The door was locked, but Hanrahan didn’t let that deter him. He pounded on the heavy steel with his nightstick again.

   "Lady, open up in there!" he yelled. He pushed his navy blue, eight-pointed cap back and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Tufts of his short black hair stuck out like meringue on an evil pie. "Open it up or I’ll break this door down!"

   "I’m not openin’ for anyone. Go away wit’ you," replied a gentle female voice with a lilting Jamaican accent.

   Hanrahan turned away from the door for a moment. "Mother of Christ, like I need this?" he remarked rhetorically to his partner. O’Shaughnessy rolled his eyes in sympathy.

   Hanrahan lifted his fist to bang on the door again when their radios crackled. "Unit 41, please advise status, K," the communications operator requested in stereo.

   "Turn that thing down," Hanrahan told O’Shaughnessy. He pressed the button on the microphone portion of his own portable, which was clipped to his uniform jacket. "Central, suspect refuses to allow access, K."

   There was a pause while the operator digested the information, no doubt juggling numerous other calls at the same time. At Christmastime, the communications center personnel were overloaded, just like everyone else in the NYPD.

   "41, request a sergeant at the scene, K?" the operator asked.

   "10-4," Hanrahan said, and released the microphone button. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, he banged on the door again with renewed vigor. The sound echoed down the poorly lighted hallway. "Police! Open up!" he shouted.

   "I’m tellin’ you, I’m not openin’ for no-body," replied the lilting voice calmly from inside.

   "Think we oughta break it down?" O’Shaughnessy asked eagerly. Rookies always wanted to break down doors and engage in high-speed chases. They saw all that action on television and wanted to try it in real life.

   Hanrahan favored him with a withering glare. "Sergeant Bernstein will be along in a minute. How’re we gonna explain breaking down the door when we knew he was on his way?" he said logically.

   "We could say we took it down before he got here?" O’Shaughnessy volunteered meekly. He was fresh out of the academy and dying to do some "real" police work. He had yet to make his first arrest, but Hanrahan had promised him a lot of action during the Christmas season. The overtime pay associated with shepherding holiday miscreants through the overburdened system was an attractive thought. More presents under the tree for mom and dad, the nieces and nephews. But the glory of processing his first prisoner was what had him salivating with anticipation.

   Hanrahan shot down the idea with just a look. O’Shaughnessy escaped the twin laser beams emanating from his partner’s eyes by studying the hallway’s peeling paint and dirty floor. Observe your surroundings, they drilled into the academy recruits. Besides, he had perfected the art of remaining unnoticed under the fierce stares of the nuns in grammar school. Eight years of showing up without his homework assignments had made him an expert in melting in with his surroundings, like a North African chameleon going incognito in the forest.

   The cops heard lumbering footsteps ascend the stairs. The inaccessible apartment was on the fourth floor of a grimy industrial building in New York City’s garment center. Located a mere block from the world-famous Macy’s department store, the area had once been home to thriving designer houses and furriers. Now that most of the cheap labor was found in third-world countries, the area had become a haven for discount clothing stores that ran perpetual "Going Out of Business" sales, shady businesses that rented out the empty garment buildings for several months, then disappeared without leaving any forwarding addresses, and drug dealers who advertised their wares to passers-by in a whisper from between run-down buildings.

   Sid Bernstein looked like the original Kris Kringle, right out of Central Casting. The fact that he was Jewish deterred him not a whit from playing Santa Claus for the disadvantaged Police Athletic League youngsters. (One unseasoned rookie, eager to impress the sergeant and begin his climb up through the ranks, had commented on the appropriateness of this practice one year. "I bet you have to make a lot of Novenas before the rabbi forgives you, huh, Sarge?" were his exact words. No one was quite sure whether the man was terminally stupid or just a poor stand-up comic. Bernstein wanted to take no chances with the public’s safety, however, and had the young man transferred to the mounted unit, where the sergeant figured he could do only minimal harm raking out stalls for the remainder of his career.)

   "Whaddaya got?" Bernstein’s voice boomed down the hallway even before his not insignificant belly appeared. (Not to stretch a metaphor, but it did sort of shake like a bowl full of . . . well, you know.)

   Hanrahan, being the senior man on the scene, explained the situation quickly.

   "And Batman here wanted to take down the door, right?" Bernstein said airily, jerking his thumb in O’Shaughnessy’s direction. Hanrahan laughed. The rookie turned red and worked harder on his chameleon imitation.

   "This is how you gain entrance," he explained, sotto voce. He pulled out his own baton and beat Shave-and-a-Haircut on the door.

   "Wow! That’s all it takes?" asked O’Shaughnessy, wide-eyed.

   "Shh!" Bernstein rebuked him. He put his finger in front of his lips. Hanrahan just gave him a look that said, You moron.

   O’Shaughnessy hung his head. He could almost feel the ruler whistling through the air toward his knuckles.

   "Open up in there! NYPD!" Bernstein’s basso profundo rattled the glass in the window panes at the end of the hallway.

   "I’m not openin’. I already told the other gentlemen. Away wit’ you now," said the gentle female voice inside.

