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146
The phone was Nokia’s granny model. It wouldn’t have
brought more than twenty euros on the street and the
screen was cracked. I brushed the scroll key and a photo
appeared. The gravestone was dark gray with an image of a
swan flying away and a simple bit of text: Paula Johanna
Salo, 1985–2012. “What business does Santa Claus have with
my phone?”
The man’s voice had a stronger ring now.
“How else can Santa figure out who’s been naughty and
nice? May I see your ID?”
“You don’t have any right, you’re not the police—”
“I can get the cops here in a flash if you want them. I’m
guessing you’re an old buddy of theirs.”
The man wiped the sweat from his brow and claimed that
he’d left his wallet and papers at home. I asked him if he
wanted me to pat him down right there in front of everyone
or in the back room. He tried to whine something about me
not having the authority, but I grabbed hold of his broken-
off finger with a grip that a bit tighter would have
dislocated the remaining stump. The junkie was right: I did