The Fat Man_ A Tale of North Pole Noir - Ken Harmon [32]
“Thanks,” I said, though I would have preferred it if he had put a pipe through my skull. “I’m heading into the woods, but I’ll make sure I steer clear of them. I don’t want to disturb their amore.”
“That’s a rough patch of thatch in there, buster,” Fuzz said. “I hear a fella can get kissed off in there if he isn’t careful. What business you got in there?”
“Now who’s the Nosey Parker?” I asked, leaning in close and putting on my best tough-guy face. “Now listen, ducky. You never saw me. You never talked to me. Nobody like me has been around here. Remember, you’re a duck, not a pigeon or a canary. If you sing, you could get mistaken for a goose. Christmas is coming, bub, and the goose is getting fat. Do I have to draw you a picture?”
Little beads of sweat formed on Fuzz’s beak. Coco and Luci shook like they were strapped to a paint mixer. “Sure, mac,” Fuzz said. “I get it. I never saw nobody. I’m no stoolie. Your secret’s safe with me. I know the score. Happy trails to you. Don’t worry. I got my ducks in a row.”
“See that you do,” I said with another hard look just so he knew I meant business. Then I turned to Coco and Luci and tipped my hat. “Ladies, I bid you adieu.” They were too afraid to speak. They just bowed their heads to me and then turned away, waiting for the fox to leave the henhouse.
Five steps into the Forest of Mistletoe, the temperature dropped to something colder than an Eskimo undertaker. I thought that if Cane and Rosebud actually wanted me to waltz into the trap they were setting for me, they could have at least tried to take a little doom out of the forecast. I walked slowly so I wouldn’t make as much noise, but the snow and broken branches snapping under my feet weren’t making it easy. I stopped every few steps and gave a good listen, but either the woods and the wind and my imagination were playing tricks on me or I was about to be lapped up like spiked eggnog by Uncle Rumhound.
The trees were close together and blocked out most of the sky. Running up the trunk and snaking around almost every branch was an eel of mistletoe, quietly draining the life out of a tree. When the vampire plant had sucked the life out of a branch, it would toss the dry wooden corpse aside. My trail was covered in leftovers and, every once in a while, I would see a strand of mistletoe inch toward a fresh piece of plant life.
And then one of the plants saw me.
I was caught. About ten paces away and six feet up the trunk of an oak tree, a nest of mistletoe turned and looked right at me. The gnarl of branches almost had a face and the twigs gave a dry rustle like it was blinking its eyes. It was as if the plant face couldn’t quite believe that someone had delivered a fresh dinner to him and he had to check his vision—or he was nearsighted. He gave a kind of hoarse growl, a low, raspy rumble, like a distant thundercloud with asthma. The noise got the attention of another vine, as big as a python with muscles like a gorilla. The vine dragged itself along a trunk to my left and whistled to a shrub just behind my right. The shrub was an ugly tangle of twigs, the bastard child of tumbleweed and a mongoose. I’m pretty sure it had teeth. I was surrounded and hoping that my green thumb had turned nice and black so I could compost this gang.
Up on the tree, the nearsighted bush crept down to the forest floor, looking to block me from running left. He slinked in between a gap of trees, kind of licking his lips and wheezing. The mistletoe vine stretched itself out to get within a few yards of me. As it pulled itself across the bark of the tree, it sounded like rats in a wall. Behind me, Tumbleweed gave a bored snort, as if I was dead already and not too tasty.
I looked around for Cane. I figured he would want to come and gloat, make some speech about how this was a fitting end to my sorry existence, and how Kringle Town would be better