Naughty: Nine Tales of Christmas Crime Read online

  "No, no, of course not. But, you know, some guy's behind you in the dark . . .? It's creepy."

  Big Buck nodded.

  "Sure, I understand. That's why I'm here, actually. I thought somebody oughta walk you to your car."

  I tried to do a quick look around without being too obvious about it. It was late, but there were still shoppers coming and going. Big Buck wouldn't try something in public . . . would he?

  "Oh, you don't have to worry about me," I said. "I know ka-rah-tay."

  I put up my hands and did a little hiii-yah!.

  Big Buck laughed and copied the gesture.

  "Really? That's great. Cuz I know karate, too. Maybe you and I should go at it sometime."

  Forget scary. Now things were getting gross.

  I couldn't handle it anymore. I turned and stalked off.

  "Yeah, well, gotta go, bye."

  "Hey, hold on!" Big Buck called after me. He sounded genuinely surprised.

  I didn't stop.

  "Hold on!"

  Chubby, clutching fingers grabbed hold of my upper arm.

  I whirled around, tearing myself out of Big Buck's grip.

  "Do you want me to scream? Cuz I will, I swear to God!"

  Big Buck took a step back, hands up.

  "O.K., O.K., don't touch the merchandise. I get it."

  His thick lips bent into a sneering grin that pushed his cigarette up so high I almost thought it was going to set his nose hair on fire.

  "I won't follow you if you don't want my protection. I'll just watch you from right here."

  "Fine," I said, though of course, it wasn't. It was really, really freaky.

  I looked back once when I was half-way to my car, and Big Buck was still there, watching me. I checked again in the rear-view mirror as I drove away, and there he was. Waving. I was a couple blocks away when it hit me.

  Now he knows what my car looks like.

  Or maybe he'd known already. He'd been waiting for me at the right exit. Had he been spying on me? Or was it all just a coincidence? Maybe he was having a smoke and out I came and he decided to have a little fun.

  Or maybe the fun was going to come later . . . .

  I watched the cars behind me, wondering if I was being followed. I didn't see anything suspicious, but then again, how would I know what "suspicious" driving looks like? Who am I, Jane Bond?

  I started to feel silly, stupid, nuts. Could be I'd gone crazy from boredom. Could be I was imagining everything. Most definitely I needed to stop reading books with names like Malicious Intent and Evil Is as Evil Does.

  And then I remembered the tape. That would settle everything.

  Yeah. Right.

  The second I got home, I rushed upstairs to my room, ignoring Mom's "Dinner's in the fridge!" from the living room. When I pulled the tape recorder out of my bag, I could see that the tape had stopped about a quarter of the way through the first side. It had recorded something!

  I pushed the rewind button. The tape started to wind back just fine, but the little wheels quickly slowed to a lurchy crawl, and the red power light began to flicker and fade.

  Great. The batteries were dying.

  I pushed play and heard what sounded like the moans of a depressed cow.

  " . . . mmmmmmmmeeeeelllllllllllooooooooooodeeee . . . ."

  I took the tape out and put it in the cassette deck of the old stereo I'd appropriated from my parents when I was in fifth grade. When I pushed play, ear-piercing squeaks and squonks blasted from the speakers. It was like Alvin and the Chipmunks after they've sucked in a tank of helium. The tape had recorded so slowly, the voices were being sped up and distorted when played back at normal speed.

  I rewound the tape to the beginning, hoping the recorder had captured something incriminating before it ran out of juice.

  I pushed play.

  "Your elf is lookin' nice today," someone said with a nasal, whiny twang. It sounded like Kev.

  "She looks nice every day. Heh heh."

  Big Buck.

  "I don't know how she squeezes into those tights."

  "I'm gonna squeeze in there with her onea these days."

  Laughter.

  I wanted to barf.

  Kev: "That's what you say about all of 'em. Alright, here come the brats. Whadaya think of these first two?"

  Big Buck: "Ahhhhh, I don't know. Look kinda trailer trash to me."

  Kev: "Some of those trailer trash types don't believe in banks, if you know what I mean."

  Big Buck: "Yeah, but a lot of them believe in shotguns, if you know what I mean. O.K. Here we go. Excuse me while I get into character."

