Naughty: 9 Tales of Christmas Crime Part 15

"Listen, babe. I want that merchandise and I'm not leaving this neighborhood till I get it. You understand? So if that was him, you'd better just-"

"How many times do I have to say it? No. That was not him."

The lie was sounding weaker with each repet.i.tion, but the Reptile seemed to accept it . . . for the time being.

"Alright, let's go then," he said. "But the next time we come to a place with a cheesy-lookin' guy home all by himself, I might just send Diesel in whether you give the signal or not."

Which reminded me that I still didn't know what "the signal" was. But it did a lot more than that. It told me what I had to do.

I had to give the Reptile what he wanted . . . sort of.

As we walked up the long gravel drive toward Knopfler, Diesel began campaigning for a program change. He wanted us to switch to "Jingle Bells" because, "s.e.xular" or not, everybody knew the lyrics. He also wanted us to sing it in four-part harmony. The Reptile rattled the change-filled bucket at him.

"Don't forget, D-we've got em-pha-ma-zema," he said, a freshly lit cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. "Sing like you're about to hack up a lung."

Diesel responded with a pouty "O.K.," which made him seem a little less scary. He still had his hand buried in his jacket pocket, though, and whatever that hand held was still pointed at me and Arlo, so he was scary enough.

We skipped the next two houses. I told the Reptile I knew who lived there, which was half true. The Stra.s.smans were in one. Back in high school, I'd briefly dated their son Josh. Given how that had turned out, I almost hoped Josh was home for the holidays-so I could sic Diesel on the grabby, stalker-in-training a.s.s-hat. The other house was a big Frank Lloyd Wright-type paG.o.da-style monstrosity that drove out anyone who bought it within three years. I had no idea who lived there now.

The third home was dark and cheerless. There were no strings of lights hung in the trees out front, no electric "icicles" dangling from the gutters, no plastic reindeer on the roof, no wreaths hung on the mailbox or front door, nothing Christmasy at all. In fact, the place would've looked totally abandoned if it weren't for a dull, blue-gray glow that strobed across the front windows-the fluttering light of a television being watched somewhere deep inside the house.

We crowded up onto the porch, and the Reptile flicked his cigarette out onto the lawn before ringing the bell.

"Hey," I said as we stood there waiting for an answer, "what's the signal, anyway?"

"Oh." The Reptile scratched the top of his ski mask. "Uhhhh . . . just say, 'That's him.'"

Brilliant, eh? The CIA could use a guy like the Reptile.

We waited.

And waited.

And waited.

"Ring it again," Diesel said after more than a minute had crawled by.

The Reptile leaned forward and hit the b.u.t.ton three times fast. Ding-dong ding-dong ding-dong.

The flickering glow in the windows disappeared. A distant thud-thud-thud grew steadily louder. Someone was coming to the door.

"Get ready," the Reptile said, though I wasn't sure if he was talking to all of us or just Diesel.

I got ready anyway, taking a deep breath and wrapping my hand around Arlo's. He turned to give me a look of droopy-eyed surprise just as the door before us opened.

It didn't open far-only wide enough for a man's face to appear. It was a craggy face, the face of man worn down by his own anger and fear.

And then, as the eyes locked on the masked figures on his porch, it suddenly became a very different kind of face. The face of a man who was screaming his lungs out.

Mr. Macnee had been waiting for decades for something to happen. A U.N. army invading America, federal stormtroopers coming to take away his a.s.sault rifles, the Men in Black bringing another implant to shove up his b.u.t.t. And now, at last, here it was. The barbarians were finally at the gate.

If I'd started a singalong by belting out "Das.h.i.+ng through the snoooow in a horse-open sleeeeiiigh," maybe we could've calmed him down. Maybe. But I didn't. I waited until Mr. Macnee had slammed the door shut-as I'd hoped he would-before turning to the Reptile.

"That's him!"

I shrieked it, because the words weren't just for the Reptile and Diesel. They were for Mr. Macnee, too. I wanted him to have no doubt whatsoever that the goons outside were there for him.

"Do it," the Reptile said to Diesel, pointing at the door.

Diesel didn't hesitate. He stepped toward the door and reached for the k.n.o.b with one of his long gorilla arms.

And then: Pop.

Diesel stopped, staring at something on the door at eye level. It was just to the left of his head and it hadn't been there a second before.

It was a hole. A fresh bullet hole.

That's when I started running, dragging Arlo with me over the driveway and across Macnee's side yard. There was another pop, and I heard more pounding footsteps behind me.

"Run!" the Reptile howled.

I glanced over my shoulder, about to say, "What does it look like I'm doing?" But I didn't bother. Back beyond Diesel and the Reptile, Mr. Macnee was stepping out onto his porch with a gun in his hand.

"Yeah! Run!" I yelled. I let go of Arlo, as I figured by now even he would've gotten the general idea.

