Naughty: 9 Tales of Christmas Crime Part 24

Once I hit the ground, I notice just how puny Gunless really is. I mean, s.h.i.+rley Temple could take this guy in a fair fight, and it gives me ideas. Then I turn toward his pal . . . .

Now, Soup wasn't any Andre the Giant, but he coulda been Andre's not-so-little brother, I tell you that. I'd have to go up in a hot-air balloon just to take a poke at his chin.

So bare-knuckle brawling was definitely out of the question as a solution to my problems. Which was O.K., anyhow, to be honest with you, as I can't fight worth spit.

"Go on," Soup says. He doesn't give me a shove or anything cuz he's got his hands full with the gun and the knife. But those do all the shoving he needs done. I start towards the back of the truck.

I don't set any speed records getting back there, though. I'm calculating as I walk. Do I try to roll under the trailer and run off into the woods on the other side? Or do I . . . well . . . roll under the trailer and run off into the woods on the other side. It was all I could think of other than growing wings and learning to fly, which seemed like a bit of a longshot.

Just as I'm about to duck under the truck-and probably get a bullet in the b.u.t.t in the process-there's no more truck to duck under, just those big darned semi wheels. I'd been so deep in thought planning my get-away, I'd blown my chance.

So there I am at the back-end of my trailer with Hulk Hogan holding a gun and a knife on me and I definitely don't feel those wings popping out. It was beginning to look like there was no way I was going to save my truck. And the only way I was going to save my life was through vigorous begging and pleading for mercy.

"Open it up," Soup says.

I do as I'm told without any back-talk, knowing it's a little late to start earning brownie points but figuring I may as well try. I unlock the bolt and pull the trailer doors open.

And there plain as day before our eyes was . . . nothing. It was pitch black in there. Soup and Gunless both lean forward, look at each other, then lean forward again.

"See?" I say hopefully. "Nothing."

"I don't see any dolls," Gunless says to the criminal mastermind.

"Shut up," Soup spits back. He pushes up against the trailer and leans in real far, and I can see one little eye under the "Campbell's" squinting away. "There's something way back there." He squints so hard it's a wonder he can see at all. "In the very back."

"Oh, that," I say. "That's not them Cauliflower Batch Babies or whatever. That's just some . . . extra plastic. I've got me another delivery to make in the morning."

My little pause between "some" and "extra plastic" was maybe like one second long, but I knew it might have been long enough to earn me a hunting-knife bow-tie. Soup gives me a stone-cold look, and I can tell he's wondering whether to slit my throat right then or wait to see how mad he should be when he does it.

After a very long moment, Soup decides to save the fun for later.

"Get up in there and check it out," he says to his buddy.

Gunless just kinda gapes at Soup for a while. I don't know, maybe he's afraid of the dark or something. But then he turns and hauls himself up into the trailer with a big grunt. I get a gander at the full moon as he goes up, if you know what I mean. I don't know why it is hillbillies can't seem to keep their pants up over their backsides.

So Gunless goes groping slowly off into the blackness, and in a few seconds there's a "Oomph" that says he's b.u.mped into my cargo.

"Whadaya see?" Soup calls out.

"Can't see nothing," Gunless says. I hear his hands pawing around over the shrink-wrapped dolls. "But there's something here, alright. It's big. Feels like it's all wrapped up in plastic."

At that moment, a terrifying thought pops into my head. All these two rocket scientists need to do is pull Soup's pick-up around and use the headlights to get a good look inside my trailer. Then they'll see they've got what they want and I've been lying and it's goodnight, Nellie . . . and goodbye, Ba.s.s. And it's while I'm trembling over this-not volunteering the idea, of course-that I finally get those wings I'd been hoping for.

"Aww, heck . . . lemme have a look," Soup says (or words to that effect) and he puts his fists on the back ledge of the trailer still clutching the gun and knife, throws up a leg as thick as a tree trunk and pushes himself up inside.

I'm so stunned by this it takes me a second to do the obvious thing-which is slam that trailer shut at supersonic speed. It takes Soup the same amount of time to realize what he's done, and I see him whirl around just as the doors go clang right in his face. I re-lock the bolt a split second before Soup throws himself against the doors. There's a crash, and I hear him stumble back and fall, cursing up a storm the whole time. A second later, things get really noisy when two sets of boot-covered feet start kicking at the doors.

"Let me outta here!" Gunless screams. "Let me outta here!"

He sounds real hysterical, like maybe he really is afraid of the dark.

That's when I take the dunce cap off Soup and put it on my own fool head.

"Now just calm down there, boys," I say. "I ain't gonna-"

The first bullet came flying through the trailer door and kept on going right through my jacket just under my left arm. The second one took a little nip off my left ear. You can still see the scar right there. I didn't wait around for the third, fourth, fifth and sixth bullets. I dived head-first under the trailer and threw my hands up over my head. Not that my two little hands were gonna keep a bullet out of my brain if that's where it wanted to go.

Bang bang . . . bang bang bang . . .bang . . . click click.

And then nothing.

I'm lying there in the snow and gravel and frozen mud under the back of the truck and I'm thinking, "Well, I'm cold and scared and my ear hurts like a hmm-hmm, so I guess I'm still alive." But I'm not too anxious to get up and take advantage of that, figuring that's just gonna invite Soup to start popping off again. And while I'm down there on my belly just trying to be quiet and think quiet thoughts, I hear Soup and Gunless in the truck above me.

"Didja get 'im?" Gunless says.

Pause.

"I don't know."

"Y'know . . . if you did get 'im . . . who's gonna let us outta this here truck?"

Pause.

