“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
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.”