When Elves Attack (4 page)

“You're insane! . . . and dead!” The guard began rolling up his sleeves. “Both of you.”

“You can't hit me. I'm in an elf suit. I'm calling it.”

“Oh, I can't hit you, eh?”

“No, look, see? Elf hat.” Serge took the hat off, twirled it on his left index finger, then his right, then quickly placed it over the guard's face and smashed his fist as hard as he could in his nose. Plus a knee to the groin. The guard went down like a sack of concrete, clipping his chin on the edge of the porcelain and sending two teeth into the urinal cake.

Thus Serge began a vicious stomping—kidneys, ribs, spleen—kicking away with hands on his hips like a demented river dance. Coleman peed on the guard.

“Coleman, watch out! You're hitting my elf shoes!”

“Sorry.”

A final kick in the throat. “Don't you ever be mean to kids again! And stay away from the Davenports, who are called something else.”

The mall cop's face lay sideways on the tiles. Blood streaming from his nose and mouth, finally managing to open his eyelids a slit, seeing four green elf shoes walking out the door to the sound of the jingle bells on their curled-up toes.

Chapter Four

TRIGGERFISH LANE

A phone rang.

“I got it.” Jim Davenport set down tools to hang a painting and picked up the receiver. “Hello? . . . Yes, this is the Davenports' . . . Uh-huh, right, we were there yesterday . . . What? . . . No, we don't know anything about that . . . I see . . . That's unusual . . . I don't know; I'll have to ask her . . .”

“Who is it?” Martha yelled from the kitchen.

“Excuse me a second.” Jim covered the phone. “It's the mall.”

“What do they want?”

“About your complaint. They got your message and want to talk.”

“Good.” Martha walked out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. “I'm glad to see at least someone takes this sort of thing seriously.”

“I think they're actually more interested in something else. That mall cop is in the hospital. They suspect some kind of fight in a restroom, although he's claiming he was attacked. They've put him on suspension until they finish the investigation.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You left your complaint about the same time. They just want to know what you might have seen.”

Martha held out her hand. “Let me talk to him . . . Hello? Yes, this is Martha Davenport . . . But it will be completely confidential, right? . . . Okay, I saw him behaving unprofessionally toward a group of small children. And he was extremely rude to me . . . No, nothing about any attack . . . Well, who does he say attacked him? . . . Elves? . . .”

Jim fell into a chair, knocking over a lamp.

“Jim, are you okay?”

“Just slipped . . . I'll get the dustpan. Don't step on the lightbulb pieces.”

Back into the phone: “No, I'm still here . . . As a matter of fact I do remember some elves . . . Yeah, and I was remarking to my husband that they seemed to be following him . . . A tall one and a chubby one . . . What do you mean your mall doesn't employ elves? I wasn't seeing things . . . Could you repeat that last part? . . . The guard claims the elves mentioned our name? That's weird . . .”

Jim returned with the dustpan. Martha covered the phone. “Jim, they say the elves mentioned our name.” Then into the phone: “I'll have to call you back. There's something wrong with my husband. But I demand that man be fired for his earlier behavior, regardless of your investigation.”

She hung up and set the phone down. “Jim, you look like you're having a stroke. What's going on?”

Jim let go of the wall. “Just some saliva went down my windpipe.”

Martha headed back to the kitchen, eyeing Jim as she went. “You've been acting awfully strange lately.”

Jim craned his neck and watched until she'd disappeared around the corner. Then he ran both hands through his hair. “Whew. That was close.” He picked up his tools to screw in the anchor bolt for the painting.

The doorbell rang.

“I got it.” He set down a screwdriver and answered the door.

“Jim!”

“Ahhhh!”

Jim jumped out onto the porch and slammed the door behind him. Frantic whispering: “Serge, what are you doing here? You can't let Martha see you!”

“I brought a welcome basket!” Serge raised it by the wicker handle. “It's got cellophane and fake grass and everything. There's the cheese wheel—”

“Serge! I've got to get you off the porch before Martha comes out here!”

“Why?” asked Serge. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

The door opened. “Jim, who rang the—”

Serge smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Surprise! And, Martha, may I say you're radiant? . . . You remember Coleman . . .”

A slight wave from Serge's pal.
Burp
.

“Jim!” snapped Martha. “What are they doing here?”

