The elevator doors closed, and Mrs. Bestler chanted, "Ladies' handbags, Santa's workshop, better dresses." She looked at me and shook her finger. "Only three shopping days left."

"I know. I know!" I said. "I'll go shopping tomorrow. I swear, I will."

Diesel and I stepped out of the elevator, and Mrs. Bestler sang, "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas" as we walked down the hall.

"I'm laying odds she's eighty proof," Diesel said, opening my door.

My apartment was dark, lit only by the blue digital clock on my microwave and the single, red, blinking diode on my answering machine.

Rex ran on his wheel in the kitchen. The soft whir of his wheel reassured me that Rex was safe and probably there weren't any bridge trolls hiding in my closet tonight. I flipped the light, and Rex immediately stopped running and blinked out at me. I dropped a couple Fruit Loops into his cage from the box on the counter, and Rex was a happy camper.

I hit the play button on the answering machine and unbuttoned my jacket.

First message. "It's Joe. Give me a call."

Next message. "Stephanie? It's your mother. You don't have your cell phone on. Is something wrong? Where are you?"

Third message. "It's Joe again. I'm stuck on this job, and I won't make it over tonight. And don't call me. I can't always talk. I'll call back when I can."

Fourth message. "Christ," Morelli said.

"Guess it's just you and me," Diesel said, grinning. "Good thing I'm here. You'd be lonely."

And the terrible part was that he was right. I had one foot on the slippery slope of Christmas depression. Christmas was sliding away from me. Five days, four days, three days... and before my eyes, Christmas would come and go without me. And I'd have to wait an entire year to take another crack at a ribbons and bows, candy canes, and eggnog Christmas.

"Christmas isn't ribbons and bows and presents," I said to Diesel. "Christmas is about good will, right?"

"Wrong. Christmas is about presents. And Christmas trees. And office parties. Boy, you don't know much, do you?"

"Do you really believe that?"

"Aside from all the religious blah, blah, blah, which we won't get into... I think Christmas is whatever turns you on. That's what I really believe. Everyone decides what they want out of Christmas. Then everyone gets a shot at making it happen."

"Suppose every year you blow it? Suppose every year you screw up Christmas?"

He crooked his arm around my neck. "Are you screwing up Christmas, kiddo?"

"I can't seem to get to it."

Diesel looked around. "I noticed. No garlands of green shit. No angels, no Rudolphs, no kerplunkers or tartoofers."

"I used to have some tartoofers but my apartment got firebombed and they all went up in smoke."

Diesel shook his head. "Don't you hate when that happens?"