Tim Dorsey - When elves attack

More activity fastening things that weren’t meant to be fastened to the tree’s branches.

Coleman worked with a stapler. Click-click, click-click. “Serge? When are we going to put the tree where it’s finally going to go?”

Serge used a crimping tool for heavy-gauge industrial wire. Ker-chunk, ker-chunk. “It’s already in the final place.”

Coleman stapled theme-park tickets. “But it’s still stuck in the door.”

“It’s way too damn big to get inside. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Serge hung a snow globe of dolphins on a teeter-totter. “So I figured we’d just leave it here and share the joy with our new neighbors.”

“It’s sticking out horizontal. I’ve never seen a sideways Christmas tree before.”

“And neither has the neighborhood decorating committee. We might win a ribbon.” Serge grabbed a roll of duct tape. “Damn, my skunk ape keeps drooping over…”

“Nice popcorn garland,” said Coleman.

“Then stop eating it.”

“But I’m hungry.”

“I’m impressed by your garland, too,” said Serge. “Cool strands of beer-can pop-tops.”

“Thanks.”

Serge held one of the lengths. “What are these little clear plastic squares in between?”

“Crack-cocaine baggies I found in alleys.”

“Good Florida touch. And this ornament?”

“I made it with a nail file.”

“Candy-cane shiv?…”

A squeal of tires. Serge and Coleman looked up. A GTX with gold rims parked at the Davenports’ curb. Necking.

Serge stood. “Hold down the Christmas fort. I need to take care of something.” He trotted toward the street.

The door of the Davenport residence opened. Martha came down the steps.

Serge reached the driver’s side and knocked on the glass. The window rolled down halfway. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Snake, but if you’d like to hit it off with a girl’s parents, it’s usually better to go up and introduce yourself than to sit in the street molesting their fifteen-year-old in full view of the neighborhood. I’m just taking a wild stab at this.”

“Eat shit and die, old man.”

The GTX patched out. Serge was left standing in the middle of the road… staring at Martha, who’d just arrived on the other side before the car sped off.

Serge smiled awkwardly. “Do I look old?”

Martha gritted her teeth. “You!”

Serge placed a hand over his heart with innocent surprise. “Me?” Then pointed down the road with the other arm. “It’s Mr. Snake who was tongue-wrestling your daughter. Not to mention whatever was going on below window level that we couldn’t see. I remember when I was his age.” Serge chuckled to himself and shook his head. “They called it ‘necking.’ No kidding. I just couldn’t seem to keep my neck in my pants. Ah, fond memories…” He paused to study Martha’s red-faced expression. “Why don’t you like me?”

Her nostrils flared. “If you don’t-!”

Crash.

They both looked over at Serge’s rental house, where a rusted-out Pinto had just slammed into the garbage cans down at the curb. Two women got out. Any man on the street who had heard the crash was now glued to his window staring at the twin sites: statuesque, hot, fatal, looking like they’d gotten dressed in the Dukes of Hazzard wardrobe trailer. The blonde had a bottle of Jim Beam by the neck, and the brunette threw the stub of a small Clint Eastwood cigar in the street.

Serge grinned at Martha and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Got to run. The chicks are here… Guess what? We’re starting a family!” He took off running. “We’re going to be just like you!”

Jim came down to the street and joined his wife at the curb. “I heard a crash. What’s going on?”

“I’m going to kill him!”

“Who are those women?”

Martha just stared in simmering fury.

Across the street, the women headed up the walkway toward the house. Serge ran to meet them halfway. Coleman came down from the porch.

“City! Country!” said Serge. “Long time no see-”

The blonde spun and caught him in the jaw with a sledgehammer right cross, decking him soundly. The brunette twirled with a roundhouse kung fu kick that whipped Coleman in the back of the calves and knocked his legs out from under him.

Jim watched as two men moaned in pain, rolling on the lawn across the street. Two women passed a bottle of whiskey. “Martha, what’s going on?”

“He said they’re starting a family.”

In a modest subdivision on Tampa’s east side, a bald man sat inside his three-bedroom cookie-cutter ranch house with screened-in swimming pool.

He was on the phone. On hold. Melted toupee in the trash can.

A woman finally answered. The man sat up straight. “Hello, this is Phil Westwood from the Tampa Bay Mall, and I’d like to speak to one of your consultants, Jensen Beach… I see, unavailable… Would you have a cell number or personal mailing address?… No, I understand completely that you can’t give out that kind of information. It’s just that he recently performed some terrific work for the mall, and I’d like to give him a present to show our appreciation… Send it to your company? I’d sort of like it to be more personal… You can deliver a personal message to him at his desk right now? But I thought you said he was out… Oh, you said unavailable… Yes, in his line of work you have to protect him from kooks. Never know when one of those would call. Thanks for your time.”

He hung up. “Damn.”

Then he swiveled back to his computer and stared at the screen, where he had just looked up the phone number for Sunshine Solutions-and had no luck at all with a Mr. Jensen Beach. “Think! Think!..” He tapped fingers on top of his shiny dome, then back to the keyboard. “If I can’t find that consultant, then I want to know who that woman is.” He glanced at the wastebasket. “Her stupid freaking complaint!”

His wife appeared in the den’s doorway. “Honey, your dinner’s getting cold.”

“I’m busy.”

“I feel so badly for you, but it might be good to get your mind off it.” She pursed her lips with genuine concern. “It’s been two days now.”

“Get my mind off it? I was fired and beat up within twenty-four hours.” He continued typing on the keyboard. “Neither has happened in fifteen years, and one not since grade school.”

She went to say something, then stopped and left the room to put something back in the oven.

More typing. “Here we go, Facebook. Martha Davenport… Bingo! That’s her all right. Wish I still had that stupid report. The address was right in my fingers… Wait, what’s this family photo? Her husband looks familiar. But where have I seen… Oh my God. Jensen Beach is her husband, Jim. The Davenports are responsible for both my beating and my firing!” He quickly surfed back to the local phone directory and scribbled something on a pad. “Okay, calm down and take this slow. See where this asshole lives and get the lay of the land. Then figure out a plan.”

He snatched keys off the desk.

His wife was back in the doorway. She turned as he went by. “Are you going to eat at all tonight?”

“I don’t know.” And out the front door.

The ex-assistant mall manager climbed in a brown Ford Focus station wagon and headed east, passing a convenience store with two Ram pickup trucks parked side by side. Both had parking stickers for a distribution warehouse in Lakeland. An arm came out one of the windows, passing a sheet of paper to someone in the other.

“Appreciate it, Jerry.”

“It’s so unfair you were fired.”

The second man read the page. “So his real name’s Jim Davenport, Triggerfish Lane.” He looked up. “How’d you get this?”