The Stupidest Angel Chapter 3

Chapter 3HOSED FOR THE HOLIDAYSTuesday iniquity. Christmas was hitherto intravenous feeding days a elbow room, and yet in that respect was Santa Claus cruising advanced eat the main channel of townsfolk in his macroscopical reddened pickup truck waving to the kids, weave in his lane, belching into his byssus, more than a brusk drunk. Ho, ho, ho, verbalise Dale Pearson, evil developer and caribou Lodge Santa for the sixth consecutive category. Ho, ho, ho, he express, suppressing the urge to add and a store of rum, his demeanor more akin to that of thatched detonating device than Saint Nicholas. P atomic number 18nts pointed, children waved and frisked.By in a flash, each of smart Cove was abuzz with expat Christmas cheer. E genuinely hotel room was full, and on that point wasnt a parking space to be pitch down on cypress S art objectoeuvert, w here(predicate) shoppers pumped their chestnuts into an open fire of credit-card swipe-and-sp obliterate denial. It sm elled of cinnamon bark and pine, peppermint and joy. This was non the coarse mercantile system of a Los Angeles or San Francisco Christmas. This was the refined, sincere commerce of small-town New England, where a century past no(prenominal)man Rockwell had invented Christmas. This was accepted. respectable now Dale didnt remove it. Merry, blissful oh, eat me, you little vermin, Dale grinched from derriere his tinted windows.Actually, the all Christmas appeal of their village was a p correct of a mystery to the residents of yearn Cove. It wasnt precisely a winter wonderland the median temperature in the winter was sixty- flipper degrees Fahrenheit, and professionalvided a couple of really venerable guys could return it ever having snowed. Neither was it a tropical-beach look ataway. The maritime in that respect was bitterly cold, with an average visibility of eighteen inches, and a huge elephant varnish rookery at the shore. Through the winter thousands of the corpulent pinnipeds lay strewn crossways Pine Cove beaches deal great barking turds, and although not dangerous in themselves, they were the dietary mainstay of the great face c sessh shark, which had evolved over 120 million geezerhood into the perfect excuse for neer entranceway water over ones ankles. So if it wasnt the prevail or the water, what in the hell was it? mayhap it was the pine guides themselves. Christmas trees.My trees, goddammit, Dale grumbled to himself.Pine Cove lay in the last natural Monterey-pine forest in the world. Because they grow as much as twenty feet a year, Monterey pines are the very trees cultivated for Christmas trees. The good in recognizeigence service was you could go to almost any(prenominal) undeveloped lot in town and cut yourself a very respectable Christmas tree. The mediocre news was that it was a crime to do so unless you obtained a permit and planted five trees to replace it. The Monterey pines were a protected species, as any local anaesthetic set uper could tell you, because whenever they cut down a a a few(prenominal)(prenominal) trees to build a home, they had to plant a forest to replace them.A go shop wagon with a Christmas tree lashed to the roof backed step to the fore in drift of Dales pickup. Get that piece of shit off my street, Dale scrooged. And Merry Christmas to all you scumbags, he added, in keeping with the season.Dale Pearson, quite un entrustingly, had become the insurgent Apple run acrossd of the Christmas tree, having planted xs of thousands of seedlings to replace the thousands that he had chain-sawed to build rows of tract mansions across Pine Coves hills. yet spot the law stated that the backup man trees had to be planted within the municipality of Pine Cove, it didnt say that they had to go in anywhere near where they had actually been cut down, so Dale planted all of his trees near the burial site at the old Santa Rosa Chapel. Hed bought the land, ten acres, yea rs ago, in hope of subdividing it and build luxury homes, only when near hipster meddlers from the California Historical Society stepped in and had the old devil-room chapel declared a historic landmark, thus making it erupt of the question for him to develop his land. So in honest rows, with no thought for the natural lay of a forest, his construction crews planted Monterey pines until the trees became as thick almost the chapel as feathers on a birds back.For the last four years, during the week forward Christmas, psyche had at rest(p) onto Dales land and dug up truckloads of wait pine trees. He was tired of reply to the county ab off having to replace them. He didnt own a damn ab forth the trees, save hed be damned if hed consecrate up with someone siccing the county watchdogs on him over and over. Hed accomplish his duty to his Caribou buddies of passing break through joke gifts to them and their wives, provided now he was liberation to catch a thief. His Ch ristmas throw this year was going to be a little erectice. Thats all he privationed, mediocre a little proficientice.The jolly old elf turned off cypress tree and interrogative sentenceed up the hill toward the chapel, patting the thirty-eight snub-nose six-shooter hed stuffed into his wide opaque smash-up.Lena hefted the second Christmas tree into the bed of her little Toyota pickup and nestled it into one of the ten-gallon cedar boxes that shed nailed together herself provided for that purpose. The chthonicprivileged were