   Bernstein rapped again, louder. "Lady, open up! We got a call, we have to investigate, make sure everyone’s okay in there! You don’t want me to get fired for failing to ascertain your safety, do you?" he said in a soothing voice. "You could be a hostage in there for all we know. We just want to make sure you’re okay," he wheedled.

   "I’m okay. Now let me go about my business. And you’re a civil servant. Nobody’s gonna fire you," she replied equally calm.

   "Well, would you just sign this here form saying that I tried to make sure you were safe?" he pleaded. "So I don’t get in trouble?" He waved a piece of paper in front of the peephole.

   A musical laugh tinkled behind the door. "You t’ink I was born in the cornfield last night?" the disembodied voice said.

   "Well, all right . . . if you’re sure you’re okay, we’ll leave," Bernstein said reluctantly. "But you call 911 if you need any help, okay?"

   "I’ll do that," came the voice in a mocking tone.

   "All right . . . if you’re sure," he said again. "Well, Merry Christmas."

   "Merry Christmas, officers," came the response.

   Bernstein turned to the cops. "Well, nothing more we can do here. Let’s go." He moved toward the stairs.

   "But, Sarge," started O’Shaughnessy, who was deeply disappointed that no doors would be kicked in.

   Bernstein poked him in the stomach to keep him quiet. "Oof," said the rookie.

   "Central, 41’s call is unfounded," the sergeant said loudly. At the same time, he grabbed Hanrahan’’s arm and squeezed it, hard. Hanrahan understood. "Let’s go, boys," he repeated.

   O’Shaughnessy looked like he wanted to say something else, but he could still feel his corned beef making an encore after being encouraged by Bernstein’s finger, and he thought better of it. The two of them moved toward the stairs noisily, their equipment belts jangling, radios crackling with transmissions and static.

   There was a slight scuffling sound behind the door that concealed the Jamaican woman, almost like mice that were settling in for a long winter’s nap. A chain rattled lightly and the door eased open a crack. Hanrahan wasted no time. He stuck his regulation brogan between the door and the jamb and heaved his weight against the hard steel.

   "Oh!" cried the Jamaican woman, who was thrown off balance by the sudden inward explosion of her door.

   "Sarge!" Hanrahan’s voice was high-pitched and full of fear.

   "C’mon!" Bernstein shouted to O’Shaughnessy, recognizing the urgency in the other cop’s voice. "Let’s go!" They pelted back toward the apartment to provide back-up for whatever situation Hanrahan was facing alone. Bernstein unsnapped his holster for quick access to his 9-millimeter.

   It took them only seconds to arrive. Bernstein halted in the doorway for an instant, breathing hard, his eyes sweeping the scene, using 23 years of experience to assess the situation and decide whether to draw his weapon.

   His glance took in a manic Santa’s wonderland. Packages with shiny ribbons were strewn about. Shopping bags from the finest stores in New York filled the room. Macy’s bags vied with Saks Fifth Avenue’s and Bergdorf-Goodman’s for space on the floor. Small electronics were everywhere. CD players, radios and cassette recorders toppled over boom boxes.

   Four young men stood frozen into position, each in varying stages of pulling concealed merchandise out of loose, baggy clothing.

   Hanrahan was cowering before the Jamaican woman with the gentle voice, fear written all over his mug. She was a slight black woman with a pretty face. She did not seem threatening at all. An aura of peacefulness surrounded her, as did a voluminous nun’s habit. Bernstein’s practiced cop’s eyes determined that there was no threat from any of the people in the room, none of whom appeared armed. He instinctively snapped his holster to prevent his gun from coming out unbidden. He spoke into his radio. "Central, 41 Sergeant, K."

   Static crackled. "41 Sergeant, go," said the dispatcher.

   "We have gained entrance to the scene. Send in the team."

   Before any response could filter back over the airwaves, everyone in the room could hear the thunderous sound of a dozen cops in heavy work boots pounding down the hallway. The young men who were caught red-handed with stolen electronics and other Christmas goodies sagged in place. One looked longingly toward the window and the fire escape just beyond the pane.

   "Don’t even think about it," said Bernstein with a hard edge to his voice.

   The boy sat down heavily, as though the air had been let out of his body.

   The back-up team burst in, batons at the ready.

   "You won’t need those, boys," said Bernstein, almost jovially. "Everyone here’s gonna cooperate, ain’t that right?" His eyes swept the motley crew of elf wanna-bes. "Hanrahan, you wanna do the honors? Collar the ringleader of the most notorious seasonal shoplifting gang in the city? Put the bracelets on her, boy. Go on. You did a good job, getting us in here. You deserve the credit." The Kris-Kringle look-alike gestured toward the fake nun.

   " ‘Sister’, you wanna turn around for the nice policeman?" Bernstein said, sarcastically. He was enjoying this. The nefarious shoplifting ring had plagued mid-town Manhattan for the past five Christmas seasons, offsetting his impressive arrest statistics by avoiding capture--until now.

   "I’ll turn around," the small woman in the floor-length habit said calmly, "but God won’t forgive you for this."

