When Elves Attack by Tim Dorsey

have it!”
    â€œIt’s in that top drawer, isn’t it?”
    â€œNo.” 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!”
    â€œThen I’ll chase you!”
    â€œYou can’t catch me!”
    â€œRight!” The guard took off around one end of the desk. The manager ran around the other. Circle after circle.
    â€œGive it to me!”
    â€œCan’t have it!”
    The guard closed in, right on the manager’s heels. He reached and snatched. But missed the complaint.
    â€œHey! My toupee!”
    â€œGive me the complaint!”
    â€œNot a chance.”
    â€œFine.” 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.
    â€œGive it to me!”
    â€œMmmm-mmmm!”
    â€œYou better not be sticking that in your mouth!”
    â€œMmmm-mmmm!”
    The guard spun him around and punched him in the stomach.
    â€œAhhhh!”
    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
    TRIGGERFISH LANE
    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.”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œDecorate 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.”
    â€œGet 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.”
    â€œI was motivated to accomplish something.”
    â€œI can’t process that sentence.”
    â€œDig!” 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?”
    â€œThat’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