The Bright Silver Star (9 page)

“Such as? . . .”

“Such as how lucky you are—you get to watch me walk away.”

Des let out her whoop. “Word, you are the only man I’ve ever been with who can make me laugh.”

“Is this is a positive thing?”

“Boyfriend, this is a huge thing.”

“Well, okay. Remember now, no wolf whistles.” He yanked up his shorts, threw back his shoulders and went galumphing back to the counter for a refill.

“Well, well,” Donna said to him teasingly. “The resident trooper certainly has you well trained.”

“Nonsense. We like to do favors for each other.”

“I think that’s very nice,” spoke up Will, who was working a baked ham through the meat slicer. “Don’t listen to my wife, Mitch. I certainly don’t.”

“I’m just jealous,” she said. “The last time Will fetched something for me was . . . actually, Will has
never
fetched anything for me.”

Mitch was watching her refill the iced tea when he suddenly heard
it
—the reverent hush that comes over a room when someone famous walks in. It was as if a spell had been cast over the entire food hall. The boisterous beachgoers and tourists all fell eerily silent, their mouths hanging half-open, eyes bulging with fascination. All movement ceased.

Mitch swiveled around, his own eyes scanning the hall. It was Tito and Esme, of course. They were walking directly toward the deli counter, hand in hand, with Chrissie Huberman running interference. The celebrity publicist wore an oversized man’s dress shirt,
white linen pants, and a furious expression—because the three of them were
not
alone.

“A little
space,
guys!” Chrissie blustered at the herd of photographers and tabloid TV cameramen who were dogging their every step, crab-walking, tripping over each other, shouting questions, shouting demands as Tito and Esme did their best to pretend they weren’t there. Chrissie threw elbows and hips to keep them at bay. She was no one to mess with. She was a strapping, big-boned blond with a snow-shovel jaw and lots of sharp edges. Also the hottest client list in New York. Everything about Chrissie Huberman was hot, including her own image. She was married to a rock promoter who ran an East Village dance club. “Damn it, give us some room to breathe, will you?” she screamed, as the golden couple strode along toward the deli counter, just like two perfectly normal young people out for a perfectly normal lunch.

Hansel and Gretel, Dodge had called them.

Esme had cascading blond ringlets and impossibly innocent blue eyes. Her features were so delicate that Mitch had once called her the only woman on the planet who could make Michelle Pfeiffer look like Ernest Borgnine. She wore a gauzy shift and, seemingly, nothing underneath it. Her breasts jiggled with every step, the outline of her nipples clearly apparent through the flimsy material.

Tito Molina was not a big man, no more than five feet ten and a wiry 165 pounds. And yet his physical presence commanded just as much attention as that of his fantastically erotic young wife. Tito had the edginess of a pent-up bobcat as he made his way across the food hall, that same sexually charged intensity that Steve McQueen once had. The man smoldered. He was unshaven, his long, shiny blue black hair uncombed, and was carelessly dressed in a torn yellow T-shirt, baggy surfer trunks, and sandals. No different from half the young guys in town. And yet he looked like no other guy. No one else had his incandescent blue eyes or flawless complexion that was the color of fine suede. No one else had his perfectly chiseled nose, high, hard cheekbones, and finely carved lips. No one else was Tito Molina.

“Here you go, Berger. . . . .” Donna was holding Des’s iced tea out

to him. Mitch was still staring at the golden couple. “Earth to Mr. Berger, Mr. Mitch Berger . . .”

“Sorry, Donna,” he apologized, taking the cup from her as Tito and Esme arrived at the counter with Chrissie and their tabloid retinue.

Mitch was starting his way back toward his table when he suddenly felt a hand on his arm. It was Tito’s hand.

“Did I just hear what I thought I heard?” Tito’s voice was tinged with a faint barrio inflection. “Are you that film critic guy?”

“That’s me,” Mitch said to him, smiling. “That film critic guy.”

“Okay, this is good,” Tito said, nodding his head up, down, up, down. He was so wired that sparks were coming off of him. “I wanted to let you know what I thought of your review in today’s paper.”

“Sure, all right,” Mitch said, keeping his voice low. He did not want to get into a very public shouting match with Tito Molina. Neither of them would come away the winner. “Go ahead and tell me what’s on your—”

Mitch never got another word out—Tito coldcocked him flush on the jaw. The punch connected so fast Mitch didn’t see it coming. Just flew straight over backward, the back of his head slamming hard against the floor.

