The Stupidest Angel Chapter 3

Chapter 3HOSED FOR THE HOLIDAYSTuesday shadow. Christmas was still four days away, and yet at that place was Santa Claus cruising right down the main s small-armoeuvert of town in his jumbo red pickup truck waving to the kids, weaving in his lane, bubble into his beard, more than a shrimpy drunk. Ho, ho, ho, verbalise Dale Pearson, evil developer and Caribou stick to Santa for the sixth consecutive social class. Ho, ho, ho, he said, suppressing the urge to add and a store of rum, his demeanor more akin to that of Blackbeard than Saint Nicholas. Parents pointed, children waved and frisked.By direct, each(prenominal) of Pine Cove was abuzz with expat Christmas cheer. Every hotel means was full, and there wasnt a secure space to be found down on Cypress Street, where shoppers wield their chestnuts into an open fire of credit-card s dust-and- pass on denial. It smelled of cinnamon and pine, peppermint and joy. This was not the coarse commerce of a Los Angeles or San Fra ncisco Christmas. This was the refined, sincere commercialism of small-town New England, where a deoxycytidine monophosphate ago Norman Rockwell had invented Christmas. This was real. however Dale didnt get it. Merry, happy oh, eat me, you little vermin, Dale grinched from behind his tinted windows.Actually, the whole Christmas appeal of their village was a bit of a mystery to the residents of Pine Cove. It wasnt exactly a winter wonderland the median temperature in the winter was sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit, and merely a couple of really gray-headed guys could remember it ever having snowed. Neither was it a tropical-beach getaway. The ocean there was piercingly cold, with an average visibility of eighteen inches, and a huge elephant seal rookery at the shore. Through the winter thousands of the rotund pinnipeds lay strewn across Pine Cove beaches same heavy(p) barking turds, and although not dangerous in themselves, they were the dietary mainstay of the great white shar k, which had evolved everywhere 120 million categorys into the perfect salvage for never entering water over is ankles. So if it wasnt the weather or the water, what in the hell was it? Perhaps it was the pine trees themselves. Christmas trees.My trees, goddammit, Dale grumbled to himself.Pine Cove lay in the make it natural Monterey-pine forest in the world. Because they grow as oft sequences as twenty feet a year, Monterey pines are the very trees cultivated for Christmas trees. The ripe in ordainigence operation was you could go to almost any undeveloped lot in town and cut yourself a very respectable Christmas tree. The injurious freshs was that it was a crime to do so unless you obtained a permit and set five trees to replace it. The Monterey pines were a protected species, as any local word former could tell you, because whenever they cut down a a couple of(prenominal) trees to build a ingleside, they had to plant a forest to replace them.A commit wagon with a Christmas tree lashed to the roof acanthaed fall out in front of Dales pickup. Get that piece of shit wrap up my street, Dale scrooged. And Merry Christmas to all you scumbags, he added, in keeping with the season.Dale Pearson, quite unwillingly, had become the Johnny Apple contactd of the Christmas tree, having deep-seated tens of thousands of seedlings to replace the thousands that he had chain-sawed to build rows of tract mansions across Pine Coves hills. moreover while the law stated that the replacement trees had to be planted inside the municipality of Pine Cove, it didnt say that they had to go in anywhere near where they had really been cut down, so Dale planted all of his trees approximately the cemetery at the old Santa Rosa Chapel. Hed bought the land, ten acres, years ago, in hope of subdividing it and make luxury homes, simply both(prenominal) hippie meddlers from the California Historical company stepped in and had the old two-room chapel declared a historic landmark, thereof making it impossible for him to develop his land. So in straight rows, with no thought for the natural lay of a forest, his construction crews planted Monterey pines until the trees became as thick around the chapel as feathers on a birds back.For the persist four years, during the week before Christmas, mortal had gone onto Dales land and cut into up truckloads of travel pine trees. He was tired of answering to the county roughly having to replace them. He didnt fall flat a damn about the trees, near now hed be damned if hed cat up with someone siccing the county watchdogs on him over and over. Hed fulfilled his duty to his Caribou buddies of passing out joke gifts to them and their wives, however