Naughty: Nine Tales of Christmas Crime

by Steve Hockensmith

  "I came in early and I wanted to take a look at the proof of your masthead but I couldn't find it so I went looking for it but I still don't know where it is so maybe you'll go get it for me because there's just one little thing I need to check," Bigelow said, the syllables coming out so fast and choked-throat-guttural they almost sounded like one impossibly long German word.

  Bigelow watched McCoy's gaze move from his face to the mess on Freckle Boy's desk to the granola bars bulging out of his pocket and finally to something just below his mouth. Bigelow reached up and felt a smudge of half-melted S'more chocolate on his lower lip.

  "Sure," McCoy said, using the slow, soothing tone most people reserve for speaking to over-excitable children and the criminally insane. He began backing away. "I'll be right back."

  By the time McCoy returned with the proof, Bigelow had finished cleaning up Curt's cube (and his own chin) and had scurried back to his office. Bigelow had time to affix a look of bland, businesslike calm on his face, yet McCoy still seemed unnerved. He came at Bigelow with his arm stretched out and the proof page extended before him like a sword. When Bigelow took hold of the heavy paper, McCoy stutter-stepped away quickly, not turning his back.

  "Let me know if you need anything else!" McCoy said as he moonwalked out the door.

  Bigelow knew what was coming next. Other staffers would begin drifting in, both alone and in carpool bunches, and McCoy would greet them all the same way: "Guess who I caught going through our stuff this morning!"

  Bigelow had been staring at them all with suspicion the last few days. Now they'd be staring at him the same way. He didn't think he could face it.

  And then he realized he didn't have to. He had an office with a door, not an open-air cubicle. He could stay right here at his desk all day. And instead of going out to hunt for his Secret Santa, he could just sit and wait for the S.O.B. to come to him.

  Like Sandberg's office, his had a glass wall running along the hallway. It had vertical blinds that hung from ceiling to floor, and Bigelow got up and closed them. Then he went back to his desk, sat facing the doorway and began to wait. Sooner or later, he hoped, he'd see a face peeking around the door or someone casually moseying past his office with an innocent-looking bag in his hand. That would be Santa, scouting for an opportunity to drop off his latest slap in the face. And Bigelow would have him. All he had to do was wait and watch.

  He lasted 51 minutes. The only cube he could see from his desk was Marcy's, and she arrived half an hour after he began his vigil. She gave him a wave when she first showed up, then shot increasingly quizzical glances his way as he continued staring in her direction.

  "Do you need something, Erik?" she called out to him.

  "No!" he shouted back. "I'm fine!"

  A couple minutes later, she turned to look at him again. "Are you sure you don't need something?"

  "I'm fine!"

  He wasn't fine. His bladder had been tormenting him for nearly 40 minutes. He'd toyed with the idea of moving his garbage can under his desk and attempting a clandestine potty break, but the risks were too great. Finally, he had to jump up and make a dash for the men's room, every step sending searing spasms across his groin.

  When he got back to his desk, there was a package sitting on it.

  "HO! HO! HO!" it said.

  Bigelow rushed up the hallway and around the corner. The door to Sandberg's office was open, and the light inside was on.

  Bigelow cursed, and a few heads popped up over cubicle walls to goggle at him. He turned, hurried back to his office and slammed the door shut behind him.

  In seconds, the wrapping paper was shredded and the box ripped open to reveal a bottle of Oxy 10, a tube of Clearasil and a booklet touting the benefits of membership in the Hair Club for Men. Bigelow howled and sent the box and its contents flying across the room to crash into the glass wall.

  He should've toughed it out. Or at least locked the door behind him so Santa couldn't get in and . . . .

  Wait. Yes. His door had a lock. Just like Sandberg's.

  A new plan took shape in Bigelow's mind. He headed out to Marcy's cube.

  "You know what?" he said. "There is something I need. I lost the key to my office the other day and I have to go make a copy. Could you loan me the masters?"

  "Sure," Marcy said. She reached into her purse and pulled out a key ring with five keys on it. "Here you go. I'm not sure which one's for your door."

  "Don't worry," Bigelow said, smiling. "I'll figure it out."

