically eager to please.

  "No, thanks," Remo said distractedly, looking around the room. "I'd only melt."

  The living room lacked the usual Christmas decorations of the season. There was no tree. No stockings hung above the sullen fireplace logs. But in one corner stood a three-foot-tall plastic reindeer. It was plugged into a wall socket. It glowed faintly. The nose burned a cherry red. It belonged on a lawn.

  "Rudolph?" Remo asked.

  "Don't you recognize him?" Henry asked in an injured voice.

  "Just checking," Remo said. "Now, let's get down to business. I have a report that someone in this house has been naughty."

  "It wasn't me!" Henry shrieked.

  A querulous voice called from another room. "Go to bed, Henry."

  "I will, Mother. When I'm done talking with Frosty."

  "Go to bed now!" a male voice bellowed.

  "Yes, sir.... I gotta go to bed. Vincent says."

  "This will only take a minute," Remo said. He noticed that his arms were melting. He felt cold watery fingers crawling down inside his T-shirt. Remo figured he had five minutes to get the answers he wanted. The rest would be easy.

  "Okay," Henry said, quietly closing the door. Remo put his hand on Henry's trembling shoulder.

  "Henry, is it true?" he asked.

  Henry looked away. His eyes sought the plastic reindeer. "Is what true?" he asked evasively.

  "Don't beat around the Christmas tree," Remo growled. He was staring into Henry's twisting face. The mouth belonged to Santa Claus. There was no mistaking that. So did the personal scent, an equal mixture of Ivory soap and underarm deodorant. It was hard to match Henry's whining voice to the sinister "Ho ho ho," Remo had heard, but there could be no mistake. "We know you're the one," Remo said flatly. "The one who's been killing little kids."

  "I ... I had to," Henry said miserably.

  Remo grabbed him by the shoulders. "Why, for God's sake?" he demanded angrily. "They were only kids."

  "He told me to," Henry blubbered.

  Remo looked. Henry pointed to the plastic Rudolph. Its flat white-and-black eyes stared back innocently. The nose flickered.

  "Rudolph?" Remo asked.

  "He made me do it."

  "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer made you cut off the heads of seven little children. Why?"

  "So they wouldn't be sad. Like me."

  "Sad?"

  "Vincent said there was no Santa Claus. I didn't believe him at first, but Mommy said-it was so."

  "Who's Vincent?"

  "My stepfather. My real father ran away. Vincent said it was because I was a retard, but Mommy hit Vincent when he said it, so I guess it's not true."

  "Why did this happen?" Remo felt all his anger drain out of him. The big oaf was retarded.

  "After Thanksgiving. I asked him how come we didn't have a tree. Vincent said we didn't need one."

  "Keep talking. I still want to know why."

  "Well, I didn't want any little kids to be hurt," Henry said, twisting his sausagelike fingers. "And Rudolph said that if a little kid died before he found out there wasn't any Santa, he would always be happy and go to heaven. But if he grew up, then he would go to hell when he died and burn forever. Like bacon."

  "You killed them so they wouldn't find out there wasn't any Santa Claus?" Remo asked incredulously. "Yes, sir, Mr. Frosty. Did Vincent lie?"

  Remo sucked in a hot breath. It was a long moment before he answered.

  "Yes, Henry," Remo said quietly. "Vincent lied."

  "I'm the one who's going to burn in hell, aren't I?" Remo answered the question without hesitating. "No, Henry. You're going to heaven. Are you ready?"

  "Can I say good-bye to Rudolph?"

  "No, there's no time. Just close your eyes."

  "Okay." Henry obediently closed his eyes. His face squinched up and his knees knocked together. He looked so pitiful that Remo almost changed his mind. But then he remembered the news clippings of the headless children under the trees and the pathetically regretful quotes of the parents who had found them. And he remembered his own empty childhood.

  Remo stepped up to Henry and with a two-fingered blow struck the padded spot over his heart.

  Henry fell backward like a refrigerator. The house shook. The querulous, sexless voice called again. "Henry, go to sleep!"

  It was joined by a male bellow. Vincent. "You control that idiot of yours or I'm going back to Sandra." Remo looked down at the fat man's face; It was peaceful. There was a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. The smile only made Remo angry. He had wanted to kill the guy slowly and painfully. He wanted him to suffer for all the suffering he had caused. He felt cheated. The Santa Claus killer was dead, and he felt no sense of accomplishment or victory. He felt nothing. Just as he felt every Christmas of his life.

  He wondered if maybe he should do Vincent. Then the sexless voice was shouting again.

  "Henry, if I don't hear your snoring in five seconds, I'll turn you in to the police for driving without a license. I'll put you in jail. Do you hear me? Jail!"

  Remo decided that Vincent would suffer a lot more if he let him live. He walked out of the house and hotwired the Christmas-red car. He drove north to Boston and Logan Airport.

