Tim Dorsey: When elves attack

Knock knock knock!

Serge continued silently creeping. “No fuckin’ boundaries, man! This dump could attract anyone with a limber global outlook. Cadaver dog trainers, pearl divers, snake handlers, snowboarders, celebrity bulimics, Filipino mystics who hang themselves with hooks through their flesh, Blue Oyster Cult, cannibals, and people curious about cannibals.”

Coleman fired up a joint. “What if it’s a midget?”

“That would work,” said Serge. “You open a door and find a midget, and there’s no way you can be in a bad mood. It’s just not possible.”

Knock knock knock. “Dammit, Serge, open up! I’m growing a beard out here!”

Serge’s chin fell to his chest. “Crap.” He undid the chain and turned the knob. “Manny, great to see you.” Serge stuck his head out the door, glanced suspiciously both ways, then grabbed his guest by the shirt and yanked him off his feet into the room. “Please come in.”

Manny looked around the room at all the copper. “You’ve been a busy boy.”

“Terrorism.”

“Where’d you get all this?”

Coleman changed the channel again and turned up the volume on another local news program.

“Good evening. This is Pam Swanson outside the waterfront mansion of disgraced hedge fund manager Tobias Greenleaf, where police are releasing few details about a brazen overnight break-in…”

Manny pointed at the TV. “Greenleaf?”

Serge just smiled.

Manny slapped him on the shoulder. “Should have known.” He walked over to a stack of copper coils. “Looks like you hit the a/c units pretty hard.” Then he swept an arm back at the rest of the room. “But those straight pipes and wires must have been inside the walls.”

“Not anymore,” said Serge.

Manny whistled. “Must have taken hours of work hacking through the drywall with axes.”

“And a demolition saw.”

“… However, unnamed sources describe extensive interior damage at the mansion and estimate repair costs at almost a quarter-million dollars. Off the record, officials speculate the wholesale vandalism could be payback for the hundreds of retirement accounts that were left worthless…”

“You used a demolition saw?” said Manny. “You’re not in contracting. How’d you figure out which walls weren’t load-bearing?”

“That’s easy,” said Serge. “Just follow the stress lines of the architecture. It’s obvious to anyone with a knack for calculus.”

“So you left the copper in those walls behind?”

“No, I figured out a way to get that, too.”

Manny scratched his head. “But how would you be able-”

“… Wait, something’s happening…” A deep rumbling sound from the TV set. “… There’s frantic activity at the west wing of the mansion…” Background shouting. “Get out! Get out now!” People running willy-nilly across the lawn. “… Police and fire officials are evacuating the mansion. The roof… the whole wing… it’s collapsing as we speak… Now it’s pulling down the center of the building… Words cannot begin to describe this scene of devastation, but I’ll keep talking anyway…”

Manny turned to Serge and slowly grinned. “I thought this was about copper.”

“It was.” Serge stopped and smacked himself in the forehead. “I forgot. I never took calculus.”

“… Now the east wing has just come down, the whole estate completely flattened. And since all of Greenleaf’s assets had been sheltered in the house under Florida’s no-seizure law, he’s completely wiped out.”

“Pam, this is Jim on the anchor desk. Surely someone as smart as Greenleaf would have insurance…”

“That’s correct, Jim. But as soon as the claims check is issued, it’s a financial instrument and not a house, which is no longer shielded under the no-seizure law, and will immediately be turned over to the victims whose retirement accounts he wiped out…”

Manny glanced at Serge again. “You planned this all along?”

“Who? Me?”

A hearty laugh. “I got the guys outside. Let’s start getting this copper loaded.”

The TV screen switched to a local VFW hall. “… In other news, there are no new leads in the heartless theft of memorial plaques to the area’s fallen, which has brought out dozens of supporters holding a candlelight vigil…”

A cell phone rang. “Manny here… What?… When did this happen?… That’s great news… I mean it’s bad… I mean, you know what I mean.” He clapped the phone shut. “Serge, that was Nicky the Mooch. Just got word on those plaques of yours. Someone’s trying to unload them in Lutz.”

“So Nicky’s got them?”

Manny shook his head. “Guy’s been laying low because of all the heat. But he finally risked going to Nicky’s scrap yard because Nicky is, well, like you and me.”

“You mean casual with the letter of the law?”

“Nicky said that when he dialed my number a minute ago, the guy must have thought he was calling the cops. He spooked and split.”

“Damn,” said Serge. “Now we may never get them back.”

“Not so fast,” said Manny. “He recognized the guy. From time to time, brings in stuff from construction sites. But a month ago, he was actually selling something legitimate. The bumper fell off his car. So he let Nicky copy his driver’s license like they’re supposed to do the rest of the time. Helps make his logbook look at least half kosher.”

Serge pumped his eyebrows. “Nicky’s got his address?”

“Just pulled it. He’s waiting for your call.”

“Can’t thank you enough.” Serge pointed beside the bed. “That pile of pipes? On me.”

“Nice to be back doing business with you.” Manny pulled work gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. “So what’s going to happen now?”

“Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.” Serge retrieved his pistol from a suitcase and checked the magazine. “Only polite thing is to invite him to dinner.”

South Tampa. The neighborhood was called Palma Ceia. An oasis of pastel bungalows, preserved Mediterraneans, and old Florida ranch houses. Tastefully landscaped with royal palms and bougainvilleas. Kids on sidewalks. Bikes and skateboards. Safe.

The streets had names like Santiago, San Juan, and Sunset Drive. A few blocks in from the bay sat an unassuming road called Triggerfish Lane.

Fourth house on the left. Whitewashed with turquoise trim and, next to the front door, a turquoise sailfish over the address: 888. In the middle of the yard stood an arching date palm that was illuminated after dark with a baby spotlight, but it was only noon, and the tree didn’t need attention.

Thanksgiving Day.

Inside, the home was filled with the kind of loving aroma from holiday cooking that makes women think of past family gatherings and makes men want to watch football.

Jim Davenport opened the oven door with pot holders.

“Jim!” whispered Martha. “Your mother’s fluffing the cushions!”

“You made a great turkey this year.”

“You’re not listening!”

“I am.” He slid the turkey out. “I just want this to go well.”

“And she brought her own stuffing, even though I asked her not to because I had my own recipe. And then she shows up at the door with a bowl and claims she doesn’t remember me saying any such thing. She conveniently forgets all my requests.”

Jim set the pan on the counter. “Martha-”

“It’s passive-aggressive.”

“It’s stuffing.”

“Did you see her stuffing? Hamburger! Who puts meat inside of meat?”

“Let’s go sit down…”

… Silence at the dinner table.

Martha Davenport smiled tensely across the serving platters.