The Snow White Christmas Cookie

by David Handler

  Except he wasn’t answering his cell or his home phone. Mitch had been planning to take Rut Peck over to visit Paulette. Then he was going to drive Rut back to Essex Meadows and head on home. He ought to be there by now, she figured, glancing at her watch. Ought to be parked squarely in front of his computer writing crazy, funny, brilliant things about his all-time favorite Christmas movies. But he wasn’t. He hadn’t checked in either. Hadn’t called her. Hadn’t texted her.

  Honestly? Des couldn’t help wondering where in the hell her doughboy was.

  CHAPTER 14

  “SURE YOU DON’T MIND if we stop off for a quick glass of beer?”

  “Young fella, you never have to talk me into a glass of beer,” Rut replied as they bounced along in Mitch’s Studey. “Quick or otherwise. Besides, I don’t care if I never make it back to Essex Meadows.”

  Mitch was piloting his way up Old Boston Post Road toward Cardiff, Dorset’s landlocked neighbor to the north. If Dorset possessed what could be truly classified as a seedy side of town it was this stretch of the Post Road north of Uncas Lake. Here, a tattered strip of businesses operated out of old wood-framed houses that seemed to be sagging even more than usual under the weight of so much snow and ice. If you wanted your sofa reupholstered or your unwanted facial hair removed then this was where you came. If you wished to engage in some illicit humpage then this is where you came—Dorset’s designated hot-sheet motel, the Yankee Doodle Motor Court, was located here. So was the Rustic Inn, the beer joint that was a second home to Dorset’s indigenous population of young male Swamp Yankees.

  Mitch didn’t phone Des to tell her that he was stopping off at the Rustic. He didn’t tell the woman in his life every single thing he did. Plus he knew she’d tell him not to go. But he had a hunch—a good, solid one—and when Mitch Berger had a hunch he played it all of the way. He wasn’t hamstrung by legal constraints the way Des was. He could go places she couldn’t go, do things she couldn’t do. He’d helped her on numerous cases, whether she cared to admit it or not. Mostly not. Actually, Des tended to get downright furious when Mitch played one of his hunches. But he couldn’t sit idly by when bad things were happening to people who he knew and liked. This was what it meant to live in a small town. You got involved.

  “I sure do feel badly for that tall, beautiful young thing.”

  “This would be Paulette?” Mitch asked Rut, who’d sat there in her TV room talking quietly with her for nearly two hours.

  “She’s so angry and alone. That’s no way for a good woman to be.”

  “I’m sure you were a real comfort to her, Rut.”

  “You think so?” He shook his head sadly. “I don’t think she’ll even remember I was there.”

  The Rustic Inn was a log cabin of a place with illuminated Bud Light and Miller beer signs in its front windows and a satellite dish perched on its roof. The afternoon sun had gotten warm enough that the snow on the roof was starting to melt and rain down from the frozen rain gutters. The slushy parking lot was filled with pickups and dented old muscle cars. A sleek new silver Cadillac Coupe de Ville was parked there, looking distinctly out of place.

  Inside, a wood stove kept the Rustic warm and cozy. There was a horseshoe-shaped bar, a big-screen TV and a pool table. It was crowded in there for a workday. The dozen or so tables were all filled, mostly by bearded young guys in flannel shirts who were hunched over beers and bowls of chili. There wasn’t one woman in the place. And the mood wasn’t what Mitch would call festive. A lot of these guys were construction workers who’d been idled by the sucky weather and even suckier economy. Times were hard for them. Mitch could feel their despair as soon as he walked in the door. Rut paused on his way to the bar to pat several of them on the shoulder and say hello.

  The man behind the bar was a strapping fellow in his forties who seemed to have a hard time moving around. He had a definite limp. His face was etched in a permanent grimace. There were dark bags under his eyes and his complexion was sallow. He didn’t look well.

  But he brightened considerably when he spotted Rut easing himself into one of the two vacant bar stools. “Man, I haven’t seen you in ages, you old peckerwood,” he exclaimed. “How the hell are you?”

  “I’m aboveground and the sun is shining. What more could I ask for? Steve Starkey, I want you to say hello to my friend Mitch Berger.”

