“Please!” said the hostage. “Don’t hurt me!”
“Hurt you?” said Serge. “Why would I do that? Oh, I know. Like when we came to your apartment last night and requested the plaques back. And if I remember, I asked real nice, too. I might have said ‘cocksucker’ a few times, but that’s always taken out of context. And what did you do? First, you cut my friend with a knife…”
Coleman held up his arm, showing a fresh bandage on a flesh wound.
“… Then you pulled a gun on me. Luckily I had pulled mine first. Even then, I didn’t take your style of hospitality personally. But what crossed the line was when I tried to reason with you about the importance of those plaques-real nice again-explaining the difference between them and air-conditioning coils, and what did you say about the people whose names were engraved?” Serge got out his gun again and tapped his chin in thought. “Yeah, I remember now. ‘Fuck ’em.’ ” He shook his head. “Not good. That’s the problem with this generation. No sense of history. They haven’t the foggiest notion of all the sacrifices that have been made so they can safely lounge about this country texting and tweeting…”
The man began whimpering.
“Not the crying again,” said Serge. “Obviously you don’t know anything about me. I take the high road. The answer isn’t to attack you. Our nation’s too divided for that. No, the constructive remedy is to educate you and welcome you into the program. It’s Thanksgiving! So I’ve invited you here today as my guest, to break bread and celebrate the men and women on those plaques. Look around you! This room is chock-full of liberty. Some mold, but more liberty.”
Coleman raised a beer. “Pursuit of happiness.”
Serge nodded. “And pursuit of happiness.” He replaced the tape on the captive’s mouth and clapped his hands a single time. “You hungry? Let’s start getting that turkey ready!”
“But, Serge,” said Coleman. “How are we going to cook it? There’s nothing in here.”
“Got it covered.”
Serge grabbed his car keys and ran outside to the trunk of the Chevelle. He came back carrying a large metal device, and kicked the door closed behind him with his foot.
“What’s that?” asked Coleman.
Serge carefully set it down next to the plaque burglar. “Remember that menu of Florida newspaper headlines that keep repeating themselves every holiday season?”
“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.”
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
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!”