by Tim Dorsey
“It was against code. We keep a nice house and pay taxes.”
“But the code people accidentally gave them a copy of your anonymous report,” said Jim. “Didn’t the motorcycles give you a clue? They were bikers! They came to the door. I had to talk my way out of it.”
“It was the code people’s fault for giving them that report. I reported them.”
“And for the next year we got cited for every little branch that fell out of the yard waste container.”
“I’m still reporting that guy,” said Martha. “Here’s the mall office.” She turned and marched down a stark corridor, past the restrooms, toward a series of plain doors.
Jim called after her: “I’ll wait here.”
“Suit yourself.”
Jim’s heart rate rocketed from the stress. Under his breath: “Relax. Count to ten . . .”
From behind: “Jim! Jim Davenport!”
Jim turned around. “Ahhhhhhh!”
Two elves approached. “Jim, it’s me, Serge. And you remember Coleman.”
Jim backed up. “Don’t come any closer!”
“Is that any way to greet a dear old friend?”
Jim glanced back and forth, then grabbed Serge by the arm and hustled him out of sight from the opening of the corridor. “I can’t let Martha see you.”
“Martha’s with you? I’d love to say hi.”
“No!” Jim put up his hands. “Serge, I realize you mean well. But please leave us alone. Martha still hasn’t gotten over the last stuff.”
“Did I conduct myself badly? I mean, yeah, gunfire and a few very tiny explosions, but I love you guys!” Serge scanned the crowd of shoppers. “Where is the little lady?”
“Down the hall in the manager’s office.” Jim peeked around the corner. “Reporting a mall cop.”
“What for?”
“Screaming at little kids and making them cry.”
“What were they doing?”
“Running and laughing.”
“What an asshole!”
“And he said some nasty things to Martha.”
“What!” said Serge.
“I tried speaking to him, but—”
Serge placed a consoling hand on Jim’s shoulder. “I know you did.”
Jim looked down at his shoes. “Sometimes I think I should be more aggressive. The disrespectful way he talked to my wife . . .”
Serge squeezed his shoulder and shook his head. “No, Jim. Stay the way you are. You’re one of the good guys. I’m sure you did everything appropriate to defend Martha’s honor.”
Jim looked up. “You think so?”
Serge nodded hard, taking a sip of his extra-large coffee from the Coffee Circus. “Absolutely.” Then he stopped and rubbed his nose. “Except this mall-cop thing is tricky business. They attract certain types, authority complex. He might get ahold of the anonymous report.”
“That’s exactly what I told Martha . . . Wait—” Jim pointed toward the other side of the pavilion. “There he is now.”
“Who?”
“The mall cop. Next to the Pretzel Emporium.”
“I see him,” said Serge. “He’s yelling at more kids.”
Jim puffed up his chest. “Maybe I should say something.”
Serge grabbed his shoulder again. “Jim, you’re still pure. This is my territory . . . Come on, Coleman. Put down the beer. We’re rolling . . .”
“Serge, wait,” said Jim. “What are you going to . . .”
But they had already taken off.
From the office corridor: “Jim.”
“Ahhhhh! . . . Oh, it’s you.”
“Of course it’s me,” said Martha. “Why are you so jumpy? Did I hear you talking to someone around the corner?”
“No, nothing, what?”
“You’re acting kind of suspicious.”
“So how did the report go?”
“The assistant mall manager that I was supposed to see was out, so I left a message with his secretary for him to call . . . There he is now.”
“The manager?”
“No, that mall cop.” Martha nodded in the direction of the other side of the escalators. “Look at that cocky asshole . . . That’s odd.”
“What?”
“Two guys just passed him going the other way. Then they made a quick U-turn, and are right behind him stride for stride. Seems they’re following him.”
“Who is?”
“Those two elves. Now they’ve started skipping.”
Jim coughed and hit himself in the center of his chest. “W-w-what elves?”
“How can you not notice them? The one on the left is the tallest elf I’ve ever seen, with the giant coffee . . . Does he seem familiar to you? I could swear I’ve seen him somewhere before.”
“Ahhh!” Jim put his arm around Martha and turned her the other way.
She tried looking back. “Jim, what’s gotten into you?”
“I know what you need,” he said with a crooked smile. “How about some ice cream? There’s the food court.”
“Jim, why do you always think a woman just needs ice cream to put her in a better mood?”
“It doesn’t?”
“No, it’s true. Where’d you see the ice cream parlor?”
The uniform was spiffy. Navy blue with eagles on the shoulders. The mall cop kept it pressed. And maintained his mustache like Magnum, P.I. His forearms were conspicuously thick from gym workouts. If a hot babe had a lot of bags, he always offered assistance, and they always declined. As they walked away, he took their pictures with his cell phone. In his pocket was a set of keys for various mall doors and a black Delta 88 parked outside in the employee lot.
The guard strolled casually past Banana Republic and Foot Locker. But his senses were keen, on the watch for any mall infraction. He thought: I have to go to the bathroom.
The mall cop pushed open a door and walked across black-and-white-checkered tiles. He unzipped and hummed to himself, making a game of hitting the urinal cake.
The door opened behind him. The ever-vigilant guard reflexively glanced over his shoulder. He chuckled a single time. Losers. When his business was finished, the guard zipped back up and turned around.
“Excuse me,” said Serge.
“What do you want?”
“For you to stop being mean to little children and decent women.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’ve been watching you.”
“You’ve been watching me?” The guard shoved Serge in the chest. “I’m so going to have you fired. I’m heading to the office right now.”
“You can’t get me fired.” Serge raised his extra-large coffee, draining it in one large guzzle, then whipping the empty cup sideways at the garbage can. “I don’t work at the mall.”
The guard stopped with a confused look. “But you’re wearing an elf suit.”
“I fuck conventional wisdom’s wife. Clipboard. Orange cones. You’re a mall cop. Not a real cop. My personal code is never harm real cops, who risk their lives every day. The Thin Blue Line. You’re an almost-cop, so harming you is a gray area. Thin Gray Line? Who knows? So I’ll err on the side of decency and ask nice. Don’t yell at any more kids before you’re fired.”
“Fired?”
“And after you’re fired, let it go. Don’t look for the anonymous complaint that got you dismissed. And if you somehow do find the anonymous complaint, don’t go after the Davenports, which isn’t their name. Brass plaques, frozen turkey, LEGOs. I’ll be watching. That is all. You may go.”
“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 . . .”