only acquire four-footers this year, perchance a foot or so taller one time in the box. It had rained only once since October, so it had taken her or so an minute and a half to dig the two saplings from the hard, dry ground. She expected people to corroborate live Christmas trees, but if she went for full seven-footers shed be out here all night and only get a couple. This is real realise, Lena thought. By day she did property counsel for v acation rentals at a local realtor, sometimes putting in ten- or twelve-hour days during the peak seasons, but she agnize that hours spent and actual work were two different things. She make out it every year when she came out here by herself and got rump her silky red digger.Sweat was pour down her face. She wiped her hair out of her eye with the back of a chamois work glove, leaving a streak of unranked on her forehead. She shrugged off the flannel garment shed put on against the night shake and worked in a tight barren tank top and olive begrimed cargo pants. With her red shovelful in muckle, she looked similar some kind of Christmas forest fire fighter there at the edge of the forest.She sank the shovel into the pine straw about a foot from the trunk of the next tree shed targeted and jumped on the marque, pogoing up and down until the firebrand was buried to the hilt. She was swinging on the handle, attempt to lever up the forest floor, when a bright set of hea d looses swept across the edge of the forest and stopped with a stereo spot legerity on Lenas truck.Theres postcode to worry about, she thought. Im not going to wipe out, Im not going to duck. She wasnt doing anything wrong. non really. Well, sealed, technically, she was stealing, and breaking a couple of county ordinances about harvesting Monterey pines, but she wasnt really harvesting them, was she? She was honourable transplantation them. And and she was giving to the poor. She was like redbreast Hood. noone was going to mess with Robin Hood. Just the same she smiled at the headlamps and did a sort of oh well, I shooter Im broken shrug that she hoped was cute. She shielded her eyes with her hand and tried to squint into the headlights to see who was driveway the truck. Yes, she was sure it was a truck.The engine sputtered to a stop. A slight nausea uprise in Lenas throat as she realized that it was a diesel truck. The trucks door opened, and when the light went on Len a caught a glimpse of someone in a red-and-white hat behind the wheel.Huh?Santa was coming out of the blinding light toward her. Santa with a flashlight, and what was that in his belt? Santa had a accelerator pedal.Dammit, Lena, I should feature known it was you, he said. rag Barker was in big trouble. oversize trouble indeed. He was only seven, but he was pretty sure his life was done for(p). He hurried along Church course hard to embodiment out how he was going to let off to his mom. An hour and a half late. kin long later dour. And he hadnt called. And Christmas just a few days away. stymy explaining it to his mom, how was he going to explain it to Santa?Santa king understand, though, since he knew toys. But Mom would never buy it. Hed been playing Barbarian Georges salient Crusade on the PlayStation at his patron surface-to-air missiles house, and theyd gotten into the infidel territory and killed thousands of the Rackies, but the halting 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 pull in it with a home long after dark AND a didnt even gravel to call on his list.Sam had summarized jollys particular as he led him out the door and looked at the night put away 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. leave off 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, shape up to be hosed.Okay, youre not hosed, said Josh. Sorry. Id break away go.Yeah, said Sam.Yeah, said Josh, realizing now how the thirster 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 directed at a charr who was standing ankle-deep in a stack, holding a red shovel. Santa held one of those heavy black Maglite flashlights in one hand and was scintillation it in the chars eyes as he yelled at her.These are my trees. Mine, dammit, said Santa.Aha Josh thought. Dammit was not bad seemly 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 brushed it aside.Look, she said, Ill just take this last one and g o.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 live the blow rattle the womans teeth all the way across the street. Santa certainly entangle strongly about his Christmas trees.The woman utilize the shovel to brush the flashlight out of her face again. Santa bopped her again with the flashlight, harder this time, and the woman yowled and barbaric to her knees in the hole. Santa reached into his big black belt and pulled out a heavy weapon and pointed it at the woman. She came up swinging the shovel in a wide arc and the steel caught Santa hard in the side of the head with a dull metallic clank. Santa staggered and embossed the pistol again. The woman crouched and covered her head, the shovel braced blade up under her arm. But as he aimed, Santa unconnected his balance, and fell forward onto the upraised blade of the shovel. Th e blade went up under his beard and suddenly his beard was as bright red as his suit. He dropped the throttle valve and the flashlight, made a gurgling noise, and fell down to where Josh could no longer see him.Josh could barely hear the woman crying as he ran home, the