David Handler - The Snow White Christmas Cookie

“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.