“Tito,
no
!” Mitch heard Esme scream as he lay there, blinking, dazed. “Tito, stop it!”

Now Tito was astride Mitch with both hands wrapped around his throat, trying to squeeze the very life out of him as the tabloid cameramen crowded around them, catching every last bit of it. “How do you like
my
review, hunh?!” the young star screamed at him, pelting Mitch with his spittle. “You
like
it?!”

Mitch could not respond. Could not, in fact, breathe.

Not one of the cameramen tried to pull the actor off of him. They were too busy egging them on.

“You gonna let him get away with that, Mitch!?”

“Throw down, Mitch! Go for it!”

The folks who’d been shopping and eating were getting in on it,
too, clustering around them as if this were a street theater performance. Tourists filmed the fracas with their camcorders as Tito continued to choke him, Mitch lying there on the floor like a rag doll, his limbs flailing helplessly. No one seemed to care that he was actually about to die.

It was Will Durslag who vaulted over the counter and yanked the lunatic off him, grabbing Tito roughly by the scruff of the neck. “Let him go, man! Let him go, right now!”

“Get your hands off of me!” Tito spat, struggling in the bigger man’s grasp.

“Tito, stop!” Esme sobbed, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Please! . . .”

Now Des had muscled her way through the crowd to Mitch, crouching over him with a stricken expression on her face. “Are you okay? Need an ambulance?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Mitch croaked. “Never better.” He sat up slowly, gaacking much the same way Clemmie did when she was trying to bring up a six-inch fur ball. His Adam’s apple felt as if someone had just driven a dull spike into it. And his jaw felt numb. He fingered it gingerly, opening and closing his mouth. Everything still seemed to work. “How come I’m . . . all wet?”

“You’re sitting in my iced tea.”

Will was still going at it with Tito. “I want you out of my market, man!”

“Go to hell!” Tito snarled back at him.

“No,
you
go to hell! You are in
my
place and
I
make the rules here!”

“All right, gentlemen, let’s chill out,” Des barked, stepping in between the two of them. “Mr. Molina, you need to get a hold of yourself at once, are you comprehending me?”

Tito didn’t respond. Esme and Chrissie immediately surrounded him, Chrissie murmuring soothing words at him while Esme hugged him and kissed him.

“Please step back, everyone,” Des told the crowd. “Please step
back now. And I want these damned cameras out of my face!” she roared angrily.

Miraculously, the paparazzi beat a hasty retreat. Des had explained this phenomenon to Mitch once: no one, not even the lowest tabloid whore, wants to be around a sister when she’s armed and pissed.

Esme and Chrissie seemed to be calming Tito down now. He stood there nodding his head obediently as he listened to them, his shoulders slumped, eyes fastened on the floor.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Molina?” Des asked him.

“I’m cool,” he said quietly, running a hand through his long, shiny hair. “Everything’s cool. No big.”

Now Chrissie hurried over to Mitch and said, “God, Mr. Berger, I am
so
sorry about this. If there’s
anything
I can do to make it right, just name it.”

Mitch sat there in the cold puddle of tea, fingering his jaw. “I’m fine.”

The commotion had brought Jeff Wachtell out of his store. “Mitch, I saw the whole thing if you need a witness.”

“I’m fine,”
Mitch repeated.

“Can you walk?” Des asked him.

“I can try,” he said, struggling unsteadily to his feet.

“Okay, good, my ride’s outside,” Des said. “We’ll sort this out at the Westbrook Barracks together.”

“Whatever you say,” Tito said with weary resignation. “You’re the man.”

“Wait, what’s to sort out?” Mitch asked.

Des raised an eyebrow at him, clearly wondering if he was punch-drunk. “The paperwork, Mitch. You have to swear out a formal complaint before we can file criminal assault charges.”

“No way,” Mitch said hastily. “That’s absolutely not happening.”

Tito gazed at Mitch, stunned.

He wasn’t the only one. Des moved over closer to him, hands on her hips, and said, “What do you
mean?
That man just had his hands wrapped around your throat.”

“He was only trying to make a point.”

“Yes, that’s he’s a homicidal lunatic. Guess what? He succeeded.”

“Des, we had a simple professional disagreement. He sucker punched me and I slipped on an ice cube. It was really no big deal.”

“Mitch, he tried to kill you! You can’t let him off the hook just because he’s famous.”

“I’m not.”

She shook her head at him. “Okay, then I don’t understand.”

