Santa Clawed

RITA MAE BROWN & SNEAKY PIE BROWN234

father’s Skylark, her body bare save for shorts and the illu-sion of a tee-shirt, the basketball cradled against her breasts.But as I winced to think that my fabulous ascent would be fornothing, she passed to me, the ball finding my hands and lift-ing me high above the rim where I gave it down into thehoop, my view of the world changed forever.

She is still there, thirty years gone by, kissing me backfrom death with her rapt attention, vanquishing the shame Ifeel for doing what I love.

My name is Victor Worsley, Vic to my few friends, Worselyto my legions of detractors. I’m a syorts writer, basketball mymain game. Perversely compulsive, I write longhand in fastblack ink, seven columns a week. I’ve been doing this for fif-teen years without a break. I used to write at a desk in a quietroom far from my fellow human beings. Now I write every-where—hotels, coffee houses, train stations, park benches.Anywhere but in my office.

However, on Tuesdays, my favorite day of the week in SanFrancisco, I do go down to the Chron to taunt my editor, thelugubrious Lucas McCormack, a man terrified of offendinganyone. Poor Luke will no doubt be fretting about the widen-ing rift between yours truly and Jim Hathaway, the coach ofthe Warriors, the most annoying man in my life. Why?Because he won’t let the men play without strict orders fromthe bench, and it’s killing the game. It has become a point ofhonor with me now. I want him to give the game back to theplayers, to free them to improvise.

A gray sleet morning–I stood on the western edge ofmy father’s driveway, focused intently on hi finest gift to me–a shiny orange rim mated to a whitewashed backboard–afresh net awaiting my throw, the summer sun warming mybare skin. I was a rosy tan white boy, longing to flee the op-pressive confines of suburban dependency. Nearly all my he-roes were great black men who could fly. Elgin Baylor, OscarRobertson, Wilt Chamberlain, Earl the Pearl Monroe.

My greatest wish was to drive the lane, that narrow cor-ridor leading to the goal, to leave the ground and soar highinto the air, there to float in defiance of gravity before releas-ing a delicate shot that kissed the board and tumbled through.I could jump and shoot. But to float, to fly, that was whateluded me.

And on that day, that once in my life, I transcended mywish. I ran toward the basket and leapt into the air, discover-ing as I left the earth that I had forgotten the ball. It was stillin the hands of the love of my life, the sweetest sixteen I’veever seen. She was leaning back against my father’s Skylark,

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RITA MAE BROWN & SNEAKY PIE BROWN

father’s Skylark, her body bare save for shorts and the illu-sion of a tee-shirt, the basketball cradled against her breasts.But as I winced to think that my fabulous ascent would be fornothing, she passed to me, the ball finding my hands and lift-ing me high above the rim where I gave it down into thehoop, my view of the world changed forever.

Dear Deputy Cooper,I do not recognize Donald Cletterback nor does anyone on my

staff. However, we recognize the man with him. He comes in aboutonce a month usually in the company of a local business man, BillBoojum.

Let me know if I can be of further service to you. Yours truly,Tara Fitzgibbon


But the real reason I go downtown, ever, is to flirt withGreta Eagleheart, our divine section manager. And I do meandivine. Greta is a most successful melange of peoples, aNefertiti with the cunning eyes of a fearless wolf. I’ve knownher for three years, dreamt of loving her from head to toe, but

234 SANTA CLAWED

Worsely to my legions of detractors. I’m a syorts writer,basketball my main game. Perversely compulsive, I writelonghand in fast black ink, seven columns a week. I’ve beendoing this for fifteen years without a break. I used to write ata desk in a quiet room far from my fellow human beings.Now I write everywhere—hotels, coffee houses, train sta-tions, park benches. Anywhere but in my office.


Hey, you asked for this driver’s license Saturdaynight. Here’s our record. Yrs, Carol

My greatest wish was to drive the lane, that narrow corri-dor leading to the goal, to leave the ground and soar highinto the air, there to float in defiance of gravity before releas-ing a delicate shot that kissed the board and tumbled through.I could jump and shoot. But to float, to fly, that was whateluded me. Dazzling in a silky blue dress, she greets me today

235

Santa ClawedR I T A M A E B R O W N& S N E A K Y P I E B R OW N

I L L U S T R A T I O N S B Y M I C H A E L G E L L A T L Y

BANTAM BOOKS NEW YORK • TORONTO • LONDON • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND

Books by Rita Mae Brown & Sneaky Pie Brown

WISH YOU WERE HEREREST IN PIECES

MURDER AT MONTICELLOPAY DIRT

MURDER, SHE MEOWEDMURDER ON THE PROWL

CAT ON THE SCENTSNEAKY PIE’S COOKBOOK FOR MYSTERY LOVERS

PAWING THROUGH THE PASTCLAWS AND EFFECTWHISKER OF EVIL

SOUR PUSSPUSS ‘N CAHOOTS

THE PURRFECT MURDERSANTA CLAWED

Books by Rita Mae Brown

THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCKSONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN

THE PLAIN BROWN RAPPERRUBYFRUIT JUNGLE

IN HER DAYSIX OF ONE

SOUTHERN DISCOMFORTSUDDEN DEATHHIGH HEARTS

STARTING FROM SCRATCH: A DIFFERENT KIND OF WRITERS‘ MANUALBINGO

VENUS ENVYDOLLEY: ANOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND IN WAR

RIDING SHOTGUNRITA WILL: MEMIOR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER

LOOSE LIPSALMA MATER

HOTSPURFULL CRY

OUTFOXEDTHE HUNT BALL

THE HOUNS AND THE FURYTHE TELL-TALE HORSE

Santa Clawed

Dear Reader

Cats will conquer the world! Well, if not the world, the Inernet.I now have my own domain on Mom’s website. Our adress is: It’s not necessary to address me Your Most Exalted Striped Pre-sence. A simple “Miss Pie” will do. My name is Victor Worsley,Vic to my few friends, Worsely to my legions of detractors. I’ma syorts writer, basketball my main game. Perversely compul-sive, I write longhand in fast black ink, seven columns a week.I’ve been doing this for fifteen years without a break. I used towrite at a desk in a quiet room far from my fellow human be-ings. Now I write everywhere—hotels, coffee houses, train sta-tions, park benches. Anywhere but in my office.

So mnay of you ask whether Harry and Fair will get backtogether again. In my mystery following this one, The YearbookMurders, Harry prepares for her twentieth high-school reunion. This gets her allwispy and misty about Fiar but then, humans are prone to nostalgia.

Cats don’t have twentieth high-school reunions. We’re too vain.Others of you have visited Crozet, Virginia. You have discovered the post of-

fice does not exactly parrallel what I describe in my books. That’s because I’veblended the lok of the Crozet Post Office with that of the Whitehall Post Office.Artistic Licience. other than that, Crozet physically is pretty much Crozet. Thecharacters are my own creations.

I dispatched seven field mice yesterday. Top that!

Affectionately Yours,

Sneaky Pie

Dedicated to

John Morris and Robert Steppe

When they’re good, they’re good

but when they’re bad, they’re better!

Mary Minor Haristeen My name is Victor Worsley, Vic to my

Mrs. Murphy few friends, Worsely to my legions

Tee Tucker, yof detractors. I’m a syorts writer, basketball mymain

Pharamond Haristeen (Fair) game. Perversely compulsive, I writelonghand in fast black ink







Pharamond Haristeen (Fair) game. Perversely compulsive, I writelonghand in fast black ink

Cast of Characters

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Santa Clawed