There are none.
They’re all taken.
Including the slot right next to ol’ dinged-up Silverado.
That’s where Mr. Joseph “Sixpack” Ceepak has parked his red pickup truck.
11
I RACE ACROSS THE ASPHALT TO THE KING PUTT OFFICE—this pink stucco building shaped like one of the pyramids: you get your balls and putters in the base; the O’Malleys keep the books and computers up in the peak.
A couple of kids, tears streaking down their cheeks, come running out of the office, screaming, “Mommy! Daddy! Mommy! Daddy!”
I see parents near a minivan.
“Sea Haven Police,” I say, even though I’m wearing baggy shorts, sandals, and a Hawaiian shirt. “Please stay in the parking lot. We have a situation inside.”
Hey, if Mr. Ceepak is in there, we probably do.
When I enter the office, the first thing I see is Skippy O’Malley behind the counter, panic in his pie-wide eyes, a terrified cat in his arms. Skippy’s in his official King Putt costume: a fake bronze breastplate, striped skirt, and a Pharaoh hat.
The cat he’s clutching to his chest—a tabby with pointy ears very similar to those on the carved Pharaoh cats propping up the brochure racks—is hissing angrily at Ceepak’s dad, who is standing in front of the cash register, swinging a putter back and forth like he might shatter a display case on his next shot.
Ceepak and Rita have putters, too. They’re standing to the right, in front of a Coke machine.
“You want me to call for backup?” I shout.
Ceepak—the good one—shakes his head. “No need, Danny.”
Mr. Ceepak swivels around. Stares at me with glassy eyes. I have a feeling that this morning he swilled what he could out of all of Big Kahuna’s empty beer bottles before he tossed them in the Dumpster.
“Boyle,” he slurs. “Good name for you, kid, because you’re a goddamn boil on my butt I can’t get rid of no matter how much puss I squeeze out of it!”
Great. Not exactly the kind of description you want to hear so soon after wolfing down a Chunky’s Cheese Steak with extra cheese.
Mr. Ceepak staggers back around and lurches toward his son, gripping his putter under the head so he can hold it like a ball-peen hammer.
Rita retreats half a step.
Ceepak does not. In fact, he nonchalantly hands Rita his putter. He doesn’t need a weapon to face his sorry excuse for a father.
“Where is she, you sanctimonious sack of shit?”
“I’ll ask you once more to refrain from using foul language.”
“Fine. But first—you tell me where the hell your mother is hiding.”
“As I stated previously,” says Ceepak, striding forward, not at all afraid of the golf club quivering in his old man’s hand, “she is where you will never find her.”
“She has my fucking money! Three million dollars!”
“You are mistaken. Aunt Jennifer willed that money, in no uncertain terms, to Mom, and Mom alone.”
“What’s hers is mine.”
“So you keep saying. However, according to the divorce papers—”
“We’re Catholic, Johnny.”
“While you were in prison, she had your marriage annulled by a church tribunal.”
“She can’t do that.”
“She did.” He hands his father a piece of paper.
Mr. Ceepak takes it. “What the fuck is this?”
“A restraining order.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a civil order that provides protection from harm by a family member or a psycho stalker,” I chime in, because Sam chirped it to me the other night while she was cramming for her LSATs.
“You,” Ceepak says to his father, “are not to have any further contact with me or my family, in person, by phone, at home, work or anywhere I or my wife and stepson happen to be.”
“Fuck that—”
“Trust me, sir—if you violate this order, you will be incarcerated.”
“Hey, he’s violating it now!” This from Skippy. “You want me to cuff him? I have handcuffs.”
He does? Did he save a pair as a souvenir when he was an auxiliary cop?
“My guns are at home but I have a wood back here.” Skippy lets go of the cat, who jumps into a fuzzy doughnut-shaped bed as Skippy bends down to grab a driver with a humongous head, which, I guess is what Putt-Putt owners use for self-defense instead of the more traditional mom-and-pop grocery store baseball bat.
“Stand down, Mr. O’Malley,” says Ceepak.
