“We’ve been subcontracted in the matter of New York v. Kringle. Your job is to prove that this guy,” Baltic said, tapping on a newspaper photograph of an old man with a white beard, “is Santa Claus.”

“Gosh, Mr. Baltic,” said Jacob, “I didn’t realize it had been the 1940s all this time.”

“I don’t pay you to know what year it is. Here’s what we’re going to do. You and the other junior associates are going to get that sleigh he rode in the Macy’s parade and drive it off the roof to prove he can fly, indisputably demonstrating that our client is in fact representing Santa Claus.”

“Um, Mr. Baltic—”

“I’m sorry, were you about to say something besides ‘yes sir, right away’?”

“No, Mr. Baltic.”

Jacob and the other junior associates filed out of the conference room. When they reached the street, they gawked at their surroundings, seeming to realize for the first time that they were sepia-toned. The secretary at Macy’s directed them to some haggard-looking but shockingly accommodating divorcee. She was only too happy to let them take the sleigh, though Jacob suspected she might have been less so if he had followed “We need to the sleigh to help Mr. Kringle” with “so we can throw it off the roof.” He tried not to think about how he and the other junior associates looked hauling the sleigh down the road by ropes over their own shoulders. Law school hadn’t prepared him for this.

Back at Baltic Tower, they spent a painful and exhausting afternoon dismantling the sleigh into pieces small enough to fit in the freight elevator. It was after 5 when they had finally re-assembled it into a shape that roughly resembled the form it had when it arrived.

“Good work gentlemen, we’re officially billing overtime now,” said Mr. Baltic.

Jacob thought that was as good an opening as he was going to get. “Thanks Mr. Baltic. Now I wanted to ask—”

“I thought you might. One of you is going to ride in the sleigh while the others push it off the roof.”

Jacob’s jaw dropped. “Mr. Baltic, that’s INSANE!”

“Why? Don’t you believe our client is really representing Santa Claus? That’s what we’re being paid for, isn’t it? A real lawyer would believe whatever his client needs him to. Are you a real lawyer, Jacob?”

Jacob stood up and squared his shoulders. “I won’t do it, Mr. Baltic. This is idiotic.”

The other associates gasped.

“That’s fine, son,” said Mr. Baltic. “But one of you better do it, or you’re all fired. Good luck finding a job in this economy.”

“Actually Mr. Baltic, since it’s 1949, the law sector is currently experiencing maybe its greatest growth of all ti—”

“Shut the fuck up, Oliver. Now,” Baltic said, looking at his Rolex, “it’s 5:45. I’m going over there to have a smoke because I’m freezing my nuts off. You guys have until 6:00 to decide who’s going on the sleigh.”

The junior associates huddled together. “Nice going, Jacob,” grumbled Austin.

“Yeah,” said Oliver. “Obviously it has to be you.”

“What? You’re all not seriously going along with this?” Jacob was too stunned to say anything else.

“You heard Mr. Baltic,” said Austin. “I don’t want to get fired on Christmas.”

“This—this—” Jacob spluttered as they manhandled him into the sleigh. “This is crazy! It’s insane! This isn’t even Santa’s real sleigh! It’s just a prop Macy’s uses for the parade. We don’t have any reindeer! PLEASE, MISTER BALTIC!” he screamed.

The closest thing he got to an answer was the glow of a cigarette ember from the shadows in the open door to the stairwell. The other junior associates exchanged a brief look and a wordless nod, then put their shoulders to the back of the sleigh. The runners glided with surprising ease over the gravel on the roof, picking up speed until they were at a full run. The sleigh came to the makeshift ramp they had put against the railing, and with a final shove they launched it.

For an instant, even Jacob believed that it might actually fly. But then, seized by gravity, it tipped forward, and he plunged in shrieking terror toward 34th Street.

The last echoes of the collision had scarcely died away before Baltic emerged again from the stairwell. “OK,” he said, “we’ll try the post office thing.”

@gastonnerval