Steve Hockensmith - Naughty-Nine Tales of Christmas

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."