  A fart erupted from my speakers. In stereo.

  The urge to hurl got worse.

  Then another voice could be heard, very quiet, saying, " . . . up and tell Santa what you want." It was a quavering yet still oddly flat and toneless and insincere sort of voice. A voice I really hated.

  My own.

  Big Buck: "Ho ho ho! And how are you doin', little fella?"

  The words were starting to sound sped-up, distorted. The tape recorder hadn't made it far before it started slowing down.

  Little Boy: "O.K."

  Big Buck: "Why don't you come up here and sit on Santa's lap?"

  Little Boy: "O.K."

  Big Buck: "Therethat'sbetternowwhy don'tyoutellSantayourname?"

  The distortion was getting worse and worse.

  Little Boy: "Paul."

  Big Buck: "What'syourlastname,Paul? There'salotofPaulsonmylist."

  Little Boy: "Rodes."

  Big Buck: "Andwheredoyoulive,PaulRodes?"

  Little Boy: "Melodyhills."

  Big Buck: "Andareyougonnabehomefor Christmassqueaksqueaksqueak...?"

  The squeaking went on for another 15 seconds or so, then click. I was listening to an Introduction to Medieval Narrative lecture from three weeks before.

  So that was all I got on tape—a vaguely sinister exchange about "trailer trash," a few comments about my booty and the sound of Big Buck cutting the cheese.

  As the testy bureaucrat always says to the unorthodox-but-brilliant profiler in my favorite paperbacks (no matter who wrote them): "It wouldn't stand up in a court of law." It wouldn't even stand up in the food court at the mall. It wouldn't do anything. It was useless.

  So I did the only thing I could, being kind of stubborn and kind of mad and kind of bored and maybe a little bit insane. I bought new batteries on my way to work the next morning. The tape recorder went back under Santa's throne.

  The rest of the day passed even more slowly than the day before. It was indescribably creepy seeing Big Buck and Kev up there eyeing me and knowing that, no, I wasn't being paranoid—they were talking about me. And looking at my butt. Eww!

  I tried to put all that out of my mind by focusing on my elfing, making sure the "youngsters" had a good time while they were with me, anyway. You know. Doing a good job.

  That lasted about a ten minutes. Then an eight-year-old called me a "biyatch" because I wouldn't let him and his buddy have a lightsaber duel with our plastic candy canes. After that, I was back to not giving a crap.

  The only thing that broke the day's routine for a few seconds, other than the Biyatch Incident, was a surprise visit from our beloved employer just as our first break was coming to an end.

  "Gather 'round, troops! Chop chop!" Missy Widgitz commanded, snapping her fingers.

  The four of us sauntered over slowly, Arlo and Kev and Big Buck exchanging surly, silent glances. For just a moment, they were united in their contempt for the She-Hulk. I kept my eyes down.

  "I'm going to need all of you to come in an hour early tomorrow. We've finally got a way to top River Valley Mall."

  Missy flashed me a happy smirk as she announced this, maybe thinking, in her deluded, self-absorbed way, that I gave a rat's ass about topping River Valley Mall.

  Arlo took the bait.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  Missy placed a long, enamel-encrusted fing
ernail to her lips.

  "Shhh. Top secret."

  "That's gonna count as over-time, ain't it?" Big Buck asked.

  Missy looked down at him (he was "Big" Buck to the rest of us, but she had three inches on him, at least) and pretended to mull it over.

  "We'll see about that." Then she dismissed us with two claps of her big paws. "O.K., that's all. Let's see some smiles and Christmas cheer, huh?"

  We marched away looking very uncheery.

  "All I want for Christmas are her two front teeth," I mumbled to Arlo.

  Big Buck guffawed and turned to face me, and I suddenly wished I'd kept my mouth shut.

  "Are you sure that's all you want? Cuz ol' Santa would love to fill your stockin', if you know what I mean."

  "No, I don't know what you mean," I snapped back, so disgusted I finally forgot to be scared. "Why don't you explain yourself?"

  Big Buck waggled his bushy eyebrows. "I mean I'd like to come down your chimney some night."

  Kev snickered.

  I shook my head.

