Naughty Nine Tales of Christmas Crime (16 page)

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 hellish 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 glassy, 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.

"Hey, Hannah! Wanna go get baked?"

"Gee, Arlo, it's nice to see you, too."

The first thing stoners lose after their short-term memory is the ability to recognize sarcasm, so Arlo just gave me a dopey grin.

"Yeah," he said. "So, really . . . you wanna get stoned? I've got some grrrrreat weed in my car."

This was my criminal mastermind? I almost abandoned the whole stupid scheme right then and there. But I could still feel the hot, angry fire of righteous indignation burning in the pit of my stomach, and I forged ahead.

"Alright, let's go," I said. "I've got something private I want to talk to you about, anyway."

Climbing inside Arlo's Hyundai was like rolling myself up in a giant doobie. I cracked a window, letting in a swirl of fresh, cold winter air, but I didn't think it would do much good. So much pot had been smoked inside that car you could get a contact high from checking the oil. Arlo lit up and offered me a hit, and I shook my head.

"Cool . . . more for me," he said with a lopsided grin.

I talked while Arlo toked. I told him about Naughty Boy—the sleazy come-on, the expensive gifts, the out-of-town wife. I told him I knew where the guy lived, sorta kinda. And I told him my plan: Arlo distracts Naughty Boy at the front door while I slip in the back, find the Christmas tree and
yoink
—nab the presents.

"Distract him how?" Arlo asked between puffs.

"I don't know. Maybe you could pretend your car broke down or something. I think he'd believe you."

Arlo's Hyundai is the Frankenstein's monster of the automotive world: It looks like it was sewed together from the dead parts of six other cars.

"Why couldn't
you
distract him?" Arlo wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Sounds like he'd like that a lot better."

"He knows where I work, Arlo. He could track me down. It has to be someone he's never seen before. Plus, I'm the one who wrapped the presents. I know what the boxes look like. We wouldn't want to go to all this trouble just to steal the wrong gifts, right?"

"Oh. Yeah. Right. So what do we do with the stuff once we have it?" Arlo coughed out a smoky chuckle. "Like, I don't think I'd look good in a fur coat."

"We sell everything, Arlo. To, you know, a whatever. A guy who handles stolen merchandise. A . . . a . . . ."

My mind went blank. It must've been the fumes.

"I know what you mean," Arlo said helpfully. "A fender."

"A
fence
," I said. "Do you know one?"

"Me? Why would I know somebody like that? I'm, like, a normal, law-abiding citizen."

Since this was being said by a joint-sucking dude in an elf suit, I had my doubts.

"Come on. You deal with shady types all the time. I mean, you don't buy your pot from the Salvation Army, right? You must know somebody who could help us sell the stuff on the sly."

Arlo furrowed his brow and frowned. He was trying to think. Obviously, it was hard work. After a long, quiet moment, he nodded.

"You're right. There's a guy who could tell me what to do."

"Good. So what do you think? Should we do it?"

I know, I know. That was a cop-out question. I was going to make poor, dope-addled Arlo make the call—because I was afraid to. I mean, daydreaming about a crime is one thing. But actually trying to pull it off . . . well, that's something else. A part of me was already backing out.

I'd been serious about striking back at Naughty Boy and all the other naughty boys of the world. But I couldn't do it alone, could I? If Arlo said no, then I wouldn't have to feel like
I
was the one who didn't have the nerve.

In other words, I was counting on Arlo Hettle to bring me to my senses.

Dumb, huh?

"Sure," Arlo said. "Let's go for it."

The fifteen minutes he had for his doobie break were almost up, so we rushed through our planning—where to meet, what to bring—and said goodbye. In two-and-a-half hours, we'd see each other again . . . and my days as a nice girl would be over. By the end of the night, I'd be a thief. A crook. A skank.

I hadn't even done anything yet, and already I felt guilty. Back home at the apartment, my dinner went down untasted—which wasn't a big change of pace, really, since dinners at home never have much taste to begin with. Our finances being what they are, Mom and I have to rely on recipes in which the primary ingredients are canned tuna, macaroni and either mayonnaise or Velveeta processed cheese product. If we want to add a little zip, we garnish our tuna casserole
du jour
with ketchup from the little packets Mom stuffs into her purse every time she's in McDonald's.

This particular night, we were feasting on something called "tuna noodle strudel." It wasn't as bad as it sounds. It was worse. Tuna and cinnamon don't belong on the same shelf, let alone in the same recipe. Still, I managed to choke it down. My taste buds were probably screaming in agony, but I was too distracted to hear them.

Mom noticed how far away I was . . . and totally misinterpreted what it meant. She's pretty touchy about a lot of stuff these days. The apartment, clothes, my car, her car, electricity. Anything to do with money. Including food.

"You don't like it?" she asked, nodding at the still-steaming pan of mushy brown tuna-goo on the table between us.

"No, it's fine."

The words came out sounding flat and tired, like a lie you can't stand to tell even one more time. Which is exactly what it was.

Mom got a hurt look on her face.

"You're not acting like it's fine," she said.

"It's just that . . . today I . . . ."

I almost told her the real reason I seemed so out of it—what I was thinking about doing. But I knew she'd totally flip out, so I switched gears at the last second. Not that I lied or anything. I was still honest.
Too
honest.

"I'm sick of tuna," I said. "Every day it's tuna pie or tuna stroganoff or tuna surprise. You know, the only
surprise
around here would be a meal without tuna."

