When Elves Attack (3 page)

“Yeah?”

“This is one I forgot to mention.” Serge reached inside for a page of safety instructions and tossed it over his shoulder. “Hand me that turkey.”

THREE HOURS LATER

A dozen police cars converged in the parking lot of a sub-budget motel on South Dale Mabry Highway near the air-force base. Yellow crime tape. Forensic team.

A white Crown Vic rolled up. The detectives got out and stared at the incinerated and gutted room.

A stretcher rolled out the door with a covered body, still smoldering.

The lead investigator approached the sergeant in charge. “What have we got here? Another meth-lab explosion?”

The sergeant took off his hat and wiped his forehead. “That's what we thought at first.”

“What else could possibly have caused it? In all my years, I've only seen destruction this total at drug labs.”

“You know those same newspaper headlines you see every year? Floridians trying to keep warm by barbecuing indoors?”

“He was barbecuing?” The detective watched them load the stretcher into the back of a coroner's truck. “What an idiot.”

“Not barbecuing. We found a large deep fryer in the room. And a big turkey. There won't be leftovers.”

“Deep-frying a turkey?” The detective looked back at the room. “But a grease fire wouldn't cause that kind of damage. The door's blown off the hinges and charred like a briquet.”

“Wasn't your average grease fire. Forensics hasn't officially ruled, but it's looking like they were deep-frying a frozen turkey.”

“Jesus, you never deep-fry a frozen turkey. It goes off like a bomb. A big one.” The detective opened a notebook and shook his head. “Well, like you said about those headlines, every year, two, or three. This guy really was an idiot.”

“Or a genius,” said the sergeant.

The detective stopped writing. “What are you talking about? . . . Wait a minute. You said ‘they' were deep-frying. I thought there was only one body.”

The sergeant held up an evidence bag. Melted nylon cord. “Our friend was hog-tied. He had some help in there with the basting.”

“You mean this was a murder? But what kind of sick—”

A uniformed officer trotted over, finishing a conversation on his walkie-talkie. “Sir, we just got a report from the VFW hall. Someone returned those stolen plaques.”

“Great,” said the sergeant. “But what's that got to do with this?”

“They left a note. An apology. Maybe not, I don't know. But there was a driver's license, and the address of this motel room. We might have just ID'd the victim.”

The sergeant glanced sideways at the detective. “Score one for the good guys.”

The detective stuck his notebook back in his jacket. “Send me the case report. I'll make sure it gets filed under a very tall stack of papers.”

Chapter Three

THREE WEEKS LATER

Christmas songs. A line of small children waiting to see Santa. Others sitting on a foam mat watching a puppet show.

“This new mall's unbelievable,” said Jim Davenport, walking past the Gap. “Look at the ice-skating rink.”

“I hate this time of year,” said Martha Davenport.

“But look at all the kids having fun.”

“We had to park a mile away, not to mention the insane traffic on the way over.”

“Martha, it's the holidays.” They continued along the upper level past kiosks for cell phones and sunglasses.

“Wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to shop for your mother. She returns everything, you know.”

“Not everything.”

“You're right. She prominently displays anything
you
get her. That's an attack on me.”

A group of gleeful children with colorful balloons ran by shrieking.

“Martha, you're letting her get under your skin.”

“I'm dreading this next visit.”

“But we have to visit,” said Jim. “It's Christmas.”

“God, that last visit. Can you believe what Nicole said?”

“Because she sees how my mom gets to you.”

“That makes it okay? Like it's sport to her?”

“No, it was terrible,” said Jim. “I grounded her, remember?”

“Lot of good that did. She just kept going out. You're not firm enough with her. And now she wants a tattoo!”

“I'll sit down and talk to her.”

“Be firm this time.”

They went into the Apple store. The balloon kids shrieked by the entrance, followed by two elves, one tall and thin with ice-blue eyes, the other short and pudgy with a round, non-intellectual-looking head.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “Are we shopping?”

