The Bright Silver Star

CHAPTER 3

Why did Dodge tell him about Martine?

Mitch couldn’t imagine. And it weighed on his mind all morning. It was there while he logged some quality loud time on his beloved sky blue Fender Stratocaster, doggedly chasing after Hendrix’s signature opening to “Voodoo Chile,” deafening twin reverb amps, wawa pedal and all. It was there while he helped Bitsy Peck move an apple tree to a sunnier spot in her yard, in exchange for unlimited access to her corn patch. It was there while Mitch steered his bulbous, plum-colored 1956 Studebaker pickup across the causeway toward town: Why had the older man chosen to confide in him this way? It wasn’t as if the two of them were that close. Not like, say, Dodge was to Will, who was practically like a son to him. So why had he? Only one possible explanation made any sense to Mitch:

Because it was Will who was sleeping with Martine.

True, Martine was fifteen years older than Will. True, Will was supposedly happily married to Donna. But there was no denying that Martine Crockett was still a major babe. And Will was an exceedingly buff younger man. Plus Will had grown up around Martine, meaning that he’d doubtless harbored moist, Technicolor fantasies about her since he was thirteen. What healthy young boy wouldn’t have? Certainly, this would explain why Dodge had flashed such a hard stare at Will on the beach this morning.

Because it was Will who was sleeping with Martine.

Mitch was supposed to meet Des for a low-fat lunch at The Works, but as he reached Old Shore Road he noticed that his gas tank was almost half empty. Probably ought to fill up at the Citgo minimart on his way, he reflected. A very nice, hardworking youngcouple from Turkey, Nuri and Nema Acar, had recently taken over the operation, and Mitch liked to throw his business their way. So did a lot of the local workmen, whose pickups were nosed up to the squat, rectangular building like a herd of cattle.

Mitch pulled up at the pump and hopped out. The Citgo was that rarest of modern-day phenomena, a full-service station. But only tourists and summer people sat there in their cars and waited for Nuri to pump their gas for them, clad in his immaculate short sleeved dress shirt and slacks. True locals got out and pumped it themselves. When Mitch was done filling up he went inside to pay his money and respects to Nema.

Just like the half dozen other guys who were gathered there at her counter, their tongues hanging out.

Lew the Plumber was there. Drew Archer, the town’s best cabinetmaker, was there. So was Dennis Allen, who serviced the village’s septic tanks. Mitch knew those three well enough to say hello to. The others he knew by sight. They were Nema’s regulars, just like Mitch. Could be found there at the Citgo almost every morning between the hours of ten-thirty and eleven. Although not a one of them referred to the place as the Citgo.

They called it the House of Turkish Delights.

Because the Acars offered way, way more than the usual minimart menu of candy, soda, and Lotto tickets. They offered Nema’s own homemade native pastries and deliciously strong, sweet Turkish coffee. Her baklava was the best Mitch had ever tasted. She also made boreks, which were triangles of layered, wafer-thin pastry filled with chopped nuts and cinnamon. And lalangas, which were fried pastry dipped in syrup and brushed with powdered sugar. The lalangas were especially popular with the workmen who’d grown up on fried dough, a regional delicacy.

The House of Turkish Delights was Dorset’s best-kept secret. The local workmen, who considered The Works a yuppified tourist trap, had staked it out as their place. And so they told no one about it. Mitch sure as hell didn’t. He didn’t dare tell Will that he was buyingpastry from his competitor, and he couldn’t breathe so much as a word to Des-every time he inhaled the air in there he was breaking his diet.

The Acars were the first native-born Turks ever to live in Dorset. They were in their early thirties. Nema was tiny and slender, with large, lustrous dark eyes that reminded Mitch of the ’50s film actress Ina Balin. Always, she wore a Muslim headscarf. Nuri was courtly and unfailingly polite. Almost but not quite unctuous. The two of them were from Istanbul, where Nuri had graduated from Bosporus University with a degree in mathematics. Nema told Mitch they had emigrated to America because their parents didn’t approve of the marriage. Mitch couldn’t imagine why they didn’t, since any two people who could work side by side fourteen hours a day and never stop smiling clearly belonged together.

“And how are you today, Mr. Berger, sir?” Nema said to him as Mitch pointed directly to the lalanga that had his name on it. “I’d feel a lot better if you’d call me Mitch.” “Very well, but you are a naughty, naughty boy, Mr. Mitch.” “God, don’t tell me a certain resident trooper stopped by.” “No, no. I was reading your review in this morning’s newspaper, of The Dark Star, and you almost made me spit up my orange juice.” Nema let out a devilish little cackle. “Most amusing and yet insightful.”

