Naughty Nine Tales of Christmas Crime (24 page)

"I don't know," Diesel said as he examined himself unhappily in a full-length mirror. "I guess it looks alright. But, dude . . . I'm wearing ladies clothes. It makes me feel weird."

"Don't worry. Long as you're not wearing a girdle you're still one hundred percent man." The Reptile tossed Diesel a tie emblazoned with the faces of the Three Stooges, no doubt a Father's Day gift from Arlo or one of his siblings. "Put this on. It oughta make you feel more manly."

Diesel did as he was told, but the tie didn't seem to reassure him. He was subdued bordering on glum as they left the house. The Reptile tried to buck him up by giving him a spliff the size and shape of a kosher dill. But after firing it up and toking it down, Diesel wasn't just glum, he was downright morose. That hardly struck the Reptile as strange, though, since morose seemed like an entirely appropriate attitude for anyone going to church.

Just which one they were going to remained undecided. They'd seen two churches as they turned into Arlo's subdivision, a Methodist and a United Church of Christ that stared at each other across Nicholas Road like the Sharks and the Jets daring each other to step across a crack in the pavement. The Reptile didn't prefer one over the other. As far as he knew, Methodists and whatever the United Church of Christ people called themselves (United Church of Christians?) were equally blessed, socio-economically. So ultimately it was location and timing that determined which house of worship they were going to invade: They came to the Shepherd of the Hills Methodist Church first, and its ten o'clock service was beginning just as they arrived.

Diesel and the Reptile sauntered in, picked up hymnals and lifted their voices up to God.

Their singing was something of a burnt offering in the Reptile's case, as his voice had been so ravaged by Kools his attempts at harmonizing sounded more like gargling. Diesel, on the other hand, belted out the first hymn of the evening ("O Come, All Ye Faithful") with such a rich, pitch-perfect baritone the little old lady standing beside him turned to ask why he wasn't in the choir.

"I don't know," Diesel said with a shrug as the organ's last bombastic blasts faded and the congregation sat back down. "Nobody ever asked me."

A moment later, the Reptile leaned over and pretended to point to something in the program he'd been handed as they strolled into the chapel.

"Hey, Sinatra—knock off the crooning," he whispered. "We don't want to be noticed, right?"

Diesel glanced down at the wardrobe the Reptile had picked out for him. Larry, Moe and Curly stared back up at him.

"Right," he said.

A black-robed, gray-haired white guy stepped up to the microphone in the pulpit.

"Friends . . . welcome," he intoned, giving the greeting an impressively Charlton Heston-ish gravitas.

For all the Reptile knew, the guy
was
Charlton Heston. All he saw was a multicolored blur with exceptionally good posture. The Reptile's vision wasn't what it used to be—ironic, perhaps, given that he made his living selling a folk remedy for glaucoma. He was in no hurry to have his eyes checked, however, since he had the same health care plan as most men in his profession, which is to say none.

"Let us pray," the Heston-blur said.

"God," the Reptile sighed, settling back and rolling his eyes heavenward. "Here we go."

The service that followed lasted approximately two weeks. Or so it seemed to the Reptile. He was a Lutheran by upbringing, if not inclination or practice, and he was disappointed (though not terribly surprised) to learn that Methodists don't sex up their services any more than the church he'd stopped attending at the age of fifteen, when his weary mother finally started letting him sleep off his Saturday night buzz in peace.

The Methodists sang the same songs he remembered. They did droning, call-and-response zombie chants just like he remembered. They did the irritating down-up-down sit-stand-sit low-impact aerobics he remembered. And they furnished their chapel with the same butt-numbing, back-gouging pews he remembered, which were designed not for comfort, he theorized, but for torture. After all, the church elders wouldn't want anyone napping when the collection plate came around, would they?

For the Reptile, no such torture was necessary. Waiting for the offertory was the only thing keeping him awake. His battle plan was this: See where the deacons take the money, slip into the john or a closet or an empty meeting room, chill for a while, sneak back out, grab the cash, then return to Arlo's house to toast their success with Chivas Regal and Bud Lite. It was a scheme so simple, so foolproof, it made the Reptile truly sad that Christmas comes but once a year.

