Naughty-Nine Tales of Christmas

NAUGHTY

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.

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?"

"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 it. 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.

Naughty 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.

We skipped the next two houses. I told the Reptile I knew who lived there, which was half true. The Strassmans 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 ass-hat. The other house was a big Frank Lloyd Wright-type pagoda-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 button 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 assault rifles, the Men in Black bringing another implant to shove up his butt. And now, at last, here it was. The barbarians were finally at the gate.

If I'd started a singalong by belting out "Dashing 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 knob 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 Knob 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 Knob 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 Strassman, 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 scraper. 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 scrape 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 thrashing 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 Association, 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 glasses! 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 damn 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 sluttiest 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.