When Elves Attack by Tim Dorsey Page B

who’d just arrived on the other side before the car sped off.
    Serge smiled awkwardly. “Do I look old?”
    Martha gritted her teeth. “You!”
    Serge placed a hand over his heart with innocent surprise. “Me?” Then pointed down the road with the other arm. “It’s Mr. Snake who was tongue-wrestling your daughter. Not to mention whatever was going on below window level that we couldn’t see. I remember when I was his age.” Serge chuckled to himself and shook his head. “They called it ‘necking.’ No kidding. I just couldn’t seem to keep my neck in my pants. Ah, fond memories . . .” He paused to study Martha’s red-faced expression. “Why don’t you like me?”
    Her nostrils flared. “If you don’t—!”
    Crash .
    They both looked over at Serge’s rental house, where a rusted-out Pinto had just slammed into the garbage cans down at the curb. Two women got out. Any man on the street who had heard the crash was now glued to his window staring at the twin sites: statuesque, hot, fatal, looking like they’d gotten dressed in the Dukes of Hazzard wardrobe trailer. The blonde had a bottle of Jim Beam by the neck, and the brunette threw the stub of a small Clint Eastwood cigar in the street.
    Serge grinned at Martha and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Got to run. The chicks are here . . . Guess what? We’re starting a family!” He took off running. “We’re going to be just like you!”
    Jim came down to the street and joined his wife at the curb. “I heard a crash. What’s going on?”
    â€œI’m going to kill him!”
    â€œWho are those women?”
    Martha just stared in simmering fury.
    Across the street, the women headed up the walkway toward the house. Serge ran to meet them halfway. Coleman came down from the porch.
    â€œCity! Country!” said Serge. “Long time no see—”
    The blonde spun and caught him in the jaw with a sledgehammer right cross, decking him soundly. The brunette twirled with a roundhouse kung fu kick that whipped Coleman in the back of the calves and knocked his legs out from under him.
    Jim watched as two men moaned in pain, rolling on the lawn across the street. Two women passed a bottle of whiskey. “Martha, what’s going on?”
    â€œHe said they’re starting a family.”
    MEANWHILE  . . .
    In a modest subdivision on Tampa’s east side, a bald man sat inside his three-bedroom cookie-cutter ranch house with screened-in swimming pool.
    He was on the phone. On hold. Melted toupee in the trash can.
    A woman finally answered. The man sat up straight. “Hello, this is Phil Westwood from the Tampa Bay Mall, and I’d like to speak to one of your consultants, Jensen Beach . . . I see, unavailable . . . Would you have a cell number or personal mailing address? . . . No, I understand completely that you can’t give out that kind of information. It’s just that he recently performed some terrific work for the mall, and I’d like to give him a present to show our appreciation . . . Send it to your company? I’d sort of like it to be more personal . . . You can deliver a personal message to him at his desk right now? But I thought you said he was out . . . Oh, you said unavailable . . . Yes, in his line of work you have to protect him from kooks. Never know when one of those would call. Thanks for your time.”
    He hung up. “Damn.”
    Then he swiveled back to his computer and stared at the screen, where he had just looked up the phone number for Sunshine Solutions—and had no luck at all with a Mr. Jensen Beach. “Think! Think! . . .” He tapped fingers on top of his shiny dome, then back to the keyboard. “If I can’t find that consultant, then I want to know who that woman is.” He glanced at the