Serge smiled and held up the basket again. “Cellophane and fake grass . . .”

“Jim! Get them the hell off our property this minute!”

“Look,” said Serge. “If Jim did something to get in the shithouse with you, I'm sure there's a perfect explanation.”

“Jim!”

A deep, pounding sound came up the street. The bass line from “Bad Romance.”

A low-riding GTX with gold rims pulled up to the curb. Nicole necked briefly with the driver, then got out. The sports car screeched away.

Martha marched halfway down the porch steps. “Nicole! Is that the same boy I told you—”

The teen brushed past her. “I'm getting a tattoo.”

Martha's eyes darted between Serge and her daughter disappearing into the house. Twin crises. She made the call and ran inside “Nicole! Come back here! . . .”

“Whoa!” said Coleman.

“Holy fuck,” Serge told Jim. “I didn't know what you were up against. Each month when their periods get in sync, you must be juggling chain saws.”

“You talking about my wife and daughter . . . ?”

“Just sayin'.”

“Please don't.”

Serge bowed his head once in respect. “Fair enough. I haven't been there myself, so the period thing could be touchy—”

“Serge!” Jim stepped close and whispered: “What on earth did you do to that mall cop?”

Serge took a step back, mouth agape, and placed a hand over his heart. “Jim, I'm shocked. I show up with a welcome basket, and we're chatting all friendly about periods and shit, and then suddenly accusations.”

Jim idly rubbed his left shoe on the welcome mat. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” Serge threw an arm around Jim's shoulders. “Meanwhile, it looks like Martha's having some trouble with your daughter. Let's see if I can help. I'm great with kids.”

“I think it's a bad idea.”

“Don't be silly.” He led Jim inside and called down the hall. “Martha! Nicole! It's Serge to the rescue . . .”

TWO MINUTES LATER

Serge and Coleman dashed down the porch steps at 888 Triggerfish Lane. A frying pan flew after them and took a divot out of the lawn. “Don't ever come back!”

They jumped into the Chevelle. “Hurry up and start the car,” said Coleman. “She's looking for something else to throw.”

Feet ran down the front steps.

“Hurry!” yelled Coleman.

“That's not Martha.”

Nicole sprinted down to the car.

“What are you doing?” yelled Serge.

“Coming with you. I'm getting the fuck out of this hell house!”

“Your mouth!” said Serge.

She grabbed the passenger-door handle before Serge could hit the lock button, and dove in the backseat.

“Get out of the car,” said Serge.

She pointed up the street. “Just hit the gas.”

“Out of the car—”

Martha came running down the steps.

A cast-iron pressure cooker crashed and creased the Chevelle's hood. “My car! It's vintage!”

“Told you to hit the gas.”

Serge peeled out.

Martha ended up in the middle of the street behind the car, throwing her shoes.

Nicole was twisted around in her seat, looking out the rear window and giggling. She turned back around. “That was cool.”

“That was not . . . What do you think you're doing?”

Nicole lit a Marlboro Light. “What?”

Serge snatched it away and threw it out the window.

“Hey!”

“Jesus, you're just a kid!” said Serge. “What, sixteen?”

“Fifteen.”

Coleman fired a new doobie and passed it back over the front seat. “Wanna hit?”

“Sure.” Nicole reached.

Serge slapped his hand. “Coleman! That's illegal!”

“Sorry. How 'bout a beer?”

“No!” yelled Serge. “She's just a kid!”

Nicole pointed. “Is that a real gun?”

“What?” said Serge. “Oh, this? Didn't realize I'd gotten it out again. Something to keep my hands busy.”

“Can I hold it?”

“No!” He stowed it under the seat.

Nicole slumped in disappointment. “You guys looked like you were going to be fun.”

“We are fun,” said Serge. “Ask anyone. Well, not anyone. You know how some people automatically don't like you for no reason?”

The Chevelle made a right for the Gandy Bridge.

“So where are we going, anyway?” asked Nicole.

“We drive around,” said Serge. “Waiting for duty to call.”

“I get it.” Nicole nodded. “You like to go cruisin'. Me, too. Driving around getting messed up. Then maybe street-racing on the Courtney Campbell or Twenty-second causeway. Some of those dudes have guns, too.”

“What dudes?”

“Like my boyfriend.”

“I've been meaning to talk to you about him,” said Serge.

