Naughty: 9 Tales of Christmas Crime Part 12

"His horrible, horrible eyes!" Cratchit sobbed, struggling feebly as the constables shoved him in the back and padlocked the door. "Eyes made out of coal!"

"I must admit," Thicke said to Bucket, "I'm looking forward to reading your report."

"I daresay it will make even the works of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe seem positively mundane." Bucket slowly drew himself to his feet and began dusting himself off. "But it's a story you'll have to wait for, as will everyone at E Division. Only the good Mrs. Bucket will be graced with my tale tonight. She won't let me sleep till it's all told-and what's more, she's earned the right to hear it first. They can hold Mr. Cratchit for a.s.saulting an officer for now. I'll write up the rest tomorrow." The detective popped his top hat onto his head. "I'm going home."

"Are you sure you're up for that, sir?"

"I'll be fine."

Bucket turned toward the ambulance. Dimm was watching him sullenly, awaiting the fate he knew he couldn't escape.

"Police Constable Dimm won't mind making a little side trip to Bloomsbury on his way to headquarters. Isn't that right, Police Constable Dimm?"

Dimm didn't say whether he minded or not (though his growl might have been considered an answer by some).

Once again, Bucket rode up top with the constable. He found the frigid slap of the wind against his face refres.h.i.+ng, and the opium fog that had nearly smothered his mind dispersed more with each pa.s.sing gaslight. His head ached, his nose was tender and bruised, his forefinger throbbed from overuse, and he'd been subjected to fantastical, horrific visions that might scar the psyche of another man.

And Bucket was cheerful.

He knew his head would clear, his nose would heal, his forefinger would be rested and ready for the chase soon enough. He put no stock in phantasms, and the disturbing visions he'd seen held no power over him now.

His good spirits came from what he knew to be real: a bottle of sherry, a bowl of nuts, a pipe, a most excellent partner, all waiting just for him. He would stay up enjoying them until the clock struck twelve. And beyond.

NAUGHTY.

If you think about it, Santa Claus is a little like Batman. He's a vigilante. He decides who's good and who's bad and he does something about it on his own terms. Goody-goody kids get toys. Brats get squat-or lumps of coal, though I think that got dropped in, like, the 1950s.

When I was a little girl, I'd start worrying about whether I'd been good enough that year sometime around Thanksgiving, and for the next month I was a little angel. It was scary to think I might not get any toys . . . but it was sort of rea.s.suring, too. If Santa was really out there rewarding the nice and punis.h.i.+ng the naughty, it meant things were fair. There was some kind of justice in the universe.

Well, that didn't last long. I mean, you try to get through elementary school believing life's fair. It can't be done. I stayed nice, though. Maybe it was just a habit by then.

I finally broke the habit this December. Life just pushed me too far, and I decided I was done with nice. Nice sucked. Santa wasn't watching, so what was the point?

It was time to give naughty a try.

I graduated from IU in the spring, so this was supposed to be my first Christmas as a bona fide, official, independent adult. A year ago, I would've pictured myself flying home for the holidays from New York or Chicago or wherever it was I'd have my cool gig and my funky bachelorette pad. But when the holidays rolled around, I didn't have to fly back to Indiana-I was still there. I hadn't found a gig, cool or uncool, and my mom's apartment hardly counts as a "funky bachelorette pad," even if she is a bachelorette again thanks to That Man.

"That Man" is what my mom calls my dad. He was spending Christmas in his new house in Atlanta with "That Woman," a.k.a. "That Girl," a.k.a. "That Blonde s.l.u.t," a.k.a. "That Little b.i.t.c.h." I got a Christmas card from That Man with a check for fifty bucks in it. Mom didn't get a card or a check, which was typical. That Man owed my mom a lot of checks, which is why she'd gone from living in a big house on k.n.o.b Hill to a not-so-big house in town to a d.i.n.ky apartment building between an auto parts store and a p.o.r.n shop.

