Des hopped out, straightening her big Smokey hat, and took a closer look. The big SUV had New Jersey plates. No special handicapped tag, no media or law enforcement markings. Just a selfish, thoughtless owner. Shaking her head, she got busy filling out a ticket. She was just finishing it when a middle-age guy with an expensive comb-over came sauntering toward her licking a double-scoop chocolate ice cream cone that he really, truly did not need. His gutwas already straining hard against his tank top. It didn’t help that he was wearing shorts. His skinny, pale legs just made his stomach look even bigger. Summer clothing was very unforgiving.
But not as unforgiving as the resident trooper of Dorset, Connecticut.
“Hey, I just went inside for a second,” he protested when he caught sight of her. “One second.”
“Sir, that was a very expensive second.”
“Now you just hold on,” he ordered her, as more drivers honked their horns. “You’re not giving me a ticket over this.”
“Oh, I most certainly am. You’ve created an unsafe situation, and you’ve inconvenienced a lot of people. Next time, park in the lot.”
“The lot was full.”
“Next time, wait,” she said, as pedestrians began to gather around them, gawking.
“But everyone does it.”
“Not in my town they don’t.”
“I don’t fucking believe this!”
“Please watch your language, sir.”
“You’ve got a real attitude, haven’t you, doll?”
“Sir, I am not a doll. I am Master Sergeant Desiree Mitry of the Connecticut State Police, and you are illegally parked.” She tore off the ticket and held it out to him.
He refused to take it. Just stood there in surly defiance, his ice cream melting under the hot sun and running down his wrist. Too often, Des had discovered, people on vacation were people at their worst. In their view, the world pushed them around seven days a week, fifty weeks out of the year. When they got their two weeks off, they felt entitled to shove back.
“Take the citation, sir,” Des ordered him in a calm, steady voice. “Take it and relocate your vehicle at once. If you don’t, I will place you under arrest.”
“What is it, Tommy?” His slender frosted-blond wife was approaching them now, two appallingly fat little kids in tow, both eating ice cream cones. “What’s wrong?”
“Aw, nothing,” he growled, snatching the ticket from Des disgustedly. “You give some entry-level person a little taste of power and right away they bust your balls.”
Des knew all about this. “Entry-level person” was a code phrase for N-e-g-r-o. But she had learned long ago not to mix it up with jerks. It wasn’t as if they got any smarter if she did. She simply flashed her mega-wattage smile, and said, “You folks have yourselves a real nice vacation.” And stood there, hands on her hips, while they piled back in their SUV and took off.
Once the traffic flow returned to normal she got back in her own ride and continued on down Big Brook Road, making her rounds, her mind still working it, working it, working it…
Why did Martine tell her about Dodge?
CHAPTER 3
Why did Dodge tell him about Martine?
Mitch couldn’t imagine. And it weighed on his mind all morning. It was there while he logged some quality loud time on his beloved sky blue Fender Stratocaster, doggedly chasing after Hendrix’s signature opening to “Voodoo Chile,” deafening twin reverb amps, wawa pedal and all. It was there while he helped Bitsy Peck move an apple tree to a sunnier spot in her yard, in exchange for unlimited access to her corn patch. It was there while Mitch steered his bulbous, plum-colored 1956 Studebaker pickup across the causeway toward town: Why had the older man chosen to confide in him this way? It wasn’t as if the two of them were that close. Not like, say, Dodge was to Will, who was practically like a son to him. So why had he? Only one possible explanation made any sense to Mitch:
Because it was Will who was sleeping with Martine.
True, Martine was fifteen years older than Will. True, Will was supposedly happily married to Donna. But there was no denying that Martine Crockett was still a major babe. And Will was an exceedingly buff younger man. Plus Will had grown up around Martine, meaning that he’d doubtless harbored moist, Technicolor fantasies about her since he was thirteen. What healthy young boy wouldn’t have? Certainly, this would explain why Dodge had flashed such a hard stare at Will on the beach this morning.
Because it was Will who was sleeping with Martine.
Mitch was supposed to meet Des for a low-fat lunch at The Works, but as he reached Old Shore Road he noticed that his gas tank was almost half empty. Probably ought to fill up at the Citgo minimart on his way, he reflected. A very nice, hardworking youngcouple from Turkey, Nuri and Nema Acar, had recently taken over the operation, and Mitch liked to throw his business their way. So did a lot of the local workmen, whose pickups were nosed up to the squat, rectangular building like a herd of cattle.
Mitch pulled up at the pump and hopped out. The Citgo was that rarest of modern-day phenomena, a full-service station. But only tourists and summer people sat there in their cars and waited for Nuri to pump their gas for them, clad in his immaculate short sleeved dress shirt and slacks. True locals got out and pumped it themselves. When Mitch was done filling up he went inside to pay his money and respects to Nema.
Just like the half dozen other guys who were gathered there at her counter, their tongues hanging out.
Lew the Plumber was there. Drew Archer, the town’s best cabinetmaker, was there. So was Dennis Allen, who serviced the village’s septic tanks. Mitch knew those three well enough to say hello to. The others he knew by sight. They were Nema’s regulars, just like Mitch. Could be found there at the Citgo almost every morning between the hours of ten-thirty and eleven. Although not a one of them referred to the place as the Citgo.
They called it the House of Turkish Delights.
Because the Acars offered way, way more than the usual minimart menu of candy, soda, and Lotto tickets. They offered Nema’s own homemade native pastries and deliciously strong, sweet Turkish coffee. Her baklava was the best Mitch had ever tasted. She also made boreks, which were triangles of layered, wafer-thin pastry filled with chopped nuts and cinnamon. And lalangas, which were fried pastry dipped in syrup and brushed with powdered sugar. The lalangas were especially popular with the workmen who’d grown up on fried dough, a regional delicacy.
The House of Turkish Delights was Dorset’s best-kept secret. The local workmen, who considered The Works a yuppified tourist trap, had staked it out as their place. And so they told no one about it. Mitch sure as hell didn’t. He didn’t dare tell Will that he was buyingpastry from his competitor, and he couldn’t breathe so much as a word to Des-every time he inhaled the air in there he was breaking his diet.
The Acars were the first native-born Turks ever to live in Dorset. They were in their early thirties. Nema was tiny and slender, with large, lustrous dark eyes that reminded Mitch of the ’50s film actress Ina Balin. Always, she wore a Muslim headscarf. Nuri was courtly and unfailingly polite. Almost but not quite unctuous. The two of them were from Istanbul, where Nuri had graduated from Bosporus University with a degree in mathematics. Nema told Mitch they had emigrated to America because their parents didn’t approve of the marriage. Mitch couldn’t imagine why they didn’t, since any two people who could work side by side fourteen hours a day and never stop smiling clearly belonged together.
“And how are you today, Mr. Berger, sir?” Nema said to him as Mitch pointed directly to the lalanga that had his name on it. “I’d feel a lot better if you’d call me Mitch.” “Very well, but you are a naughty, naughty boy, Mr. Mitch.” “God, don’t tell me a certain resident trooper stopped by.” “No, no. I was reading your review in this morning’s newspaper, of The Dark Star, and you almost made me spit up my orange juice.” Nema let out a devilish little cackle. “Most amusing and yet insightful.”