He thanked her and hopped back into his truck, waving to Nuri, who was filling the tank of a minivan that had New York plates. Then Mitch resumed his trip into town, devouring his gustatory no-no in hungry, fat-boy bites.

It was not easy to find a parking place near The Works. Not with all of the news crew vans and tourists taking up every available curbside space. Mitch had to leave his truck in the A amp; P parking lot and hoof it two blocks. The traffic on Big Brook Road was unbelievably hectic. Some nut in an immense white Cadillac Escalade almost ran him down when he tried to cross the street. Honestly, he would not mind when Labor Day arrived and everyone left. Because Dorset didn’t feel like Dorset right now. It felt like a resort town crowdedwith hyperactive strangers. And this upset Mitch’s new sense of order in his life. New York was his place for rushing around on noisy streets that were teeming with people. Dorset was his place for quiet reflection. Briefly, he wondered if he was feeling bothered this way because he was becoming rigid and middle-aged.

He decided this could not be possible.

Dorset’s sprawling 130-year-old piano works had provided jobs for generations of highly skilled local workers until it shut its doors in the 1970s. Often, there had been talk of leveling the abandoned riverfront factory. Instead, Will and Donna Durslag had rescued it. Not a small undertaking. They’d had to sandblast its red brick, reroof it, repoint the mortar, restore the windows-and that was just the shell. Inside, the 148,000-square-foot factory had no plumbing or wiring, no heat, no nothing. But the architect and contractor who’d tackled the job were tremendously talented, and the transformation was remarkable. The old brick eyesore was now a lively Europeanstyle food hall with stalls selling fresh, locally grown produce and eggs, cheeses, olives, fresh-baked breads and desserts, pizza, gelato, fresh fruit smoothies. There was a coffee bar that stayed open until ten at night. There were nuts and grains sold in bulk, coffee beans, teas, spices. There was a butcher, a fishmonger, a deli counter offering salads and sandwiches and take-home meals like veal piccata and meat loaf.

An informal eating area anchored the center of the hall with tables and chairs where people could meet for a sandwich or read the newspaper over a cup of coffee. An arcade housed shops like Jeff’s Book Schnook and a wine store. Several of the retail spaces still hadn’t been leased yet. There were condominium apartments that faced right out onto a newly constructed riverfront boardwalk. These were mostly occupied.

Mitch did not see Des there yet so he stopped in to sign books for Jeff, as promised. A glass wall separated his shop from the food hall. The first time Mitch had walked in the door of the Book Schnook he knew instantly that it was every publishing person’s dream bookshop. It felt more like a private library than it did a place of business. The space was two stories high with towering dark-wood bookcases. Rolling library ladders allowed customers to reach the higher volumes. A spiral staircase led up to a wraparound loft where there were even more books. Jeff had filled his place with cozy armchairs and brass reading lamps. There was a huge fireplace in the old red brick exterior wall, and tons of little nooks and crannies where customers could browse for hours in front of the windows as sailboats scudded past on the Connecticut River. Often, some very tasty music was playing. Right now, Ella Fitzgerald was singing Cole Porter.

Jeff’s shelving system was beyond quirky. Nothing, but nothing, was alphabetical. His own favorite authors were arranged near the front on a wall of shelves he called Store Picks. It was a fluid and eclectic array, subject to his latest whim. This week, his picks included the contemporary novelist Richard Ford, British-born travel writer Jonathan Raban, the late food essayist M.F.K. Fisher, the bleak ’50s hardboiled crime writer Jim Thompson, Dorothy Parker, Emily Dickinson, Philip K. Dick, Wallace Stegner and H.L. Mencken.

Popular sellers that Jeff didn’t like but had to offer were stashed way up on the second-floor shelves. If it was Mary Higgins Clark that a customer wanted, or a copy of The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen, Jeff made them go climb for it. It was his store and his system. And it was just about the choicest bookstore Mitch had ever been in. Jeff had everything a bookseller could ask for.

Everything except for customers. The Book Schnook was deserted. And so silent after the din of the food hall outside that Mitch felt as if he’d just entered a shul.

The little guy in his crooked black-framed glasses was dusting stock in hushed solitude when Mitch got there, sucking his cheeks in and out in a decidedly carplike manner. Jeff’s shopkeeper outfit wasn’t much different from his hiking outfit. He still wore shorts and sandals with dark socks. Only his shirt was different-Jeff had on an oversized Book Schnook T-shirt adorned with a portrait of Dan Quayle and the store’s motto: A Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Lose.

“Hey, Mitch, good to see you!” he exclaimed, dashing back to hisstoreroom. He returned a moment later toting two cartons of Mitch’s paperback reference volumes. They began unloading them onto a library table. “You’re doing me a real favor, man. Believe me, I need all of the help I can get.”