"I don't know."

"You're outta bullets, too, aintcha?"

Pause.

"Yes."

"Where are the extras?"

Pause.

"In my pick-up."

Pause.

Pause.

Pause.

"I'm scared, Buck."

"Shut up, Kev."

Now you might think all my troubles are over at this point. But I've got me a dilemma on my hands. The responsible, law-abiding thing to do is head to the nearest state police outpost and drop Buck and Kev off and let the great state of Pennsylvania decide their fate.

But. I can't just pull up and unload my new cargo like it's a bunch of frozen fish sticks. There are going to be questions. There is going to be paperwork. There is the great likelihood that someone's going to figure out how much driving I'd planned on doing in the span of twenty four hours-an amount of time behind the wheel which is not exactly legal, you understand. And, most importantly, there is the one hundred percent absolute guaranteed certainty that I am not going to make it back to River City by ten a.m. Christmas morning or eleven a.m. Christmas morning or even five p.m. Christmas night.

Which means all of this will have been for nothing.

So I did what I think any self-respecting trucker would've done. I crawled out from under the trailer, hopped back in my cab, fired up the engine and headed for the interstate.

It took me seven hours to get to River City. And I didn't need any Dew to keep me awake. I had so much adrenaline pumping through my veins I could've won the Kentucky Derby without benefit of a horse. Plus, my ear was throbbing away the whole time, and it's hard to get sleepy when it feels like a badger's nibbling on the side of your head.

I pulled into the parking lot out front of Monkeyberry Toys at ten fifteen a.m. And I am telling you, the place was packed. Cars cars cars-most of 'em empty. There was this big mob jammed around the doors to the store, and when everybody sees me pull up, they let out this shrieking scream-shout, and all of a sudden I've got three hundred doll-crazy women chasing after me. I barely made it around the side of the store ahead of 'em.

Around the corner there's the loading dock and about a dozen Monkeyberry employees waiting for me. I also see five familiar faces: Basil and Ivor Boraborinski and my truckin' buddies Dave Reeves, Milford Corn and Ernie Hutchings. I'd C.B.ed ahead for the cavalry, you see, and there they were.

While the Monkeyberry folks go try to head off the stampeding moms, I get my rig pulled around and back up to the dock. Then I climb out and go around back of the trailer, where the boys are waiting for me with the Monkeyberry manager.

"Good gosh, Ba.s.s, you look like heck," Ernie says.

"You should see the other fellas," I say. "In fact, you can. Do me a favor and try to look tough for a minute, would ya? They ain't gonna be too jolly."

And I open up the trailer doors, and there's my two Robin Hood wannabes squinting at the light-which they hadn't seen in quite some time except maybe what came in through the bullet holes. They looked like they'd just spent a day tumbling around in a clothes dryer. (I admit I didn't go out of my way to avoid every pothole I saw on my way back to River City.) "I suggest you two get a move on before somebody calls the police," I say.

Soup stands up slowly and stumbles towards us. He's still got his mask on, but I can read his eyes. He doesn't look angry, just confused.

"Where are we?"

"The North Pole," I say. "Now scoot."

Soup looks us all up and down for a second, then comes to the only logical conclusion: He's getting off easy.

"Let's go, Kev," he says. And the two of them come on out of the truck, hop off the loading dock and walk off into a beautiful, crisp, clear Indiana winter morning. From there I don't know where they went-and I don't much care.

"Don't explain," the Monkeyberry manager says. He's already rushed into the truck to check out the dolls. He comes back to me with a delivery voucher and a pen. "Just sign this."

"With pleasure." And I haven't even gotten half-way through my name when the manager-man yanks the paperwork back and starts shouting "Go go go!" at more Monkeyberry employees who almost run right us over, they're so frantic to get those darned dolls on the shelves.

"Come on, Ba.s.s-tell us what happened," Milford says after we've jumped out of the way.

"Well, I tell ya'," I say. And my knees start to buckle at the idea of running through the whole thing. "Fellas, I'm exhausted. Thank you for your help, but I'm gonna have to give you a rain check on the story."

The boys are all gearjammers like me. They know what it's like to come off a long haul. So they all slap me on the back and tell me to go on home.

"I'll have your check for you tomorrow," Ivor says as I'm going.

"You better," I say.

I don't know how I got home. The job was done, the adrenaline was wearing off and I couldn't tell if my eyes were open or not. When I came in the door, Bootsie catches sight of my b.l.o.o.d.y ear and just about screams.

"Shhhhh," I say. "You'll wake the boys."

This was back when noon was early-rising for them.

"What happened to your ear, Billy?" Bootsie says. She's the only one ever called me "Billy."

I sit down in my La-Z-Boy and look at the Christmas tree and the presents underneath it and the cards and the porcelain Santas and the lights all over the place.

"I can't tell you how sweet it is to be home for Christmas," I say, and then I fall asleep in the time it takes to tell it.

When I woke up, it was December 26th.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Steve Hockensmith is the New York Times best-selling author of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls. His first novel, Holmes on the Range, was a finalist for the Edgar, Shamus, Anthony and Dilys awards, and its heroes went on to star in four sequels (On the Wrong Track, The Black Dove, The Crack in the Lens and World's Greatest Sleuth!). Before turning his hand to novels, he was a prolific writer of short fiction, and more collections of his stories are forthcoming . . . a.s.suming anyone gives a c.r.a.p about this one. His website is www.stevehockensmith.com, but you probably could have guessed that, smart cookie that you undoubtedly are. He thanks you for reading all the way to the end of the book, which is coming up rrrrrrrrrrrrrright . . . .

Now.

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