A Christmas Appointment
This was something that had been bugging me for a while: a classic movie has a plot hole that needs filling.
The man stood across from 320 Sycamore, slightly in the shadows. If the people streaming into the Bailey house with their life savings and rainy-day money had looked across the street, they'd falter, for a second, concerned.
He was tall, and thin, yet gave off an impression of strength, the kind of man Nick over at Martini's wouldn't enjoy tangling with. His face was...off, somehow. Especially the smile.
In fact, everything about him was off. His skin was a little too pale to explain away as the result of winter. His black clothes were a little too out of fashion and seemed to absorb a little too much light. But his hands were the worst.
They were knobby, ugly things, covered in veins and hair. As the man casually cracked each knuckle, the muscles in them flexed, like steel springs. They were the hands of a man who liked to hurt people.
The hands of a man who was good at it.
But nobody looked. It was better for them, really, the man mused. He just had to stay out of sight and wait.
He heard a bell jingle, and smirked. Clarence had gotten his wings, and gotten out of his way. Just one more, and he could go to his appointment.
And there he was, the bodyguard. The guard looked around furtively before taking out an envelope. There was eight thousand dollars in it, the man knew. His hands flexed, anxious. Everything depended on this.
The bodyguard looked around furtively and, as the crowd began to sing, he slipped the envelope into the mailbox and quickly walked away. Towards the train station, and away from Bedford Falls for good.
So nobody would know what had really happened. Good for him, the man thought, stepping out of his hiding place and starting to walk. He moved quickly, knuckles cracking as his hands flexed. Pesky angels out of the way, the entire town in the Bailey household or asleep, everything was perfect.
The man walked toward the bank, whistling the Coventry Carol and cracking his knuckles in time to the tune. True, he had an appointment.
But Mr. Potter wasn't going anywhere.
The man stood across from 320 Sycamore, slightly in the shadows. If the people streaming into the Bailey house with their life savings and rainy-day money had looked across the street, they'd falter, for a second, concerned.
He was tall, and thin, yet gave off an impression of strength, the kind of man Nick over at Martini's wouldn't enjoy tangling with. His face was...off, somehow. Especially the smile.
In fact, everything about him was off. His skin was a little too pale to explain away as the result of winter. His black clothes were a little too out of fashion and seemed to absorb a little too much light. But his hands were the worst.
They were knobby, ugly things, covered in veins and hair. As the man casually cracked each knuckle, the muscles in them flexed, like steel springs. They were the hands of a man who liked to hurt people.
The hands of a man who was good at it.
But nobody looked. It was better for them, really, the man mused. He just had to stay out of sight and wait.
He heard a bell jingle, and smirked. Clarence had gotten his wings, and gotten out of his way. Just one more, and he could go to his appointment.
And there he was, the bodyguard. The guard looked around furtively before taking out an envelope. There was eight thousand dollars in it, the man knew. His hands flexed, anxious. Everything depended on this.
The bodyguard looked around furtively and, as the crowd began to sing, he slipped the envelope into the mailbox and quickly walked away. Towards the train station, and away from Bedford Falls for good.
So nobody would know what had really happened. Good for him, the man thought, stepping out of his hiding place and starting to walk. He moved quickly, knuckles cracking as his hands flexed. Pesky angels out of the way, the entire town in the Bailey household or asleep, everything was perfect.
The man walked toward the bank, whistling the Coventry Carol and cracking his knuckles in time to the tune. True, he had an appointment.
But Mr. Potter wasn't going anywhere.