“Ten–four,” says Skippy who seems to be enjoying playing cop-for-a-day.
Mr. Ceepak is staring at the sheet of paper his son just handed him. Trying to focus his bleary eyes. Moving his lips as he reads what is written there.
“How long you been planning this?”
“Ever since I heard from Lisa Porter Burt, the prosecuting attorney in Ohio. She informed me that you were angling for early release under the auspices of the new state law.”
“Be prepared, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fucking overgrown Boy Scout. This piece of paper is bullshit.”
“I assure you, sir, it is not.”
“Really? Okay, jarhead. How’d you find a goddamn judge on a Sunday morning?”
“This is what is known in New Jersey as an emergency restraining order. They may be obtained at any police station in the state.”
Like the one where Ceepak and I work.
“Tomorrow, Judge Mindy Rasmussen will issue a temporary restraining order that will remain in effect for ten days or until our court hearing, whichever comes first. You, of course, will be invited to attend the hearing to tell your side of the story.”
“Oh, I’ll tell ’em, Johnny. I’ll tell the world what a lousy excuse for a son you turned out to be. A goddamn disappointment. I’ll tell that judge how you signed up for the fucking army instead of coming to work for me. Thought you were too good to be a roofer.”
“Tell Judge Rasmussen anything you like. However, right now, you are in clear violation of the restraining order. If you do not vacate these premises immediately, it will be my duty as a duly sworn law enforcement officer to arrest you.”
Ceepak’s duty, my pleasure.
Mr. Ceepak stuffs his legal documents into his back pocket. “This ain’t over, Johnny.”
“Of that, I am quite certain, sir. However, I won’t see you again until our court date. If I do, I will arrest you.”
“Me, too,” I toss in.
“Danny?” says Ceepak.
“Yeah?”
“Much as we all like you, you are not a family member.”
“True. But if I see him near Rita or T.J. and you’re not around …”
“Ah! Then you may indeed arrest him.”
“Thought so.”
Mr. Ceepak squints at us hard. Guess he doesn’t like to see everybody in a room smiling except him.
“Fine. All I want is to find my wife. Work things out between us. But, no—you have to blow everything out of proportion, don’t you, Johnny? Fine. I’ll see you in court, son.” He does a finger salute off his greasy forehead to Rita, tries to put a little of the ol’ Joe Sixpack twinkle back in his foggy eyes. “Nice meeting you, ma’am. Who knew Johnny would grow up to marry a Polack beauty queen. I’m serious. I always thought he was a fucking faggot like his little brother.”
And with that fatherly pearl of wisdom, Mr. Ceepak leaves the building.
“Sorry for the unanticipated intrusion,” Ceepak says to Skip.
“That’s okay. I love watching you work, sir. I’m hoping to re-enter the police academy in the fall.”
Ceepak just nods. Because if he said something encouraging like, “good for you,” he’d be lying. Plus, no way are they letting Skippy O’Malley back in. They caught him cheating. That’s a “one strike and you’re out” deal.
Mr. O’Malley, wearing a black suit, bursts into the office.
“Skippy
?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Why the hell are there children crying in my parking lot?”
“We, uh, we …”
“I’m afraid that’s our fault, Mr. O’Malley,” says Ceepak.
O’Malley is a big, blustery man. He looks Ceepak up and down. Checks me out, too.
“You’re the cops. The ones who …”
“Yes, sir,” says Ceepak.
Mr. O’Malley nods. Puckers up his lips to fight down his feelings.
“Thank you. For all you did. For all you tried to do.”
Behind the counter, I see Skippy hanging his head. Maybe he’s sobbing again.
“I only wish we could have reached your wife sooner,” says Ceepak.
“Don’t beat yourself up, son. Dr. Kurth, the medical examiner, was kind enough to call me. Said Jackie suffered a massive coronary. Most likely died instantaneously. Didn’t feel any pain.”
Ceepak nods. He’s heard the same thing.
“Skippy?”
“Sir?”
“Where’s my other cell phone?”
