Tim Dorsey - When elves attack

From behind: “You guys are buffoons.”

“Great,” said Serge. “Taking it from all angles.” He lowered his binoculars. “I need to find a way to make it up to them… Coleman, stop staring over there. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“But City and Country are making out. I can’t help it.”

City looked over at Coleman. “Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer.”

“Serge, can I borrow your camera?”

“Shut up!”

“I didn’t know they were lesbians.”

Serge raised his binoculars again. “They’re not.”

“But they’re making out.”

“That’s because City’s current other option is you.”

“You mean they’re doing that for me?”

“Uh, yeah, Coleman. That’s exactly what’s going on.”

“Do you think they’ll take requests?”

“Coleman, just… hold on, what’s this?”

“What do you see?”

“It’s that Ram pickup again.” Serge shortened up the focus on his binoculars. “One of the vehicles from yesterday. It’s the third time I’ve seen it on the street today.”

“What’s it doing?”

“Slowing down and looking at Jim’s house. It’s like he’s casing the place.” Serge pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “I don’t like the looks of this.”

“Who are you calling?”

“Shhhhhh! It’s ringing… Jim? Me, Serge. Don’t hang up!.. Something important might be happening… Well, like, do you have any enemies?… Given your demeanor, I didn’t think so… How about your job? What kind of consulting do you actually do?… What do you mean you don’t do any consulting? Then what do they pay you for

… Could you repeat that last part again?… Why didn’t you tell me that before?… Just relax and forget I called.” He hung up. “Damn.”

“What is it?” asked Coleman.

Serge walked across the room. “Jim’s life is in danger. I just found out he’s a consultant.”

“Someone mad he gave bad advice?”

“Worse. He’s with one of those companies that fires people by proxy to take the heat.” Serge arrived at a box of clothes. “That pickup made its last pass at sunset. He’s waiting for dark. So the next step is obvious.”

“You don’t mean-”

“That’s right.” Serge reached in the box and pulled out a green felt hat.

J ust after nightfall.

Two green hats poked out from behind a palm tree on Triggerfish Lane.

Looking across the street at the Davenport residence.

“I don’t see anything yet,” said Coleman. “Are you sure about this hunch?”

“Never been more sure about anything in my life, except all the times I was more sure and was wrong, so they don’t count.”

“Then I think you should warn Jim. Just in case.”

“I’m not exactly excited about going anywhere near that house after last night.”

“But Martha’s car is gone. It’s your chance.”

“You may be right.” Serge stepped out from behind the palm tree. “This is too important… But stay alert. If you see Martha coming back, give me a secret signal.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Yell something in code that only I will be able to interpret.”

Serge ran across their yard, then the street, then Jim’s yard, and up the porch steps.

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong-

Jim opened the door.

Yet another gasp.

“Don’t close the door!” said Serge. “I know how you must feel about us listening to you fuck and peeing on your floor, especially so close to Christmas, but I have something important to tell you…”

“Dang it, Serge! Martha’s going to be home any minute!”

“And it will only take a minute.”

Jim stuck his head outside and looked up the street. “She can’t see you out here.” He jerked Serge inside and closed the door. “Now what’s going on?”

“I think someone you may have fired-”

Headlights swept through the living room window.

“That’s her coming up the driveway now!” said Jim.

Coleman’s faint voice from across the street. “Serge! Martha’s coming!”

Jim grabbed Serge by the shoulders. “You have to get out of here. And no upstairs this time. The back door’s right down that hall.”

“You got it.” Serge took off and disappeared out the rear just as Martha came in the front.

… Back across the street, a green hat poked from behind a palm tree. Coleman watched as Serge crept along the side of the Davenports’ house, peeking around the front to make sure the coast was clear, then dashing back across Triggerfish Lane.

He rejoined his buddy behind the palm tree, grabbing his knees and panting.

“Did Martha see you?”

Serge shook his head. “But it was too close for comfort.”

Coleman sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

Serge sniffed with him. “What is that smell?” He checked the bottoms of his elf shoes. “Dammit.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Coleman.

“I think I just tracked dog shit all through their house.”

“You forgot to wipe your feet?”

“And so close to Christmas-”

Suddenly yelling erupted across the road. The front door opened. Jim stepped outside and turned around to say something. The door slammed shut. Jim checked the bottoms of his shoes.

“Pssssst!” Serge stood beside the palm tree, urgently waving Jim over.

Jim slowly crossed Triggerfish Lane and stopped a few feet in front of Serge. He just stared.

“Is Martha mad?” asked Serge.

Continued staring.

“Maybe it’s been a long time since you took her out to dinner.”

“Serge! There’s dog crap all over the house!”

“And that just isn’t correct,” said Serge. “Someone around here is walking their pets and not cleaning up behind. I’ll keep an eye out for who’s responsible-”

“Serge!”

“Jim, I think your life might be in danger. I’ve seen several vehicles casing your house, especially this one Ram pickup.”

“I know you’re just trying to help, but please stop helping!” Jim walked toward his house.

Serge grabbed him from behind.

Jim turned around. “I told you I don’t want your help.”

“No, look.” Serge pointed up the street. “That pickup truck’s coming back. Quick! Behind the palm tree!”

They all watched as the Dodge Ram slowly rolled to a stop at the curb in front of Serge’s rental house.

“Is that a blue parking sticker on the windshield?” asked Jim.

“The streetlights sometimes play tricks,” said Serge. “But looks blue to me.”

“I think it’s from a distribution warehouse in Lakeland where I fired some people a few days ago.”

“Shhhh!” said Serge. “He just turned the cab light on.”

Inside the pickup, a man in a trucker cap guzzled straight from a nearly empty bottle of Smirnoff. Then held a. 44 Magnum revolver in front of his face, popped out the cylinder, and inserted bullets.

“Vodka and guns,” said Serge. “I hate to be the suspicious type, but that’s not a rabbit’s foot.”

The pickup’s door opened and the driver got out. They heard indistinct muttering. Cowboy boots staggered across the street, gun swinging by his side.

Jim jumped from behind the palm tree. “Martha’s still home!”

Serge grabbed him again. “Jim, you don’t have the training. You’ll just get yourself shot.”

“But my wife-”

“I’m on it,” said Serge. “I’ve done this a million times, so nothing possibly can go wrong…”

Cowboy boots stomped up the porch steps. They staggered back, then forward again. An unsteady index finger circled the doorbell button until it finally found its mark.

Ding-dong.

Just then, the man in the trucker’s cap heard quickly approaching jingle bells. He spun around and looked down at elf shoes. “What the hell-”