Naughty Nine Tales of Christmas Crime (15 page)

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 reassuring, too. If Santa was really out there rewarding the nice and punishing 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 Slut," a.k.a. "That Little Bitch." 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 Knob Hill to a not-so-big house in town to a dinky apartment building between an auto parts store and a porn shop.

I was in that dinky apartment building with her because New York and Chicago aren't exactly clamoring for recently graduated liberal arts majors. In fact,
nobody's
clamoring for recently graduated liberal arts majors. When I was at IU, I thought I'd end up in publishing, 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 prostitution. 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 classifieds that suited me. You know. "Over-Educated Smart-Ass 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 Hell 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 embarrassment.

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 finishing up at Princeton, don't you? She's an assistant 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 Tomás 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 shiver. 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 sexual. 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 wristwatch 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 Knob 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, washing 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, god. 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, flashing me a lazy, unoffended smile. I saw now exactly what he was: the kind of guy who hits on everything with breasts 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 Viagra 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 scumbag. A sleaze. A gonad-brained son of a bitch.

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 turd who really, really deserved it.

I spent the rest of my shift 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 repetition of the Tomás wee-wee story, the one
thousandth
repetition 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 shift 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 crappy 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.