I was in that d.i.n.ky apartment building with her because New York and Chicago aren't exactly clamoring for recently graduated liberal arts majors. In fact, n.o.body's clamoring for recently graduated liberal arts majors. When I was at IU, I thought I'd end up in publis.h.i.+ng, communications or journalism, but it didn't take long in "the real world" to figure out that my only prospects were in food service, retail or prost.i.tution. I told my mom once that I'd pick that last option over the first two in a heartbeat, and she just gave me this sad look that said, "Oh, honey-all those years, all that money . . . for an English degree?"

Fortunately for us, one of our old neighbors, Dr. Roth, had taken mercy on Mom and given her a job as a receptionist. That covered the rent. Barely. So there was big-time pressure for me to "pull my own weight." I kept hoping to see an ad in the cla.s.sifieds that suited me. You know. "Over-Educated Smart-a.s.s Wanted to Talk About Books and Movies and Stuff." But of course that never happened.

So half a year after graduating from college, I gave up and took a job I knew I'd hate. I gave myself a built-in out, though: The job would only last one month. After four brutal, mind-numbing weeks wrapping Christmas presents at Fendler's department store, I'd escape minimum wage h.e.l.l and return to the relative bliss of unemployment.

I knew it would be bad, but I had no idea how bad. I'd been a wrapper at J.C. Penney a few Christmases before, so I was prepared for the tedium. But it wasn't boredom that tortured me. It was embarra.s.sment.

At least twice a day, I saw someone I knew-a kid from my high school, somebody's mom or dad, a teacher, people like that. Sometimes I even had to wrap their presents, which was when things got really painful. The chitchat was always like, "Courtney gets back from San Francisco tomorrow. You know she moved there after finis.h.i.+ng up at Princeton, don't you? She's an a.s.sistant editor at Chronicle Books, and she just loves it. So . . . ummmm . . . what have you been doing? Oh, and could you wrap the bathrobe and the slippers in the same box?"

Did I mention that I was Dreiser High valedictorian?

In the afternoon, another wrapper came in to help me-a chatty old woman named Mavis who highjacked every conversation within earshot with anecdotes about her son's adopted Guatemalan children. I had to hear about how little Tomas wet his pants on a mall Santa's knee about a thousand times a day. But that was fine so long as it switched the topic to something other than me.

Before Mavis came in, though, there was no buffer. I was all alone at my little "gift wrap station" near the jewelry department. So of course that's when he came up.

He was good looking, in a middle-aged TV anchorman kind of way. Tall, full-bodied but not fat, with a jutting jaw and perfect white teeth and thick hair that was just starting to go gray. He was a slick dresser, too, wearing a fleece-lined suede jacket over a black turtleneck and snug black jeans. My mom would've thought he was a total hottie.

It wasn't his looks that caught my attention, though. It was how familiar he seemed. And the way he was looking at me.

"Hi," he said in that creepy, "Hel-lo, beautiful" voice some men use when they think they're being suave.

"Hi."

It was the same word he'd used, but it sounded a lot different coming from me. His "hi" had been two syllables, two notes: hiii-eee. Mine was like the sound a dictionary makes when you drop it on a desk: thud. I gazed at him with the blank, unseeing eyes of a dead-souled retail zombie.

He either didn't get the message or took it as a challenge.

"Looks like you could use some excitement," he said with a smile. He swung a Fendler's bag up onto the counter between us. "I guess I arrived just in the nick of time."

"Uh-huh. Receipt, please."

That's the drill. No receipt, no gift wrap. Fendler's makes you drop at least fifty bucks on merchandise before they'll favor you with twenty two cents worth of "complimentary" wrapping paper. Otherwise it costs four bucks a box.

"It's in the bag," the guy said, still smiling.

I pulled out the slip of paper and gave it a quick glance to make sure Don Juan had spent enough money. That quick glance immediately turned into a pop-eyed stare.

Mr. Smoothie had obviously been waiting for just that reaction.

"My credit card's still smoking," he joked.

The guy had blown three thousand dollars in the store that morning. And everything he'd bought fit into one not-particularly large paper bag.

"It's all for the ball and chain," he said. "I have a lot to make up for." His grin grew wider, and he waggled his bushy eyebrows at me. "I've been a naaaaauuuughty boy this year."