Nicole got out her cell phone. “You mean Snake?”

“Is that a name?”

“No, it's just what the guys at work call him.”

“Work?” said Serge. “Like an after-school job.”

“No, he dropped out his senior year. Has a job at the Gas-N-Grub.”

“Senior?” said Serge. “How old is this Snake?”

“Eighteen.”

Serge slapped his forehead. “Now we really have to talk. How many piercings does he have, anyway?”

“Don't be old-fashioned.”

“Oh, I don't have a problem with it. They're meant to attract attention, and they attracted mine . . .”

The Chevelle ramped up the bridge over Tampa Bay.

Serge glanced as the young girl tapped her cell phone. “Nicole, what are you doing?”

“Texting.”
Tap, tap, tap.

“But I'm talking to you.”

Not looking up: “I hear you.”
Tap, tap, tap.

Serge yanked the phone away.

“Hey!”

“It's rude,” said Serge.

“Everybody does it.”

“And that's the whole problem with this country today. No manners.” Serge unscrewed a thermos of coffee. “People used to hang out and actually communicate. But today they head to the mall and sit together at the Yogurt A Go-Go in their own separate spheres of mobile devices.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“It's destroying the art of conversation!” said Serge. “I
love
conversations!”

“Why?”

“Because we're all crazy!” said Serge. “And that's how society makes progress: imaginations getting together and glancing off each other in accidental tangents of invention.”

“That
sounds crazy,” said Nicole.

“Think about it.” Serge chugged from his coffee thermos. “We all know how schizophrenics talk from our time on the streets interacting with the underpass community, and we're thinking, ‘Jesus, I'm glad I'm not like this loopy guy jabbering about time travel, drone aircrafts, and guilt-free dog treats.' . . . But that's only because we're not aware of how our own conversations sound because we're inside them. It's like you don't know your own voice unless you have a tape recorder. And if you
did
have a tape recorder, and recorded a hundred different conversations in a restaurant, where people at leisure have no agenda other than to enjoy each other's company, the chitchat is all over the road, jumping from topic to topic until it's miles from where it began, which nobody can remember. In movies, the talk is a logical straight line, moving plot from A to B. But in real life, it starts with the weather, then office gossip, vacation plans, childhood mishaps, a funny story about a trombone, the benefits of testing batteries with your tongue, why Esperanto never took off, what about Morey Amsterdam?—the heartbreak of psoriasis, the trouble with Tribbles, the thrill is gone, fashion disasters throughout history, turtle migration, my bologna has a first name, you're soaking in Palmolive, then suddenly Einstein blurts out something about the decay of matter and, boom, Nagasaki . . . So how 'bout it?” Serge looked over at Nicole. “Want to try a real human conversation where people actually listen? I'll go first: the Ice Age. Your thoughts?”

“I want my cell phone back.”

Serge's head fell back with a sigh. “Okay, then I want to talk about Snake.”

“What about him?”

“You two were making out at the curb in front of your house.”

“So what?”

“He was being very disrespectful to your parents.” Serge wagged a finger. “The kind of man you deserve would walk you to the door and greet your mother and father.”

“How do you know my parents, anyway?”

“Me and Jim go way back, through thick and thin.”

“I heard some of the stories when I wasn't supposed to. My mom really hates you.”

“Because she doesn't understand me. But she's a good woman, and you need to show her gratitude.”

“I'm just surprised you and my dad are friends.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you guys are cool. You're not afraid of anything.” Nicole looked out across the passing water. “And my dad is, you know, a little on the wimpy side.”

Serge hit the brakes with both feet. A long, tire-screeching stop at the top of the bridge. He turned to Nicole with a mask of rage she had never seen before. “Jim is not wimpy!”

Nicole retreated as far as she could and sank against the passenger door.

“Your dad is one of the most courageous people I know! You think guns and liquor and dope and an excellent car is cool? Well, it is. But your dad has chosen to take on responsibilities I could never dream of . . .”

Car horns blared behind them. Coleman stuck his arm out the window with a beer in his hand, waving in a “go around” motion.

“ . . . There's a war against women going on!” yelled Serge. “Not political. Just men. And your dad has dedicated his life to protect you and your mother from all of them. Next to that, I'm the wimp! . . . Do . . . you . . . understand . . . little . . . girl!”