Mom's expression changed from hurt to angry and back again.

"You know I have to look for bargains these days, Hannah. And that tuna was thirty-three cents a can at Sam's Club."

"I know. But did you have to buy
four cases
? I'm growing gills."

"I try to make it interesting . . . ."

"Mom, 'tuna noodle strudel' isn't interesting. It's demented."

That did it.

"If you want lobster and steak every night, you just get That Man on the phone and tell him you're coming to Atlanta!" Mom yelled. Then she buried her face in her hands and started to cry.

I'd pushed the button—the one that automatically drags That Man into the conversation. It's pretty easy to push. I could say we were out of milk and it would be That Man's fault. I could say the john had stopped working and I'd hear how That Man had flushed Mom down the toilet. I could say my car needed new brakes, and she'd say if there was any justice That Man would get run over by a truck.

That Man That Man
That Man
!

I walked over to Mom and put my arms around her and said stuff like "I didn't mean it" and "I don't want to go to Atlanta" and "I
like
tuna surprise." But I was thinking something else entirely: "Damn it, woman—get over it! You're letting a cheesy, cheating bastard ruin your whole life! He's not worth it! Let it go!"

And then that English degree of mine finally paid for itself. If there's one thing they teach you to recognize in college-level lit classes, it's irony. And right here in front of me I had enough to fill two Edith Wharton novels with enough left over for a John Updike short story.

Who
was about to let a cheesy, cheating bastard ruin her life? Like mother, like daughter. It was so Freudian it was spooky.

By the time my mother was through crying, my mind was made up.

When I left the apartment that night, I told Mom I'd just be gone a few minutes—I'd left my copy of
Hannibal
at Fendler's. It was a library book, hardcover, so if it got lost we'd have to pay a thirty-buck fine. That made it an urgent enough errand to suit Mom, who can get antsy about me "burning perfectly good gas" when I drive eight blocks for a late-night Ben and Jerry's run. Maybe she felt guilty about her little meltdown at dinner, because she just told me to hurry back.
It's a Wonderful Life
was on, and she was going to make popcorn.

I expected to be home before the last kernel popped. I was going to whip over to the old neighborhood, meet Arlo, tell him the whole stupid, crazy robbery thing was off, then drive home with a clean conscience for a wholesome, all-American evening with my mother.

If only.

Arlo's Hyundai was already at our designated meeting place—the corner of Knopfler and Knob Hill—when I showed up. It surprised me that he'd actually managed to make it on time.

I got an even bigger surprise once I parked and walked up to his car. The windows were steamed up, but I could see dark shapes moving behind the foggy glass.

Arlo wasn't alone. There were two other people in the car with him. I stopped a few yards short of the Hyundai's rear bumper, unsure what to do. By the time the big neon
LEAVE NOW
sign was flashing in my head, it was too late. Someone was getting out of the car and walking toward me.

It wasn't Arlo. For a second, I wasn't even sure it was a human being. The guy was huge. Like,
Bigfoot
huge. I couldn't even believe he'd been inside the Hyundai. He looked like he wouldn't fit in anything smaller than a tank.

He might not have been quite so scary if he'd been wearing something in the Christmas spirit, like maybe a fuzzy red sweater with a cartoon reindeer on it. But no—he was in burnout clothes. You know what I mean. Army surplus jacket, camo pants, combat boots. I couldn't see what was under the jacket, but I was pretty sure it had to be a Megadeath T-shirt.

He said exactly what you don't want someone like him to say under circumstances like these.

"Get in the car."

I took a step back, toward
my
car.

"Who are you?"

"A friend of Arlo's," he said. For a "friend" he sure didn't sound very friendly. "Get in quick before someone sees us."

"I don't think so."

He moved closer. I took another step back.

The houses on Knob Hill and Knopfler Drive are what you'd call "palatial": They're big, they're tucked away behind lots of trees and they have long, looping driveways from the road. So nobody was particularly close by. But making a scene happens to be one of my talents. I figured a good, long scream would get
somebody's
attention.

Chewbacca read my mind. His right hand slipped into his jacket pocket, and something inside bulged out against the heavy green cloth.

"Make a sound and I'll blow your head off," he said.

I froze, partially out of fear, partially out of indecision. I mean, how did I know the guy really had a gun? On the other hand, how badly did I want to find out?

A
squeak-squeak-squeak
came from the car. Someone was rolling down a window.

Arlo's curly-haired head popped into view.

"Get in the car, Hannah.
Please
," he said. "It'll be alright. Really."

I didn't know about the "It'll be alright" part, but the "
Please
" sounded pretty sincere. And pretty scared.

I got in the car. Arlo was in front with another guy, so that put me in the back with Paul Bunyon.

The man sitting next to Arlo stubbed a cigarette out in the ashtray before swiveling around to face me. His toothy yellow grin practically glowed in the dark. He was older than the rest of us, though I couldn't tell how much older. He didn't have wrinkles or gray hair or anything like that, but his skin seemed leathery, like he'd been stitched together from old wallets.

"Hey, Hannah," he said. "Sorry to scare ya', babe. I know you weren't expecting to see us. But don't worry. We're here to help."

He kept beaming his big grin in my face like it was going to hypnotize me. It reminded me of the python that tries to eat Mowgli in
The Jungle Book
. You know—"Trust in meeeeee. Just in meeeeee . . . ."

"Arlo, who are these guys?"