“Jeff, I’m an author,” Mitch chided him gently. “You’re the one who’s helping me.”

He got started signing the books, passing each one along so Jeff could slap an Autographed by Author sticker on its cover. As they worked their way through the stack a boy of twelve or so came in the door, looking very intimidated.

“What can I do for you, buddy?” Jeff called to him encouragingly.

“I-I was just wondering if the new Codfather book came in yet,” he stammered, his voice soaring several octaves.

“I don’t sell that garbage in my store,” Jeff snarled in response. “Try Borders. Try Amazon. Anywhere but here, got it?”

Which sent the little kid scurrying out the door in bug-eyed terror.

“I can see you’re really working on your people skills,” Mitch observed.

“Ab-so-tootly,” Jeff responded with great sincerity. “The old me wouldn’t have mentioned those other outlets at all.” On Mitch’s doubtful look he added, “Mitch, we have to measure our progress in inches. I learned that from my dear sweet mother, right along with another heartwarming chestnut: ‘You’ll never amount to anything.’ That’s why Abby dumped me, you know. She thinks I want to fail because deep down inside I think I deserve to. Didn’t want to be around my vibe anymore. Said it was contagious. What do you think?”

“I think that you have a beautiful shop and you should be very proud.”

“You really think so?” he asked Mitch imploringly.

Needy. That was the word to describe Jeff Wachtell.

“I really do,” Mitch assured him.

Pleased, Jeff began moving Mitch’s signed books to a prominent spot by the front door. Mitch browsed a bit. Among Jeff’s Store Picks he spotted a paperback copy of Horseman, Pass By, the slender firstnovel by Larry McMurtry that Martin Ritt had made into the movie Hud. Mitch had lost his copy and had been meaning to reread it, so he brought one up to the counter and paid Jeff for it.

As Jeff rang it up he started sucking his cheeks in and out again, peering at Mitch uncertainly. “Mind if I ask you something else? I just scored Abby’s tour itinerary from her Web site, and she’s making her way straight through Connecticut this week on her way to Boston. She’s already stopping at C. C. Willoughby and Company in Sussex, right? And her publicist, Chrissie Huberman, is here in town with Esme and Tito, right? Would it be out of line for me to ask her if she’d maybe schedule Abby to stop here? Abby sure would bring in the customers.”

“Jeff, you don’t carry any of your wife’s books, remember?”

“I could have fifty copies of The Codfather of Sole here by noon tomorrow,” he said in a determined voice. “All I have to do is pick up the phone.”

Mitch raised his eyebrows at him. “This is a tectonic shift for you.”

“Dead on,” he acknowledged, adjusting his glasses. “But I need to make certain allowances if I’m going to survive in this business. What do you think?”

“I think this is a very healthy development.”

“No, I mean about me approaching Crissie.”

“Why don’t you just talk to Abby?”

Jeff shook his head vigorously. “We only speak through our lawyers-at a cost of three hundred and fifty bucks an hour. Saying ‘Hi, how are you?’ runs me twenty-nine ninety-five.”

“I guess it couldn’t hurt. The worst thing Chrissie can do is say no, right?”

“Right,” Jeff agreed, a bit less than convinced. “Thanks, man.”

Mitch headed back out to the food hall with his book. It was lunchtime and the place was teeming with hungry Dorseteers, the din of their voices rising up toward the skylights. A lot of them were lined up at the deli counter. Mitch took his place at the end of the line, watching Donna merrily take phone orders, chat up customers, and move the line along with a smooth assist from Rich Graybill, theyoung chef they’d brought in to help manage the place. Will was busy horsing a huge basket of baguettes over from the bakery. All three of them were moving at an astonishing speed. It takes superhuman energy to work in the food trade, Will once told Mitch. Mitch believed it.

As he got closer to the counter, Mitch carefully studied the enticing platters and bowls on display in the refrigerated case, his stomach growling.

Now Donna was serving the young woman in line ahead of him. “What can I get you, Marilyn? God, I love your hair. Who did it? I’ve got to go see her. Mine looks just like a Brillo pad… Shut up, it does so.”

Mitch liked Donna a lot. She was peppery and funny, and she held nothing back. Always, her pink face was lit with a warm, genuine smile. She liked being who she was. Donna was a bit on the short side, nearly a foot shorter than Will, and more than a bit on the chubby side. And her hair did look like a Brillo pad, frizzy and black with streaks of premature gray. She wore a blue denim apron with The Works stitched across it, as did everyone who served food there.

