When Elves Attack: A Joyous Christmas Greeting From the Criminal Nutbars of the Sunshine State

by Dorsey, Tim

  Chapter Eleven

  MIDNIGHT

  A ’72 Chevelle raced east on Interstate 4.

  Past the exit for the annual strawberry festival in Plant City. A dinosaur statue advertised a roadside attraction of more dinosaur statues. An RV dealership tried to lure customers from the highway with a row of silver Airstream trailers buried halfway in the ground straight up.

  Serge took an off-ramp for Lakeland. He held a driver’s license under the map light and navigated through the streets for an address.

  “Good, it’s rural.” Serge cruised slowly through a sparse neighborhood with drainage ditches near the road and no sidewalk. He slowed and double-checked the street number again. “This is the place.”

  The Chevelle backed into the driveway. The trunk opened. Serge grabbed wrists.

  Coleman grabbed ankles. “How many times have we done this?”

  “I’ve lost count.”

  “He’s heavier than most.”

  Twenty minutes later. Thick ropes tied cowboy boots to the legs of a wooden chair, sitting alone in the middle of a dark living room. More ropes around his chest and hands.

  Serge was faced the other way, on his knees, assembling another unique . . . well, what the hell was it?

  “Serge.” Coleman tossed back some pills. “What the hell is it?”

  “You’ll see.” More twisting, pressing, clamping. Reaching for additional parts.

  “Where’d you get all that stuff?”

  “Toy Town. It was supposed to be a few of my Secret Santa presents for you, but something came up.”

  “Don’t those toys go separately?”

  “That’s what most people think.” Further assembly. “The power structure starts boxing in your mind when you’re small. People think these are just toys, but they’re also agents of mind control. Luckily I broke the chains early.” Serge snapped a final piece in place and stood proudly. “Judge for yourself. The fruits of a free individual.”

  “I don’t get it. Looks like those modern art things at the museums you always drag me to. I don’t get those either.”

  “The free-thinkers will get it.”

  Muted screaming from across the room. Serge turned and faced the hostage. “Maybe he’s a free-thinker. Let’s find out!”

  Serge skipped across the room and pulled the duct tape off his mouth.

  “Ow!”

  Serge gestured at his creation. “Tell me what you think. Your honest opinion, don’t hold back. And don’t be embarrassed if you don’t get it. They probably got to you early with the toys.”

  “I swear, I wasn’t going to do anything to Jim.” Tears streaming down cheeks. “I only wanted some answers.”

  “Then what was the gun for?”

  “That was just to scare him. Please don’t hurt me!”

  “Why would you say something like that?”

  “Because . . . that thing.”

  Serge glanced across the room. “Looks harmless enough to me.”

  “Listen, if you let me go, I swear you’ll never see me again.” Chest heaving. “I’ll forget Jim ever existed.”

  “Really?” Serge nodded to himself. “That sounds awfully generous of you.”

  “Oh, thank you. You won’t be sorry.”

  “And you probably even believe that yourself.” Serge tore off a new stretch of duct tape and strapped it around his mouth. “The problem is that you’re an unknown variable.”

  “Serge?” Coleman took a big sucking hit on a joint. “What’s an unknown . . . that other word you used?”

  “Some people you can reason with. Others you have to threaten, but even most of those respond logically to the threats. They behave in a predictable pattern.” Serge walked back across the room and joined Coleman. “But this loser doesn’t know what he’s going to do next, so how can we? As long as he’s out there, a decent family isn’t safe.”

  “And now I get to see what your device does?”

  “Not yet.” Serge looked down at his curled green toes. “I paid a lot for these elf suits. I’d like to get some use out of them.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Since we have an audience, how about a song-and-dance routine?”

  Coleman took another big hit and set it down in an ashtray. “Lead on.”

  “And I’ll need that joint.”

  “But you don’t get high,” said Coleman.

  “There are other uses.” And Serge put it to use.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Coleman. “Cool.”

  “Ready?”