  "I still don't follow you, Buck. Be more clear."

  "I'm sayin' I'd like to . . . ."

  Big Buck furrowed his furry, Neanderthal brow. He'd already run out of metaphors.

  " . . . uhhhhh . . . jingle your bells."

  That actually made me laugh.

  "You want to 'jingle my bells'? Chuh? Please, try to choose your words carefully and speak slowly, Buck, because I am not following this at all."

  Big Buck's face turned as red as his Santa suit.

  "You think you're pretty smart, don't you, college girl? Well, you ain't. You're just a dumb bitch. And one day soon you're gonna learn just how dumb you are. I guarantee it." He turned away, stomped off toward his throne. "Come on, Kev."

  "Nope, still don't get you, Buck!" I called after him. "Maybe you oughta try writing it down!"

  Kev lingered a moment, a scowl twisting his small, sharp face. He reminded me of a little, snarling Schnauzer. The image helped me keep a smile on my face until he turned to follow his master.

  The second he was gone, my smile melted. I felt like I was going to melt with it.

  "Oh, God . . .why do I do these things?"

  "Don't ask me," Arlo said with a shrug.

  "I wasn't asking you, I was asking God. But as long as you're butting in, I should thank you for standing up for me. You're a real hero, Arlo. My knight in hemp armor."

  Sarcasm doesn't work too well on stoners, so all I got was a puzzled "Huh?" I gave up and went back to work.

  I endured hours of stares and glares from Kev and Big Buck before it was finally quitting time. The last thing I wanted was another after-work encounter with either of them, so I retired to my home away from home—my stall in the women's room—and spent the next hour plugging away at Run for Your Life or whatever it was I was reading.

  When I finally emerged, it was closing time. The shoppers had scurried home—or over to River Valley Mall—and the stores were locked up for the night. They'd even pulled the plug on Santa's Workshop. The lights were off and the robotic reindeer were frozen in mid-prance.

  I moved slowly up the path toward the Workshop, afraid I'd trip over an electrical cord or papier-mâché caroler in the dim light. When I reached Santa's throne, I lifted up one side, reached under . . . and found nothing.

  Big Buck and Kev stepped out from behind the Christmas tree at the back of Santa's Workshop.

  "See. I told ya it wasn't that doper kid," Big Buck said.

  "Umm hmm," Kev replied.

  They were both still wearing their costumes—and Big Buck had something in his hand.

  "You lookin' for this?"

  He held up my tape recorder.

  "No. I left my keys around here somewhere," I said, thinking, Jeez, I sound scared. "Could you guys help me look for 'em?"

  "You're lookin' for your keys . . . under my chair?" Big Buck shook his head. "Ho ho ho. Come on, college girl. You can think up something better than that."

  They were still moving slowly toward me, choosing their steps carefully, like you'd creep up on an animal you're trying not to spook. An animal you're trying to catch.

  I started backing down the stairs, matching them step for step.

  "There's still a ton people around," I said, not even convincing myself. There were maybe six cleaning ladies and two rent-a-cops for the whole place, and who knew where they were just then? Olde Towne Mall may be Olde, but it's also Bigge. "I could start screaming."

  Big Buck smiled, but he stopped moving forward. Kev stopped, too.

  "Why would you go and do that?" Big Buck said. "We're just a couple co-workers having an innocent after-work chat." He waved the tape recorder. "I want to know what this is all about, that's all. We heard it this morning. It makes a real loud click when it reaches the end of a side, y'know. Kev here thought it was Arlo up to something, but I knew better. I'd just like you to tell me why you'd do a thing like this."

  "Well, Buck, you see . . . ."

  I stopped there. I couldn't think of anything else to say. My mouth's good at getting me into trouble, but out? Not so much.

  "Come on, now. You can be honest. Have I done something to offend you?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact," I blurted out, grateful for the suggestion. "Those things you say to me—that's sexual harassment. I was going to take that tape to Missy Widgitz."

  Big Buck nodded. "Sure, that makes sense. Except . . . hmmmm." He stroked his beard and rolled his eyes. "If that's what you were doin', why would you put the tape recorder under my chair? You're not supposed to come up close while we're working, remember? It'd make a lot more sense if you'd squeezed the tape recorder into those little tights of yours and tried to record me that way."

