“They don’t. They worship the fantasy that’s up on the screen. The performers just have a bit of the stardust sprinkled on them, that’s all. It’s all about the fantasy. People vastly prefer it to reality, which is depressing and painful and filled with really bad smells. Reality they already know plenty about.” Mitch gazed at her searchingly. “Des?…”
“What is it, baby?”
“Let’s not play games like that with each other.”
“Games I can deal with. You sleeping with another woman, that’ssomething different.” She drained her iced tea. “Damn, I’m thirsty today.”
“Want me to get you a refill?”
“What are you trying to do, spoil me?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Yum, I could get used to this idea.”
He grabbed her Styrofoam cup and climbed to his feet. “Excuse me, weren’t you going to say something?”
“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
