aimed them across the street, where he saw Martha staring back at him with her own binoculars.
Serge smiled and waved.
One of the assistant managers barricaded himself in his office, but nobody had noticed yet.
A mall cop arrived.
Not the new recruit Jim Davenport had just hired.
He pounded on the door. “Give me that anonymous complaint!”
“No!”
“I want it now!”
“Go away!”
“I’ll kick the door in!”
“I’ve got a gun!”
“You do not!” The fired security guard began crashing into the door with his shoulder until it finally gave and splintered off the hinges.
The guard ran to the front of the desk. “Give me that complaint!”
The assistant manager took up a defensive position on the other side. “I don’t have it!”
“It’s in that top drawer, isn’t it?”
“No.” The manager opened the drawer and grabbed it.
The guard faked left and right on the front of the desk. “Give it to me.”
The manager countered, right and left. “Stay away from me!”
“Then I’ll chase you!”
“You can’t catch me!”
“Right!” The guard took off around one end of the desk. The manager ran around the other. Circle after circle.
“Give it to me!”
“Can’t have it!”
The guard closed in, right on the manager’s heels. He reached and snatched. But missed the complaint.
“Hey! My toupee!”
“Give me the complaint!”
“Not a chance.”
“Fine.” The guard took out a cigarette lighter and set the hairpiece on fire. “See what you get?” He dropped the still-burning rug in the wastebasket.
The bald man used the opportunity to make a break for the door. He turned the knob and opened it a half foot before the guard caught him from behind and slammed it shut.
The manager crumpled the page into a ball.
“Give it to me!”
“Mmmm-mmmm!”
“You better not be sticking that in your mouth!”
“Mmmm-mmmm!”
The guard spun him around and punched him in the stomach.
“Ahhhh!”
A ball of paper flew across the room. The guard ran after it. The manager tackled him from behind and twisted his ankle. The guard kicked him in the face. The burning toupee set off the sprinkler system. “Let go of my leg!”
Another twist, another kick. “Ow! Ow!”
The guard dragged the manager until he finally reached the ball of paper.
The bald assistant manager let go and reached in the trash can. He held up something that looked like roadkill. Tears began to roll.
The guard sat up on the ground and uncrumpled the page. “Martha Davenport… But where’s the address? Trigger-something. Shoot, it’s smeared too much from the sprinklers… Hold everything. Davenport, Davenport. Where have I heard that name before?” The guard suddenly snapped his fingers. “I got it. Those elves! This Davenport woman got me fired and beat up. Well, I better destroy this report so nobody can trace it back to me after I exact my revenge-”
An ax came through the door. Then two firefighters. They looked down at an assistant mall manager crying and wearing a melted toupee, sitting cross-legged next to a mall cop with a bleeding ankle and a mouth full of paper.
One of the firefighters looked at the other. “Not again.”
Chapter Seven
Serge spied out the front window with binoculars.
Coleman wiggled a pop-top off a beer can. “What’s going on?”
Serge panned the house across the street. “Martha’s staring at me with binoculars and Jim is decorating the tree. That’s our cue.”
“For what?”
“Decorate our tree. We’ve got to copy exactly everything he does or the plan could fail.” Serge headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get the popcorn going and grab the sewing kit.”
“Get some sewing stuff for me, too.”
The scene became industrious. Perry Como on TV.
Serge came through the dining room and glanced at the table. “Coleman, you already built the gingerbread house-I mean mansion.”
“I was motivated to accomplish something.”
“I can’t process that sentence.”
“Dig!” said Coleman.
Serge squatted down with his chin on the edge of the table, admiring the handiwork. “How come all the windows are shuttered closed?”
“That’s a surprise.”
More holiday preparation bustle.
Coleman ended up seated at the kitchen table with needle and thread. Serge dumped a brown bag on the table and took a chair on the other side.
Coleman hit a joint and resumed a rare spasm of work. “What’s all that junk?”
Serge grabbed scissors and cut his own length of thread. “Any Christmas of mine must have a Florida theme. So I rounded up some ornamental fodder: matchbooks, bar coasters, ashtrays, pins, buttons, parking tickets, plastic cups from sporting events, swizzle sticks, cocktail umbrellas…” Serge squinted with one eye closed and threaded a needle through a piece of popcorn. “… rubber alligators and sharks from roadside attractions, souvenir butane lighters, keepsake bottle openers, Welcome-to-Florida matching penis and boobs salt-and-pepper shakers…”
Coleman squinted with his own thread. “What’s going to be the angel for the top of the tree?”
“That’s the best part!” Serge pulled something from another bag next to his chair. “Isn’t it great?”
Coleman scratched his head. “It’s just a little toy gorilla.”
“Bought it at Toy Town.”
“But what’s that got to do with Florida?”
“They didn’t have what I really wanted, so I had to settle for this and perform custom alterations.” Serge tapped the gorilla’s chest.
