Naughty: 9 Tales of Christmas Crime Part 6

"You're gonna give somebody a sandwich for Christmas?"

"The sandwich is for me. I didn't have time to grab anything for lunch this morning. I'll take care of the present later."

"What kind of sandwich do you want?"

"Oh, whatever. You know me."

Bigelow leaned in to get his coffee, taking the opportunity as he did so to try for a peek down Marcy's blouse.

"I'm easy to please," he said.

Marcy stood and wrapped a coat around herself, and Bigelow headed into his office whistling "Sleigh Ride." His in-box was overflowing and the message light on his phone was blinking, but first things first. There were goodies to unwrap.

Power was always sweet, but in December it had the especially satisfying flavor of chocolate. Now! published three magazines, which meant come the holidays three different sets of vendors and publicists and freelancers tried to curry favor by showering the office with edible bribes. Bigelow saw to it that the cornucopia spilled out in his direction, giving Marcy standing orders that all large packages should be delivered to his office first. The truly choice gifts went home with him. The second tier he pa.s.sed along to Crowley as part of his ongoing efforts to keep his lips locked to the publisher's posterior. The dregs-tins of stale popcorn, tacky ornaments that had shattered in transit, etc.-ended up in the staff lunchroom with a Post-It note attached.

Merry Christmas, gang! Help yourselves!

-Erik Bigelow Today's haul seemed to be shaping up nicely. Several big boxes had already arrived via Fed Ex and UPS, and the regular mail would undoubtedly bring more. Bigelow was about to tear into the most promising package-a small but satisfyingly heavy box with the unmistakable rattle of gourmet nuts-when a brightly wrapped package caught his eye. There was a tag attached.

"For Erik," it read. "From your Secret Santa."

Bigelow rolled his eyes. Giving anonymous gifts to a randomly chosen coworker was bad enough. Why should he waste his time and money on somebody he didn't even need to kiss up to? But to make the whole thing even more aggravating, when Marcy had come by with the little red Santa hat full of names, he'd drawn out the one he wanted to see least of all: Alex Sandberg. So now he had to find cutesy presents for the man he considered the only real threat he faced at Now!.

He leaned over and looked in his trashcan. The picture he'd dumped there Friday hadn't been cleared out yet. It was a small, tacky, plastic-framed painting of cats caroling outside a snow-covered home while a Scrooge-ish ba.s.set hound glowered at them from an upstairs window. It had been a gift from the printer who handled Antiques Now!, Bigelow's least-favorite publication in the Now! stable (mostly because it drew such feeble freebies). Bigelow had been so disgusted with the lame painting, he hadn't even bothered walking it to the staff lunchroom.

But now it had its uses. Bigelow pulled the picture from the garbage can just as Marcy stepped into his office holding a brown paper bag.

"Clean this up and throw it on Sandberg's desk when he's not looking," Bigelow said.

"Hey! You're not supposed to let anybody know who you're-"

Bigelow was already rooting around in the paper bag, which he'd s.n.a.t.c.hed from Marcy when she'd reached out to take the cat painting.

"What's this? Pastrami?" he asked.

"Corned beef."

He handed the bag back to her. "You know what would really be good? Roast beef. With horseradish. Ooooh, and a pickle."

Marcy opened her mouth to say something, but Bigelow managed to close it with the droopy-eyed, tight-lipped, It-Won't-Make-Any-Difference-What-You-Say-So-Why-Bother? boss look he'd mastered since his latest promotion. She turned and left without saying a thing, and Bigelow got back to the business at hand: opening presents.

He saved the one from his Secret Santa for last. The wrapping paper covering it was red with the word "HO!" in chunky white letters repeated over and over again. The gift beneath was flat and rectangular and stiff-obviously a book. Not being edible or formatted for a DVD player, it was of little interest to him. Still, free was free.

Once he'd ripped the wrapping away, he sat for a long moment, blinking down at his present, confused.

It was DON'T Steal This Book! Controlling Your Kleptomania by Dr. Avi Birnbaum.

Tuesday, December 16 Bigelow had almost forgotten about his Secret Santa when he came to work the next morning. He'd spent a few minutes wondering about the "gift"-what did it mean and who could have sent it and was it someone he could fire? But he'd had a good day after that. Crowley hadn't bothered showing up at all, which meant Bigelow didn't even have to pretend to work. Instead he'd surfed the 'net, done some Christmas shopping, caught a matinee showing of The Matrix Revolutions, hovered around the cubes cute girls worked in. Then he'd called it a day early, leaving the office with two shopping bags stuffed with plundered goodies.