Before he could really put that scheme into action, however, he had to survive the service with his sanity intact. The hymns, the Bible readings, "The Lesson" (which is how the program euphemistically referred to the brief-but-not-brief-enough sermon)—all of it passed by the Reptile unheard, unseen. His focus was turned inward, to the
Girls Gone Wild
highlight reel playing in his mind.

But eventually a sight appeared before him that was even more enticing than coeds with large breasts and low self-esteem: offering plates piled high with money. The Reptile had positioned himself and Diesel in the last row, the better to avoid notice, so by the time the deacons reached them the offerings had built up to quite a heap. And the heap kept growing larger as the plate for the Reptile's row was passed from hand to hand toward him. He was taken aback at first when Diesel reached into his pantsuit, pulled out a crumpled ten and dropped it in, but by the time the plate was in his own hands he was admiring his friend's rare display of strategic thinking.

A deacon was hovering in the aisle, just to the Reptile's right—God's bagman waiting for the night's haul. The man might remember a pair of unfamiliar tightwads who wouldn't cough up a gift during the Boss's kid's birthday bash. And any "offering" Diesel and the Reptile made now was really to themselves anyway, since they'd get the money back soon enough, with interest. So when the deacon left with the offering plate, the Reptile's last twenty was perched atop the mound of cash he carried, the cherry on a plump, flaky green pie.

It wouldn't be long now before Diesel and the Reptile got their slice—the whole thing. The deacons gathered at the back of the chapel, then marched up the aisle together and piled their swag on the altar. There was a little more up-down-sing-sit-blah blah blah after that, but this time the Reptile didn't zone out with visions of topless college girls dancing in his head. His gaze was locked on the loot. It wasn't just going to ascend to heaven on a moonbeam or disappear in a puff of smoke. Sooner or later, someone was going to move it. And when they did, the Reptile would be watching—and preparing to act.

What he wasn't prepared for was what came next. He and Diesel had been handed small, white candles when they walked into the chapel an hour or so before, but the Reptile had no idea what they were for. He'd never seen anything like them in the services he'd attended as a kid. Maybe the church had faulty wiring or didn't pay its utility bills on time. The lights could wink out at any second. But later, he noticed a line in the program that read "CANDLE LIGHTING/RECESSIONAL," which was half obvious, at least. They'd be lighting up their candles at the end of the service. The RECESSIONAL part reminded him of "recess" from his grade school days, but he didn't think the congregation was going to divide itself into teams for a rousing game of dodgeball or Red Rover. Whatever it was, it was the big climax to the service, and he was anxious for it to come so he could move along to the business at hand.

As it turned out, however, moving along
was
the business at hand. The deacons lit a few of the little candles, and slowly the tiny twinkling flames spread throughout the chapel, passed from person to person one flickering wick at a time. When every candle was lit, the minister said something about "spreading the light" or "spending the night" or "Lite-Brites"—the Reptile wasn't paying much attention to the words—before heading up the center aisle with the confident, purposeful stride of a prophet. The organist tore into "Joy to the World" with such gusto and volume it was clear she truly wanted the whole world to hear it, and people started to leave.

But it wasn't the rag-tag mass exodus the Reptile had been expecting, with some folks bolting for the doors while others just stood there chatting or waiting for the circulation to return to their lower extremities before attempting to walk. If that had been the case, it would have been easy for Diesel and the Reptile to linger, pretending to review a favorite Psalm while keeping a watchful eye on the offerings.

No, these Methodists were an orderly bunch, and they were filing out one row at a time—starting at the back. The families that had filled the pew across from Diesel and the Reptile's marched toward the exit with military precision, bright pearls of flame still glittering atop their candles. When the last of them was in the aisle, the Reptile found himself in exactly the position he'd hoped to avoid that night: the center of attention. The entire congregation seemed to be staring at him expectantly, even impatiently. He knew what they wanted, and he didn't want to give it to them. His mind was still racing, furiously searching for an out, when he felt the shove from behind.