  Serge and Coleman stood side by side in front of the hostage, wiggling against the ropes and squealing under the tape.

  “What do I do?” asked Coleman.

  “Just put your hands on your hips and kick those bell-fringed shoes out in a merry jig. We’ll make up the song as we go along.”

  The pair began kicking and jingling.

  Serge: “A one, and a two and . . . Ohhhhhh, what the heck can that contraption be?”

  Coleman: “What the fuck’s going to happen to me?”

  Serge: “These crazy elves are all over the map.”

  Coleman: “But don’t have a cow, and don’t you crap.”

  Serge: “Because Santa Claus is cominnnnnnnng . . . to town!”

  TWO HOURS LATER

  The 911 calls came in all at once. At least a dozen neighbors.

  And even more sheriff’s cruisers, parked helter-skelter across the front yard of a rural home in Lakeland.

  People stood on front lawns in nightgowns and pajamas. A news truck arrived.

  Detectives climbed out of a white Crown Vic and approached the crime tape.

  A deputy stood beside the door. “Hope you haven’t eaten anything big lately.”

  “What have we got in there?” asked the lead detective.

  “Medical examiner’s already inside.”

  The detectives ducked under the yellow ribbon.

  “Jesus! . . .”

  A large knot of forensic people worked in a careful choreography to keep out of one another’s way as they worked around the body. Camera flashes, tweezers, evidence bags.

  The detectives turned in the other direction. A long scorch mark up the wall and a larger one across the floor toward the victim’s chair.

  The medical examiner came over. “Caught a break. The explosion woke up the whole street, so we got the scene fresh.”

  “What are all those things sticking out of him?” asked the head detective. “And the wall behind?”

  “Shrapnel. Still taking inventory. And we’re sure to find more inside when we do the autopsy, but so far . . .” He referred to his clipboard. “We count twenty-seven LEGO blocks; nineteen Tinkertoys, both the sticks and the wheel things; thirty-one Erector Set beams; and a Lincoln Log through his left lung.”

  “Holy mother,” said the detective. “He must have used plastique or ammonium nitrate.”

  The examiner shook his head. “Just standard black powder.” He held up an evidence bag containing the nub of a joint. “This was the fuse.”

  “Wait a second,” said the detective. “I’ve seen black powder before, and there’s no way it could generate this force . . .” He stopped and realized something new. “How come the debris is only concentrated in that one area toward the chair?”

  “The same reason it was so powerful.” The medical examiner sketched on his clipboard. “I used to be in the army. This is what we’d call a shaped, directional charge. It’s the difference between a bomb and a cannon. A small amount of black powder goes a lot further when the release is concentrated in a tight vector.”

  “But how did they do it?”

  He sketched some more. “The key was the LEGOs. He interlocked multiple walls on the desired sides for maximum delivery. Our guy clearly had demolition training.”

  “Just great,” said the detective. “Any witnesses?”

  “One of the neighbors across the street said he saw two guys getting into a car shortly b
efore hearing the blast.”

  “Were they from around here?”

  “The neighbor seriously doubts it because of the way they were dressed,” said the examiner. “When he first told us, we gave him the Breathalyzer, but he passed.”

  “So how were they dressed?”

  “You’re not going to believe this.”

  Chapter Twelve

  TAMPA BAY MALL

  The weekend before Christmas. Parking lot packed. Baby strollers, parents with boxes and shopping bags. Some cars followed people leaving the stores, hoping to grab their space.

  A ’72 Chevelle rolled down a long line of vehicles. It was not looking for a space.

  “If we’re not looking for a space, then what are we doing here?” asked Coleman.

  “Working.” Serge leaned over the wheel, carefully making a U-turn at the end of the row and heading back up another.

  “But we usually only steal from other crooks or rich assholes.” Coleman took a slug from a pint flask. “We don’t mess with regular folk.”

  “And we’re not about to start.”

  “But you said work—”

  “Hold it,” said Serge. “Up ahead at eleven o’clock. That pair of police cars. Our cue to leave.”

