Naughty Nine Tales of Christmas Crime Read Online Free PDF

Becky one last pat. "Bye now. Break-time's over."
    He walked away singing "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town," Kev trailing him like a broken-spirited dog.
    Something about the conversation bothered me—something beyond the fact that Big Buck was a repulsive old letch. It wasn't a suspicion, really. Just an uneasy tingle, like the vague feeling of dread I get when I'm taking a test and I know I just wrote down the wrong answer . . . without knowing what the right answer is . The clue phone's ringing, but I can't find the phone, let alone pick it up.
    "So, Becky," I said, "did they ever catch the guy who ran you off the road?"
    "Nuh. The copth think it wath thome joy-riding kidth. They found the car not far from where we crashed. It had been thtolen."
    I put in a little more strained chit-chat out of the spirit of Christmas charity, then said goodbye to Becky and let Arlo get back to wheedling for prescription medication. A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman appeared carrying a bunch of boxes and bags. She piled them up on top of Becky and wheeled her away.
    "That Becky's mom?" I asked Arlo as he trudged back towards Santa's Workshop, obviously unsuccessful in his mission and not too happy about it.
    "Yeah. I was this close to scoring some Demerol and then whoosh, here comes momma."
    "Demerol? Geez, Arlo, can't you just say no?"
    "Man, I can't even say 'maybe.'"
    A goofy grin creased his droopy-eyed face, and my heart sank. I'd been thinking about telling him what I was up to, trying to enlist him as a partner, a sidekick. But could a guy like Arlo be trusted? He'd be like Tonto with a bong, a brain-damaged Dr. Watson, Robin the Boy Wonder with Attention Deficit Disorder.
    No thanks. This elf was on her own.
    The last seconds of our break melted away, and the usual assortment of squirmy, mouthy kids and testy parents lined up again. Big Buck assumed the throne and gave me a nod—and another disgusting wink—and I began leading the little lambs to the slaughter.
    "Just go up the stairs and tell Santa what you want," I told the first victim when we reached the gingerbread man. She stumbled up the steps shyly. As I turned to go, I heard Big Buck let out a "Ho ho ho" and ask, "What's your name, little girl?"
    And then brrrrrring , there it was again—the clue phone. And this time I actually picked up.
    Names. A few minutes before, Big Buck couldn't get poor Becky's name right, and her he'd met. But when I had told him "Mr. Haney's dead," he didn't bat an eye. He knew exactly who I was talking about. Why should he remember the name—or even know it in the first place? All his pal Kev had to tell him was the last Santa got hurt and he'd better get his résumé ready stat . . . assuming Missy Widgitz would have even bothered with résumés when she had a red suit to fill fast. I'm guessing all you'd have needed to land the job would be a big gut and low standards.
    Sure, the "Mr. Haney" thing was pretty thin, I knew that. There's Becky/Betty in a wheelchair, and we tell Big Buck somebody's died—who else would we be talking about? Context, right? But, still, it ate at me.
    I couldn't wait to get my hands on that tape.
    But I had to wait. Hours and hours, each one crawling by like the week before spring break. Finally we roped off the entrance, hustled the last few kids through and called it quits for the day.
    Usually, Kev and Big Buck would blast out of there so fast you'd think they'd been shot out of a cannon. Not tonight, of course. They were hanging out next to the throne—next to the tape recorder—talking and throwing ominous looks my way. It was like they weren't just ogling me anymore. They were sizing me up. I killed a little time chatting with Arlo, but he had a big Christmas party to go to and couldn't stay long. It was actually sort of a relief when he left: Keeping a conversation going with Arlo's kind of like trying to play chess with a cat. You end up getting a lot of blank stares.
    Once Arlo took off, I didn't