Naughty: Nine Tales of Christmas Crime Page 13

  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?"

  "Diesel and the Reptile," he said without turning around to face me.

  "'Diesel and the Reptile'?"

  I wasn't sure I'd heard him right. It sounded like the name of a bad punk band.

  The older guy jumped in to explain.

  "My man Arlo came to us tonight and told us what you're planning. He was looking for some help on the back end. You know, moving the merchandise. But we thought maybe it would be better if someone with experience stepped in to help. Just to make sure everything goes smoothly."

  He said it all in this calm, ultra-reasonable tone, like, "Yeah, we're gonna screw ya' over, but hey . . . try to look at it from our perspective."

  "Let me guess," I said to the guy. "You're the Reptile."

  He nodded cheerfully. "That's what they call me, babe."

  I gave him and The Hulk the eye for a second. Why is it losers like this always travel in packs of two?

  "Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Reptile," I said, "but I was coming over here to tell Arlo it's off. I can't do it."

  The Reptile shook his head, still smiling.

  "Oh, I think you can, Hannah," he said, sounding like a disappointed guidance counselor (the only kind I've ever known).

  "No," I said, "I can't."

  "Yes, you can."

  "No, I can't."

  "You will."

  "I don't want to."

  "I don't care."

  The Reptile's grin was gone now.

  "Let me explain it to you," he said. "You know what the rich guy looks like. You know what the boxes look like. Without you, we can't make the grab. And if we can't make the grab, then you're taking money out of the Reptile's pocket."

  "Look, it's nothing personal, I just—"

  "I'd take it personal," the Reptile cut in. He nodded at the burnout. "Diesel would take it personal. Wouldn't you, D?"

  I'd been doing my best to ignore the man-mountain next to me, but I glanced his way now.

  "Very personal," he said. That whatever in his jacket pocket was still pointing at my heart.

  I decided on a different approach.

  "O.K.," I said. "I'll try. But Arlo should've told you—I don't know where the guy lives. All I know is he's somewhere around the corner on Knopfler. I'm gonna have to sneak around peeking in windows until I see him."

  Or sneak around pretending to peek in windows until I can slip into the shadows, circle back, get in my car and get the hell out of there.

  "'Sneak around peeking in windows'? Oh, babe." The Reptile shook his head and chuckled. His impossibly wide grin returned again, giving me another look at his nicotine-stained teeth. "You are so lucky we're here. The Reptile has a plan." He picked something up off the front seat and tossed it to me.

  It was a powder-blue ski mask decorated with the white silhouettes of snowflakes, sleds and snowmen. The Reptile handed identical masks to Arlo and Diesel before pulling the last one over his head. His face disappeared under the pale blue fabric, leaving nothing but his dark eyes and toothy smile. He was like the Cheshire Cat—if the Cheshire Cat smoked Marlboros and robbed gas stations.

  "Ummmm . . . so 'the plan' is we sneak around peeking in windows . . . with masks on?" Arlo asked. He sounded pretty depressed. I assumed guilt was eating him up inside and I wished his guilt bon appetit. He deserved to feel guilty as hell for getting me into this mess.

  "Nooooo," the Reptile said, still flashing his cocky grin. "The plan is we go up to every house on that street and just ring the doorbell. Sooner or later, we'll find our guy."

  "Uh-huh," I said. I was starting to worry that my stupid little scheme hadn't just been highjacked by criminals—it had highjacked by insane criminals. "And that's not going to make anybody a little, you know, suspicious?"

  "Not at all. Because we're gonna have a perfect cover. Tell me, babe—can you sing?"

  I nodded, thinking my fears had just been confirmed: The Reptile was off his meds. But then he explained his grand master plan, and I realized that he wasn't outright crazy, after all. He was just slightly deluded and extremely dumb.

  On the way over, they'd made two stops. One was at a Wal-Mart to buy the ski masks. The other was at a 7-11 to swipe the plastic donation jar next to the cash register. A flyer was taped to the jar. "GIVE THE GIFT OF BREATH," it said. Next to the words was a picture of a middle-aged woman coughing into a clinched fist.

  We were about to go caroling door to door on behalf of the American Emphysema Association.

  "Caroling in ski masks?" I said to the Reptile.

  "Hey, it's cold out," he replied, sounding genuinely disappointed that I didn't share his enthusiasm for the plan. He pointed to the mask covering his face. "And they make us look kinda jolly, y'know? Harmless. Like clowns or something."

  "Well, yeah, I can't argue with the clown part," I almost said. I caught myself just in time.

  "Look, Reptile," I said instead, "I grew up in this neighborhood, and let me tell you something: Rich people are paranoid. Nothing ever happens out here, but half the people on the block have nine-one-one on speed-dial. They've got security cameras, guard dogs. Some of them have guns, Reptile. I mean, I'm talking NRA bumper stickers on the BMW. People who think they're being followed by black helicopters. Four strangers knocking on doors in ski masks is a bad idea."