  “Good thinking,” said Coleman. “Don’t want them to catch us.”

  “That’s not why we’re leaving.” Serge left the parking lot and headed for I-275. “Those police cars mean they’re doing our work for us.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Starting the day after Thanksgiving, at malls all across Florida, thieves descend in droves on the parking lots. The reasons are many: more targets, more expensive gift items, shoppers distracted by the holiday hubbub, and added chaos in which to escape. Next time you’re hitting the shopping centers around Christmas, count all the police cars, and the bad guys.”

  “How do you spot the bad guys?”

  “The smart ones are on foot, camouflaged among the shoppers, and can usually only be spotted when they’re entering the lot from the street. The dumb ones ride bicycles. I mean, who rides bicycles up and down rows of cars at the mall? And it only happens around Christmas. It’s like they get some kind of newsletter.”

  They headed northeast to one of the older malls in the suburbs. “But the scariest ones are in cars,” said Serge. “Some of them also take the customer. One woman was snatched in broad daylight on a Saturday, and they found her body in an orange grove outside Wauchula. That’s the thing about Christmas: all the memories.”

  “I remember getting G.I. Joes when they were at their peak,” said Coleman.

  “Me, too!” said Serge. “I spotted them under the tree at two A.M. and woke my parents. They told me it was too early and to go back to sleep, but I stomped my feet and flapped my arms: ‘There are G.I. Joes out there!’ That was the pattern: I’d always wake up early and sneak out to see if Santa had come yet. But you had to be careful, because if he was there and still working, you just never knew. There were stories floating around about coal in stockings. Little kids wait a whole year for Christmas, which is like ten adult years, and then coal. So you knew he could also be an asshole.”

  “And you knew he really existed because he ate the cookies and drank the milk.”

  “Once when I was little, I did something bad. My mom made a fake phone call to Santa, and I lost my fucking mind.” Serge turned into the parking lot of another mall. “She thought it would just worry me a little and I’d behave, but Santa is the religion of children. You don’t go there. She’s telling Santa not to bring me any presents, and I flipped out as if you threw a cat in a shower, screaming and jumping all over the place, and I finally scooted a chair over. The phone was one of those old wall units. Or at least until I ripped it down, and my mom went speechless, just staring at me lying on the floor with the wall unit clutched to my chest, going, ‘Don’t you ever call Santa on me!’ I was only four, but she didn’t call again.”

  Coleman rolled down his window to flick a joint ash.

  “Coleman!” said Serge. “Be more careful! Your elf hat could blow off.”

  “It’s on tight,” said Coleman. “Ever stick your tongue on a flagpole?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because it’s supposed to freeze.” Coleman unscrewed his flask. “I even tried it once, but we were living in Florida. It just tasted bad.”

  “I came down with the mumps one Christmas.” Serge veered around the movie-plex. “And you never hear about them anymore. You hear about measles and chicken pox, but it’s hush-hush about mumps.”

  “Some shit’s going down somewhere.”

  “That’s my guess. Another memory was being the first kid in the neighborhood who figured out there wasn’t a Santa, and the other kids tried to suppress my message. I didn’t fit in for a couple years, like if you’re an atheist today, or in the ACLU. Remember Advent calendars?”

  “Can’t place it.”

  “That means you weren’t Catholic,” said Serge. “We’d get these cool cardboard calendars that marked off the days to Christmas, and each day you’d open a little perforated window and get a piece of chocolate. There was a lot of bribery in the Catholic Church.”

  “I’m not seeing any police cars,” said Coleman.

  “Me neither,” said Serge. “But lots of people on bicycles. Looks like we have a gig.”

  “The people on bikes are riding between cars.”

  “To look in backseats for presents people bought elsewhere before coming here.” Serge leaned on the horn.

  “Look at the bicycles scatter,” said Coleman.

  “They’ll just regroup a few rows over like pigeons.”

  “Over there,” said Coleman. “I think I see a real elf.”

  “Where?”

