Author's note: Some of the events in this story actually happened, along about 1959, although it was not an apartment in New York City, and the benefactors participating were not small-time hoodlums. I just decided to tell the tale as one of my favorite authors, Damon Runyon, would have told it. I was merely a seven year old observer.
West Side Christmas by Dick Zucher told in the style of Damon Runyon
Christmas Eve has arrived in the city, and while it is not yet snowing, it is plenty cold, and a body needs to do something to ward off the chills, so me and a bunch of the guys are gathered at Kelly's Bar and Grill, even though the Liquor Board had revoked Kelly's license on account of the poker games he allowed to go on in the back room.
Now, such a small technicality as not having a liquor license does not stop Kelly from doing business, at least not with his close friends behind closed doors, so we are enjoying hot Tom and Jerries, although Kelly has run out of rum, since he cannot get any more inventory without a license, so we are drinking them with rye whiskey instead. This helps to make the season bright more than somewhat, as we are not only fending off the cold weather, but we are drinking a traditional holiday nog.
Along about seven p.m., Long Pan Georgie comes in. Long Pan Georgie is called Long Pan because he always looks so sad that you figure he is going to bust out crying at any moment, even when he is smiling, and tonight Long Pan Georgie is not smiling. In fact, he looks like he's just lost his best friend.
"Why the long pan, Long Pan?" I ask him.
"Ah, Geez. You know that warehouse across the river that burned down last month? The one the big mail-order house was sending out orders from?" Georgie asks. "Well, one of my tenants in that apartment building I own over on 45th Street was working there, and what with the fire and all, he got laid off, and he hasn't been able to find another job. He's behind in his rent, and those two kids of his are going to have a lousy Christmas." This is a side of Long Pan Georgie I have not seen before, as I didn't even know he had a heart.
"There's gotta be something we can do to help them," Willie the Weasel pipes up. "I got a few bucks I can pitch in."
"Me, too," adds Rooftop Robbie.
Several of the other guys agree that they can chip in, too.
"Let us sit down and figure this thing out," Says Kelly. "Meantime, have a nice hot Tom and Jerry made with rye whiskey instead of rum."
So we all sit down at a table and start to formulate a plan. Sam the Clam gets up and makes a phone call, then comes back.
"We got us a Santa Claus," he announces.
"Who?" I ask. "What do we need a Santa for?"
"Gotta have a Santa if we're gonna deliver presents on Christmas Eve," Sam says. "My brother-in-law is working as Santa Claus at Hudson's Department Store over on Lexington Avenue, and he gets off in half an hour. He'll be right over after that."
"So where are we gonna get presents at this late hour?" asks Robbie.
"I know a guy," says Willie. "He lives behind his bicycle shop, so I'm sure we can get him to open up."
Well, it isn't long before Santa Claus walks in, and Sam introduces him. "Guys, this is my brother-in-law . . ."
"Just call me Santa," the brother-in-law interrupts. "Santa is enough."
Kelly fixes Santa a hot Tom and Jerry made with rye whiskey instead of rum, and we fill him in on the plan.
Half an hour later, we head out into the cold, fortified with hot Tom and Jerries made with rye whiskey instead of rum, and we go find the bike shop Willie was talking about. The guy isn't none too happy to have a delegation of Columbus Circle's elite citizens knocking on his door after closing on Christmas Eve, accompanied by Santa Claus, no less, but a little explaining, and an exchange of a few hundred bucks got him to feeling the spirit of the season, and soon we are armed with two shiny new bicycles and a few accessories to keep the little tykes safe, and we head for Georgie's apartment building on 45th Street.
We arrive at the lobby door, and it's locked.
"Now how are we going to get in?" asks Sam the Clam, more out of habit than the realization of what we were doing. Sam isn't used to entering strange buildings with the intent of doing something good.
"You forget I own the place," says Georgie, actually smiling so that he doesn't look quite so sad, only like maybe someone just took the last cookie off the plate. "I have the passkey."
So Georgie opens up the door and we carry the presents up the stairs to apartment 4G. Again Georgie uses his passkey, and we go in, Santa first, followed by the rest of us. The apartment is quiet, dimly lit by the lights of the Christmas tree. The place is kinda shabby, but it is neat and clean. Obviously the lady of the house has a sense of pride of ownership despite their circumstances. "I think they went to church," Georgie says. "Let's put the presents under the tree so they'll be surprised when they get back."
We arrange everything under the tree so it all looks nice, and we prepare to leave. I notice Georgie takes an envelope out of his pocket and places it among the branches, where it is lit up by the lights.
"Make sure everything's neat and tidy, Broadway. Can't have them thinking we trashed the place," Georgie tells me, and starts to walk out.
I look around a minute, satisfying myself that we leave the place like we found it, except for the presents of course. I'm curious about that envelope, though, so I take it down from its place on the tree and examine it. It's addressed only to "Mr. and Mrs. Brown," and inside is a little slip of paper. "Rent for December and January. Paid in full."
Now you tell me there's no such thing as Santa Claus.