"Yeah, well, I guess so," I mumbled, unsure what kind of response he was looking for. I mean, I know a thing or two about come-ons. I've been fending them off since I put on my first training bra. But this was one of the weirdest ones yet . . . if it even was a come-on.

His smirky leer answered my question.

"How about you?" he asked. "Have you been naughty this year?"

It was a toss-up for a second there: Should I slap his handsome face or spit in his twinkling eye? But then I remembered that I actually needed this stinking job, and I smiled instead. Not a friendly smile, mind you. A tight, prim, "I'll just ignore that remark" smile.

"It's going to take a few minutes to wrap your gifts," I said.

"Fine. Can I watch?"

I fought back a s.h.i.+ver. I was beginning to wonder if this guy was capable of saying anything that didn't sound like a creepy innuendo. Maybe it was a rare medical condition and he just couldn't help himself, like Tourette's but s.e.xual. Pervmo Syndrome.

"Suit yourself," I said, working hard to keep my voice neutral.

I began emptying out his bag. It didn't take long. There were only four things in it: a pearl necklace, a diamond-studded ring, a wrist.w.a.tch coated with even more diamonds and a long fur coat that must have wiped out an entire family of minks, including nieces, nephews and cousins twice removed. It made me nervous, having three thousand bucks worth of merchandise spread out on my work table, and normally I would've taken extra special care wrapping it up. But Casanova gave me a good reason to work fast.

"We're neighbors, you know," he said. "I've seen you."

Ew, I thought.

"Oh?" I said.

Cut-cut-fold-tape-fold-tape-tape. I finished the necklace and moved on to the watch. If gift wrapping were an Olympic sport, I'd have been on my way to the gold.

"Yeah. You live on k.n.o.b Hill, right? I'm right around the corner on Knopfler Drive."

Well, that was a relief, at least. He was talking about the old neighborhood, the nice one, the one we'd had to leave after That Man ran off with That Woman. Which meant he didn't know where I lived now. That dialed the Yuck Factor from a ten down to a seven.

"Oh, sure," I said, not looking up from the watch. I was cutting and taping so fast I could've lopped off a finger and wrapped it with the guy's gifts before I noticed the first drop of blood. "I thought you looked familiar."

"I can remember seeing you riding your bike, was.h.i.+ng cars in the driveway. You even came to my house once or twice when you were out caroling with people from the neighborhood."

"Oh, really?"

"Really," the man said. My back was to him, but somehow I could sense that he was leaning in closer when he spoke next. "You've changed."

Oh, G.o.d. Yuck Factor: Eight.

I knew what he was going to say next before the words even left his nasty lips.

"You were a girl then-"

"And I'm a woman now?"

"Oh, yeah."

Nine.

"You know, my wife's out of town until tomorrow afternoon. I'm going to be all alone tonight."

Here it came.

"Maybe you could drop by for some . . . eggnog . . . or something."

Ding-ding-ding! Ten!

I don't know how I could work so fast when I was practically choking on bile, but somehow I did it. The creep's presents were wrapped and back in his shopping bag. I turned and shoved the bag at him.

"ThereyougohaveaniceChristmasgoodbye."

He brought a hand up slowly to take the bag, flas.h.i.+ng me a lazy, unoffended smile. I saw now exactly what he was: the kind of guy who hits on everything with b.r.e.a.s.t.s simply as a way of playing the odds. You know the type. If he's shot down ninety nine times a day, that's O.K. His feelings aren't hurt-because number one hundred makes it all worthwhile.

"Thanks," he said. "Merry Christmas."

Even those innocent words came out icky and lewd, somehow. I almost expected the guy to leave a glistening trail of slime behind him as he oozed away.

And in a way, he did. Not on the store's floor, though. In my head.

I couldn't stop thinking about v.i.a.g.r.a Man's offer. Not the way he wanted me to think about it. I wasn't tempted. Bleah.

No, I was mad.

What had he meant when he said he had "a lot to make up for"? Or that he'd been "a naaaauuughty boy" this year? He'd been cheating on his wife? He'd been caught? And now he was going to buy his way back into the poor woman's heart with some expensive baubles . . . while still chasing tail on the side?

