David Handler - The Snow White Christmas Cookie

She heaved an exasperated sigh. “I just told you-he’s a client.”

“I’m old-school when it comes to this life-coaching thing, so please forgive me if I come off as a bit dense. Are you telling me that consensual sex-consensual rough sex-is some kind of a teaching tool?”

“That’s exactly right,” Josie affirmed. “Sometimes the healing process calls for an unconventional approach on my part. But I’m willing to go there for my clients.”

“I see. Just out of curiosity, how many other men with confidence issues count on you to ‘go there’ for them?”

Josie lowered the cold pack from her swollen eye, glaring at her. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that.”

“You’d believe it if you saw what I just saw. How many, Josie?”

Josie gazed out of her window at the snow coming down. “Any information regarding my clients is strictly confidential.”

“Girl, you’re not a medical practitioner. You aren’t shielded by doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“Look, what you walked in on was something that you can’t comprehend,” she said, her cheeks mottling with anger. “And you-you immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion because that’s how your mind works. You make judgments about people. You sit there in your uniform and you decide who’s good and who’s bad.”

“This isn’t about me, Josie.”

“Yes, it is. You’re trying to make me out to be some kind of a hooker!”

“I’m trying to understand you.”

“Nothing bad was going on in there! I’m trying to help that poor slob, okay? He needs to feel better about himself if he’s ever going to have a productive, rewarding life.”

“Did Bryce know about these role-playing exercises of yours?”

“I never discussed my clients with him,” she answered quietly.

“Bryce had been a client himself. Were exercises part of his treatment?”

“I have nothing more to say to you,” Josie replied. “We’re done.”

“Okay. Please stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Des got out of her cruiser and hopped into the back of the EMT van, where the Jewett girls were bandaging the wound on Casey’s forehead.

“How are you feeling, Casey?”

“I’m fine,” he grunted.

“It’s just a superficial wound,” Madge informed her. “His pupils are normal and responsive to light. He has no dizziness or nausea.”

“I’m fine ,” he repeated, this time with a whiny, hostile edge to his voice.

Casey Zander happened to be a whiny, hostile guy. Also an immature one. He was twenty-eight going on fourteen, a petulant, overgrown fat boy with a jowly face, a weak chin and a sulky, almost girlish rosebud mouth. He dyed his hair a garish henna color and wore it in a peculiarly retro Meet the Beatles mop top, complete with bangs that he combed down almost to his close-set eyes. The dye job contrasted starkly with his dark brown sideburns. He was dressed in a he-guy plaid wool shirt and corduroy pants. The shirt didn’t flatter him. Fat boys should never do plaid. It also didn’t go along with his transgendery do. Des really, really didn’t know what was up with that hair.

“Would you like me to notify your next of kin for you?” Des asked him. “That would be your mom, right?”

Casey tensed visibly. “Why do you need to call her?”

“You’ve suffered a head wound. Maybe you shouldn’t be driving home.”

“I’m not a kid.…”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“And I don’t want you calling my mom, bitch.”

Des raised an eyebrow at Madge and Mary. “What did he just call me?”

“I believe he called you a bitch,” Mary replied tartly.

“He is one fierce customer,” Madge chimed in. “Better watch out.”

“Would you ladies excuse us for a sec?” Des asked them.

The sisters left them alone in the back of the ambulance.

“Want to tell me what was going on in there, Casey?”

“What did Josie say?” he demanded, fingering his bandaged forehead.

“I’m more interested in what you have to say.”

He shrugged, his girlish mouth tightening. “We were having our regular weekly session. She’s been trying to help me with-with…”

“With what, Casey?”

“I don’t want to talk about it!”

“Has anybody ever told you that whiny never scores cool points? Women don’t like to be around whiners-unless you’re paying them to be with you.”

“Look, you just shut up,” Casey shot back. “You don’t know anything about Josie and me.”

“So school me.”

“It’s none of your damned business.”

“Actually, it is my business, Casey. Bryce Peck took his own life this morning, but Josie wouldn’t stay home to mourn his loss. She told me she had a client who needed her. That client would seem to be you.”

He blinked at her in shock. “I–I didn’t know. She didn’t say a word.”

“Pretty good deal for you. The field’s clear now.”

“Field?” He shook his mop top at her. “What field?”

“We’re all adults here. If you and Josie have been getting busy behind Bryce’s back that’s your business. And if you two like it rough, well, so be it. Not my thing at all, let me tell you. Any man used his fists on me he’d be picking his teeth up out of the carpet for a week. Josie’s had a real bad morning. She’s upset. She’s vulnerable. I’m wondering if I should be worried about her. You know her a lot better than I do. What do you think?”

Casey considered his answer carefully. “I think she’ll be fine. I’ll take care of her. I–I love her.”

“Have you told her that?”

“Not exactly, but she knows how I feel. I mean, she must know.”

“And what about Gigi Garanski? I hear you date her.”

He let out a derisive snort. “You don’t ‘date’ Gigi.”

“Just use her for sex, you mean?”

“I’m not the only one who does,” he said defensively. “But it’s Josie who I want to be with. Josie’s … She’s wonderful.”

Des studied this man-boy curiously. He was definitely bizarre, but what flavor of bizarre? Harmless or the other kind? “Okay, Casey. Thanks for your insight. I appreciate it.” She hopped out and found Madge and Mary jawing in the snow with a couple of firefighters. “Is he okay to drive home?”

“I don’t see why not,” Madge replied. “Assuming he can dig out his car.”

“Casey’s a real catch, isn’t he?” Mary said. “It’s a shame he doesn’t find himself a nice girl.”

Des looked over at Josie Cantro, who was still sitting in the front seat of the Crown Vic nursing her swollen eye. “The boy’s way ahead of you, Mary. He thinks he has.”

Dorset’s Post Office was located in a squat, brick-faced building that was plunked down all by itself in the same shopping center that was home to the A amp;P and to the local branch of First Niagara Bank, which had formerly been the local branch of New Alliance Bank and before that New Haven Savings Bank. Des thought that a side from the flagpole out front, the Post Office bore a remarkable resemblance to a Friendly’s family restaurant.

She parked her cruiser out front and strode inside, allowing herself a sigh. She’d already seen a week’s worth of action and it wasn’t even 11:00 A.M. Days like this required stamina. Not the physical kind, which she had in abundance. The emotional kind. If she wasn’t careful she could lose her patience with people. The public didn’t care for snappish behavior from its sworn personnel. Especially sworn personnel who happened to be women of color.

There was a mud rug on the floor just inside the door of the vestibule. Flyers were tacked to a bulletin board there for the upcoming Dorset High production of Fiddler on the Roof. Inside the lobby, which was painted pea-soup green, a tinny sound system was playing Christmas carols. Tinsel was draped here, there, everywhere. But thanks to the blizzard there wasn’t the usual crush of holiday customers waiting in line to send off presents. No customers waiting in line, period. There wasn’t even anyone behind the counter. Billie, the counter clerk, had left a hand-lettered sign there that read, “ I’m out back. Holler. ”