I dodged around trees as I ran, but I was still half-expecting to find out what it's like to be shot. I was totally expecting not to like it. Mr. Macnee had something else in mind, though.

"Get 'em, Cujo!" I heard him shout.

It's hard to think of any other words in the English language that could get you to run faster than those. The ground was soggy-wet with snow, but we were zipping over it like it was Astroturf, cutting through backyards in a diagonal from Knopfler Drive to k.n.o.b Hill.

Somewhere behind me, I could hear the huffing and puffing of a large animal moving quickly-and it wasn't Diesel. The sound was growing louder by the second.

But then from up ahead, a new sound caught my ear. It was as angelic and soothing as Cujo's panting was demonic and alarming. I could see k.n.o.b Hill by this point, and it seemed to be bathed in a heavenly light.

A gaggle of real carolers was walking along the road. There were maybe twenty of them in all, each carrying a small candle. They were between us and the cars.

"Si-i-lent niiiight. Ho-o-ly niiiight," they sang. "Alllll is caaaalm. Alllll is-"

A sickening ripping sound split the night, followed by a bellowed curse. I looked back again.

A large, lumpy shape had attached itself to the seat of Diesel's camouflage pants. It was an overweight pit bull. Cujo. He was trying to dig in his paws, but Diesel had all the momentum of the trucks he was named for, and the big dog was being pulled across the ground like a one-horse open sleigh.

The carolers had stopped to stare at us now, though a few of them were valiantly trying to carry on, crooning about yon virgin mother and the holy infant so tender and mild.

"Sleeeeeep in hea-ven-ly peeeeee-eace. Slee-eep in-"

And that was the end of the heavenly peace. There was another loud rip, and Diesel suddenly shot ahead of us, sans pants. We were right on top of our innocent bystanders now, and he barreled through them, knocking carolers and candles alike into the snow. The singer to get the worst of it, I was shocked and pleased to see, was my old boyfriend Josh Stra.s.sman, who ended up flat on his back with a boot print on his forehead. The rest of the carolers scattered, screaming.

As Arlo, the Reptile and I weaved through the crowd, Cujo went streaking past, his beady eyes still locked on his chosen target-Diesel's juicy behind. Diesel must have heard him coming, because he looked over his shoulder and reached into his jacket pocket.

"No!" I cried out.

But it was too late. Diesel pulled out his weapon and used it.

It was an ice sc.r.a.per. He hurled it at Cujo, and the plastic doodad bounced harmlessly off the tubby pit bull's broad back.

I'd been "punk'd," as the idiots on MTV say. Diesel couldn't have blown my head off. The worst he could have done was sc.r.a.pe the frost off me.

That was it. I was through. I veered toward my car, threw myself behind the wheel and tore out of there.

I took a look back in the rear-view mirror as I left. Arlo and the Reptile had made it to the Hyundai. Diesel, too, though he wasn't inside. He was on the roof, a leg hanging perilously over the side. Cujo had clamped his jaws to one of Diesel's combat boots and was thras.h.i.+ng around like a great white shark going to town on a sea lion. The Hyundai lurched forward, and Cujo fell to the ground, taking the boot with him. The carolers had regrouped in a semi-circle a safe distance away, and they watched it all, looking kind of like the Whos at the end of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, except they were confused and appalled instead of joyful and smug.

When I was about a mile away, I pulled over at a convenience store and just sat there in the car for a while, panting. Once I'd caught my breath, I got out and stuffed my ski mask in the garbage can out front. Then I went inside to buy myself a Slurpee to settle my nerves. The little donation jar by the cash register was for the Humane Society, not the American Emphysema a.s.sociation, but I stuffed in a couple bucks anyway.

I got home just as Jimmy Stewart was learning that if he'd never lived his wife would've become-fate worse than death-a librarian. With gla.s.ses! Mom leapt to her feet and rushed to the door as I came in.

"Where have you been? I've been worried sick!"

"I couldn't find that d.a.m.n book. I was looking all over for it," I said, slipping past her into the oversized closet we jokingly call my "bedroom." My copy of Hannibal was buried under a pile of old Entertainment Weeklys my mom had snagged from Dr. Roth's office, and I yanked it free and brought it back out to the hallway. "Oh, man-it was here all the time!"

Yeah, I was getting better at lying and manipulating. Practice makes perfect, I guess.

I didn't hear from Arlo that night or the next day or ever. Maybe he still feels guilty. Maybe he has nothing to say. Or maybe-and I think this is the most likely explanation-he can't remember my last name or the store where I worked. The guy has a memory like a sponge . . . by which I mean it's soggy and full of holes.

That meant I didn't hear from Diesel and the Reptile either, which was a nice Christmas present. They didn't have any reason to be mad at me, anyway. As far they knew, I'd told the truth. The aging horndog who'd bought the fur coat and the jewelry turned out to be a well-armed gun nut. That's just the kind of bad luck you probably get used to when you're an incompetent petty criminal.

