David Handler - The Snow White Christmas Cookie

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

“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?”