“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 stepback 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.