  He was so eager to set his plan into motion, he didn't even bother going back to his office to grab his hat and coat before dashing for the elevator. An hour later he was back from the locksmith's shop, feeling chilled but brilliant. When he gave the keys back to Marcy, he had copies of all five tucked away in his pocket.

  Waiting to try them out proved to be almost as painful as resisting the urge to pee had earlier. His patience frayed further with each passing hour, and he found it more and more difficult to keep up the pretense that he was working. Crowley was around again, so he had to try. But Bigelow spent most of his day just sitting at his desk watching the clock tick off a countdown to revenge. When Crowley stopped in to blather about steroids and the Federation of Historical Jar Collectors, Bigelow couldn't even work up the energy to look interested, and the excuses he found to throw jabs at Sandberg lacked their usual slick subtlety.

  He watched the time crawl by with agonizing slowness until 5 o'clock. Then he went home and watched it crawl even slower until 9. Then he went back.

  He looked for lights or signs of movement before going into the building. The third floor—Now!'s floor—was dark. Both DVD Now! and Antiques Now! had been close to wrapping up a day early. It looked like they'd made it. If they hadn't, a few designers and editors would still be up there racing toward the finish line.

  Well, hooray for you, McCoy, Bigelow thought. Hooray for you, Starr. Hooray for you, Sandberg.

  You bastard.

  It didn't take him long to find it once he got up to the office. Sandberg, thinking his treachery safe behind a locked door, hadn't even bothered to hide it.

  Sitting under Sandberg's desk was a cardboard box. In it were scissors, Scotch tape and a roll of HO! HO! HO! wrapping paper.

  And a bar of Irish Spring soap.

  And a stick of extra-strength Right Guard deodorant.

  And a catalog of Russian mail-order brides.

  A shudder of rage passed over Bigelow, but it faded quickly. Justice was at hand. Vengeance was his.

  He'd brought a box with him from home. It wasn't large, having originally contained a small bust of Jean-Luc Picard that was now hanging from Bigelow's Christmas tree. But it was heavy.

  He wrapped it with the HO!-covered paper and left it on Sandberg's chair with a note taped to the top.

  "For Alex," the note read, "from your Secret Santa."

  Bigelow locked Sandberg's office again on his way out. Then he went home and got the first decent night's sleep he'd had in days.

  Friday, December 19

  There was no gift waiting on Bigelow's desk when he moseyed in at 9:30 the next morning. At first that puzzled him, but then he understood.

  Sandberg knew he'd been busted. Why bother with the final insults if Bigelow had already seen them the night before?

  It had been a war of nerve and intellect, and Bigelow had won. Sandberg had conceded.

  Or maybe not, Bigelow thought a moment later. Maybe Sandberg was out right now dredging up some fresh mud to hurl his way. Maybe the gift Bigelow had left had inspired him to cook up something truly demented—or even dangerous.

  Bigelow felt a twinge of the old anxiety, a tightening of the knot in his stomach. He stood and stalked up the hallway past Sandberg's office.

  Sandberg was in, of course. Mr. Dependable.

  But there was no sign of the package Bigelow had left for him twelve hours earlier. He walked past the office again just to be sure. And then again two more times, in case S
andberg wanted to say something to him—preferably something that would bring things to a definitive conclusion, like "Curse you and your wily ways, Bigelow! That's the last time I tangle with the likes of you!"

  Sandberg either didn't notice him or chose to ignore him. The same couldn't be said of the DVD Now! staff. Bigelow had been pacing back and forth in front of their cubicles without even realizing it, and now they were watching him bounce this way and that like the crowd following the ball at Wimbledon.

  "Is there something I can do for you, Erik?" McCoy asked him.

  "No, I'm just . . . you know."

  Bigelow began beating a retreat up the hall. Freckled Curt said something as he left. Bigelow couldn't quite make out what it was, though he was certain he heard the phrase "granola bars." And laughter.

  He closed the door when he got back to his office, and the door stayed closed for the next two hours. Bigelow spent that time frozen at his desk imagining the million humiliating ways Sandberg could one-up him. He was fixating on the nasty things Sandberg could do to the Hot Pockets he sometimes kept in the refrigerator in the staff lunchroom when there was a knock on his door.