It didn't bother me that Diesel and the Reptile got away that night. We'd all had a dose of what one of my more granola college friends used to call "karmic retribution." We'd had evil, selfish thoughts, and because of that we were shot at, chased by an enraged attack dog and (in one case) de-pantsed in front of a large group of horrified strangers. Lumps of coal in our stockings would've been overkill after a night like that. The universe had already spanked us and sent us to bed without dinner.

So maybe there really is such a thing as justice. Maybe there really is a Santa Claus. I don't know.

There was a loose end, though. One of the bad guys did get away unpunished. And as much as I tried to push it out of my mind, it still cheesed me off. So the next day, I did something about it. Nothing big. Nothing illegal. I'd learned my lesson. I just drove back to the old neighborhood and dropped off a Christmas card.

Nice, right?

Well, not really. Not if you know what I wrote inside.

Hey, big guy!

Thanks for inviting me over to make a cold winter's night extra HOT!!! I sure hope "Mrs. Claus" doesn't find out what how b-a-d you've been! Give me a jingle when you're ready to meet me under the mistletoe again!

XOXOXO,.

Your little ho ho ho I sealed the card in a white envelope and kissed the front with a mouth smeared with my s.l.u.ttiest lipstick. Then I left it in Naughty Boy's mailbox. It was Christmas Eve, around 9 p.m., and the radio weather guys had already gone into their annual routine about a blip on the radar heading toward us from the North Pole.

I didn't know what would happen with the card. Maybe Naughty Boy would get busted and maybe he'd end another year thinking he could get away with anything. It all came down to this: Who would bring in the mail the day after Christmas, him or his wife?

There was no way for me to know. But I'd done my part.

The rest was up to Santa.

HIDDEN GIFTS.

Karen had just spoken blasphemy, plain and simple. Heresy. Sacrilege.

Not that her little brother knew what blasphemy, heresy or sacrilege were. But he did know poo-poo when he heard it. And to Ronnie, this was big poo-poo. The biggest.

"That's not true!" he screamed, popping off his pillow and scrambling over the wadded-up macrame blanket that separated his half of the couch from hers. "You're lying!"

Karen didn't even look away from the television.

"Oh, don't be such a baby. Everybody knows it."

And she said it again. The blasphemy. The poo-poo. The innocence-scorching truth.

"Santa isn't real."

"No no no no nooooooooo!"

Ronnie balled up his fists and pounded at Karen with them. But Ronnie was only six, and small for his age. He may as well have tried beating his sister senseless with a pair of earm.u.f.fs.

"Stop it. I can't hear."

Karen swiped out a long, thin arm that swept her brother off the couch. She didn't do it maliciously. It was a casual gesture, like opening a curtain. There were things she wanted to see. Things she wanted to feel.

Cousin Rick hadn't been in the apartment when she and Ronnie got home from school. And when their scrawny, thirtyish "cousin" (they refused to call him "Uncle Rick," like Mom wanted) wasn't around to hog the TV and flick lit cigarettes at their heads and hunch over the phone having hissy-whispered conversations with his creepy friends, Karen tried to make the most of it.

Today, "the most" meant soaking up Christmas cheer.

It was December 23, 1979, and the afternoon reruns were Christmas episodes. Andy Griffith, the Beverly Hillbillies, even the Addams Family-they'd all been wrapping presents and drinking eggnog and learning Very Special holiday lessons. It was totally phony and forced, but even bogus Christmas cheer with a laugh track and soap-flake snow was better than no Christmas cheer at all.

Karen and Ronnie didn't even have a tree that year. They'd started to put one up with Mom, pulling out the big fake fir Dad used to call "the holly-jolly green giant." But Cousin Rick put a stop to that.

"Jeez, what are you doin'? A guy can barely turn around in this sardine can, and you're gonna plop that big s...o...b.. in the middle of the room? No way. You want a Christmas tree, decorate the bushes in the parking lot. Now shut up, would you? I gotta keep my cool. The Big Call could come any minute, and those guys ain't messin' around."

The kids turned to their mother.

Cousin Rick had been waiting for "The Big Call" for a week, and something was always getting on his nerves. When he wasn't out "hustling"-his word for whatever it was he did all day-he paced the apartment like a barnyard rooster, twitchy, herky-jerky, his round, anxious eyes darting from the TV to the phone. He'd already turned off the Christmas carols (he couldn't hear B.J. and the Bear) and nixed the stringing of lights (the bright colors reminded him of "a bad trip," whatever that meant). Now he wouldn't let them put up a tree?

Surely, Mom would stand up to him this time. Surely, she'd choose their Christmas over her boyfriend's weird little tics. Surely.