Once again, Bigelow's desk was piled high with boxes when he arrived. And once again, one of them was red with "HO! HO! HO!" in white letters and a little card from his Secret Santa. This time, Bigelow opened that package first. It was another book.

Dirty Work: How White-Collar Criminals Are Destroying Corporate America.

Bigelow's balding head went instantly slick with sweat.

Was this some kind of accusation? Maybe even a blackmail attempt? All over a few measly DVDs?

Well, a few hundred DVDs, when you added up all the screeners he had piled in his bedroom closet at home. And then there were all the Christmas presents he'd appropriated.

Oh, and those little liberties he sometimes took with his expense reports. And he'd stolen someone's leftover pizza out of the fridge one day. It was covered with pepperoni and mushrooms and he just couldn't resist . . . .

No, he was being silly. Bigelow shook these disturbing thoughts out of his head as effectively as he shook off his conscience. Someone was turning this "Secret Santa" thing into a sick joke, that was all. And it was time he found out who. He walked out to Marcy's cube.

"Did you see someone sneak into my office this morning?"

Marcy smiled and shrugged. "Maybe."

"Who was it?"

Marcy shook her head. "Secret Santas are supposed to stay secret. What'd he give you, anyway?"

"Well," Bigelow said, about to spew some bile about the immature jerks they had to work with.

He stopped himself just in time. The situation was humiliating enough without having the whole office know about it.

"Just some knickknacks," he said.

"So did you have time yesterday to perform your Secret Santa duties?" Marcy asked, arching an eyebrow.

It took Bigelow a few seconds to get what she meant.

"Oh, sure," he said.

He went back to his office and came back a minute later holding a chipped mug with the words "Merlin Distribution Services-Working Newsstand Magic" printed on the side. It came from a gift set of gourmet coffee beans and chocolate-coated stir-spoons. Bigelow liked gourmet coffee beans and chocolate-coated stir spoons. Chipped mugs he could do without.

"Throw that in Sandberg's office when you get a chance."

Bigelow took a slow tour around the office after that, making note of who was in, who was out and who shot him nervous or resentful glances, which was just about everyone. The Muscles Now! staff had wrapped up a tight deadline the previous Friday, so they'd already begun their Christmas vacations. But Antiques Now! and DVD Now! had issues to get to the printer by the end of the week, so both magazines' editors and designers were showing up early, leaving late and doing lots of frantic keyboard pounding in between.

Bigelow ambled from cubicle to cubicle, dribbling "constructive criticism" behind him like stale bread crumbs.

"Is that the best picture you've got?"

"Why is that blue?"

"That font's too disco. Try something techno."

"You're putting what on the cover?"

"Crowley's gonna hate that."

"That sucks."

Anytime he saw what looked like a Secret Santa gift on someone's desk, he'd s.n.a.t.c.h it up and say, "Heeeey! Cool! Where'd this come from?" But these questions didn't get him far. Like his advice, his conversational gambits were usually ignored.

Even Sandberg brushed him off. Most days, he was all smiles for everyone, even Bigelow. But now he was hunched over his desk sifting through piles of proofs, "just pitching in" to "help out the troops." The Pollyanna show-off. Bigelow smiled and wished him good luck and silently prayed for G.o.d to smite him with a bolt of lightning.

So the only staff member to give Bigelow more than a one-word response was Joyce Starr, the editor of Antiques Now!. And even then she wasn't saying anything he wanted to hear, which was typical for her.

"Hey, Erik!" she called out when she noticed him being an especially persistent pest around her a.s.sociate editor, who just happened to be 23, female and cute as a b.u.t.ton. "Next year instead of scheduling two deadlines the week before Christmas, why not go for all three? Or better yet, how about if we all have to go to the printer on Christmas Eve? Wouldn't that look neater on your little calendar?"

Starr immediately became his number-one suspect. But then Bigelow remembered Marcy's comment that morning about the Secret Santa.

"What'd he give you, anyway?"

He.

d.a.m.n.

Starr was the only staff member who consistently criticized him to his face. It would be just like her to slip these nasty little digs onto his desk, as well. Finding a way to get her fired (for he couldn't admit the real reason lest it raise uncomfortable questions) would've been a pleasurable challenge.

And now the challenge he faced was no pleasure at all. Eliminate the women, eliminate the staff of Muscles Now! and he was still left with . . . .

Bigelow couldn't quite get the figure worked out in his head, so he retreated to his office and hunkered down over the staff telephone list.

Seven men. Seven potential enemies.

He would narrow them down to one, and then he would strike.

Starting tomorrow. He was feeling a bit depressed, so he went to a matinee to cheer himself up.