“Hey there, stretch, what can I get for you today?” she asked, squinting at Mitch through her wire-rimmed glasses with feigned astonishment. “Time out, Berger, is that you? My God, you’re nothing but skin, bone, and wrinkled khaki.” Donna had a pronounced Boston accent, the flat, Southie kind. “How much weight have you lost this summer, fifteen pounds?”

“Ten pounds… well, nine.”

“That’s a lot, Mitch,” Will said, unloading his basket of baguettes.

“Not enough to satisfy a certain resident trooper.”

“Oh, what does that scrawny gazelle know about poundage?” Donna shot back. “Me, I like a full-bodied man. A man whose ass is bigger than mine. That’s all any woman wants.”

“So that’s it,” Will joked. “I always wondered.”

“Okay, I’m getting mixed signals here,” Mitch told her. “You and Des have to get on the same page.”

“Not a chance. She’s the one who sees you naked. I just sell you food. Not that I wouldn’t like to trade places.”

“Donna, are you making a play for me in front of your husband?”

“It’s okay, Mitch, I’m used to it,” Will said, smiling at her.

Mitch studied their playful banter closely, wondering if Will was cheating on her with Martine. He had no idea. None.

Donna said, “If you’re not going to whisk me away to Bermuda on your yacht then you’ll have to place an order. This is a business, Berger. I can’t just stand here all afternoon talking dirty.”

Mitch went for the grilled shrimp Caesar salad, an onion minibaguette and a fresh-squeezed orange juice. He placed it all on a tray and ambled over toward an empty table, pleased to see that people at three different tables were intently reading his review of Dark Star in that morning’s paper. Mitch enjoyed watching people read his work. He was not alone in this-it was just about every journalist’s guiltiest pleasure. He sat and opened his book, keeping an eye on the big glass doors to the street.

Des came striding through them a few minutes later and made her way lithely across the bustling food hall, a supremely relaxed smile on her face as her eyes alertly took in everyone and everything in the place. She was becoming an exceptionally good resident trooper, Mitch felt. She was confident, helpful, and straight with everyone. People in town genuinely respected her. Plus there was a refreshing absence of head games with Des. She didn’t try to bully or intimidate anyone. She didn’t need to. Whatever came along, she knew she could handle it.

Mitch loved the way her face lit up when she caught sight of him seated there. Loved the special smile that she reserved for him and him alone. As she started toward him he wondered what would happen to him if she were not in his life right now. He would go right down the drain, that’s what.

But she must never know this-she thinks I’m the one who has it all together.

They did not kiss when she got to his table. Des had an ironclad rule about Public Displays of Affection when she was in uniform. But there was no avoiding the way they glowed in each other’s presence. Just as there was no missing the curious glances that they got from neighboring tables. Because they were a different kind of couple, no question. And when you’re different people wonder about you. The glances didn’t bother either of them one bit. They knew how happy they were together.

“Hey, bod man,” she said, her pale green eyes shining at him from behind her horn-rims.

“Back at you, Master Sergeant.”

“I’m going to fetch me some lunch.”

“Lucky me,” Mitch said brightly.

She cocked her head at him curiously. “How so?”

“Now I get to watch you walk away,” he replied, rubbing his hands together eagerly. Among her many attributes, Des Mitry possessed one of the world’s top ten cabooses.

“Dawg, would you be talking trash at me?”

“I’m sure trying.”

“You’d better behave yourself before I perform a strip search.”

“Could I please get that in writing?”

She let out a big whoop and headed over toward the deli counter, her big leather belt creaking, her stride long, athletic, and totally lacking in self-consciousness. She wasn’t showing off her form. Didn’t need to. Des knew perfectly well what she had. She kidded around with Donna for a minute, then returned with a Greek salad and an iced tea, and sat across from Mitch, her brow furrowing intently. She had something unsettling on her mind. He knew her well enough to know this.

Mitch raised his orange juice in a toast. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

“Wait, wait, I know this one! We watched it together. Humphrey Bogart, right?”

“In?…”

“Um, was it The Maltese Falcon?”

“Almost, it was Casablanca. But you were so close that we’re going to give you one of our very fine consolation prizes.”

“Which is?…”

“Me.”

“And if I’d won-what would I have gotten then?”

“Me.”

“Sounds like I can’t lose,” she said, attacking her salad hungrily. “Looks like I’ve got me some catching up to do, though. I see you’ve already had your dessert. I’m guessing something from the doughnut food group.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?”

“Powdered sugar on your collar, boyfriend.”

He glanced down at the collar of his short-sleeved khaki shirt. There were indeed tiny flecks of white there. “I can’t put anything over on you, can I?”

“Don’t even try. I’m a trained detective. Besides, I know you. Whenever you’re upset about something you break your diet.”

