Free A Hamptons Christmas by James Brady Page B

gay man at Two Mile Hollow Beach just because he got excited and asked them home with him. Or a couple of Central Americans, who mow lawns in season, get into a knife fight over … well,
dinero or a muchacha. Or up in Springs a deer loses a collision on Old Stone Highway, and three local fellows come out of the woods almost on signal to sling the carcass into a pickup. If there’s no work and you’re too proud to go on the welfare, or just wary of putting your name down on any sort of rolls, a properly dressed-out deer, roadkill or no, provides pretty good venison for a time. Or a hardworking young guy OD’s on drugs and everyone agrees it’s an aneurysm to spare the family. Or a fisherman named Reds Hucko falls off a dragger.
    December in the Hamptons. Well, maybe it wasn’t quite Pigalle with Toulouse-Lautrec and Jane Avril. But it wasn’t Harold Ross’s famous “Dubuque,” either. So that next morning we took our visitor from Switzerland, whatever alias she was now using, for a little tour of the town.
    With my father at the wheel of his old Packard touring car, intent on showing Susannah (or Jane) the Christmas decorations and other village sights, we turned into Main Street from Huntting Lane, passing a shiny white truck idling by the curb. Women, emerging from the Ladies Village Improvement Society, hurried by, stepping up their pace, their heads haughtily tilted leeward of the shiny white truck.
    â€œWow! What’s that stink, Admiral?” Susannah inquired. You had to like that about her, a girl who spoke her mind clear and plain, no mincing about.
    The old gentleman half turned to check. It was a chill, bright early-winter day, and you could see for miles. Painted colors stood out crisply against the polished white. Couldn’t mistake the lettering.
    â€œThat’s the honey wagon. John K. Ott’s cesspool service. See their slogan on the back, ‘There goes the poop-pee.’”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œYou do know about cesspools, don’t you?” he asked.
    â€œBien sûr, cher amiral. ” Pause. “ Merde . Caca. Sheit. But what do they do with it in the Hamptons?”
    My father cleared his throat.
    â€œI’m not quite sure how it’s disposed of. Or where. But you
can bank on John Ott. Provides an essential service in a courteous, professional manner. Reliable and discreet in such matters. It’s solid, serious men like John Ott emptying cesspools, that make a town work, count on that, girl.”
    â€œOh, look at what’s on at the cinema. The new Liam Neeson film,” Alix intervened, knowing about all she wanted to about Mr. Ott and the cesspools. “They say it’s splendid.”
    â€œI’ve seen it,” Susannah responded. “The nuns insist on the firstrun releases.”
    â€œJolly good!”
    We pulled up in front of Village Hardware and crossed the lane to Dreesen’s, the grocery store. Even out on the sidewalk you got the sweet smell of baking doughnuts, cleaning the stench of Ott’s honey wagon from memory. Rudy, who owned the place, was at his accustomed station behind the meat counter in a white butcher’s coat and apron, cutting lamb chops, while Raymond and Jimmy parceled out doughnuts, and idlers paged through the morning papers with no intention of wasting good money by actually buying them, half watching the stock futures over CNBC on the tube. My father rubbed his hands briskly. He liked Dreesen’s, the loafers and the small-town bustle both, what we had in place of the village pump. And rubbing his hands stimulated circulation in those scarred and shortened fingers. Like the rest of us, he licked at his fingers as we shuffled along in line, lest the best of the doughnuts go to waste.
    As we waited to pay, the Admiral explained just who Alix and her ward were. Only trouble, he introduced the kid to some people as Susannah, to others as Jane. Did the Pentagon know