David Handler - The Bright Silver Star

“I was?” Des shifted her sling, wincing. “How so?”

“It was about sex.”

“It was about love, Rico. Makes the world go around.”

“Your boy says that it was all his own idea to arrange a meet with Durslag-and bring his tape recorder.”

“True enough.”

“And that you were up there without his knowledge and just happened to be in the right place at the right time to save his fat, sorry ass.”

“He said that?”

“Everything but the fat, sorry part. What were you doing in the park at that time of night anyway?”

“Nosing around. Some local kids have been holding pot parties up there.”

“Uh-huh.” Soave narrowed his eyes at her shrewdly. “Me, I’m figuring it’s a good thing he didn’t tell you his plan in advance- because then it sure might have smelled like the E-word.”

“The E-word?” Des gazed at him dumbly. “Oh, you must mean entrapment. Hell yeah. Smart of him not to do that.”

“You wouldn’t think they’d teach him stuff like that at film critic’s school.”

“Man’s a big-league journalist, Rico,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, well, your big-league journalist seems a little shook up, you want to know the truth.”

“He saw a man die last night. Almost lost his own life in the deal. He’s not used to that.”

Soave stood back up now, swiping at his shiny black trousers, and let out a sigh. “I have to tell you, Des, my life is a whole lot simpler when you’re not in it.”

“Yeah, but you miss me so much you can’t hardly stand it,” she said, smiling up at him. “Can you work with this, Rico?”

“We can work with it,” he said, which was his way of finally indicating to her that they were two people who really were there for each other. “And I still say you have the best legs in the whole damned state. Did you notice I didn’t stare at them once?”

“I did, Rico. And I was impressed. You’re a nascent feminist.”

“Okay, I don’t know what that means, but I’m looking it up.”

“You do that, wow man.”

He started back to his car as Yolie emerged from the carriage house with Mitch. “Girl, I left your keys in the ignition,” she said, coming over to Des.

“Great, thanks.”

“I’ve, um, decided to stick it out a little while longer with Soave.”

“Glad to hear that. You keep your eyes and ears open, you can learn a lot.”

“Dig, I’m not sure that what I learned on this one belongs in any how-to manual,” Yolie said, crossing her rippling arms in front of her boom booms.

“Why, what did you learn?”

“You’re supposed to assemble the facts until they point you at the truth, check? But this one’s ass backwards. The truth’s already a done deal and now we’re going looking for the facts.”

“In Hollywood they call that retrofitting,” Mitch piped up.

“Retro-what?” Yolie shot back, cocking her head at him.

“You insert an earlier scene as story foundation for the climax you ended up improvising on the spot.”

Yolie peered at him in confusion. “Sure, whatever…”

Des said, “Word, it’s the stuff they don’t teach in the manual that makes you wise.” She stuck her bandaged hand out to her. “Stay in touch, Yolie. Put a shout on sometime, hear?”

“I hear,” said Yolie, clasping it gently. “It was all good, Des. I’m wishing we can do this again.”

“That’s something else they don’t teach you.”

“What is?”

“Be careful what you wish for, girl. Because it just might come true.”

Nuri Acar was methodically brushing a thick coat of tan-colored primer over the graffiti Dodge had spray-painted on his wall when Mitch pulled into the minimart for his morning fix. Nuri must have been on his second coat by now, because the red paint was becoming all but invisible to Mitch’s eye.

“That doesn’t look bad at all, Mr. Acar,” he said encouragingly.

“It will be fine.” Nuri smiled at him broadly. He seemed more at ease than Mitch had ever seen him. “All we have wished for since we arrived in Dorset is to be good neighbors. I am so glad that this matter is resolved now. I wish I knew how to thank you, Mitch.”

“Not necessary.”

“No, it absolutely is. Nema and I have decided that from now on we will accept no money from you for coffee or pastry. Gasoline only.”

“That’s insane. I can’t let you do that.”

“Mitch, you must allow me to show my appreciation. To deny me is to insult me.”

“Well, okay, but the resident trooper won’t be happy about this. She’s very particular when it comes to my caloric consumption.”

“She is one very tough lady, our resident trooper,” Nuri observed quietly, his mouth tightening.

“Tougher than you can possibly imagine.”

“But she is also what you call a ‘straight shooter.’ And I respect her for that.”

“Good,” said Mitch, smiling. “Now I’m the one who’s glad.”

They shook hands, Mitch wincing slightly as Nuri gave his arm a hearty yank. The ribs felt okay unless Mitch made a sudden movement or, God forbid, sneezed. Then it felt as if someone were jabbing him with a boning knife.

Mostly, he was still just really resentful that Clemmie had chosen to stay up in the loft with Des after they got home from the clinic instead of on the sofa with him. He’d been hurting, too, after all, and wasn’t she his cat? Didn’t he feed her and tidy up her gaaacks? Where was the fairness in this? Where was the loyalty?

Deep down inside, Mitch figured he still didn’t totally understand cats.

He tried to slip one past Nema and pay her for his baklava and coffee, but she wouldn’t go along.

“Your money is no good here, Mitch,” she clucked at him.

“You knew, didn’t you, Nema?” Mitch said to her. “You saw Dodge throw that rock through your window.”

“I did, yes,” she admitted reluctantly.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“We were afraid,” she replied, lowering her large, dark eyes.

“Of what?”

“Mr. Crockett is part of the hierarchy. A man with connections. Who knows, he could get our business license revoked. Possibly even get us deported. So Nuri felt it is best to keep quiet.”

“And you went along with him.”

“He is my husband,” Nema said, as if that answered everything.

For her, it did.

From there Mitch piloted his truck up Old Shore Road to the post office, munching on his baklava. He bypassed Dorset Street entirely so as to avoid the media crush at town hall, where Soave was busy putting out information about Will Durslag’s death. Thirty-six hours after the fact, Des’s former sergeant was still playing it very close to the vest until the forensics people up in Meriden finished sifting through those ashes in Will’s woodstove. Soave had still not made public Will’s tortured love affair with Tito Molina. All he was saying was that Will had been found dead at the base of Chapman Falls, that they were in possession of his taped confession, and that an investigation was proceeding.

He had not mentioned one word about Mitch’s involvement in Will’s death. This was fine by Mitch.

When he arrived at the post office he fetched his mail from his box and was starting back outside with it when Billie, the jovial old girl who worked behind the counter, called out, “Hey, Mitch, I got something for you. Been holding on to it.” She reached down under the counter and produced a torn, overstuffed ten-by-thirteen manila envelope. “Somebody dropped this in our mailbox out front the other night,” she explained, her eyes gleaming at Mitch with keen interest.

Mitch took one look at the envelope and immediately knew why. It had originally been addressed to Tito Molina-from a talent agency in Beverly Hills. Someone had crossed out Tito’s name and box number, and hurriedly scribbled Mitch’s name across the top. No box number or address for Mitch, no postage, no nothing. The envelope wasn’t even sealed shut.