  Just when the snow looked like it would fall forever, like salt onto a raw wound, it stopped.

  "Sometimes I hate this job," Remo muttered into the night. "Especially this time of year."

  On the flight back to New York, he hoped someone would try to hijack the plane. But no one did. Maybe when he got back, Upstairs would have a decent assignment for a change. Something big, worthy of his talents. And bloody.

  He was going to get his wish.

  Chapter 3r />
  Bartholomew Bronzini was doing wrist curls in his private gym when the gym telephone whirred. Bronzini did another few reps with his left arm before he answered it. He took pride in his daily regimen of exercise. And he always gave his left side more exercise because he knew that right-handed persons developed larger muscles on the right side. Bronzini had worked out a compensating regimen so that he had nearly perfect muscular symmetry.

  Bronzini scooped up the phone as he toweled off his pees. They gleamed as if greased.

  "Yo!" he said briskly.

  "Bart, baby, que pasa?" It was Shawn. His agent.

  "What's the word?"

  "Our Japanese compadres just Fedexed me the script. It looks great."

  "Did they change much?"

  "How do I know? I haven't read it."

  "You just said it looked great."

  "It does. You should see this binder. Looks like Spanish leather or something. And the pages are get this-hand-lettered. Looks like-what do they call it?-calligraphy. "

  Bronzini sighed. He should have known better than to ask. Nobody in Hollywood read scripts if they could help it. They made deals and hoped for the best.

  "Okay, messenger it to me. I'll look it over."

  "No, Bart, sweetheart. There's a Nishitsu corporate jet waiting for you at Burbank Airport. That producer you met in Tokyo, what's his name? Sounds like a Greek sandwich shop."

  "jJro something."

  "That's him. He wants you in Yuma by noon."

  "Yuma! Tell him no way. I spent three days in Japan with those Nishitsu guys. They gave me the creeps, always bowing and scraping and asking me where I bought my shoes and if they were for sale. They were so polite I wanted to punch them."

  "Yuma isn't in Japan. It's in Arizona."

  "Why do they want me there?"

  "That's where you're filming. They've been scouting locations since you got back."

  "This is a freaking Christmas movie. It's set in Chicago. "

  "I guess this is one of the changes they made."

  "They can't film Johnny's Christmas Spirit in Arizona."

  "Why not?" Shawn said in a reasonable tone. "They filmed Star Wars in Southern California. Looked like outer space to me."

  "It doesn't snow in Arizona," Bronzini said acidly. "They don't have evergreens. They have cacti. What are they gonna do? Decorate the cacti?"

  "Don't cacti have needles too?"

  "Don't you fucking start, Shawn!"

  "Okay, okay. Look, talk to them. Straighten it out. But they need you to smooth things over. They're having trouble with the Yuma Chamber of Commerce or something. It's about film permits and work rules."

  "What am I, head of the local? Have them take it up with the union."

  "Uh, they don't want to do that, for some reason."

  "What do they mean? I'm the star, not the shop steward. This is a union movie, isn't it?"

  "Of course it is, Bart," Shawn said plaeatingly. "These are major, major people. They're looking for a piece of the U. S. film industry. No way they're not union."

  "Good, because if this isn't a union production, I'd back out right now."

  "Can't."

  "Why not?"

  "They got your name on the contract. Remember?"

  "So let them sue."

  "That's the problem. They will. And they'd win, because they'll try it in a Japanese court. They're big, a mega-corporation. They could clean you out. No more polo ponies, no more Renoirs. They'd probably bag you for your comic-book collection if they find out about it." Bartholomew Bronzini was silent for a long time. Before he could speak, his agent spoke up.

  "You know what they'd do if you backed out. They'd turn around and give the part to Schwarzenegger."

  "No chance!" Bronzini exploded. "That side of beef couldn't cut it in my Christmas movie. He's the only actor in the world who steps on his own lines."

  "No argument there. But let's not let ft get to that. Okay? Burbank Airport. The jet's waiting." Bartholomew Bronzini hung up the phone with so much force that Donald Duck's beak fell off.

  The Nishitsu jet was waiting for him when Bronzini pulled up on his Harley Davidson. A white-coated Japanese steward stood meekly by the door. He pulled it open from the top, exposing a flight of plush steps.

  The steward bowed quickly when Bronzini dismounted.

  "Konnichi wa, Bronzini san," he said with a tight smile.

  The smile fell off when Bronzini began pushing his motorcycle up the plush steps. "No, Bronzini san. "Where I go, my bike goes," growled Bronzini. He pushed the bike up as easily as if it were a ten-speed and not a monster Harley.

  The steward followed him up, and as Bronzini leaned the bike against a bulkhead, he pulled up the staircase door. The engines immediately began warming up.

  When the Nishitsu jet landed at Yuma International Airport slightly more than sixty minutes later, the Japanese steward lowered the ramp stairs manually and jumped out of the way while the maniac American actor piloted his bouncing motorcycle down it at full speed.