  “Glad to know you, Mitch. Any friend of Rut’s is a friend of mine. You’re the one who dates our resident trooper, right? The movie guy?”

  “That’s me—the movie guy.”

  “Nice lady, our resident trooper. She knows what’s what. Mostly, I keep the peace around here myself,” Steve explained, pulling a baseball bat out from under the bar. “But every once in a while I need her help. And, let me tell you, Resident Trooper Mitry is no one to mess with.”

  “Believe me, I know.”

  Steve turned back to Rut, his face darkening. “How’s Paulette?”

  “Real broken up.”

  “I was awful sorry to hear about Hank. He was a good guy.”

  “He had a lot of friends,” Rut agreed. “Did he stop in here a lot?”

  “Maybe once every couple of weeks with the guys from the firehouse. Not like that boy Casey of hers. He’s in here every single night.”

  “He was here last night?” Mitch asked.

  Steve nodded. “Came in about seven, same as always. Sat by himself on that same stool over there so he could watch the games on TV. He’s a strange one. Never talks to a soul—except for Gigi when she’s feeling, you know, charitable. What can I get you gentlemen?”

  “Excellent question.” Rut smacked his lips, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He reminded Mitch of Harold Russell ordering his first beer at Uncle Butch’s in The Best Years of Our Lives. “What’s on draft?”

  “On draft I’ve got Bud and Bud Light.”

  Rut’s face fell. “No real beer?”

  “Not too many of these boys go for the premium stuff. I do have a few bottles of Guinness in the cooler.”

  “You talked me into it. And one for my young friend here.”

  “Care for anything to eat?”

  “I could go for one of your world-famous chili dogs.”

  “Make it two,” Mitch said.

  Steve hobbled off to take care of their order.

  “His daddy, Jim, was my best friend in the whole world back when I was a boy,” Rut recalled. “Jim got a degree in forestry and started a tree-cutting business when he got home from Korea. Did real well at it and passed it on to Steve, but a big oak limb broke loose on Steve when he was up in the bucket truck right after Hurricane Bob. Knocked him all of the way to the ground. Shattered his left hip, a whole bunch of ribs. He recovered but he couldn’t do that kind of work anymore, so he opened this place.”

  Steve returned with their beers and went off to make their chili dogs.

  Rut took a thirsty gulp, sighing contentedly. “Thanks for bringing me here, Mitch. It’s been a long time. I used to stop in pretty regular when I was still working for a living.”

  “Has it changed much?”

  “Not a bit.”

  Mitch glanced around, noticing two guys who were drinking coffee together at a table in the corner by the window. They didn’t exactly blend in with the crowd. One was an enormous twenty-something body builder who looked as if he devoted most of his time to trying to look scary—which, in Mitch’s opinion, he succeeded at quite admirably. The other guy was older, in his fifties, and nattily attired in a yellow turtleneck sweater, gray flannel slacks and a tan Kangol cap. He had an intense, focused air about him and was on his cell phone nonstop. A customer moseyed by and murmured something to him. He nodded and the customer walked away.

  “Rut, who’s that guy over there in the tan cap?”

  Rut peered at him through his thick black-framed glasses. “Don’t know him. But the big gorilla’s Tommy Stratton. That one’s as mean as a snake. Used to throw raw eggs at Sheila Enman when he was a little
kid.”

  “Why’d he do that?”

  “Well, sir, every day after school Tommy liked to beat the living daylights out of the little boy who lived next door to Sheila. One day she told him to pick on someone his own size. So he started throwing eggs at her every time she set foot outside her door. She had to call the resident trooper on him. They call him Tommy the Pinhead on account of he’s built so thick through the neck—and he’s a pinhead. Barely finished high school. Washed out of the U.S. Army. Now it looks to me like he’s hired muscle for that there shady character in the tan cap. Want me to find out who he is?”

  “I wouldn’t say no.”

  Steve came back with their chili dogs. “Here you go, gentlemen,” he said, setting paper plates before them.

  Rut took a bite of his, munching on it appreciatively. “Steve, who’s that fellow sitting there with Tommy the Pinhead?”

  Steve’s mouth tightened. “Rick Fontanella. They call him Slick Rick.”

