Sandy Claws and his sister, Elaine Gluck, lived in North Trenton in a neighborhood of small houses, big televisions, and American-made cars. Holiday spirit ran high in Sandy's neighborhood. Porches were trimmed in colored lights. Electric candles glowed in windows. Postage-stamp front yards were crammed with reindeer, Frosties, and Santas. Sandy Claws' house was the best, or the worst, depending on your point of view. The house was blanketed in red, green, yellow, and blue Christmas lights, interspersed with waterfalls of tiny white twinkle lights. A lighted sign on the roof blinked the message PEACE ON EARTH. A large plastic Santa and his sleigh were stuffed into the minuscule front yard. And three plastic, five-foot-tall Dickens-era carolers huddled together on the front porch.

"Now this is spirit," Diesel said. "Nice touch with the blinking lights on the roof."

"At the risk of being cynical, probably he stole the lights."

"Not my problem," Diesel said, opening the car door.

"Hold it. Close the door," I said. "You stay here while I talk to Elaine."

"And miss out on all the fun? No way." He angled out of the CRV, and he stood, hands in pockets, on the sidewalk, waiting for me.

"Okay. Fine. Just don't say anything. Just stand behind me and try to look respectable."

"You think I don't look respectable?"

"You have gravy stains on your shirt."

He looked down at himself. "This is my favorite shirt. It's real comfy. And they're not gravy stains. They're grease stains. I used to work on my bike in this shirt."

"What kind of bike?"

"Customized Harley. I had a big old cruiser with Python pipes." He smiled, remembering. "It was sweet."

"What happened to it?"

"Crashed it."

"Is that how you got the way you are now? Dead, or something?"

"No. The only thing that died was the bike."

It was midmorning and the sun was lost behind cloud cover that was the color and texture of bean curd. I was wearing wool socks, thick-soled CAT boots, black jeans, a red plaid flannel shirt over a T-shirt, and a black leather biker jacket. I looked pretty damn tough, in a very cool way... and I was freezing my ass off. Diesel was wearing his jacket unzipped and didn't look the least bit cold.

I crossed the street and rang the doorbell. Elaine opened the door wide and smiled out at me. She was a couple inches shorter than me and almost as wide as she was tall. She was maybe seventy years old. Her hair was snow white, cut short and curled. She had apple cheeks and bright blue eyes. And she smelled like gingerbread cookies. "Hello, dear," she said, "how nice to see you again." She looked to the side where Diesel was lurking and gasped. "Oh my," she said, red scald rising from her neck to her cheek. "You startled me. I didn't see you standing there at first."

"I'm with Ms. Plum," Diesel said. "I'm her... assistant."

"Goodness."