   "Hanrahan, whaddaya waiting for?" Bernstein demanded. "Collar her."

   Terrified, Hanrahan stood next to the small Jamaican woman. His mouth was moving, but no sounds came out. Finally he managed to croak out a response to his superior officer. "Why don’t we let O’Shaughnessy do the honors?" he managed weakly. "He needs to make an arrest."

   Bernstein’s brow knitted in confusion. "You wanna give up this collar to a rookie? Who’s gonna believe that?" he asked.

   Hanrahan just shook his head helplessly.

   Bernstein turned to O’Shaughnessy. "Well, you heard him," he said disbelievingly. "He wants to give you credit on this one. You’ll meet your quota for felony arrests for the next year."

   "Go ahead, cuff her."

   O’Shaughnessy tried to melt into the wall behind him. "I-er—that is—uh," he stammered.

   "Whatsamatta with you guys?" Bernstein demanded. "Let’s collar these dirtbags and start inventorying this stuff. We don’t have all night here."

   He shifted his gaze between Hanrahan and O’Shaughnessy. The two men wore NYPD uniforms, carried nightsticks, guns and mace. Their handcuffs and radios weighted down their belts. The suspects were compliant, the charges would be juicy, resulting in a lot of overtime for everyone. It was truly a gift from Santa. What could be wrong with these two cops? All of a sudden they were acting like little boys, not like grown cops about to be applauded by their fellow officers and given atta-boys by the brass for these fantastic arrests. Bernstein started getting angry.

   Hanrahan cowered backward from the force of Bernstein’s glare. He thought he ought to cough up an explanation before they got into too much trouble. "Sarge, it’s—ah—just that, well," he began. Bernstein put his hands on his hips, spurring Hanrahan’s response. "She’s a—nun," he whispered. He looked truly frightened.

   "A nun!" the sergeant boomed. "She’s no more a nun than I’m Santa Claus! She’s the ringleader of a gang of thieves that steal to order, is what she is. She dresses like that to throw store security off her trail." He turned to the patient little woman standing there, waiting for him to decide her fate. "C’mon, sister, now let’s move it!" he said, perhaps not realizing the connotation of the word "sister."

   Hanrahan jerked back visibly at the use of the word. Bernstein started fuming. "Awright, if Hanrahan don’t want this collar, you’re gonna take it, O’Shaughnessy." His tone left no room for argument.

   O’Shaughnessy shrank back into the wall. He swallowed audibly. "Uh, I don’t think I can do that, Sergeant," he said, near tears.

   Bernstein was furious.

   "Okay, fine! Then we give away the collar to one of these brave cops here!" He turned around to the back-ups. All of them appeared to be extremely busy studying the floor patterns in the hallway. "One a youse guys, step forward and take the credit for this arrest. Let’s go!

   No one budged. "You mean to tell me that all of you are intimidated by an imposter? A tiny little woman who bought that outfit in a costume shop?" Now he was amazed rather than angry. None of the cops would make eye contact with him.

   Bernstein started to laugh in a jolly way. He shook his head. He moved closer to one of the darker-skinned officers in the hallway. Without his reading glasses, he squinted to make out the cop’s nameplate. Patel, what about you? Surely you’re not afraid of a fake Catholic nun?"

   Patel, whose paternal grandparents had been born in Bombay, looked up guiltily. "Eight years at St. Sebastian’s, sir," she said. "Altar girl."

   Bernstein shook his head. "Oh, my, my," he said. He burst into a fresh bout of laughter. "What do you boys suppose we ought to do about this?" he asked, snickering. "Should we let her go?"

   Hanrahan raised his eyes to meet the sergeant’s. "Well, sir, if I might suggest . . . you seem to be the only one who’s—er—willing to take the collar. Being Jewish and all," he finished lamely. He looked away quickly.

   "Me? I’m a sergeant. A supervisor. I supervise. You’re cops. You make arrests. And anyway, I can’t work in the overtime tonight! I have to go home to my family."

   "To put the presents under the tree?" one of the back-up cops muttered.

   Bernstein wheeled around to find the smart-aleck, but all the cops were stone-faced, intent on breaking some secret code embedded in the hallway dirt.

   All of a sudden, the sergeant let out a guffaw. "Awright, you got me." He sighed. "Sister, turn around and put your hands behind your back." Bernstein whipped out his cuffs.

   "I will," she said calmly. "But the Lord will see that you meet your fate." Her aura of peace never faltered, not even when a Walkman, still in the unopened box, fell out of one of the folds in her voluminous habit.

   Over his shoulder, he said to the cops in the room, "Nobody minds arresting those mopes over there, right? That doesn’t interfere with anyone’s religious beliefs?"

   A chorus of denials emanated from the cops. They all rushed around looking busy, cuffing Santa’s little helpers, gathering the stolen merchandise for inventorying.

   One of the shoplifting boys whispered to his buddy, "Holy smokes, we’re being arrested by a Jewish Santa Claus."

   "That’s right, boys," said Bernstein, as he shepherded the crew down the stairs and into the waiting paddy wagon. "Ho, ho, ho."

Contact the Author - lizmartinez.com@gmail.com

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