Serge walked across the room. “Jim’s life is in danger. I just found out he’s a consultant.”
“Someone mad he gave bad advice?”
“Worse. He’s with one of those companies that fires people by proxy to take the heat.” Serge arrived at a box of clothes. “That pickup made its last pass at sunset. He’s waiting for dark. So the next step is obvious.”
“You don’t mean-”
“That’s right.” Serge reached in the box and pulled out a green felt hat.
J ust after nightfall.
Two green hats poked out from behind a palm tree on Triggerfish Lane.
Looking across the street at the Davenport residence.
“I don’t see anything yet,” said Coleman. “Are you sure about this hunch?”
“Never been more sure about anything in my life, except all the times I was more sure and was wrong, so they don’t count.”
“Then I think you should warn Jim. Just in case.”
“I’m not exactly excited about going anywhere near that house after last night.”
“But Martha’s car is gone. It’s your chance.”
“You may be right.” Serge stepped out from behind the palm tree. “This is too important… But stay alert. If you see Martha coming back, give me a secret signal.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Yell something in code that only I will be able to interpret.”
Serge ran across their yard, then the street, then Jim’s yard, and up the porch steps.
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong-
Jim opened the door.
Yet another gasp.
“Don’t close the door!” said Serge. “I know how you must feel about us listening to you fuck and peeing on your floor, especially so close to Christmas, but I have something important to tell you…”
“Dang it, Serge! Martha’s going to be home any minute!”
“And it will only take a minute.”
Jim stuck his head outside and looked up the street. “She can’t see you out here.” He jerked Serge inside and closed the door. “Now what’s going on?”
“I think someone you may have fired-”
Headlights swept through the living room window.
“That’s her coming up the driveway now!” said Jim.
Coleman’s faint voice from across the street. “Serge! Martha’s coming!”
Jim grabbed Serge by the shoulders. “You have to get out of here. And no upstairs this time. The back door’s right down that hall.”
“You got it.” Serge took off and disappeared out the rear just as Martha came in the front.
… Back across the street, a green hat poked from behind a palm tree. Coleman watched as Serge crept along the side of the Davenports’ house, peeking around the front to make sure the coast was clear, then dashing back across Triggerfish Lane.
He rejoined his buddy behind the palm tree, grabbing his knees and panting.
“Did Martha see you?”
Serge shook his head. “But it was too close for comfort.”
Coleman sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”
Serge sniffed with him. “What is that smell?” He checked the bottoms of his elf shoes. “Dammit.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Coleman.
“I think I just tracked dog shit all through their house.”
“You forgot to wipe your feet?”
“And so close to Christmas-”
Suddenly yelling erupted across the road. The front door opened. Jim stepped outside and turned around to say something. The door slammed shut. Jim checked the bottoms of his shoes.
“Pssssst!” Serge stood beside the palm tree, urgently waving Jim over.
Jim slowly crossed Triggerfish Lane and stopped a few feet in front of Serge. He just stared.
“Is Martha mad?” asked Serge.
Continued staring.
“Maybe it’s been a long time since you took her out to dinner.”
“Serge! There’s dog crap all over the house!”
“And that just isn’t correct,” said Serge. “Someone around here is walking their pets and not cleaning up behind. I’ll keep an eye out for who’s responsible-”
“Serge!”
“Jim, I think your life might be in danger. I’ve seen several vehicles casing your house, especially this one Ram pickup.”
“I know you’re just trying to help, but please stop helping!” Jim walked toward his house.
Serge grabbed him from behind.
Jim turned around. “I told you I don’t want your help.”
“No, look.” Serge pointed up the street. “That pickup truck’s coming back. Quick! Behind the palm tree!”
They all watched as the Dodge Ram slowly rolled to a stop at the curb in front of Serge’s rental house.
“Is that a blue parking sticker on the windshield?” asked Jim.
“The streetlights sometimes play tricks,” said Serge. “But looks blue to me.”
“I think it’s from a distribution warehouse in Lakeland where I fired some people a few days ago.”
“Shhhh!” said Serge. “He just turned the cab light on.”
Inside the pickup, a man in a trucker cap guzzled straight from a nearly empty bottle of Smirnoff. Then held a. 44 Magnum revolver in front of his face, popped out the cylinder, and inserted bullets.
“Vodka and guns,” said Serge. “I hate to be the suspicious type, but that’s not a rabbit’s foot.”
The pickup’s door opened and the driver got out. They heard indistinct muttering. Cowboy boots staggered across the street, gun swinging by his side.
Jim jumped from behind the palm tree. “Martha’s still home!”
Serge grabbed him again. “Jim, you don’t have the training. You’ll just get yourself shot.”
“But my wife-”
“I’m on it,” said Serge. “I’ve done this a million times, so nothing possibly can go wrong…”
Cowboy boots stomped up the porch steps. They staggered back, then forward again. An unsteady index finger circled the doorbell button until it finally found its mark.
Ding-dong.
Just then, the man in the trucker’s cap heard quickly approaching jingle bells. He spun around and looked down at elf shoes. “What the hell-”
Serge swiftly grabbed a giant terra-cotta flowerpot off the porch and smashed the man on the side of the head. Then he socked him in the jaw. The man went backward, losing his balance. He crashed through the side porch railing and landed unconscious between a tall hedge and the house.
Serge sniffed the air. He lifted his left leg by the ankle and checked the bottom of his shoe. “Damn.”
The door opened. Martha stood speechless, looking at a porch covered with broken pottery, busted pieces of porch railing, and Serge in an elf suit with a green shoe caked in poop.
He lowered his leg. “I can explain.”
F ive minutes later.
Three heads poked out from behind a palm tree. Martha screeched backward out of the driveway and sped off down Triggerfish Lane.
“Excellent,” said Serge.
“You call this excellent?” said Jim. “Martha’s a hair from divorcing me if she doesn’t crash the car first, my porch is half destroyed, and there’s a drunk guy with a huge gun somewhere in the shrubs.”
“All in a day,” said Serge. “With Martha gone, it’s an excellent time to get the guy out of there. Imagine if she stayed home and saw us dragging him unconscious across the lawn with a. 44 Magnum. Hallmark doesn’t make
