Fitz: The mystery of the missing Thanksgiving

“They haven’t even thawed yet.”

“I realize that, but …”

“My Butterball still has a head on his shoulders.”

“Turkeys have shoulders?”

“Shut your yapper, Pee Wee. Dig this, little man, you got reindeer bells jingling in my ear at the very same minute my turkey is still strutting in some farmer’s yard making gobble-gobble sounds and planning on buying a hat for the headbangers ball. It ain’t right.”

I was out of my mind. I’d been on edge ever since some joker down at Spillane’s Tap Room slipped two bits into the jukebox and punched “White Christmas” way too soon. Rosita, the waitress with a heart of copper, unplugged it.

“No one wants to hear that cat Crosby cry about Christmas. Any of you barflies dreaming of a shot of Wild Turkey in honor of Thanksgiving?”

I pressed my nose against the early bird’s beak and locked my headlights on him.

“Every red-blooded American knows Christmas doesn’t show up until the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Is nothing sacred to you people? What’s that in your hand?”

“F-f-f-frankincense c-c-cologne.”

I poked his name tag, right in the yellow happy face. “Frankly, I’m incensed. And I come bearing gifts — five of ’em.”