  Bartholomew Bronzini hit the tarmac with a bump, nearly wiping out. He recovered, dismounted, and walked the bike up to the Nishitsu corporate van, gunning the engine impatiently while the unhappy face which he recognized as Jiro Isuzu peered out of the side window with horrified eyes.

  Finally Isuzu slid open the door and stepped out. "Bronzini san. Good of you to come."

  "Save the soap," Bronzini said. "And it's plain Bronzini. So what's the problem?"

  "Shooting start in two day. We have much to do."

  "Two days!"

  "Production on tight shooting schedule. Must hurry. Wirr you come now. Prease?"

  "Lead the way," Bronzini said, kicking the bike stand up. "This is bogus."

  A brief flash of anger showed in Jiro Isuzu's eyes. For a moment the Japanese looked as if he were going to say something, but he only bobbed his head repeatedly and slid the van's side door closed.

  Bronzini followed the van into the city. His initial impression of Yuma was that it was flat. The highway leading into town was dotted with fast-food restaurants and discount stores. He saw very few cacti.

  But when they turned into a residential area, several stubby cholla cacti decorated front yards. Most homes had Christmas decorations up. But to Bronzini, the warm desert air and lack of snow made it seem not like Christmas at all.

  "How the hell are they going to film a Christmas movie in this godforsaken place?" he muttered as he passed a Pueblo-style home with the inevitable flagstone patio. There was a cow skull by the front door. It wore a Santa Claus cap.

  Bronzini was still turning the question over in his mind when the van pulled up to Yuma City Hall. "What are we doing here?" he demanded of Jiro when the latter emerged from the van.

  "We have appointment with mayor. I told him you would come. Now, forrow, prease."

  "The mayor?" Bronzini muttered. "I hope this isn't another key-to-the-city deal. I already got enough to open up a store."

  Basil Cloves had been mayor of Yuma for nearly six years. He was very proud of his city, which was one of the fastest-growing desert communities in the West.

  He was proud of its three TV stations, its important military bases, and its crystal pure air.

  He would never knowingly surrender it to a foreign aggressor.

  But when his press secretary ushered in representatives of the Nishitsu Film Corporation, who were accompanied by the world's number-one film superstar, Bartholomew Bronzini, he broke into a baby-kissing smile.

  "Mr. Bronzini!" he gushed, taking Bronzini's hand in both of his. "Wonderful of you to come. I've seen every one of your movies."

  "Great. Thank you," Bronzini said quietly. Everyone in the room interpreted his comment as bored disinterest. The truth was that Bronzini was embarrassed by the sunglasses-and-autographs side of his business.

  "I loved you in Conan the Mendicant. You were so... so ... muscular!"

  "Nice of you to say so," Bronzini said. He decide
d not to mention that that was Schwarzenegger. He hated when people confused him with that Austrian water buffalo.

  "Well, Mr. Bronzini," the mayor of Yuma said as he gestured everyone into seats. "Mr. Isuzu tells me that you want to film a movie in my beautiful city."

  "Yes, sir," Bronzini said, and everyone in the room assumed he was being condescending when he used the word "sir." He was not.

  "You can understand that when folks I don't know, no offense, gentlemen"-he indicated the representatives from Nishitsu, who sat with straight backs and stiff necks-"come to my city and apply for permits and things of that sort, I have to secure certain assurances. We don't see many flicks made in Yuma. So I told these fine gentlemen that if they could offer proof of their sincerity and good intentions, I would do what I could to get it past the city council."

  Here it comes, Bronzini thought. As an occasional producer, he had gotten used to being strong-armed. You contacted the local government for permission to film on public streets and they never thought about the revenue that would be brought into the local economy, the local people who would be employed. They only wondered what was in it for them. If it wasn't the politicians, it was the teamsters or the Mafia.

  "So when Mr. Isuzu told me that you'd be willing to come here and allay our fears," Mayor Cloves went on, "I said, well, that might just do it."

  At that moment the press secretary put his head in the door. "They're here, Mr. Mayor."

  "Wonderful," said Mayor Cloves. "Come, let's go meet them."

  Bronzini caught Isuzu's arm on the way out. "What is this?" he hissed.

  "Quiet. This wirr be over soon."

  "Oh," said Bronzini when he saw the news crews setting up their video cameras. Newspaper reporters stood with pencils poised over notepads.

  "Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen of the press," the mayor said in a booming voice. "As you can see, the illustrious Bartholomew Bronzini, star of such modern classics as Conan the Mendicant, is in my office today. Bart's come to Yuma to ask me personally for permission to film his next blockbuster. With him is Mr. Jiro Isuzu, who is a producer with the Nishitsu Corporation. I see from the brand names on some of your video equipment that you probably know more about Nishitsu than I do."