“Jeff, you don’t carry any of your wife’s books, remember?”
“I could have fifty copies of The Codfather of Sole here by noon tomorrow,” he said in a determined voice. “All I have to do is pick up the phone.”
Mitch raised his eyebrows at him. “This is a tectonic shift for you.”
“Dead on,” he acknowledged, adjusting his glasses. “But I need to make certain allowances if I’m going to survive in this business. What do you think?”
“I think this is a very healthy development.”
“No, I mean about me approaching Crissie.”
“Why don’t you just talk to Abby?”
Jeff shook his head vigorously. “We only speak through our lawyers-at a cost of three hundred and fifty bucks an hour. Saying ‘Hi, how are you?’ runs me twenty-nine ninety-five.”
“I guess it couldn’t hurt. The worst thing Chrissie can do is say no, right?”
“Right,” Jeff agreed, a bit less than convinced. “Thanks, man.”
Mitch headed back out to the food hall with his book. It was lunchtime and the place was teeming with hungry Dorseteers, the din of their voices rising up toward the skylights. A lot of them were lined up at the deli counter. Mitch took his place at the end of the line, watching Donna merrily take phone orders, chat up customers, and move the line along with a smooth assist from Rich Graybill, theyoung chef they’d brought in to help manage the place. Will was busy horsing a huge basket of baguettes over from the bakery. All three of them were moving at an astonishing speed. It takes superhuman energy to work in the food trade, Will once told Mitch. Mitch believed it.
As he got closer to the counter, Mitch carefully studied the enticing platters and bowls on display in the refrigerated case, his stomach growling.
Now Donna was serving the young woman in line ahead of him. “What can I get you, Marilyn? God, I love your hair. Who did it? I’ve got to go see her. Mine looks just like a Brillo pad… Shut up, it does so.”
Mitch liked Donna a lot. She was peppery and funny, and she held nothing back. Always, her pink face was lit with a warm, genuine smile. She liked being who she was. Donna was a bit on the short side, nearly a foot shorter than Will, and more than a bit on the chubby side. And her hair did look like a Brillo pad, frizzy and black with streaks of premature gray. She wore a blue denim apron with The Works stitched across it, as did everyone who served food there.
“Hey there, stretch, what can I get for you today?” she asked, squinting at Mitch through her wire-rimmed glasses with feigned astonishment. “Time out, Berger, is that you? My God, you’re nothing but skin, bone, and wrinkled khaki.” Donna had a pronounced Boston accent, the flat, Southie kind. “How much weight have you lost this summer, fifteen pounds?”
“Ten pounds… well, nine.”
“That’s a lot, Mitch,” Will said, unloading his basket of baguettes.
“Not enough to satisfy a certain resident trooper.”
“Oh, what does that scrawny gazelle know about poundage?” Donna shot back. “Me, I like a full-bodied man. A man whose ass is bigger than mine. That’s all any woman wants.”
“So that’s it,” Will joked. “I always wondered.”
“Okay, I’m getting mixed signals here,” Mitch told her. “You and Des have to get on the same page.”
“Not a chance. She’s the one who sees you naked. I just sell you food. Not that I wouldn’t like to trade places.”
“Donna, are you making a play for me in front of your husband?”
“It’s okay, Mitch, I’m used to it,” Will said, smiling at her.
Mitch studied their playful banter closely, wondering if Will was cheating on her with Martine. He had no idea. None.
Donna said, “If you’re not going to whisk me away to Bermuda on your yacht then you’ll have to place an order. This is a business, Berger. I can’t just stand here all afternoon talking dirty.”
Mitch went for the grilled shrimp Caesar salad, an onion minibaguette and a fresh-squeezed orange juice. He placed it all on a tray and ambled over toward an empty table, pleased to see that people at three different tables were intently reading his review of Dark Star in that morning’s paper. Mitch enjoyed watching people read his work. He was not alone in this-it was just about every journalist’s guiltiest pleasure. He sat and opened his book, keeping an eye on the big glass doors to the street.
Des came striding through them a few minutes later and made her way lithely across the bustling food hall, a supremely relaxed smile on her face as her eyes alertly took in everyone and everything in the place. She was becoming an exceptionally good resident trooper, Mitch felt. She was confident, helpful, and straight with everyone. People in town genuinely respected her. Plus there was a refreshing absence of head games with Des. She didn’t try to bully or intimidate anyone. She didn’t need to. Whatever came along, she knew she could handle it.
Mitch loved the way her face lit up when she caught sight of him seated there. Loved the special smile that she reserved for him and him alone. As she started toward him he wondered what would happen to him if she were not in his life right now. He would go right down the drain, that’s what.
But she must never know this-she thinks I’m the one who has it all together.
They did not kiss when she got to his table. Des had an ironclad rule about Public Displays of Affection when she was in uniform. But there was no avoiding the way they glowed in each other’s presence. Just as there was no missing the curious glances that they got from neighboring tables. Because they were a different kind of couple, no question. And when you’re different people wonder about you. The glances didn’t bother either of them one bit. They knew how happy they were together.
“Hey, bod man,” she said, her pale green eyes shining at him from behind her horn-rims.
“Back at you, Master Sergeant.”
“I’m going to fetch me some lunch.”
“Lucky me,” Mitch said brightly.
She cocked her head at him curiously. “How so?”
“Now I get to watch you walk away,” he replied, rubbing his hands together eagerly. Among her many attributes, Des Mitry possessed one of the world’s top ten cabooses.
“Dawg, would you be talking trash at me?”
“I’m sure trying.”
“You’d better behave yourself before I perform a strip search.”
“Could I please get that in writing?”
She let out a big whoop and headed over toward the deli counter, her big leather belt creaking, her stride long, athletic, and totally lacking in self-consciousness. She wasn’t showing off her form. Didn’t need to. Des knew perfectly well what she had. She kidded around with Donna for a minute, then returned with a Greek salad and an iced tea, and sat across from Mitch, her brow furrowing intently. She had something unsettling on her mind. He knew her well enough to know this.
Mitch raised his orange juice in a toast. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
“Wait, wait, I know this one! We watched it together. Humphrey Bogart, right?”
“In?…”
“Um, was it The Maltese Falcon?”
“Almost, it was Casablanca. But you were so close that we’re going to give you one of our very fine consolation prizes.”
“Which is?…”
“Me.”
“And if I’d won-what would I have gotten then?”
“Me.”
“Sounds like I can’t lose,” she said, attacking her salad hungrily. “Looks like I’ve got me some catching up to do, though. I see you’ve already had your dessert. I’m guessing something from the doughnut food group.”
“Wait, what are you talking about?”
“Powdered sugar on your collar, boyfriend.”
He glanced down at the collar of his short-sleeved khaki shirt. There were indeed tiny flecks of white there. “I can’t put anything over on you, can I?”
“Don’t even try. I’m a trained detective. Besides, I know you. Whenever you’re upset about something you break your diet.”
“I’m not like you, you know,” Mitch said defensively. “I can’t survive on such a drastically reduced food intake. Pretty soon you’ll have me subsisting on a handful of vitamin pills, just like the Jetsons.”