“I’m not like you, you know,” Mitch said defensively. “I can’t survive on such a drastically reduced food intake. Pretty soon you’ll have me subsisting on a handful of vitamin pills, just like the Jetsons.”

“Well, at least you’ve moved off of Yogi and Boo Boo,” she said tartly.

“I sure do wish you’d let me take that one back.”

“Not even. You told me the truth. That’s what I need to hear if I’m going to get any better. Hell, that’s why I keep you around.”

“So that’s it.”

Des gazed at him steadily from across the table. “What’s going on, baby?”

“You first.”

“Me first what?”

“Something’s bothering you, too, isn’t it?”

“No way. You broke your diet-you go first.”

“Okay, I can accept that. But we have to keep this between us, okay?” Mitch leaned over the table toward her, lowering his voice. “Dodge Crockett dropped a neutron bomb on me this morning- Martine is having an affair.”

“My, my,” Des responded mildly. “Isn’t this interesting.”

Mitch frowned at her. “You’re not reacting the way I thought you would at all. You seem… relieved.”

“Only because I am,” Des confessed. “Real, Martine told me this morning that Dodge was having an affair.”

“No way!”

“Oh, most definitely way.”

“Well, who with?”

“She didn’t say. Why, did he?…”

“No, not a word,” Mitch said, electing to keep his hunch about Will to himself. At least for now.

“Well, this is certainly tangled up in weird,” she said, taking a gulp of her iced tea. “I wonder why they’ve dumped it on us.”

“Why pick the same morning?” Mitch wondered. “And why pick us?”

She considered it for a moment, her eyes narrowing shrewdly. “I hate to say this, but part of me feels like we’re being moved around.”

“Moved around how?”

“She told me about Dodge’s affair so she could get out in front of any rumors about her own. This way, if word leaks out that she’s seeing someone, people will say ‘The poor dear had no choice-Dodge has been cheating on her for months.’ ”

“You think he told me about her for the very same reason?”

“It’s a theory, Mitch.”

“But that would mean they’re expecting us to blab this all over town.”

“Not very flattering, is it?”

“Not in the least,” Mitch said indignantly. “Dodge told it to me in confidence. I’d never run out and tell everyone in Dorset that Martine is… Wait, what am I saying? This isn’t Dorset, it’s Peyton goddamned Place.” He paused, poking at the remains of his lunch with his plastic fork. “Do you think they’ll stay together?”

Des shrugged her shoulders. “This may be totally normal behavior for them. Some couples get off on the jealousy. It lights their fire. Hell, for all we know this whole business could be nothing more than air guitar.”

“As in they’re not really playing?”

“What I’m saying.”

“Is that what you think is going on?”

“Boyfriend, I wouldn’t even try to guess.”

“Neither would I,” said Mitch, who had learned one sure thing about Dorset since he’d moved here: no one, absolutely no one, was who he or she appeared to be. Everyone was fronting. That didn’t necessarily mean you didn’t like or admire people like the Crocketts, it just meant you didn’t know them. They didn’t let you. “The Crocketts seemed like the perfect couple, too.”

“There is no such thing,” Des said with sudden vehemence. “And there’s no such thing as the face of a dying marriage either.” She was drawing on her own painful breakup with Brandon, Mitch knew full well. “If they choose to, a couple like the Crocketts can hide what’s really going on from everyone.”

“So what are we supposed to do now?”

“Besides keep our mouths shut? Not a thing. Not unless they ask us for help.” She finished her salad and shoved her plate away. “I did me some hanging with Esme this morning.”

“What’s she like?”

“Sweet, childlike-at times it seems like nobody’s home.”

“That’s why they call them actors. They’re not like you and me. They’re instruments. When they aren’t performing they’re no different than the cello that you see lying on its side in the orchestra room, waiting to be picked up and played.”

“If that’s the case then why does everybody worship them?”

“They don’t. They worship the fantasy that’s up on the screen. The performers just have a bit of the stardust sprinkled on them, that’s all. It’s all about the fantasy. People vastly prefer it to reality, which is depressing and painful and filled with really bad smells. Reality they already know plenty about.” Mitch gazed at her searchingly. “Des?…”

“What is it, baby?”

“Let’s not play games like that with each other.”

“Games I can deal with. You sleeping with another woman, that’ssomething different.” She drained her iced tea. “Damn, I’m thirsty today.”

“Want me to get you a refill?”

“What are you trying to do, spoil me?”

“That’s the general idea.”

“Yum, I could get used to this idea.”

He grabbed her Styrofoam cup and climbed to his feet. “Excuse me, weren’t you going to say something?”

“Such as?…”

“Such as how lucky you are-you get to watch me walk away.”

Des let out her whoop. “Word, you are the only man I’ve ever been with who can make me laugh.”