"Jeez,
go
," Diesel whispered, sounding angry or perhaps even embarrassed.

The Reptile went.

An ambush was waiting for him in the hallway outside the chapel.

The deacons were there, collecting snuffed candles in boxes and wishing everyone a merry Christmas. One of them locked eyes on the Reptile, obliterating his chance to duck out unseen and find a quiet corner to hide in. By the time he'd given the deacon his candle (along with the least sincere "Merry Christmas" the man would hear that year), the Reptile was just a few steps from the exit—which was blocked by the minister, who was giving each person passing him a hearty handshake. Before the Reptile could dart away, the reverend's big, bony hand was reaching out for his.

"Hi," the Reptile said, giving the man's hand a shake as limp and quivery as a Jell-O crucifix. "Uhhh . . . good show tonight."

The minister froze for a few seconds, then chuckled. "Thank you. This was your first time at Shepherd of the Hills?"

"Yeah. I'm a Lutheran, really, but . . . you know. You gotta shake it up every now and then, right?"

The minister nodded slowly, a blank look on his face, as if politeness dictated that he show agreement with something that had just been said in Korean.

"Well, I hope you'll be back."

The Reptile smiled. "You can count on it, Reverend."

And then he was free at last. He drifted toward the parking lot slowly, expecting Diesel to appear at his side any moment. After half a minute had passed with no D, however, he turned around to look for his friend.

Diesel was standing in the doorway talking earnestly to the minister and the little old lady who'd been seated beside them during the service. Behind him, the hallway outside the chapel grew more and more clogged with parishioners. The log-jam finally broke when Diesel shook the minister's hand, received a hug from the old lady and headed toward the Reptile.

"What the hell was that all about?" the Reptile asked as Diesel shuffled up.

Diesel shrugged. "We were just talking."

"About what?"

"I don't know. Christmas. Church stuff." Diesel stared down at his combat boots. When he brought his gaze up again, he had an uncertain, almost shy smile on his face. "They asked me to join the choir."

The Reptile gaped at him—then nodded, his thin lips stretching into a grin.

"Good thinking, D. Now you got a reason to come back and scout the place out for us." He eyed the throng of church-goers still pouring from the chapel, most of them obviously anxious to become church-
leavers
as soon as possible. "We still want to hit 'em now, though. This is their jackpot night. I bet they usually don't rake in as much money in a whole month. Come on."

The Reptile headed quickly into the parking lot, moving along the line of cars closest to the church. Diesel followed, the polyester straining to contain his thick thighs
shush-shush-shush
-ing as he hurried to keep up.

"We can't go back in through the front door—not without giving a hundred people a close-up look at us," the Reptile said. "And who knows how long that old preacher guy'll be hanging around. So we gotta improvise."

When he reached the last of the cars, the Reptile shot a quick look over his shoulder. Only a handful of people had made it past the minister into the parking lot and none of them were looking his way. The Reptile pivoted sharply, veering right, and darted toward the bushes and shadows that lined the side of the church. It only took a few seconds of running to put him around the corner, out of sight of anyone coming out of the building or heading to their car. Diesel chugged after him, nearly invisible as he plunged into the darkness beside the Reptile.

"My man, you oughta keep that lady-suit when we're done with all this," the Reptile said. "It's better camo than your camo. I can barely see you."

"What are we doing over here?"

The Reptile took a quick survey of their surroundings. High wooden fence to their left, quiet subdivision homes beyond it. Nicholas Road about a hundred yards straight ahead. And running along on their right, the back wall of the Shepherd of the Hills Methodist Church.

The Reptile walked to the nearest window.

"What do you
think
we're doing?" he said, peering in at an empty classroom. The tables and chairs were uniformly tiny, and toys and thin-spined books were stacked on low shelves. A banner on the wall said "JESUS LOVES THE LITTLE CHILDREN." A shudder ran through the Reptile's slender body, the chill coming either from the brisk winter air or the ghostly tickle of Sunday school lessons long forgotten. "We're looking for another way in."

The window could be opened outward, swiveling on hinges like a miniature door. But it was sealed tight with a latch on the inside. The rest of the classroom windows were the same.