  “Bookie, isn’t he?” Rut asked him.

  Steve glanced uneasily over at Mitch. “You trying to get me into trouble, Rut?”

  “How long have you known me, Steve?”

  “My whole life. But I’ve known your friend Mitch less than ten minutes.”

  “You don’t have to worry about Mitch. He goes his way and Des goes hers. It’s the secret to a successful relationship. Isn’t that right, Mitch?”

  “That’s right,” agreed Mitch, who couldn’t help thinking that a man with Rut Peck’s natural-born gifts had been wasted in the U.S. Postal Service. He was such a consummate bullshit artist that he should have gone into politics.

  Rut peered over at Slick Rick again. “Is he a local fella? I don’t recognize him.”

  “Rick has a condo in Mystic, I think,” Steve said.

  “I’m guessing that fancy Coupe de Ville parked outside is his.”

  “Yup.”

  “Does he operate on his own or is he hooked up?”

  Steve leaned in a bit closer, lowering his voice. “He stops in and does a little business here, okay? Who he is or isn’t hooked up with is none of my concern. Why are you so curious anyhow?”

  “Because my friend Mitch and I we were both looking to place a wager on this Sunday’s Patriots-Giants game. What’s the spread?”

  “Last I heard it was Pats by seven points.”

  Rut gawked at Steve in disbelief. “At home against the G-men? Why, the Pats are a lock to beat that.”

  Steve raised an eyebrow at the old fellow. “What kind of wager are you talking about, Rut?”

  Rut took a sip of his Guinness. “A hundred on the Pats. How about you, Mitch?”

  “I can’t bet against my Giants. I’ll ride them for a hundred.”

  “That’s a sucker’s bet,” Rut informed him. “You’re a born pigeon.”

  Steve said, “I can place your bets with Rick for you if you’d like.”

  “That’d be great, Steve.” Rut took another bite of his chili dog. “What do you get out of it?”

  Steve frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You allow the fella to operate in here. What’s in it for you?”

  Steve turned cold on him. “Why would you ask me something like that?”

  Rut shrugged his soft shoulders. “Just curious.”

  Mitch said, “Is he into anything else?”

  Steve stared across the bar at Mitch. “I don’t allow any drugs in here, if that’s what you’re asking. Your girlfriend would shut me right down. The guys like to bet on football. I figure they may as well do it here. Nobody gets hurt and it’s good for business.”

  “It wasn’t,” Mitch said, munching on his chili dog.

  Steve shook his head. “Wasn’t what?”

  “What I was asking you. Does Slick Rick also extend credit to guys who come up a little bit short?”

  “Well, yeah,” Steve allowed. “If somebody needs a few bucks until payday or whatever.”

  “So he’s a loan shark?”

  “To my mind he’s simply providing a service. His vig’s a little high but, hey, it’s not much higher than what the big boys nail you for when you fall behind on your credit cards. And them bastards have got the full faith and credit of the U.S. government behind them.”

  The door to the Rustic opened now and in barged Casey Zander in his Patriots hoodie and sweatpants, looking frazzled and agitated. Also not particularly happy to see Mitch and Rut.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “You had a rough night, son,” Rut responded soothingly. “You and your mom both. We’d like to buy you a beer. Have a seat.”

  “Not right now,” Casey snapped, looking around the place. “Hey, Steve, where’s Gigi?”

  “She was here earlier, Casey. Went out.”

  “Who with?”

  “No idea. Gigi goes her own way. You know that.”

  “Well, when’s she coming back?”

  “When she decides to come back,” Steve answered patiently, as if he were speaking to a whiny, annoying child. Which he basically was. “Here she is now,” he informed Casey as the door opened again. “Are you happy?”

  Gigi Garanski looked as if she’d just wandered in from a Def Leppard video. She was an absolute vision of unloveliness in a torn denim jacket, hot pink spandex tights and snakeskin cowboy boots. Gigi had big, sticky-looking hair that was dyed a garish shade of yellow and she looked as if she’d applied her eye makeup with a trowel. She was pale and extremely skinny. Not a glam kind of skinny. A malnourished kind. Mitch doubted Gigi was more than twenty-five but she had a lot of hard miles on her.