now he was going to catch a thief. His Christmas present this year was going to be a little just nowice. Thats all he wanted, just a little justice.The jolly old elf turned come to Cypress and headed up the hill toward the chapel, patting the thirty-eight sn ub-nose revolver hed stuffed into his wide down(p) belt.Lena hefted the second Christmas tree into the bed of her little Toyota pickup and snuggled it into one of the ten-gallon cedar boxes that shed nailed together herself just for that purpose. The chthonicprivileged were only getting four-footers this year, by chance a foot or so taller once in the box. It had rained only once since October, so it had taken her around an hour and a fractional to dig the two saplings from the hard, dry ground. She wanted people to squander embody Christmas trees, but if she went for full seven-footers shed be out here all night and only get a couple. This is real work, Lena thought. By day she did space management for vacation rentals at a local realtor, sometimes place in ten- or twelve-hour days during the peak seasons, but she cognize that hours spend and actual work were two different things. She realized it every year when she came out here by herself and got behind her bright red shovel. endeavor was pouring down her face. She wiped her hair out of her eyes with the back of a chamois work glove, leaving a streak of dirt on her forehead. She shrugged remove the flannel enclothe shed put on against the night drapery and worked in a tight black tank top and olive drab cargo pants. With her red shovel in hand, she looked a same(p) some kind of Christmas commando there at the edge of the forest.She sank the shovel into the pine straw about a foot from the trunk of the abutting tree shed targeted and jumped on the blade, pogoing up and down until the blade was buried to the hilt. She was swinging on the handle, assay to lever up the forest floor, when a bright set of headlights swept across the edge of the forest and stopped with a stereophony spotlight on Lenas truck.Theres nothing to worry about, she thought. Im not going to hide, Im not going to duck. She wasnt doing anything wrong. Not really. Well, certain, techni chew the faty, she was stealing, and breaking a couple of county ordinances about harvest home Monterey pines, but she wasnt really harvesting them, was she? She was just transplanting them. And and she was giving to the poor. She was a wish well(p) Robin Hood. No one was going to mess with Robin Hood. honest the same she smiled at the headlamps and did a sort of oh well, I guess Im bust shrug that she hoped was cute. She shielded her eyes with her hand and tried to squint into the headlights to see who was driving the truck. Yes, she was sure it was a truck.The engine sputtered to a stop. A sylphlike nausea rose in Lenas throat as she realized that it was a diesel truck. The trucks door opened, and when the light went on Lena caught a glimpse of someone in a red-and-white hat behind the wheel.Huh?Santa was advance out of the flagrant light toward her. Santa with a flashlight, and what was that in his belt? Santa had a gun.Dammit, Lena, I should have known it was you, he said. taunt Barker was in big trouble. m an-sized trouble indeed. He was only seven, but he was pretty sure his life was ruined. He hurried along Church Street exhausting to figure out how he was going to explain to his ma. An hour and a half late. Home long after lamentable. And he hadnt called. And Christmas just a few days away. Forget explaining it to his mom, how was he going to explain it to Santa?Santa big businessman understand, though, since he knew toys. But Mom would never buy it. Hed been playing boor Georges Big Crusade on the PlayStation at his friend Sams house, and theyd gotten into the infidel filth and fling offed thousands of the Rackies, but the game just didnt have any way to exit. It wasnt designed so you could ever get out of it, and before he knew it, it was dark outside and hed forgotten, and Christmas was just going to be ruined. He wanted an Xbox 2, but there was no way Santa was going to bring it with a home long after dark AND a didnt even bother to call on his list.Sam had summarized Jo shs situation as he led him out the door and looked at the night sky Dude, youre hosed.Im not hosed, youre hosed, said Josh.Im not hosed, Sam said. Im Jewish. No Santa. We dont have Christmas.Well, youre really hosed, then.Shut up, I am not hosed. But as Sam said it he put his hands in his pockets and Josh could hear him clicking his dreidel against his asthma inhaler, and his friend did, indeed, come forward to be hosed.Okay, youre not hosed, said Josh. Sorry. Id better go.Yeah, said