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Mr. Christmas

The little revival movie theatre was empty, apart from one man.

He sat in the eighth row. In the dead center. Row H. Seat fifteen of thirty. The one seat that gave him the closest view of the entire screen which his field of vision could comfortably accommodate.

The house lights were down, but the up-lighting was on, illuminating the red velvet curtains lining both sides of the screening room. The thirty-five millimeter projector wasn’t even switched on. A sixty-foot-wide screen sat dead and gray in front of him. The smell of popcorn rose from the floor, along with other more unpleasant odors.

Mr. Christmas rarely ate as he watched movies. Occasionally, when he craved the darkness and solitude of the movie theatre, he sometimes bought a soda and a hot dog. He had no taste for popcorn. Yet, he did enjoy that smell. It was wrapped up in his childhood, and his teens, and, for that matter, it was an odor that had accompanied him for his whole life. Rarely did a week go by without a visit to a cinema, no matter where he found himself.

He had enjoyed drive-in theatres in hot, filthy parking lots in Arizona, mouse-infested 1920s movie palaces in Detroit, modern multiplex theatres in LA and single-screen revival houses that attracted hipsters and cinephiles alike.

He tipped his head back and let his gaze rest on the ceiling. He used to do this as a kid, letting the vast blackness of the paneled ceiling wash over him. And the same sensation came, just as he had experienced as a child – the overwhelming belief and fear that the ceiling was going to collapse and fall on top of him. The sensation was so strong that an electric tickle travelled from the back of his legs down through his calves and into his ankles.

He shivered with the pleasure of fear.

Mr. Christmas raised a hand to the projectionist. While he sometimes enjoyed the company of a few strangers in the movies, he much preferred having the screen all to himself. Which, just as on this occasion, necessitated Mr. Christmas purchasing every seat in the house. It was not a small amount of money, but while his finances were not infinite they were very large indeed. He enjoyed some of the finer things in life, but his lifestyle was not in any way extravagant. He owned several properties, drove a Lincoln,, but didn’t have a boat, nor a plane, nor any other item that proved an effective way to burn through a fortune.

He spent his money on fine clothes. Good coffee.

And going to the movies.

The up-lighting dimmed, sending the vast room into darkness. This screen was now a spaceship. A magical thing that could transport him to anywhere in this world, or out of it.

The screen came to life and the Paramount logo filled his heart.

His phone began to vibrate.

He raised his hand. Nothing happened at first. Then he waved it and the screen froze and died.

Mr. Christmas retrieved his phone from his jacket and took the call.

‘I’m just enjoying some thinking time,’ said Mr. Christmas. ‘I don’t wish to appear rude, but I thought I would just explain why I would like to keep this call short.’

‘Don’t you ever just say hi?’

‘Hi,’ said Mr. Christmas.

‘Forget it. Look, I’m just giving you a courtesy call. While you’re on the Flynn job. Seeing as how you’re in town, another job just came in and I thought you might want to double up.’

‘Is it an open contract?’

‘Closed. It’s a private party. And it pays a little better than the Flynn contract. Seventy-five, plus expenses.’

‘Interesting. It might be worthwhile to take an intellectual detour and cover my expenses for the whole trip. What’s the job?’

‘Recovery and closure.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘Our client wants his two hundred and fifty thousand dollars back. He paid it so he could trace his blackmailer, following the money trail. It’s a young woman called Ruby Johnson. Get the money back. Kill the girl.’