  "I guess I didn't have a very good plan," I admitted.

  Big Buck and Kev each took a step forward.

  I took another step back.

  "Now, guys...," I said, unsure what was going to come out of my mouth next.

  It turned out to be a stunned grunt. As I stepped back again, the world suddenly dipped and turned sideways, and a second later I found myself lying beside something large and prickly.

  Fortunately, it wasn't Big Buck. I'd caught my heel on the last step and stumbled backwards into one of the smaller trees lining the path to Santa's Workshop.

  "Get her," Big Buck said.

  I rolled up onto my feet just in time to face Kev no more than four feet from me. He was rushing at me crouched down with his arms stretched out, like a mime imitating a crab. As he moved in, I stepped to the side, grabbed one of his spindly little arms and swung with all my might.

  To my utter shock, it worked. Kev went flying into yet another tree, rolling to the ground in a tangle of lights and tinsel.

  I swung around to see Big Buck lumbering down the steps toward me.

  "See! I wasn't lying about knowing karate!" I lied.

  He didn't even slow down. It was time to run, run, Rudolph.

  I turned and sprinted to the nearest exit, too afraid to look back until I was outside in the cold December air and the door was closing behind me with a reassuring clack.

  I peered back into the dim shadows of the mall and saw . . . dim shadows of the mall. Big Buck and Kev hadn't followed me. They were letting me go!

  I turned, ready to dash the last thirty yards to my Rabbit. And that's when I realized what a huge freaking idiot I am.

  I hadn't parked in my usual spot that morning. I didn't want Big Buck waiting for me outside when I left that night. So I'd parked down by Value City, on the other side of the mall.

  I was going to have to walk all the way around the parking lot, alone, in the dark, to get to my car.

  Oh, did I say walk? Try sprint.

  I didn't see anyone outside as I raced around the darkened mall. There were still a few cars in the parking lot, but the people they belonged to were inside somewhere, sweeping floors or counting money or molesting mannequins or God knows what. I could see more car
s moving way over on Diamond Avenue, but I knew I was nothing to them—just a speck in the dark almost a half-mile away.

  As I ran, I noticed two strange things. There was a big trailer parked by the side of the mall, the kind you see on the highway loaded with cows on their way to Hamburger Heaven. And the trailer stank. Like cattle, but even worse somehow—cattle eating rotting moss while wearing wet wool sweaters.

  Of course, I didn't stop to ponder these mysteries. I had things to do, people to escape from.

  I came flying around the corner of the mall just a couple dozen yards from where I was parked. And then I went flying right back the way I'd come.

  Something red and white and big was coming out of the nearest exit. A second later, I heard someone yell, "Hey!"

  They knew where I'd parked.

  I had three options: (A) just keep running running running and hope that I ran into somebody before Big Buck and Kev ran into me, (B) hide or (C) pray for divine intervention.

  I was already pretty winded (too many cigarettes and late-night pizzas at school) and I'm not the religious type. So I went for option B. And, hey, I could still do plenty of praying once I was hidden.

  Of course, the secret to proper hiding is finding what hiding professionals call a "Hiding Place," and I figured I had about twelve seconds to do it.

  Behind the bushes?

  Too obvious.

  Under a car?

  Too exposed.

  In the stinky truck?

  Too . . . .

  Alright. Why not?

  I darted around to the back of the trailer. It wasn't the kind that opened by rolling up, like a garage door. It had doors that swung open on hinges. And there was no lock, just a couple metal bolts. I undid them as quickly as I could, cracked open a door, climbed through and pulled the door closed.

  Once I was inside the trailer, there was no way to bolt the door again or even keep it completely shut. Which made me realize this wasn't exactly the best Hiding Place. There was no escape route. If Kev and Big Buck figured out where I was, there was no way to get out except the way I came in.

  This is why I'm not a hiding professional.

  I was panicking about this, completely forgetting to do my praying, when things got worse. Something behind me moved.

  There was a grunt, then heavy footsteps, then more grunting. I turned around slowly—and couldn't see a thing. It was pitch black in there. But it was obvious I wasn't alone.