He was a sc.u.mbag. A sleaze. A gonad-brained son of a b.i.t.c.h.

And he was going to get away with it. I just knew it.

He deserved more than a lump of coal in his stocking. He deserved a loogie in his eggnog. Or, better yet, a good, hard kick in the jingle bells.

But there was no Santa Claus to leave the coal or hock the loogie or put a boot to the guy's crotch. The universe didn't care about good or bad. Naughty Boy would go unpunished.

Unless . . . if only . . . .

Wouldn't it be great if someone pulled a Grinch on the guy? You know, stole his Christmas? It would be like the whole Robin Hood thing, only more festive and seasonal. Rob gifts from the rich, give gifts to the poor. Or, if you happen to be poor yourself . . . well, why not cut out the middle man and just keep the booty? I mean, what's the difference? Poor is poor, right? It would be the next best thing to a victimless crime, because the only "victim" would be a selfish t.u.r.d who really, really deserved it.

I spent the rest of my s.h.i.+ft obsessing about Naughty Boy. In a weird way, it turned out to be the best day I ever had as a Fendler's Gift Presentation Specialist. Paper cuts, pushy customers, the one hundredth repet.i.tion of the Tomas wee-wee story, the one thousandth repet.i.tion of "Have a Holly Jolly Christmas" from the loudspeakers directly above my head-I didn't notice any of it. I was too busy daydreaming, picturing myself as a sort of Dark Knightress doling out harsh yuletide justice.

And at some point, I realized I wasn't just daydreaming. I was considering. Seriously thinking about tracking the guy down and giving him a good Scrooging.

Now, like I said before, I'm nice. This was, like, an actual robbery I was thinking about. A heist. What would someone like me know about something like that? The last time I'd stolen anything had been when I was five years old and I grabbed a 3 Musketeers bar off the candy rack at the Kroger. My mom saw it when we got outside and made me take it back and give it to the manager. I cried for an hour. I'm not exactly a hardened criminal. I don't even know any hardened criminals.

But I realized that I do know a guy who's kind of a softened criminal. When my s.h.i.+ft was over, I went looking for him.

I'd met Arlo Hettle the year before when I was suffering through my Christmas break trapped in a job so c.r.a.ppy it actually made my gig at Fendler's look pretty sweet. Wrapping other people's presents all day isn't any fun, but it's a week in the Bahamas compared to elfing.

Yeah, that's right, elfing. Arlo and I were mall elves together. We worked in "Santa's Workshop" over at Olde Towne Mall. I'd lead a little rugrat up to Santa's lap, Santa would ho ho ho, the kid would start bawling, Arlo took a picture, I'd whisk the kid away and then we'd start the whole h.e.l.lish cycle all over again. It was like being that Greek guy Sisyphus except with screaming toddlers instead of a boulder and a hill. To make it even worse, not only did Santa have a fetish for girls in green tights and red felt hats, he . . . ugh, forget it. I swore off that story a long time ago.

Anyway, I had a feeling Arlo would be back at Old Towne again this Christmas. The guy's not exactly a go-getter. The only thing he goes and gets is pot. Lots and lots of it. He's so mellow, half the time it's hard to tell whether he's even awake. He wouldn't be all that dependable as an accomplice, but I figured he'd know more than me about breaking the law, since he does it about a dozen times a day. If I was looking for a bad influence, Arlo was the logical place to start.

I was right about where to find him. Olde Towne's Santa was new and his she-elf was new, but the he-elf was still Arlo Hettle. And it was obvious he hadn't given up his favorite pastime. He was shuffling around like an old man in slippers, his mouth hanging open and his eyelids drooping low over gla.s.sy, red-streaked eyes. He was like a "Just Say No" poster come to life.

His lips slowly curled into a dreamy, vacuous smile when he saw me, and not long after that he put up the "FEEDING THE REINDEER" sign we used whenever Santa needed to go sit on a different throne. I met up with him by the unmarked door that led to the employee break room, and he greeted me with the same words he'd spoken to me most often the year before.