David Handler - The Snow White Christmas Cookie

“Whatever.” He snatched the money from her and stormed out of the house.

Paulette sat back down, a distraught expression on her face as she listened to Casey start up his pickup and go roaring off.

Rut reached over from the recliner next to hers and patted her hand. “Hank was a real fine fellow. Try to remember the good times you two had together.”

She glanced at him curiously. “I always thought you didn’t approve of Hank.”

“That’s not true at all. Hank was okay. I was just jealous. I’d be jealous of any man who’s lucky enough to wake up and see your shining face right there next to him every morning.”

“You’re a silly old man, Rutherford.”

Rut smiled faintly, his eighty-two-year-old heart overflowing with the hopeless, unrequited love that he’d kept to himself for all of these years. Briefly, Mitch thought he might tell Paulette how he genuinely felt. But Rut didn’t, couldn’t. Just nodded his tufty white head and said, “That’s me, all right-silly.”

The world-class pissing contest-more commonly known as a team meeting-was held in the auxiliary conference room of Dorset’s Town Hall, a stately white-columned edifice that smelled all year round of mothballs, musty carpeting and Ben-Gay. Everyone was there at nine o’clock sharp with the noticeable exception of the agent from the FBI, who Des had no doubt would start throwing his weight around as soon as he walked in. The bureau was incredibly dependable that way.

Four members of the Connecticut State Police were in attendance: Des, Yolie, Toni and Capt. Joey Amalfitano, a rumpled old-timer who was with the Narcotics Task Force. Des had worked a drug case with Amalfitano on Sour Cherry Lane last spring. Everyone called him The Aardvark due to his huge, down-turned snout of a nose. Des thought of him more as a weasel.

The U.S. Postal Service had sent Inspector Sam Questa from New York City. Questa was in his late forties and bore a startling resemblance to Fred Flintstone. His huge, blunt featured head was set directly atop a massive torso with almost a complete absence of anything resembling a neck. Seated there at the conference table, Questa gave the impression of being a large man. Yet Des doubted he stood much taller than five-feet-four. He had the stubbiest little arms and legs she’d ever seen. She could not imagine how the man found clothing to fit him. He wore a plain gray suit, white shirt and muted tie. Kept his gleaming black hair combed carefully in place, but didn’t do nearly as good a job of keeping his emotions in check. He glanced repeatedly at his watch, growing more and more pissed as the minutes ticked by. The man didn’t like to be kept waiting by the FBI. The man was feeling disrespected.

And, at precisely 9:17, the man decided he’d had enough. “What do you say we get started here?” he growled. “I got a full plate and I can’t sit around all morning waiting for the goddamned bureau to grace us with its presence.”

“Okay by me,” said The Aardark, slurping loudly from his container of coffee.

Yolie nodded her head in agreement.

Questa glanced down at a yellow legal pad. “Fine, then let’s get down to business here.…”

That was when the conference room door burst open and in strutted a twenty-something testosterone jarhead wearing a pair of aviator shades and a snug-fitting red ski jacket. He whipped off his shades, then off came the jacket, too. Underneath it he had on a white merino wool turtleneck that was stretched so tight across his pumped-up muscles that Des swore she could make out his entire six-pack of abs as he stood there styling self-importantly for everyone’s benefit, his granite jaw working on a piece of chewing gum.

“Lord help us, they’ve stuck us with Maverick again,” Yolie groaned under her breath. “Did we piss somebody off?”

“Possibly in a previous life,” Des murmured unhappily.

“You know him?” whispered Toni, who was positively goggle-eyed.

Yolie looked at her, aghast. “Don’t tell me you want that,” she whispered in response.

“Loo, I swear I’ve just laid eyes on the father of my children.”

“Trust me, you won’t feel that way once it opens its mouth.”

Toni continued to gape at him. “Oh, it doesn’t have to talk.”

“Oh, yes it does. And every single word that comes out of its mouth rhymes with ‘asshole.’”

“Sorry I’m late, people,” he declared in a booming, authoritative voice. “They closed I-95 because of a jackknifed tractor trailor and I had to make it out here on Route 1. I’ve never seen so many muffler shops in my life. Seriously, how do folks out here afford to eat three meals a day if they’re always buying so many mufflers? Am I right or am I right?” He went around the table and shook hands. First with Sam Questa. “Grisky, FBI, how are you? Then with Joey Amalfitano. “It’s Grisky.”

“We’ve already met, Agent Grisky,” The Aardvark pointed out. “We worked the Sour Cherry Lane case last spring.”

“Sure, we did.” Grisky’s eyes said he didn’t remember The Aardvark at all.

But he did remember Des. “Hey there, girlfriend,” he exclaimed, grinning at her wolfishly. “Sure never thought I’d find myself back in your sleepy little hamlet again.”

“It’s not sleepy and I’m still not your girlfriend,” Des said. “You remember Yolie Snipes of the Major Crime Squad, don’t you?”

“You kidding me? How could I forget a sweet-looking sister like Miss Yo-lan-da Snipes. How goes it, Sarge?”

“It’s lieutenant now,” Yolie informed him between gritted teeth.

“Moving on up, hunh? Good for you. And, whoa, look who they gave you for a sergeant-it’s Snooki. Are we on MTV right now? Seriously, am I or am I not standing in the presence of Miss … Nicole … Polizzi?”

“Actually, my name’s Toni Tedone,” she simpered breathlessly. This qualified as a major departure for Toni the Tiger. The last time someone at the Headmaster’s House dared to call her Snooki he got a knee in the cojones .

“Real glad to know you. And, hey, lovin’ the patchouli,” he said as he made his way to the other end of the conference table.

Toni gaped at him, awestruck. “I’m going to marry that man.”

Des and Yolie exchanged a horrified look before Des said, “Toni, there are two very important words you need to know about a man like Grisky.”

“What are they?”

“ Premature and ejaculation. ”

Toni frowned at her. “You say that like there’s some other kind.”

Grisky parked himself in a chair and said, “I just heard that the DEA’s jonesing to get in on this, too. That means they’ll be crawling up our butts if we don’t nail it in the next thirty-six hours-which I’ve assured my boss we will. We have to. I’m flying to Cancun late tomorrow night to hook up with my Quantico buds for a sacred ritual. We spend the week before Christmas down there every year and I cannot, will not, miss it. So let’s hit this out of the park and I mean now . So far it looks to me like we’ve got ourselves quite a little shitstorm. Possible organized drug activity, theft of the U.S. Mail, a dead mailman…”

“Postal carrier,” Questa grunted.

Grisky raised his chin at him. “Sorry?”

“They’re known as postal carriers, Agent Grisky. I thought you’d like to know since you seem to think you’re in charge of my investigation. What we’ve got here is a matter for the U.S. Postal Inspectors to deal with.”

“Well, that’s a big no,” Grisky fired back cheerfully. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t all be sitting here at this large table with you. We’re all working together on this one, Inspector. And we need to share what we know. So how about you put your dick in a box and tell us what you’ve got, okay?”