  "Who is it?" Bigelow screeched. He hardly recognized his own voice, it was pitched so high.

  The door opened and Marcy leaned in. Marcy leaning into a room was one of Bigelow's favorite sights, especially if she happened to be wearing a loose-fitting blouse. Today she had on a bulky turtleneck sweater with Santa's face crocheted across the front, but Bigelow was so agitated the obstructed view didn't even bother him.

  "Why aren't you down in the conference room?" Marcy asked.

  "Why should I be in the conference room?"

  "Didn't you read the memo?"

  "What memo?"

  Marcy rolled her large, brown eyes. "The memo that said we're having the Christmas party today instead of Monday if DVD Now! and Antiques Now! get done early."

  "Oh. The staff party." Thoughts of cardboard cookies, alcohol-free "punch" and awkward small-talk with the little people danced in Bigelow's head. "Well, I don't think I can—"

  "Crowley's there."

  "—be there for more than a minute or two with everything I've got going on but of course I wouldn't miss it for the world."

  "Good. See ya' there."

  Bigelow felt the sudden urge to burst into Peter Jarry's office and demand a shot of Jim Beam. He settled for a few fistfuls of freebie fancy nuts instead. He hoped the weight of the cashews and almonds would settle his stomach, help him feel less like a Macy's parade float on a particularly windy Thanksgiving morning. It didn't work, though, and he set off for the conference room feeling queasy and over-salted.

  Did he imagine that a hush fell over the room when he entered? Was it just paranoia that told him everyone was watching him as he walked to the snack table and loaded a plate with cookies and Hershey's Kisses? Bigelow wasn't sure. But when he took a bite of a star-shaped cookie, the crunch seemed to echo through the room like thunder. The silence that followed was so profound he was almost afraid to chew.

  He'd spotted Crowley and Jarry huddled together in a corner, and he was heading for that oasis of management-level camaraderie when Marcy walked to the center of the room with two large shopping bags.

  "Well," she said, "now that everyone's here, we may as well let the fun and games begin. So . . . we're all just dying to find out who our Secret Santas are, right?"

  There was a smattering of applause and one half-hearted "woo-woo," but Bigelow could barely hear it over the high-revving thump-thump of his heart.

  "Great," Marcy said. "Because today's the day all is revealed. I took the liberty of collecting the last Secret Santa gifts this morning." She raised up the bags in her hand, then set them on the floor. "I'll just pick one out at random, and we'll see who it's for."

  Bigelow's blood pressure shot so high he felt like his head would explode like those screaming bastards he'd just seen in the Scanners Anniversary Edition DVD.

  Marcy pulled out the box he'd left on Sandberg's desk the night before.

  This can't be happening, Bigelow thought. This can't be happening!

  By the time he'd accepted that it was happening, right in front of him, Marcy was reading the note attached to the box out loud—"For Alex, from your Secret Santa"—and walking the present to the other side of the room, where Sandberg had been chatting with McCoy and Starr.

  "Wait," Bigelow tried to say, but his mouth was still full of cookie, and all that came out was a spray of moist crumbs.

  He started to move toward Sandberg, but it was too late. By the time he got there, Marcy, McCoy and Starr were all staring in horror at the open box in Sandberg's hands.

  "'This is what people get when they mess with me,'" Sandberg said, reading out the note taped to the inside lid of the box. "'Erik Bigelow.'"

  Other staff members crowded around, all of them quickly backing off with a loud "Ewwwww!" when they saw what Bigelow had stuffed into the package. The "Ewwww!"-ing grew even louder when the stench began to waft into the room.

  Bantha was a very large dog, and the contents of the box were still reasonably fresh.

  "That is sick, Bigelow," Starr said.

  "What is it?" Crowley asked.

  Starr told him in a single, blunt word. It hit Crowley like a slap, and his muscular neck tensed up tight.

  "What is wrong with you, man?" he snapped at Bigelow.

  "Wait," Bigelow said. "You don't understand. Look at this."