“Is this is a positive thing?”

“Boyfriend, this is a huge thing.”

“Well, okay. Remember now, no wolf whistles.” He yanked up his shorts, threw back his shoulders and went galumphing back to the counter for a refill.

“Well, well,” Donna said to him teasingly. “The resident trooper certainly has you well trained.”

“Nonsense. We like to do favors for each other.”

“I think that’s very nice,” spoke up Will, who was working a baked ham through the meat slicer. “Don’t listen to my wife, Mitch. I certainly don’t.”

“I’m just jealous,” she said. “The last time Will fetched something for me was… actually, Will has never fetched anything for me.”

Mitch was watching her refill the iced tea when he suddenly heard it-the reverent hush that comes over a room when someone famous walks in. It was as if a spell had been cast over the entire food hall. The boisterous beachgoers and tourists all fell eerily silent, their mouths hanging half-open, eyes bulging with fascination. All movement ceased.

Mitch swiveled around, his own eyes scanning the hall. It was Tito and Esme, of course. They were walking directly toward the deli counter, hand in hand, with Chrissie Huberman running interference. The celebrity publicist wore an oversized man’s dress shirt, white linen pants, and a furious expression-because the three of them were not alone.

“A little space, guys!” Chrissie blustered at the herd of photographers and tabloid TV cameramen who were dogging their every step, crab-walking, tripping over each other, shouting questions, shouting demands as Tito and Esme did their best to pretend they weren’t there. Chrissie threw elbows and hips to keep them at bay. She was no one to mess with. She was a strapping, big-boned blond with a snow-shovel jaw and lots of sharp edges. Also the hottest client list in New York. Everything about Chrissie Huberman was hot, including her own image. She was married to a rock promoter who ran an East Village dance club. “Damn it, give us some room to breathe, will you?” she screamed, as the golden couple strode along toward the deli counter, just like two perfectly normal young people out for a perfectly normal lunch.

Hansel and Gretel, Dodge had called them.

Esme had cascading blond ringlets and impossibly innocent blue eyes. Her features were so delicate that Mitch had once called her the only woman on the planet who could make Michelle Pfeiffer look like Ernest Borgnine. She wore a gauzy shift and, seemingly, nothing underneath it. Her breasts jiggled with every step, the outline of her nipples clearly apparent through the flimsy material.

Tito Molina was not a big man, no more than five feet ten and a wiry 165 pounds. And yet his physical presence commanded just as much attention as that of his fantastically erotic young wife. Tito had the edginess of a pent-up bobcat as he made his way across the food hall, that same sexually charged intensity that Steve McQueen once had. The man smoldered. He was unshaven, his long, shiny blue black hair uncombed, and was carelessly dressed in a torn yellow T-shirt, baggy surfer trunks, and sandals. No different from half the young guys in town. And yet he looked like no other guy. No one else had his incandescent blue eyes or flawless complexion that was the color of fine suede. No one else had his perfectly chiseled nose, high, hard cheekbones, and finely carved lips. No one else was Tito Molina.

“Here you go, Berger….” Donna was holding Des’s iced tea out to him. Mitch was still staring at the golden couple. “Earth to Mr. Berger, Mr. Mitch Berger…”

“Sorry, Donna,” he apologized, taking the cup from her as Tito and Esme arrived at the counter with Chrissie and their tabloid retinue.

Mitch was starting his way back toward his table when he suddenly felt a hand on his arm. It was Tito’s hand.

“Did I just hear what I thought I heard?” Tito’s voice was tinged with a faint barrio inflection. “Are you that film critic guy?”

“That’s me,” Mitch said to him, smiling. “That film critic guy.”

“Okay, this is good,” Tito said, nodding his head up, down, up, down. He was so wired that sparks were coming off of him. “I wanted to let you know what I thought of your review in today’s paper.”

“Sure, all right,” Mitch said, keeping his voice low. He did not want to get into a very public shouting match with Tito Molina. Neither of them would come away the winner. “Go ahead and tell me what’s on your-”

Mitch never got another word out-Tito coldcocked him flush on the jaw. The punch connected so fast Mitch didn’t see it coming. Just flew straight over backward, the back of his head slamming hard against the floor.

“Tito, no!” Mitch heard Esme scream as he lay there, blinking, dazed. “Tito, stop it!”

Now Tito was astride Mitch with both hands wrapped around his throat, trying to squeeze the very life out of him as the tabloid cameramen crowded around them, catching every last bit of it. “How do you like my review, hunh?!” the young star screamed at him, pelting Mitch with his spittle. “You like it?!”

Mitch could not respond. Could not, in fact, breathe.

Not one of the cameramen tried to pull the actor off of him. They were too busy egging them on.