  “Next row. We just passed him.”

  Serge reached the edge of the parking lot and doubled back. “I see him. He’s fiddling with something in the trunk of his car. Except I don’t think that’s a real elf.”

  “But he’s got the bright green elf suit and jingle-bell shoes and everything,” said Coleman. “Why else would he be dressed like that?”

  “To do what we’re doing,” said Serge. “Blend in.”

  “He’s looking awfully suspicious. Head jerking around, constantly looking behind him.”

  “He’s just pretending to fiddle in his trunk.” Serge applied the brake and pulled out binoculars. “He’s really waiting for prey to walk by . . . Which brings up an ethical dilemma for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  Serge patted the chest of his own green costume. “Should I give him a pass out of professional courtesy?”

  “I’d say it depends on what he does.”

  “Reasonable call.” Serge tightened the view on his binoculars. “And here comes a young woman now, loaded down with packages.”

  “He’s glancing at her.”

  “I don’t like this,” said Serge. “He’s a big strong guy, and if he wasn’t dressed that way, she’d be on the Women’s Parking Lot Alert Status. But now her guard’s down. He’s taking advantage of her favorable view of elves.”

  Serge took his foot off the brake and idled forward.

  “She’s closer,” said Coleman. “Looks like he’s getting ready. You’ll need to speed up.”

  “No,” said Serge. “I have to make sure we’re right about his intentions. If I’m wrong and we strike too soon, we could needlessly freak her out by having her witness an elf fight. It’s an ugly thing to see.”

  “Serge, he’s making his move! He’s going for the packages!”

  “He’s not going for the packages. He’s just knocking them out of her arms.” Serge hit the gas. “He’s going for her! He’s got her around the waist. It’s an abduction!”

  “She’s kicking her legs like crazy,” said Coleman. “He’s throwing her in the trunk. He slammed the hood shut!”

  The kidnapping elf ran for his driver’s door and jumped in. Before he could back out,
a Chevelle screeched up and boxed him in. Serge and Coleman leaped out and ran to the driver’s side. A punch through the open window.

  Coleman opened the door, and Serge dragged the would-be abductor out of the car by his hair and threw him to the ground. The assailant crawled toward the back of the car as Serge kicked him in the ribs. The man finally got to his feet and took a swing at Coleman, missing wildly. Serge grabbed him and threw him over the hood of the Chevelle. The man jumped back up and pulled a knife, but Serge kicked it out of his hand. Then he delivered a nasty head butt, dropping the man to the pavement. Serge began stomping the daylights out of him.

  In the distance, people coming out of the mall began to point.

  “Elf fight! Elf fight!”

  “Looks like the fat one’s peeing on him.”

  “It’s an ugly thing to see.”

  Back at the Chevelle, Serge had the trunk open. They threw the man in and slammed the hood.

  Then they ran over to the kidnapper’s car. Serge had the man’s keys and popped the trunk.

  A terrified woman shielded her eyes against the bright Florida sun, looking up at two men in green felt hats. “Don’t hurt me!”

  “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re rescuing you.” Serge extended a hand to help her out of the car. “Please don’t judge all elves by this one incident.”

  They hopped back in the Chevelle and sped off.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE NEXT MORNING

  Extra early.

  “Come on, Coleman! I got the engine running!”

  Coleman stumbled out the door, pulling up his elf pants. “Why so early?”

  “Because it’s the Christmas shopping season. Everyone knows all the best sales are early.”

  Coleman climbed in. “You mean the ones I see on TV where a million people wait outside the store for the doors to open?”

  “That’s right, mainly loving parents who sacrifice their sleep to make sure their child gets the year’s most popular new toy.” Serge threw the Chevelle in gear. “Then the store opens and they rip each other to pieces.”

  The pair cruised up Dale Mabry Highway in the predawn twilight. Heavy traffic. Other shoppers and people with early-shift jobs—Dunkin’ Donuts, tollbooths, filling newspaper racks. Coleman smoked fake incense sold in head shops.