Wednesday, December 17 Bigelow meant to get to work early. He had his alarm set for the unG.o.dly hour of 7 a.m., and he'd turned off his Two Towers Special Edition DVD at 11 on the dot. He should've arisen at 7 rested and ready for action-the "action" being getting to the office before his Secret Santa.

But he'd been fidgety the night before, and he'd tried to calm himself with a box of chocolate-covered pretzels sent to DVD Now! by the flacks at Warner Home Video. The pretzels knotted his stomach and twisted his dreams, and all night long he heard the same faint echo.

Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!

When the alarm went off, he smacked the snooze b.u.t.ton. Ten minutes later, he smacked it again. Ten minutes later, again.

He ended up "snoozing" a dozen times. By the time he finally got up not only was he late but Bantha, annoyed by all the false alarms, had left a large, unwrapped gift under the Christmas tree.

When Bigelow finally got to work, that knot in his stomach pulled even tighter.

"You must've been a good boy this year," Marcy said as he rushed by her cube.

Bigelow whipped around to face her. "What do you mean?"

Marcy blinked at him a moment, looking surprised by the heat in his voice. "I mean Santa's been in to see you, that's all. Just a joke."

"Oh."

"You might want to lighten up on the Starbucks, Erik," Marcy said as he stomped off to his office.

He slammed the door. Now even Marcy was giving him a hard time. Sweet, loyal Marcy. Sweet, loyal, shapely Marcy. What was she wearing today, anyway? He was so worked up he hadn't even noticed.

This insanity had to end!

The package was waiting for him on his desk. It had the same note, the same mocking gift wrap. But it wasn't a book this time. It was square, and it rattled when he shook it. He attacked the box like Bantha attacking a Nike, sending sc.r.a.ps of wrapping paper flying up over his head.

Inside the package he found a small bottle of mouthwash, a tin of Altoids, a tube of "extra-strength super-mint" toothpaste and a brochure ent.i.tled "Overcoming Halitosis: Five Steps to a Fresher You."

Bigelow brought his hand up to his mouth, puffed into it, then sucked in deeply through his nose. Yes, O.K., maybe there was a little staleness there. But he'd had another vente latte on his way to work that morning. Surely his breath would freshen itself up over time. He didn't have halitosis-did he?

No! He wasn't going to let some anonymous peon psych him out. He was going to march out of his office and lay a serious smackdown on . . . whoever.

He started for the door, hoping a brilliant plan would form in his mind before he reached the other side. Instead, the door opened and Marcy leaned in.

"Crowley's here," she said.

Bigelow froze. "So early?"

"Well, it is after 11."

Bigelow swiveled around and hurried back to his desk. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone and started making calls he'd been putting off for days. When Crowley dropped by a few minutes later, Bigelow was on the line with a printer's rep.

Bigelow held up a "just-a-sec" finger as Crowley took a seat.

"Don't give me that!" Bigelow barked, even though he and the rep had been having a perfectly pleasant conversation about the weather just a moment before. "That last cover looked like mud!"

"What?" the rep said, perplexed by the sudden abuse.

"Alright then! That's better!" Bigelow slammed the phone down and shook his head. "Those Lantern Graphics guys-you have to ride their a.s.ses every step of the way. So what can I do you for, boss?"

Crowley kicked his tiny feet up on the edge of Bigelow's desk and shrugged his muscle-bound shoulders. "What's goin' on?"

Bigelow pa.s.sed a hand over the clutter on his desk like one of those models on The Price Is Right who specialize in gesturing seductively over cars and boxes of Turtle Wax.

"Same ol' same ol," he said. "How 'bout with you?"

"I caught the new Matrix flick Sat.u.r.day."

"Oh yeah? What did you think?"

And they were off.

This was how Bigelow really earned his salary-yakking with Crowley. Sometimes he thought it was much, much harder than a real job.

He'd known Crowley since high school, when his now-pumped up boss had been a 101 pound pipsqueak with braces and thick gla.s.ses and bad hair. The hair had never improved, but the braces and the gla.s.ses eventually went away, as did Crowley's pipsqueak status. During his college years, Crowley had discovered compet.i.tion bodybuilding, and he eventually dropped out to devote himself to the "sport" full-time. He didn't get far, his crowning glory being fourth place in the Tri-State Mr. Olympus Muscle Show. But he didn't retire from compet.i.tion with nothing to show for it. For one thing, he now had a body that would do Vin Diesel proud, even if his face would still send Howdy Doody running for plastic surgery. More importantly, he'd laid the foundation for his future empire by publishing a monthly newsletter called Muscle Men.