“You gonna let him get away with that, Mitch!?”

“Throw down, Mitch! Go for it!”

The folks who’d been shopping and eating were getting in on it, too, clustering around them as if this were a street theater performance. Tourists filmed the fracas with their camcorders as Tito continued to choke him, Mitch lying there on the floor like a rag doll, his limbs flailing helplessly. No one seemed to care that he was actually about to die.

It was Will Durslag who vaulted over the counter and yanked the lunatic off him, grabbing Tito roughly by the scruff of the neck. “Let him go, man! Let him go, right now!”

“Get your hands off of me!” Tito spat, struggling in the bigger man’s grasp.

“Tito, stop!” Esme sobbed, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Please!

…”

Now Des had muscled her way through the crowd to Mitch, crouching over him with a stricken expression on her face. “Are you okay? Need an ambulance?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Mitch croaked. “Never better.” He sat up slowly, gaacking much the same way Clemmie did when she was trying to bring up a six-inch fur ball. His Adam’s apple felt as if someone had just driven a dull spike into it. And his jaw felt numb. He fingered it gingerly, opening and closing his mouth. Everything still seemed to work. “How come I’m… all wet?”

“You’re sitting in my iced tea.”

Will was still going at it with Tito. “I want you out of my market, man!”

“Go to hell!” Tito snarled back at him.

“No, you go to hell! You are in my place and I make the rules here!”

“All right, gentlemen, let’s chill out,” Des barked, stepping in between the two of them. “Mr. Molina, you need to get a hold of yourself at once, are you comprehending me?”

Tito didn’t respond. Esme and Chrissie immediately surrounded him, Chrissie murmuring soothing words at him while Esme hugged him and kissed him.

“Please step back, everyone,” Des told the crowd. “Please stepback now. And I want these damned cameras out of my face!” she roared angrily.

Miraculously, the paparazzi beat a hasty retreat. Des had explained this phenomenon to Mitch once: no one, not even the lowest tabloid whore, wants to be around a sister when she’s armed and pissed.

Esme and Chrissie seemed to be calming Tito down now. He stood there nodding his head obediently as he listened to them, his shoulders slumped, eyes fastened on the floor.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Molina?” Des asked him.

“I’m cool,” he said quietly, running a hand through his long, shiny hair. “Everything’s cool. No big.”

Now Chrissie hurried over to Mitch and said, “God, Mr. Berger, I am so sorry about this. If there’s anything I can do to make it right, just name it.”

Mitch sat there in the cold puddle of tea, fingering his jaw. “I’m fine.”

The commotion had brought Jeff Wachtell out of his store. “Mitch, I saw the whole thing if you need a witness.”

“I’m fine,” Mitch repeated.

“Can you walk?” Des asked him.

“I can try,” he said, struggling unsteadily to his feet.

“Okay, good, my ride’s outside,” Des said. “We’ll sort this out at the Westbrook Barracks together.”

“Whatever you say,” Tito said with weary resignation. “You’re the man.”

“Wait, what’s to sort out?” Mitch asked.

Des raised an eyebrow at him, clearly wondering if he was punch-drunk. “The paperwork, Mitch. You have to swear out a formal complaint before we can file criminal assault charges.”

“No way,” Mitch said hastily. “That’s absolutely not happening.”

Tito gazed at Mitch, stunned.

He wasn’t the only one. Des moved over closer to him, hands on her hips, and said, “What do you mean? That man just had his hands wrapped around your throat.”

“He was only trying to make a point.”

“Yes, that’s he’s a homicidal lunatic. Guess what? He succeeded.”

“Des, we had a simple professional disagreement. He sucker punched me and I slipped on an ice cube. It was really no big deal.”

“Mitch, he tried to kill you! You can’t let him off the hook just because he’s famous.”

“I’m not.”

She shook her head at him. “Okay, then I don’t understand.”

“This is already going to be bad enough, media-wise. Do you have any what idea what’ll happen to me if it actually heads to court? I’ll become a tabloid freak. I’ll never be taken seriously as a critic again. My reputation will be ruined. My life will be ruined. This is my worst nightmare, Des. Just forget about it, please.”

“I can’t,” she said stubbornly. “I’m not satisfied.”

“Fine, then tell me how to satisfy you,” he shot back.

“Yes, please, Des,” Esme said pleadingly as the tabloid cameramen quietly, inevitably, rolled back in like the tide, the shoppers crowding in behind them.

Des stood there in judicious silence for a moment, chin resting on her fist. “Okay, I want you two men to smack meat.”

“You want us to what?” Tito asked incredulously.

“Shake hands, or I’m running you both in.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Mitch said to her.