  I wasn't lying, exactly. I was just really, really exaggerating. I was talking about one person, the neighborhood's official wacko, Mr. Macnee. He was the kind of guy who put up "NO TRESPASSING" signs on Halloween and took potshots at deer from his back porch. His reputation as a lunatic extended for miles around, and kids used to ride their bikes in from other neighborhoods just to ring-and-run him. Sometimes it was worth their time, too: He'd been known to come charging out of the house in his tighty whities waving a pistol over his head.

  But it didn't matter that there was some truth in what I was saying. The Reptile just shook his head and smiled like I was a fifth grader telling a dog-ate-my-homework story to the teacher.

  "We're doing this together, babe. Get used to it. And if you get any ideas about yelling for help, just remember that this was all your idea, and that's what we'll tell the cops if we're caught."

  "And remember me," Diesel added. "Cuz I'm gonna be right next to you the whole time."

  I nodded. I'd remember. Diesel wasn't the kind of person who just slips your mind.

  We got out of the Hyundai and began trudging through the slush toward Knopfler Drive. It was cold, and above us a haze of tiny snowflakes was drifting over a full moon. It was perfectly wintery, perfectly Christmasy, and I was perfectly miserable. As we marched along, we passed twenty seven Knob Hill. The house where I grew up. I was afraid to look at i
t. The sight of it would probably bring tears to my eyes, and I already had plenty to cry about that night.

  I couldn't block all the memories, though. I thought back to the night just five or six Christmases before when Mom and Dad asked me if I wanted to go out caroling again that year. I was at the height of my high school snottiness at the time, and wandering around the neighborhood with my parents singing "Here We Come a-Wassailing" seemed like the absolute uncoolest thing I could possibly do. I told them I wouldn't go caroling if my life depended on it.

  I guess I was wrong about that.

  I told the Reptile we should skip the first house on Knopfler, and when I explained why he actually listened. I knew who lived there: Mrs. Knapp and her kids. There used to be a Mr. Knapp, but she kicked him out in, like, 1995. I guess she found a better lawyer than my mom did, because Mrs. Knapp stayed in the house with her daughters and Mr. Knapp we never saw again.

  Next door was a huge, white Gone with the Wind-looking place. There were a lot of big houses in the neighborhood, but this was one of the few you'd have to come right out and call a "mansion."

  The lights were on. Someone was home.

  "O.K., let's do it," the Reptile said.

  "I'm telling you, they're gonna call the cops the second they see us," I said.

  "You'd better hope not," the Reptile replied. "Move."

  Something hard jabbed me in the back. Diesel was prodding me with the could-be-a-gun in his jacket pocket. I moved.

  As we walked up the long driveway toward the house, I tried to picture how this scenario was going to play itself out—and suddenly realized that we'd overlooked a key element of our cover story.

  "What are we going to sing?"

  "It doesn't matter." The Reptile shrugged. "'Frosty the Snowman.'"

  "'Frosty the Snowman'?" I said. "Real carolers wouldn't sing that."

  "Why not?"

  "It's secular."

  There was something about the silence that followed that told me the Reptile wasn't just considering my point. He didn't understand it.

  "'Frosty the Snowman,'" I explained, "is not a song about Jesus."

  "Why does it have to be about Jesus?" Arlo asked.

  "I don't know. It just does. Carolers sing old stuff. Traditional songs. With religion in 'em. Not 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,' not 'Jingle Bell Rock' and definitely not 'Frosty the Snowman.'"

  "Oh, who cares?" the Reptile said.

  "I care," I shot back. "We've got to convince these people or I swear they're gonna call the cops."

  "She's right."

  I looked over my shoulder, shocked to hear Diesel's low rumble of a voice.

  "Hell, man," he said, "'Frosty the Snowman' ain't even about Christmas."

  "Okay, okay," the Reptile said, his voice starting to lose its smarmy calm. We were getting close to the house now, and he was obviously anxious to settle on something fast. "If not 'Frosty the Snowman,' then what?"

  "'Here Comes Santa Claus'?" Arlo suggested.

  "What's religious about that?" Diesel wanted to know.

  "Isn't Santa, like, a saint or something?"

  "I don't know," Diesel replied, sounding unconvinced. "Santa Claus seems pretty sexular to me."

  Even if I'd wanted to correct him, I wouldn't have been able to. The Reptile spat out a curse before the debate could go any further.

  "We're gonna sing 'We Three Kings,' O.K.? That's got baby Jesus and the three wise guys and all that Christmasy crap. So get ready. If our man answers the door, you give the signal—" He pointed a glove-covered finger at me. "—and Diesel will pop him in the face. Then we're in. Right?"

  "Right," Diesel said.

  "Right," Arlo mumbled, obviously wishing he was curled up somewhere cozy cuddling a warm bong.

  I didn't say anything. I was too freaked.

