"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Nutball Season" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

I didn't want to ask about criteria. I didn't want to know the details. I was sure the old guy would give
them to me.
"Mr.—"

"Kringle."

"Yeah, right. Listen, we can visit the lady, ask her to stop threatening you, but without proof or an
incident there ain't much we could do. Now you can get yourself a lawyer, and have some judge order
her to stay away from you, but even that won't do no good when you go visit her house, don't you see?
Maybe there's some other way you can get the presents to the kid."

He stared at me for a moment, and I got the sense, even though he was too polite to say it, that I just
didn't get it.

"I have proof," he said softly.

"You do?" For all his complaints against this woman, he never once said nothing about proof. "Well,
lessee it."

He gave me photocopies—dozens of them—all letters, all from different children, all return addresses
right here in our little burg. As he passed the copies to me, he stuck his finger on the top letter and hit it
with such force that the sound echoed through the empty precinct.

"Right"—tap—"there."

I glanced at the top letter. It was from a nine-year-old girl. It said that she heard Mrs. Prudence Billings
say she'd shoot Santa if he landed on her roof. The little girl, she was writing to warn Santa, and to tell
him it was okay if he skipped her this year because she'd rather he'd be safe.

The kid was probably trying to guarantee free presents for life.

Then I thumbed through the letters. They were all versions of the same thing: the kids had heard this
Prudence Billings say she'd shoot Santa.

What a great woman. Jeez. What was she doing telling children them things?

"You need a lawyer, mister," I said, handing the letters back to him.

"But that doesn't solve my dilemma," he said. "I need to go to her house."

"Like I said, get someone else to deliver." And I leaned back in my chair thinking about her poor kid.
Imagine having a mom who didn't let you believe in Santa, who didn't let you have that one night when
you thought anything was possible, when you actually believed some fat bastard who had flying reindeer
could squeeze himself into a space barely wide enough for a broom and give you your heart's desire.

"I can't get someone else to deliver," the geezer said, sounding kinda forlorn. "This isn't a task that can be
handed from person to person."

I was feeling a bit bad now. I mean, everyone's entitled to their own delusions if they didn't hurt nobody.