Spoiled Rotten Read Free

His mind wasn’t going to grow any older than a child’s, although his body was beginning to show its years. Tiny lines had formed around his dark eyes and a small paunch had grown noticeable. He wore a red nylon jacket done up to his chin, grey sweat pants, and high-top basketball runners with the tongues sticking out. Granted, he may not have been dealt a full hand, but he played his cards cheerfully. I pulled down the cramped alley, leaving my car wedged in between a row of empty wooden apple crates. Emerging from the laneway onto Augusta Street, I was stopped by a young policeman.
    â€œSorry, miss, you’ll have to return to your car. The market is temporarily off limits.”
    â€œI’m picking up my meat order from Superior Meats,” I chirped.
    Feet planted firmly apart, hands on hips, he announced, “It’s closed for today.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous! It’s Friday, they’re always open Friday.”
    â€œThey’re closed.”
    I leaned around the cop to see what was happening. Except for a few curious shopkeepers, the street was deserted. Yellow caution tape was strung across the road in front of the meat shop. Newspaper covered the store’s large expansive windows and a fleet of squad cars lined the street. Two black, unmarked vans were parked near Superior’s front door with their rear doors wide open.
    Across the street, I noticed that the owner of the Cheese Emporium was watching me and I waved to her.
    â€œHi, Louise!” I hollered.
    â€œHey, Blondie!” she hollered back.
    â€œHave you got my order ready to pick up?”
    She hesitated for a heartbeat, looked at the cop barring my way, and replied, “It’s been ready for an hour, come and get it before I unpack it.”
    I smiled sweetly at the young cop, flirtatiously mouthing the word “please?”
    â€œHurry up,” he warned, apparently inured to my wily ways. “I’m not supposed to let anyone in.” Before he had second thoughts, I charged across the street and through the screen door Louise Kozinski was holding open for me.
    Once again, I was brought up short by the sight of towering columns of cheese leaning heavily against one another for support. There were so many varieties it was impossible to remember all the names. A handwritten sign taped to a swizzle stick announced her latest tasty treat was “Drunken Goat Cheese Cheddar.” An end piece had already been cut off the block of cheese, revealing a purple-and-gold checkerboard pattern inside. I took some home for a poker game last week, but the food wimps took a pass.
    â€œPass the chips, please.”
    Shelves running the entire length of the store were loaded with biscotti, shortbread, and sugary wafers. The back wall of the store was stacked from end to end with pasta noodles in every conceivable shape, their bright cellophane wrappers crackling testily when handled. Giant pickles wadded into jars, imported from Hungary and other pickle Meccas from around the world, crowded around the register. Layers of smoked meats and fish, which set off a quivering hunger in me, filled the deep, glass-topped refrigerated chest. I gazed lovingly around the store, deciding I could live there quite comfortably for a very long time.
    Louise startled me out of my reverie. “So what about that order?” she demanded.
    â€œSo, what’s going on?” I snapped back.
    â€œYou haven’t been in for three weeks and now you want information? Well, it will cost, my friend,” she said, grinning.
    Louise knows my name, but I either get called Blondie or “my friend.” Frankly, I prefer Blondie, because everybody who comes in that door is called “my friend” and I figured out a long time ago that it’s her secret code word for asshole.
    Hello, my friend. What can I get for you, my friend? Would you like another free sample, my friend? You get the picture.
    After taking my