Skippy turns and fumbles around on the top of a credenza, where there are buckets of colored balls and about a dozen cell phones sitting in charger bases.
He grabs one.
“Here you go, dad. Fully charged.”
Mr. O’Malley takes it, hands Skippy another phone, which looks just like the one he just took. “Charge it. Died on me during mass.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why weren’t you there?”
“Church?”
“Yeah.”
“I had to open at ten.”
“Right. Good. I’ll be upstairs in the office.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“And Skippy?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I thought I told you to take that damn cat to the shelter.”
Skippy picks the cat up out of its bed. “I don’t mind looking after him.”
“Your brother Kevin is allergic. Mary, too.”
“But Mom loved Gizmo.”
“South Shore will find it a new home.”
“I could keep him in my room.”
“Skippy?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take him in first thing tomorrow.”
“Aren’t you working here tomorrow morning?”
“South Shore Animal Shelter opens at nine. I used to go out there sometimes with Mom, when she volunteered.”
“Fine. Whatever. Just take care of it. I need you to start pulling your weight around here, son. When I tell you to do something, do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. O’Malley sighs and shakes his big Irish head.
Meanwhile, Skippy’s freckled face goes red with embarrassment. He keeps hugging the cat. Stroking it.
Mr. O’Malley turns to face Ceepak and me.
“Officers. Thank you again. Skippy? I’ll be upstairs. Order me a sandwich.”
“The usual?”
“I don’t care. Hell, surprise me.”
Mr. O’Malley shakes his head again, mutters something about Jesus, Mary, and Joseph giving him strength, and heads up a spiral staircase to his office.
“I’ll let the people in the parking lot know it’s okay to come back in,” I tell Skip, who looks totally bummed out.
“It’s a kill shelter,” he mumbles.
“What?”
“South Shore. If they can’t find Gizmo a new home, they’ll euthanize him. Put him to sleep. I’ve seen it happen. When I went out there with Mom—”
“He’s a very attractive cat,” says Ceepak, attempting to comfort Skip. “I feel confident he will find a new home. South Shore is where we found Barkley, our dog.”
“My mom loved Gizmo.”
Ceepak and I just nod because, well, we’re guys and guys don’t get all weepy about our pets in public because it’s against the official (if unwritten) guy code.
All of a sudden, Rita pipes up: “We could take him.”
“Come again?” says Ceepak.
“We could take the cat. We have the room.”
“We do?”
“Sure. T.J.’s heading off to Annapolis in July. His room will be empty. Of course, a cat doesn’t really need his own room … just a nice bed and some sunshine.”
She reaches out her arms.
“Really?” says Skippy, his face brightening. “Are you sure, Mrs. Ceepak?”
“We’ve always wanted a cat, right, John?”
Ceepak clears his throat. “Well, dear, to tell the truth—”
“You can tell me later, honey.”
“What about Barkley?”
“He’s old. He’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.”
Skippy hands Rita the cat. “He likes when you scratch under her chin.”
So Rita strokes the cat’s chin. “Of course he does. Aren’t you beautiful boy? Yes you are.”
Rita Lapczynski once rescued a seagull with a broken wing from the middle of the road. She nursed it back to health and then set it free. Next, she and Ceepak rescued an old dog named Barkley who had been abandoned on the beach by a family that didn’t like the stink of his farts anymore. Today, the Ceepak menagerie adds its first feline. I, of course, was the first stray human they took in. Rita’s forever inviting me over for Sunday dinner or a cookout because my parents moved to Arizona (“it’s a dry heat”) as soon as my dad retired from the post office.
“Can I come visit him?” asks Skippy.
“Sure,” says Rita who is holding the cat very close to Ceepak so he can pet it.
Ceepak does. Then he sneezes.
“My mom and I were the only ones in the family who loved Gizmo.”
“You two were close, weren’t you? You and your mom?” Rita says, oozing so much empathy, I wish she were my mom.
“Yeah.”
“Well, you can come visit anytime you want.”
“Thanks. Officer Ceepak?”