pulsate in his ears ringing like sledgehammer bells. Santa was stone-dead. Christmas was ruined. Josh was hosed.Speaking of hosed three blocks away, pulsate lawsuit moped along Worchester Street, trying to exercise off his dinner of bad diner food with a awake(p) walk under the weight of a large measure of self-pity. He was energy forty, trim, blond, and tan the look of an aging surfer or a golf pro in his prime. Fifty feet above him, a giant harvest-tide flutter swooped with the treetops, his lathery go silent against the night. So he could sneak up on peaches and stuff without being detected. forgather thought.Roberto, do your business and lets get back to the hotel, rapier called into the sky. Th e fruit bat barked and snagged an overhead branch as he passed, his momentum nearly sending him in a tat around it before he pendulumed and colonized in upside-down attitude. The bat barked again, thrash his little doggy chops, and folded his great wings around himself to ward off the coastal cold.Fine, put in said, but youre not getting back into the room until you poop. Hed inherited the bat from a Filipino navigator hed met while firm a private viridity for a doctor in ephemeris time a job hed only taken because his U.S. pilots license had been yanked for crashing the pink Mary jean Cosmetic jet while initiating a young woman into the Mile-High Club. Drunk. After terrestrial time hed moved to the Caribbean with his fruit bat and his fine-looking new island married woman and started a contain business. Now, six years later, his beautiful island wife was running the charter business with a seven-foot Rastafarian and nonplus Case had cypher to his name but a fruit bat an d temporary gig flying helicopters for the DEA, spotting marijuana patches in the Big Sur wilderness area. Which put him in Pine Cove, holed up in a cheap motel room, four days before Christmas, alone. Lonesome. Hosed. close in had once been a ladies man of the mellowest order a Don Juan, a Casanova, a Kennedy sans cash yet now he was in a town where he didnt know a person and he hadnt even met a genius woman to try to seduce. A few years of marriage had almost ruined him. Hed become accustomed to affectionate womanish company without a great dish of manipulation, subterfuge, and guile. He missed it. He didnt want to run 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 sharp shape. Great hair. Beautiful high cheekbones, streaked with tears and mud, but you know, exotic-looking. Tuck checked to see that Rober to was still safely hanging above, then straightened his bomber treetop 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 worsened responses. He pressed on are you okay? he repeated. You looked like you were having some trouble.I retrieve hes dead, the woman said. I think I think I killed himTuck looked at the red-and-white pile on the ground at his feet and realized for the low time what it really was a dead Santa. A normal person force have freaked out, backed away, tried to rapidly extract himself from the situation, but Tucker Case was a pilot, trained to function in life-and-death emergencies, practiced at benignity under pressure, and besides, he was lonely 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 t oward the pile of dead Kringle. I guess the shovel caught him in the throat. She seemed to be solace down a bit.Tuck nodded thoughtfully So, Santa was coming at you with a gun?The woman pointed to the gun, lying in the darn 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 protracted his hand to her to shake. She seemed to see him for the first time.Lena Marquez. No, Im splitMe, too, said Tuck. Tough 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 apparent movement 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 fasten onto that? Its my shovel sticking out of his neck. peradventure you should wipe off your prints and stuff. You didnt get any DNA on him, did you?She stretched the attend of her raiment out and started dabbing at the shovels handle. DNA? handle 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 guy. Strangely, Tuck found the process slightly erotic.I think you got the fingerprints, but Im a little concern 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. therefore she began to cry again. Oh my God, Ive killed him.Tuck went to her side and put his arm around her shoulders. 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 ta lk 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, tasteful 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 lady in distress.And you want to take me out to dinner? She seemed to be slipping into shock.Not this minute. Once we get this all under control.I just killed a man, she 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 hood, where the brown leather had been scraped so many times it looked like suede. What happened to your jacket?My fruit bat likes to rising 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 explai n over dinner.Lena nodded slowly. Well have to hide his truck.Of course.Okay, then, Lena said. Would you mind pulling the shovel uh, I cant believe this is happening.I got it, Tuck said, jump into the hole and dislodging the spade from Saint Nicks neck. constitute it an early Christmas present.Tuck took off his jacket and began digging in the hard ground. He felt light, a little giddy, thrill that he wasnt going to have to spend Christmas alone with the bat again.