Read Online Naughty Nine Tales of Christmas Crime by Steve Hockensmith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steve Hockensmith
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 snatched 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 asses 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 passed 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 Saturday."
"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 glasses and bad hair. The hair had never improved, but the braces and the glasses eventually went away, as did Crowley's pipsqueak status. During his college years, Crowley had discovered competition 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 competition 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 .
The newsletter's circulation grew and grew, making a particularly large jump after a marketing consultant convinced Crowley to change the name to something that didn't sound like a guide to local leather bars. So Muscle Men became Muscles Now! . It also became a magazine. And it made Crowley rich enough to start magazines devoted to the two other great loves of his life: movies and antique Mason jars. ( Jars Now! became Antiques Now! after one disastrous issue.)
When Crowley's company grew large enough to require an office manager, he'd hired his old high school buddy Bigelow, who'd been handing out pictures from behind the desk at a Wal-Mart Photo Developing Center. Through a tenacious campaign of butt-kissing and back-stabbing, Bigelow had risen to circulation assistant, then circulation manager, then director of circulation and finally, after one more carefully orchestrated character assassination, director of circulation and production.
Of course, he wasn't through rising yet, as there was one more director-level position that naturally belonged on his résumé. But for every chance he got to slag off Sandberg, he had to endure 20 minutes of talk about weightlifting and a brutal 30 minutes about Mason jars. The only relief came when he and Crowley talked about movies, but even then he was hemmed in and frustrated. Once upon a time he could—and would—tell Crowley he was an idiot to think that Return of the Jedi was the best Star Wars movie and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was better than Raiders of the Lost Ark . But that had been in high school. These days, Crowley could say Attack of the Clones was better than Citizen Kane and Bigelow would have to nod thoughtfully and
"Crowley's here," she said.
Bigelow froze. "So early?"
"Well, it is after 11."
Bigelow swiveled around and hurried back to his desk. He snatched 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 asses 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 passed 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 Saturday."
"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 glasses and bad hair. The hair had never improved, but the braces and the glasses eventually went away, as did Crowley's pipsqueak status. During his college years, Crowley had discovered competition 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 competition 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 .
The newsletter's circulation grew and grew, making a particularly large jump after a marketing consultant convinced Crowley to change the name to something that didn't sound like a guide to local leather bars. So Muscle Men became Muscles Now! . It also became a magazine. And it made Crowley rich enough to start magazines devoted to the two other great loves of his life: movies and antique Mason jars. ( Jars Now! became Antiques Now! after one disastrous issue.)
When Crowley's company grew large enough to require an office manager, he'd hired his old high school buddy Bigelow, who'd been handing out pictures from behind the desk at a Wal-Mart Photo Developing Center. Through a tenacious campaign of butt-kissing and back-stabbing, Bigelow had risen to circulation assistant, then circulation manager, then director of circulation and finally, after one more carefully orchestrated character assassination, director of circulation and production.
Of course, he wasn't through rising yet, as there was one more director-level position that naturally belonged on his résumé. But for every chance he got to slag off Sandberg, he had to endure 20 minutes of talk about weightlifting and a brutal 30 minutes about Mason jars. The only relief came when he and Crowley talked about movies, but even then he was hemmed in and frustrated. Once upon a time he could—and would—tell Crowley he was an idiot to think that Return of the Jedi was the best Star Wars movie and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was better than Raiders of the Lost Ark . But that had been in high school. These days, Crowley could say Attack of the Clones was better than Citizen Kane and Bigelow would have to nod thoughtfully and
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