“Yes?” He sneezes again.
“You know why my mom had that heart attack yesterday?”
“Well, Skip, we suspect she had some sort of preexisting heart condition.”
“Exactly. It was broken.” Now he whispers. “By that bastard upstairs.”
12
THAT “MOMMA’S BOY” STUFF CRAZY MARY KEPT YABBERING about on the roller coaster yesterday doesn’t seem so crazy today.
I mean, I love my mom, but I wouldn’t clip her toenails for her. I suspect Skippy might.
The Ceepaks and I postpone our golf date.
They need to go buy a litter box. And cat chow. And fur mice. Maybe a little catnip, too.
In the parking lot, I ask Ceepak what he thinks Skippy meant by that crack about his dad breaking his mother’s heart.
“Not knowing, can’t say,” says Ceepak.
“It could be anything,” says Rita, who never studied psychology but did work as a waitress for a dozen years, which makes her a pretty good judge of human nature. “He might have been mean to her about the cat. He may have helped estrange their sons. He may not have given her the time and attention she thought she deserved as his life partner.”
Ceepak and I are both nodding. Like I said, Rita’s good.
“And,” she says with a heavy sigh, “he may have been cheating on her with another, most likely younger, woman.”
Yeah. That’d break your heart after you had five kids together.
Ceepak sneezes again.
Rita is letting him hold the cat. She’ll drive. I’m thinking they better stop off at the drug store and pick up a couple cartons of Claritin.
“See you tomorrow, partner,” Ceepak says in between a set of double nose blows.
I’m definitely bringing a box of Kleenex to work tomorrow and doing all the driving.
Ceepak closes his eyes when he sneezes.
The week rolls on.
Ceepak and I both work Memorial Day Monday. Big crowds on the boardwalk. The ocean’s too cold to go swimming, except for a few assorted Polar Bears, who alwa
ys seem to be burly guys with forests of curly black hair on their backs. Sea Haven is running its annual Kite Festival on Oak Beach. Ken Erb is there in all his glory, showing off his new hand-painted silk Indonesian bird kite. It’s twelve feet tall and sort of reminds me of one of the scary winged creatures from Harry Potter.
Tuesday, we write a couple speeding tickets. Help a kid with a flat tire on his bike.
Wednesday, Ceepak and I are off the duty roster, so Sam takes a day off from studying. We do the beach. I skimboard on the slick sand, she reads Silent Counsel, a legal thriller. Later, we head to the Sand Bar and scarf down clams on the half shell, clams casino, some shrimp jammers (shrimp stuffed with cheddar and deep fried), mozzarella sticks, and a bucket of beers. Then we go to my place and, well, do nothing because we’re both too stuffed.
Thursday, Ceepak and I work the night shift.
We’re cruising Shore Drive near Spruce Street. We’re almost to the end of tree-named streets, about to enter the stretch of the island where the Sea Haven Street Naming Commission basically gave up and started using numbers instead of fish (further north) or picking up with second-tier trees, maybe Althorn, Bladdernut, and Chinaberry, for starters.
Ceepak and I are discussing the relative merits of the Philadelphia Phillies and the New York Mets and their chances of breaking our hearts again this summer, when, all of a sudden, this hot little sports car comes zipping around the corner of Tangerine Street and, tires squealing, roars down Shore Drive at fifty miles per hour.
The speed limit is fifteen.
“Lights and siren,” I say, since I’m behind the wheel.
“Roger that,” says Ceepak in the passenger seat. He flips the switches.
I stomp on the gas, take the shuddering Crown Vic straight up to eighty to close the gap between us and the little speed demon.
The sports car doesn’t give us much of a run for our money. It pulls over to the curb. Our high-speed chase lasted two blocks, sucked down a quarter tank of SHPD gas.
Ceepak and I both get out of the cruiser.
The sports car window powers down.
“Hey, Danny.”
It’s Gail Baker. The hot waitress from The Rusty Scupper.
“Gail,” I say, “I need you to step out of the vehicle.”
Rolling Thunder Page 6