Sam.Yeah, said Josh, realizing now how the longer it took him to get home the more hosed he was going to be. But as he hurried up Church Street toward home, he realized that perhaps he would receive an emergency reprieve on his hosing, for there, at the edge of the forest, was Santa himself. And although Santa did appear to be quite angry, his anger was direct at a charrhood who was standing knee-deep in a hole, holding a red shovel. Santa held one of those heavy black Maglite flashlights in one han d and was shining it in the womans eyes as he yelled at her.These are my trees. Mine, dammit, said Santa.Aha Josh thought. Dammit was not bad enough to get you on the naughty list, not if Santa himself said it. Hed told his mom that, but shed insisted that dammit was a list item.Im only taking a few, said the woman. For people who cant afford a Christmas tree. You cant begrudge something that simple to a few poor families.The fuck I cant.Well, Josh had been sure the F-word would get you on the list. He was shocked.Santa pushed the flashlight in the womans eyes. She skirmished it aside.Look, she said, Ill just take this last one and go.You will not. Santa shoved the flashlight in the womans face again, but this time when she brushed it away, he flipped it around and bopped her on the head with it.OuchThat had to hurt. Josh could chance the blow rattle the womans teeth all the way across the street. Santa sure felt strongly about his Christmas trees.The woman used the shovel to bru sh the flashlight out of her face again. Santa bopped her again with the flashlight, harder this time, and the woman yowled and fell to her knees in the hole. Santa reached into his big black belt and pulled out a gun and pointed it at the woman. She came up swinging the shovel in a wide firing off and the blade caught Santa hard in the side of the head with a alter metallic clank. Santa staggered and raised the pistol again. The woman crouched and covered her head, the shovel ready blade up under her arm. But as he aimed, Santa disordered his balance, and fell forward onto the upraised blade of the shovel. The blade went up under his beard and suddenly his beard was as bright red as his suit. He dropped the gun and the flashlight, made a gurgling noise, and fell down to where Josh could no longer see him.Josh could barely hear the woman vociferateing as he ran home, the pulse in his ears ringing like sleigh bells. Santa was dead. Christmas was ruined. Josh was hosed.Speaking o f hosed three blocks away, kniter contingency mope around along Worchester Street, trying to exercise off his dinner of bad dining compartment food with a brisk walk under the weight of a large measure of self-pity. He was pushing forty, trim, blond, and tan the look of an ageing surfer or a golf pro in his prime. 50 feet above him, a giant fruit squash racquet swooped through the treetops, his leathered wings silent against the night. So he could sneak up on peaches and stuff without be detected. Tuck thought.Roberto, do your business and lets get back to the hotel, Tuck called into the sky. The fruit bat barked and snagged an overhead limb as he passed, his momentum nearly sending him in a loop around it before he pendulumed and settled in upside-down attitude. The bat barked again, drub his little doggy chops, and folded his great wings around himself to ward off the coastal cold.Fine, Tuck said, but youre not getting back into the room until you poop. Hed inherited th e bat from a Filipino navigator hed met while fast a private jet for a doctor in ephemeris time a job hed only taken because his U.S. pilots license had been yanked for crashing the pink bloody shame Jean Cosmetic jet while initiating a young woman into the Mile-High Club. Drunk. After Micronesia hed moved to the Caribbean with his fruit bat and his beautiful new island wife and started a charter business. Now, six years later, his beautiful island wife was running the charter business with a seven-foot Rastafarian and Tucker Case had nothing to his scream but a fruit bat and interim gig flying helicopters for the DEA, spotting marijuana patches in the Big tire wilderness area. Which put him in Pine Cove, holed up in a cheap motel room, four days before Christmas, only if. Lonesome. Hosed.Tuck had once been a ladies man of the highest order a Don Juan, a Casanova, a Kennedy sans specie yet now he was in a town where he didnt know a soul and he hadnt even met a star woma n to try to seduce. A few years of marriage had almost ruined him. Hed become accustomed to affectionate female company without a great deal of manipulation, subterfuge, and guile. He missed it. He didnt want to spend Christmas alone, dammit. Yet here