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men’s skin too. Santa must need makeup remover, at the
very least. I flirted back; it reinforced my identity as a man.
Was Merja sharp enough to see behind disguises? Perhaps
she sensed that I wasn’t an ordinary Santa Claus, but rather
keeping an eye out for thieves.
By Saturday evening I was so beat I decided to stop at a bar.
I changed clothes in the secret room as usual. Security
Chief Bruun had assured me no one knew of its existence
besides the store management and him, not even the house
detectives. It wasn’t even marked on the building’s official
floor plan. I checked the security camera to make sure no
one would see me leaving the secret room. I circled the
parking garage so it looked as if I’d come by car and then I
entered the elevator. I was myself again, a tall blond woman
who looked like a white version of Grace Jones. My jeans
and black suede jacket offered little protection from the
wind that blasted in from the Mannerheimintie Street
doors. I darted across the street to the Hotel Marski bar and
ordered a tequila. That would get my blood flowing. There
was old-time jazz playing, soothing as a bubble bath after
listening to endless Christmas carols. I pretended to read
the free newspaper while I played with my phone. I was
used to sitting alone in bars and chasing away any
unwelcome company.
A familiar-looking man was seated beside the window. He
had an athletic build, and black hair cut very short and
spiked with gel. The thick-rimmed glasses confused me for