  Pop him in the face? What did that mean? "Pop" as in "punch"? Or "pop" as in "pull out a gun and kill the poor jerk?"?

  As we stepped up onto the veranda and the Reptile rang the doorbell, I went from freaked to super-freaked. I was thinking about something else the Reptile had said. I was supposed to "give the signal" for Diesel to start popping. But what signal? We hadn't discussed any signal. What if I blinked or sneezed or scratched my nose and Diesel thought "It's go time" and some innocent old man ended up taking a special holiday trip to the morgue?

  And then I went from super-freaked to super-super-super-freaked, because when the door opened, I found myself face to face with our prey. It was Naughty Boy.

  He had a snifter of amber liquid in his hand—it must've been cognac or brandy or one of those other nasty things "mature" guys drink to prove they're sophisticated and worldly. When he saw our little ski-masked gang on his front porch, he smiled his icky smile and took a quick sip.

  "What is this? A stick-up?" he joked.

  The Reptile, Diesel, even Arlo—they all turned to me. If I so much as shivered the wrong way, the man standing before us might be killed. He was a vile, disgusting, lying turd, yeah. But he deserved a pie in the face, not a bullet through the brain.

  We stood there, all five us frozen in place, for what seemed like an hour. I refused to move, afraid anything I did would be interpreted as "Let him have it!" From the corner of my eye, I could see the Reptile's gaze moving from me to Naughty Boy, Naughty Boy to me, as he tried to gauge my reaction.

  "Hey, guys," our victim said. "It's freezing out here. What do you want?"

  He started to swing the door closed. Not to shut it all the way, maybe. Probably just to cut off some of the frigid air flowing into his house. But the Reptile couldn't take any chances. He looked at Diesel.

  Diesel took a step forward.

  "Weeeeee three kings of O-rie-ent arrrrrrre," I blurted out.

  Diesel stopped.

  "Bear-ring gifts. We tra-verse a-farrrrrr," I continued. I locked eyes with Arlo and did my best to plead through my mask.

  Sing, you zonked-out jackass. Sing!

  "Fieeee-ld and founnn-tain, mooooorrr and mou-oun-tain," Arlo crooned, making my solo an off-key duet.

  "Foll-o-wing yon-der star," Diesel belted out. Amazingly, he had a beautiful baritone voice, and he sang with the passion of an opera diva.

  The Reptile joined in for the "Ohhh-ohhh star of wonder, star of might" part. He had the worst voice of all of us. It was the hoarse, strangled gurgle of a three-pack-a-day smoker. He really did sound like a reptile—an iguana doing an Elvis imitation. It threw the whole chorus off, and by the time we were into the second verse it was obvious none of us knew the lyrics. We were trying to fake it by garbling the words and throwing in some wheezy ooo-ooos and mmm-mmms, and finally the whole thing came crashing to halt when I sucked in a particularly deep breath of frigid air that flash-froze my vocal chords. My singing exploded into hacking coughs, and Arlo began thumping me on the back saying, "You alright?"

  "Wait right here," Naughty Boy said, and he turned and disappeared into the house, closing the door behind him.

  "Oh, crap, man. Hannah was right," Arlo said. "He's calling the cops."

  The Reptile stepped around him to get in my face. "That's not the guy?"

  "No . . . I've never . . . seen him before," I managed to lie between coughs.

  "Middle-aged man alone in the house near the corner of Knob Hill and Knopfler, and it's not him?"

  "That's right," I said, my voice starting to gain strength again. "For all we know he's off rounding up the wife and kids so they can hear us."

  "No, man, I'm tellin' ya'. He's calling the cops," Arlo said, panic beginning to cut through the hempish haze that usually hangs around him.

  The Reptile leaned in so close to me our polyester-covered noses almost bumped, and I could smell his stale, smoky breath even through my mask.

  "If you're lying . . . ," he began.

  The door opened again, and the Reptile turned around. Naughty Boy was coming out of the house straight toward him. The Reptile took a step back, bumping into me.

  Na
ughty Boy reached out toward him. There was something clenched in his fist.

  "Here," he said, and he stuffed a couple wadded-up bills into the donation bucket cradled in the Reptile's hands. He peered over the Reptile's shoulder, pausing to give me a long, steady look.

  "Hey . . . I remember you," I thought he was about to say. But it wasn't recognition I saw in his eyes. It was pity.

  "You're very brave," he said. Then, with a perfunctory "Merry Christmas," he spun around, stepped back into the house and shut the door.

  Diesel bent over to look into the jar.

  "Two stinkin' bucks," he said.

  I looked at the jar, too—and the flyer taped to it.

  "GIVE THE GIFT OF BREATH."

  And then I got it. We were such crappy singers, Naughty Boy assumed we had emphysema.

  It was so pathetic it should've been funny, but I wasn't in the mood to laugh. Neither was the Reptile.

  "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 repetition, 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, "sexular" 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.