“I said it and I meant it. I don’t tolerate fighting in my town. This is Dorset, not Dodge City.”

“True enough,” Mitch said. “But we’re not in the Cub Scouts anymore, Des. We’re a pair of grown men and-”

“Smack meat!” Des snapped. “Or we’re going for a ride.”

Mitch shrugged his shoulders and stuck a hand out. Tito Molina shook it, his own hand smaller and softer than Mitch was expecting. The media horde duly recorded it for posterity.

“What do you have to say, Mitch?” one cameraman asked him.

“Not a thing,” Mitch answered curtly. “I spoke my piece, Tito spoke his.”

“Sure you don’t want to take a poke at him?”

“What do you say, Tito?” another paparazzi called out.

“Get your own damned life,” Tito snarled, instantly tensing all over again. “Stop living off of mine, hunh?”

“All right, let’s go!” Des said, herding them away.

The scene was over. The cameramen headed for the doors, anxious to run with what they had. The shoppers dispersed.

“Hey, Chrissie!” Jeff called out to the publicist, who was fending off the autograph seekers in Esme’s face. “Can I have a quick word with you?”

Chrissie shot an impatient glance his way, then a slower double take. “Wait, I know you…”

“I’m Jeff Wachtell, better known as Mr. Abby Kaminsky.”

Chrissie smirked at him faintly. “Oh, sure, and I should be standing here talking to you because…?”

“I was just wondering if you could convince Abby to swing by for a signing at the Book Schnook,” Jeff said, sucking his cheeks in and out. “She’ll be coming right past Dorset on her way to and from Boston, and it sure would help me out a lot. What do you say, will you ask her?”

Chrissie raised her jutting jaw at him. “This is like a joke, right?”

“No, I’m perfectly serious.”

“Jeffrey, let me see if I can draw you a picture. My client wishes to see you stripped naked, hung by your thumbs-actually, not your thumbs but a much, much tinier part of your anatomy-and slowly pecked to death by hungry birds.”

“Does that mean no?”

“It means,” Chrissie replied, “that she thinks you are the lowest, most contemptible creature on the face of the earth. If I so much as mention to her that I bumped into you today she’ll need a cold compress and a Valium. You ruined her life. She detests you. Am I getting through to you now?” And with that she turned on her heel and ushered Esme toward the door.

“Maybe this is a bad time,” Jeff hollered after her in vain. “Could we talk about it later?”

Tito made a point of hanging back, sidling his way over towardMitch with the predatory stealth of Jack Palance in Shane. Des was about to intercede but Mitch held up his hand, stopping her. He did not want her fighting his battles for him.

“Just one more thing, critic guy,” Tito said to him, his voice low and murderous, blue eyes boring in on Mitch’s. “I don’t want to see you in here again. If I do, I’ll mess you up for real. And I don’t care if your bitch is around to protect you or not, understand?”

It had been a long time since Mitch had been in this position. But as he stood there in The Works, nose to nose with Tito Molina, Mitch was right back in Stuyvesant Town all over again, a porky twelve-year-old going jaw to jaw with Bruce Cooperman, the playground bully who wouldn’t let him pass through the gate to the basketball court. Mitch had known what he had to do then and he knew what he had to do now. He stared right back at him and said, “This town is where I live, and you don’t tell me where I can or cannot go. If you want to fight, we’ll fight. But we won’t do it in front of the cameras. We’ll do it somewhere quiet. You’ll probably win, since you’re such a tough guy, but I do outweigh you and I promise you that I’ll put every pound I possess into messing up your precious face. By the time we’re through people won’t know you from Hermione Gingold, understand?”

Tito glowered at him in lethal silence for a long moment-until he broke into sudden, side-splitting laughter. Uncontrollable hysterics. “God, that was so cool,” he finally managed to say, gasping. “Thanks for that moment, man. I’ll have to use it in a scene someday.”

“It’s all yours,” Mitch said, wondering just how much of Tito’s erratic behavior was for real and how much was simply designed to keep people off-balance and afraid. He couldn’t tell. Could Tito?

“Tito?!” Esme called out to him from across the food hall. She and Chrissie were waiting at the door. “Come on, let’s go!”

Tito waved in acknowledgement and started toward her.

“One more thing,” Mitch said, stopping the actor in his tracks.

“What is it now, man?” Just like that he’d switched over to irritation.

“This kind of stuff is really beneath you.”

“You know dick about me, man.”

“I know you’re better than this. Much better.”

Tito considered Mitch’s remark for a long moment, tugging thoughtfully at his lower lip. Then he abruptly spat on the floor at Mitch’s feet and stormed off.

“Then again,” Mitch said to himself softly, “maybe you’re not.”