he was.And there she was. A damsel in distress. A woman, alone, out here in the night, crying and from what Tuck could tell by the headlights of a nearby pickup truck, she had a nice shape. great hair. Beautiful high cheekbones, streaked with tears and mud, but you know, exotic-looking. Tuck check to see that Roberto was still safely hanging above, then straightened his bomber capital and made his way across the street.Hey there, are you okay?The woman jumped, screamed a bit, looked around frantically until she spotted him Oh my God, she said.Tuck had had worse responses. He press on Are you okay? he repeated. You looked like you were having some trouble.I rally hes dead, the woman said. I think I think I killed himTuck looke d at the red-and-white pile on the ground at his feet and realized for the first time what it really was a dead Santa. A pattern person might have freaked out, backed away, tried to quickly prolong himself from the situation, but Tucker Case was a pilot, trained to function in life-and-death emergencies, practiced at grace under pressure, and besides, he was nonsocial and this woman was really hot.So, a dead Santa, said Tuck. Do you live around here?I didnt mean to kill him. He was coming at me with a gun I just ducked, and when I looked up She waved toward the pile of dead Kringle. I guess the shovel caught him in the throat. She seemed to be calming down a bit.Tuck nodded thoughtfully So, Santa was coming at you with a gun?The woman pointed to the gun, lying in the dirt next to the Maglite I see, said Tuck. Did you know this Yes. His name is Dale Pearson. He drank.I dont. halt years ago, Tuck said. By the way, Im Tucker Case. Are you married? He extended his hand to her to shake. She seemed to see him for the first time.Lena Marquez. No, Im divorcedMe, too, said Tuck. unsound around the holidays, isnt it? Kids?No. Mr., uh, Case, this man is my ex-husband and hes dead.Yep. I just gave my ex the house and my business, but this does seems cheaper, Tuck said.We had a fight yesterday at the grocery store in front of a dozen people. I had the motive, the opportunity, and the means She pointed to the shovel. Everyone will think I killed him.Not to mention that you did kill him.And dont think the media wont latch onto that? Its my shovel sticking out of his neck.Maybe you should wipe off your prints and stuff. You didnt get any DNA on him, did you?She stretched the front of her shirt out and started dabbing at the shovels handle. DNA? Like what?You know, hair, blood, semen? Nothing like that?No. She was furiously buffing the handle of the shovel with the front of her tank top, being careful not to get too close to the end that was stuck in the dead gu y. Strangely, Tuck found the process slightly erotic.I think you got the fingerprints, but Im a little concerned about there where your name is spelled out in Magic Marker on the handle. That might give things away.People never return garden tools if you dont mark them, Lena said. Then she began to cry again. Oh my God, Ive killed him.Tuck went to her side and put his arm around her shoulder joints. Hey, hey, hey, its not so bad. At least you dont have kids you have to explain this to.What am I going to do? My life is over.Dont talk like that, Tuck said, trying to sound cheerful. Look, youve got a perfectly good shovel here, and this hole is nearly finished. What say we shove Santa in, clean up the area a little, and I take you to dinner. He grinned.She looked up at him.Who are you?Just a nice guy trying to help out a skirt in distress.And you want to take me out to dinner? She seemed to be slip into shock.Not this minute. Once we get this all under control.I just killed a man, s he said.Yeah, but not on purpose, right?A man I used to love is dead.Damn shame, too, Tuck said. You like Italian?She stepped away from him and looked him up and down, paying special attention to the right shoulder of his bomber jacket, where the brown leather had been scraped so many times it looked like suede. What happened to your jacket?My fruit bat likes to climb on me.Your fruit bat?Look, you cant get through life without accumulating a little baggage, right? Tuck nodded toward the deceased to make his point. Ill explain over dinner.Lena nodded slowly. Well have to hide his truck.Of course.Okay, then, Lena said. Would you head teacher pulling the shovel uh, I cant believe this is happening.I got it, Tuck said, start into the hole and dislodging the spade from Saint Nicks neck. Call it an early Christmas present.Tuck took off his jacket and began digging in the hard ground. He felt light, a little giddy, thrilled that he wasnt going to have to spend Christmas alone with th e bat again.