  Casey reached over and grabbed her. “Where have you been?”

  “What do you care?” she answered in a raspy voice.

  “I was looking all over for you.”

  “I was right here, asshole. Where were you? Told me you were going to take me out for breakfast.”

  “I had to hang with my mom on account of Hank.”

  Gigi made a face at him. “Your mom. With other guys it’s their wife or their girlfriend. With you it’s always your mom.”

  “Shut up about my mom!”

  “Don’t tell me to shut up. And let go of my arm, will ya?”

  “Seems like a stable, mature relationship built on mutual respect,” Mitch observed.

  “And common interests,” Rut agreed, nodding his tufty white head. “Politics, religion, the theater…”

  Gigi moved away from Casey now and sidled over to the corner table where Tommy the Pinhead sat with Slick Rick. She bent over, taunting Casey with a defiant gaze, and gave Tommy a wet, slurpy kiss. Casey watched the two of them, red faced. When they were done sucking face, Tommy spoke to Gigi in a quiet voice. She nodded her sticky blond head, then made her way slowly back to Casey, Tommy watching her with cool-eyed detachment.

  “How about we go for a drive someplace, babe?” she asked sweetly, cradling Casey’s chubby cheeks in her pale, taloned hands.

  Casey shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?”

  “Hey, don’t do me any favors.”

  “I’m not, Gigi. I want to go with you. Really, I do. Just give me a couple of minutes, okay? There’s something I have to take care of first.”

  Gigi rolled her eyes at him. “Whatever.”

  Casey started toward the door, shooting a glance over at Tommy the Pinhead and Slick Rick. As he went outside, the two of them put their heads together and conferred. Then Tommy got his huge self to his feet and went out the door, too.

  Gigi parked herself at the bar next to Mitch. Steve brought her a glass of white wine. She took a small sip, looking Mitch up and down with frank curiosity.

  He smiled at her and said, “How are you?”

  “Compared to what?”

  “Is it just me or does Casey seem kind of antsy?”

  “He’s always antsy,” she sniffed. “That one was born antsy.” And with that she took her wine down to the other end of the bar.

  “Nice gir
l,” Mitch observed.

  “Trust me, she’s more popular around here than Casey is,” Steve said.

  “I can believe that.” Rut drank down the last of his Guinness. “That boy is awful hard to warm up to.”

  “Does he place a lot of bets with Slick Rick?” Mitch asked Steve.

  “Why are you asking?”

  “When I was over at his place this morning I saw a ton of NFL stats lying around. Couldn’t help wondering if he was a bit of a gambler.”

  “I wouldn’t call what Casey does gambling,” Steve said in a low voice.

  “What would you call it?”

  “A disease.”

  “He has a problem?”

  “A big problem.”

  “Well, now,” Rut murmured. “Ain’t that a fine how do ya do?”

  “I need to get something out of my truck,” Mitch informed the old postmaster. “I’ll be back in a sec, okay?”

  “Okay by me.” Rut tapped his empty Guinness bottle. “But it’ll cost you.”

  “Another round, Steve. And it’s my tab, okay?”

  “In that case,” Rut said, “I’ll have another chili dog, too.”

  Mitch went out of the Rustic’s front door, his eyes adjusting to the sunlight in the parking lot. Casey and Tommy the Pinhead were having words over by Casey’s blue Tacoma pickup. Mitch inched his way over behind the fenced enclosure where Steve kept his firewood, snow shovel and sacks of rock salt. From there he could watch the two of them without being seen. Could even hear Casey’s whiny voice, although he couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  Casey opened the door to his Tacoma and removed a pair of large, heavy shopping bags with handles. Tommy took them from him and headed over toward a beat-up old black Pontiac Trans Am. He popped the trunk and deposited the bags in there. Casey followed him, yapping all of the way. Now he was holding a fat, letter-sized envelope out to Tommy. Tommy took it and said something to Casey, smiling broadly at him. Then he punched Casey in the stomach really hard. Casey doubled over in pain, his eyes bulging, before he proceeded to gaack up his entire breakfast of Cocoa Puffs. Not a pretty sight.