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 snatch 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 God 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 associate editor, who just happened to be 23, female and cute as a button. "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.
Damn.
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 ungodly 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 button. 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 scraps 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 entitled "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?