“No, I just love coming to the mall at Christmas, digging how stores tap into the whole holiday spirit, especially the bookstores with their special bargain displays.”

“Displays?” asked Coleman.

“Big ones near the front,” said Serge. “If you want to show someone you put absolutely zero thought into their gift, you buy a giant picture book about steam locomotives, ceramic thimbles, or Scotland.”

“But why are we wearing elf suits?”

“To spread good cheer.”

“What for?”

“Because of the War on Christmas.”

“Who started the war?” asked Coleman.

“Ironically, the very people who coined the term and claim
others
started the war. They're upset that people of different faiths, along with the coexistence crowd who respect those faiths, are saying ‘Season's Greetings' and ‘Happy Holidays.' But nobody's stopping anyone from saying ‘Merry Christmas.' ”

“And they're still mad?”

Serge shrugged. “It's the new holiness: Tolerance can't be tolerated. So they hijack the birth of Jesus as a weapon to start quarrels and order people around. Christmas should be about the innocence of children—and adults reverting to children to rediscover their innocence. That's why we're in elf suits. We're taking Christmas back!”

“So how do we spread this good cheer?”

“Maybe by skipping. Let's try skipping. You see someone skipping, and you wish wars would stop. Children skip all the time, but you become an adult and forget to skip. Let's skip.”

“Wait up!” Coleman skipped alongside Serge. “But I still don't get this elf thing. How can we be elves if the mall didn't hire us?”

“And that's what everyone thinks.” Serge skipped and waved at curious shoppers. “But there's no law that says you can't just unilaterally decide to be an elf, buy a costume, and hit the mall. That's the whole key to life: Fuck the conventional wisdom on elves.”

“So then that makes us . . .”

“That's right: wildcat elves.”

“But, Serge, what if someone says something?”

“What are they going to say?” Serge stopped skipping. “It's like clipboards. You walk around all smart and serious, writing on a clipboard, and people stand back in respect. Or orange cones. You can buy them at any Home Depot. Then you set them out according to your needs, and the public thinks, ‘He must be official. He's got orange cones.' Those are the Big Three: clipboards, orange cones, elf suits. People don't question . . . I need coffee. There's the Coffee Circus.”

T
he Davenports emerged from the Apple store. Outside, a line of small children stood in fear against a wall. Their balloons floated to the ceiling. Tears rolled down little cheeks.

A mall cop pointed at them menacingly and shouted. “Stop running and screaming! This is a mall, not a playground! If I catch you again—”

“Hey!” yelled Martha Davenport. “Don't talk to them like that!”

“Are you one of their parents?” demanded the security guard.

“No, but there's no reason—”

“Then butt out!”

Martha stepped forward. “What did you just say to me?”

Jim tugged her sleeve. “Martha . . .”

The mall cop leaned into her face. “I said, butt out!”

“Or you'll what?”

Jim tugged her sleeve. “Martha . . .”

The mall cop sneered. “Or I'll toss you out of the mall!”

“Excuse me,” said Jim. “Please don't talk to my wife like that.”

“I'll toss you out, too!”

Martha stormed off.

“Martha! . . .” yelled Jim. He ran and caught up to her as she walked briskly past the Jelly Bean Barn. “Martha, where are you going?”

“I'm going to report him.”

“But he's a mall cop.”

“Oh, big position of authority.”

“No, that's the point. Mall security sometimes attracts a certain type. And that guy demonstrated he has an authority complex. What if he gets fired?”

“That's what I want to happen!”

“But who knows what kind of retaliation he'll take. He clearly has impulse problems.”

“You could use some impulse problems.”

Jim did his best to keep up with her raging stride. “But I'm out of town a lot on business. I don't want to worry about you and Nicole while I'm gone.”

“It'll be an anonymous report.”

“But what if he finds out?”

“He won't. It's anonymous.”

“It was anonymous when you reported those neighbors with the washing machines and motorcycles in their yard. They weren't even living on our street. I don't understand—”

“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?”

T
he 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.”