  He ran to the shopping bags in the middle of the room and began pulling out presents, tossing the ones he didn't want over his shoulder. Some of the boxes made hard, ugly, shattering sounds when they landed, and voices were calling for Bigelow to stop, but he knew he had to act fast. He found what he was looking for at the very bottom of one of the bags.

  "You think that was bad?" Bigelow grabbed the package with the HO! HO! HO! wrapping paper and held it aloft. "Well, look at this!"

  He tore off the wrapping and clawed open the box underneath.

  A Snickers bar fell out.

  And a bag of Peanut M&Ms.

  And a ten dollar Red Lobster gift card.

  "What?" Bigelow screamed. "What is this crap?"

  "Well, Erik . . . ," replied a quiet, trembly female voice.

  Bigelow turned to find a teary-eyed, frightened-looking Marcy huddling behind Sandberg.

  "You're always forgetting your lunch," she said.

  And at last Bigelow knew who his Secret Santa really was. It was the person who could monitor his comings and goings better than anyone because her cubicle was right outside his office. The person who'd watched as his insecurities had pushed him to destroy anyone he thought could be a rival. The person who sat near his door and heard him tell Crowley what a waste Sandberg was. The person who'd heard him say the same things about everyone else he'd managed to get fired. The person who knew he stole people's mail, because she was the one who brought it to his desk. The person who already had her own key to Sandberg's office. The person who knew his neuroses well enough to find a way to exploit them. The person who had walked into his office with a hatful of paper slips that all had the same name written on them.

  The person who had set him up.

  He saw the hint of a smile behind the mask of fear she was wearing now, and he knew everything. But it was all too much to explain, so he didn't try. Instead, he just howled like an angry monkey and lunged at Marcy.

  He knew he wouldn't make it, and he didn't. Sandberg and Starr and McCoy stopped him. He flailed at them, spitting obscenities, until Crowley stepped up and ended the fight with one powerful punch from his little child-like fist.

  Words and phrases floated in and out of Bigelow's consciousness as he lay there amidst the gifts he'd scattered across the floor. "911." "Police." "Weird." "Klepto." "Grudge." "Obsession." "Sandberg." "Granola bars."

  There were other things he didn't hear, things no one was saying, though they bounced around inside his skull nonetheless. "Freak." "Fi
red." "Wal-Mart." And the sound of Marcy's voice as she looked up into Sandberg's eyes later that day, after Bigelow had been carted away.

  "Merry Christmas, boss," she would say.

  HUMBUG

  Scrooge was dead. There was no doubt whatever about that. Compared to his battered, shattered body, a doornail would have seemed positively rambunctious.

  A doornail, after all, might be run over by a team of horses pulling a wagonload of fresh-cut Christmas trees and come away none the worse for wear. Put a frail old man to the same test, however, and he not only finds himself the worse for it, he finds himself extremely, irrefutably, irreversibly dead.

  Or, to be more precise, he is found thus, as the only thing such an individual would be capable of finding himself is his eternal reward—and perhaps, as in the case of Ebenezer Scrooge, his lack of same.

  Scrooge had not been a very good man. But he was, as has been so firmly established, a very dead man. And that made Inspector Bucket of the Detective Police a very curious man.

  A few minutes before Scrooge was juiced beneath the wagon wheels like a shriveled grape, the detective had been heading home for his Christmas Eve supper, having just dropped off a matching pair of handcuffed jewelry thieves at E Division headquarters. He was debating whether or not to surprise the wife with a pre-Christmas present—the new collection of stories by the American master of the macabre Edgar Allan Poe—when he'd encountered Scrooge capering up and down the sidewalk talking to himself.

  It was immediately apparent that this was no ordinary lunatic. Though out-of-doors in the chilly damp, the old man wore no topcoat, hat, gloves or scarf, appearing perfectly happy to cavort in the slush in a simple black business suit. His clothes were well-tailored and neat but years out of date, suggesting an owner with full pockets he was nevertheless reluctant to reach into to accommodate such a fickle thing as fashion. He also appeared to be a man of some renown, for people were stopping to stare in wide-eyed amazement and say, "Look at the old pinchpenny! Do you think his conscience has driven him mad at last?"