“This is already going to be bad enough, media-wise. Do you have any what idea what’ll happen to me if it actually heads to court? I’ll become a tabloid freak. I’ll never be taken seriously as a critic again. My reputation will be ruined. My
life
will be ruined. This is my worst nightmare, Des. Just forget about
it, please.”

“I can’t,” she said stubbornly. “I’m not satisfied.”

“Fine, then tell me how to satisfy you,” he shot back.

“Yes, please, Des,” Esme said pleadingly as the tabloid cameramen quietly, inevitably, rolled back in like the tide, the shoppers crowding in behind them.

Des stood there in judicious silence for a moment, chin resting on her fist. “Okay, I want you two men to smack meat.”

“You want us to
what?”
Tito asked incredulously.

“Shake hands, or I’m running you both in.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Mitch said to her.

“I said it and I meant it. I don’t tolerate fighting in my town. This is Dorset, not Dodge City.”

“True enough,” Mitch said. “But we’re not in the Cub Scouts anymore, Des. We’re a pair of grown men and—”

“Smack meat!” Des snapped. “Or we’re going for a ride.”

Mitch shrugged his shoulders and stuck a hand out. Tito Molina shook it, his own hand smaller and softer than Mitch was expecting. The media horde duly recorded it for posterity.

“What do you have to say, Mitch?” one cameraman asked him.

“Not a thing,” Mitch answered curtly. “I spoke my piece, Tito spoke his.”

“Sure you don’t want to take a poke at him?”

“What do
you
say, Tito?” another paparazzi called out.

“Get your own damned life,” Tito snarled, instantly tensing all over again. “Stop living off of mine, hunh?”

“All right, let’s go!” Des said, herding them away.

The scene was over. The cameramen headed for the doors, anxious to run with what they had. The shoppers dispersed.

“Hey, Chrissie!” Jeff called out to the publicist, who was fending off the autograph seekers in Esme’s face. “Can I have a quick word with you?”

Chrissie shot an impatient glance his way, then a slower double take. “Wait, I know you. . . .”

“I’m Jeff Wachtell, better known as Mr. Abby Kaminsky.”

Chrissie smirked at him faintly. “Oh, sure, and I should be standing here talking to you because . . . ?”

“I was just wondering if you could convince Abby to swing by for a signing at the Book Schnook,” Jeff said, sucking his cheeks in and out. “She’ll be coming right past Dorset on her way to and from Boston, and it sure would help me out a lot. What do you say, will you ask her?”

Chrissie raised her jutting jaw at him. “This is like a joke, right?”

“No, I’m perfectly serious.”

“Jeffrey, let me see if I can draw you a picture. My client wishes to see you stripped naked, hung by your thumbs—actually, not your thumbs but a much, much tinier part of your anatomy—and slowly pecked to death by hungry birds.”

“Does that mean no?”

“It means,” Chrissie replied, “that she thinks you are the lowest, most contemptible creature on the face of the earth. If I so much as mention to her that I bumped into you today she’ll need a cold compress and a Valium. You ruined her life. She detests you. Am I getting through to you now?” And with that she turned on her heel and ushered Esme toward the door.

“Maybe this is a bad time,” Jeff hollered after her in vain. “Could we talk about it later?”

Tito made a point of hanging back, sidling his way over toward
Mitch with the predatory stealth of Jack Palance in
Shane.
Des was about to intercede but Mitch held up his hand, stopping her. He did not want her fighting his battles for him.

“Just one more thing, critic guy,” Tito said to him, his voice low and murderous, blue eyes boring in on Mitch’s. “I don’t want to see you in here again. If I do, I’ll mess you up for real. And I don’t care if your bitch is around to protect you or not,
understand?”

It had been a long time since Mitch had been in this position. But as he stood there in The Works, nose to nose with Tito Molina, Mitch was right back in Stuyvesant Town all over again, a porky twelve-year-old going jaw to jaw with Bruce Cooperman, the playground bully who wouldn’t let him pass through the gate to the basketball court. Mitch had known what he had to do then and he knew what he had to do now. He stared right back at him and said, “This town is where I live, and you don’t tell me where I can or cannot go. If you want to fight, we’ll fight. But we won’t do it in front of the cameras. We’ll do it somewhere quiet. You’ll probably win, since you’re such a tough guy, but I do outweigh you and I promise you that I’ll put every pound I possess into messing up your precious face. By the time we’re through people won’t know you from Hermione Gingold,
understand?
”