Hell Hole

by Chris Grabenstein

  Grace comes over to our table carrying my salvation: a freshly brewed pot of coffee. She’s tall and slender, even though the lady spends most of her day surrounded by fatty foods. She’s about as thick around the middle as one of the wooden chopsticks they give you when you order the pork pot stickers. She’s sixty-something and wears a cool Kofi hat with African tribal squiggles all over the sides so she looks like a jazz musician or, as she likes to call herself, the queen of cuisine.

  “More coffee, gentlemen?” Grace asks.

  “No thank you, Grace,” says Ceepak. “I’m good.”

  I slide my mug across the table. “I could use some.”

  Grace cocks a critical eyebrow. “Late night, Officer Boyle?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I see. Are you and your boon companions still attempting to drink your way into the Guinness book of records?”

  I think she means the beer. Grace has known me and my buds a long time. Her restaurant is open twenty-four hours a day. In my misspent youth, 8:00 AM on Sunday was when we used to stumble in for a midnight snack.

  “Ceepak and I were on an official run.”

  “Hmmm.” She’s not buying it.

  “It’s true,” says Ceepak. “We were on the job until well past midnight.”

  Grace’s scowl immediately morphs into a motherly smile. If Ceepak says it’s true, then she knows it must be. I’m granted a full and unconditional refill.

  “How was the party at Crazy Janey’s last evening?” Grace now asks.

  “Crowded,” I say then slurp down some Colombian gold.

  “Rita and T.J. didn’t arrive home until five AM,” adds Ceepak.

  “I assume she’s sleeping in this morning?”

  “Yes, ma’ am.”

  “Good. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  She takes the coffeepot away to service a sleepy father corralling a family of five. The restaurant is already pretty crowded. Mostly families with young kids—the kind who want pancakes and sausages at 7:00 AM and whine about it until they get them at 8:00.

  Ceepak rubs his hands together. “I’ve been thinking about the mop bucket, Danny.”

  Of course he has. While I went home and grabbed a couple quick z’s on my lumpy pillow, Ceepak went home and thought about mop buckets.

  “How did it end up in that corner? Did the other janitor, this Osvaldo Vargas, simply abandon it after his ten PM cleaning? Or did our killer remove it from the maintenance closet prior to shooting Smith because he anticipated the need to clean up his crime scene? Either way, we should be able to see who rolled the bucket out of the closet on the closed-circuit recording, which I’m hoping Slominsky will hand over to us this morning.”

  Of course. The single security camera. It was aimed toward the snack shop and food court. Precisely where the janitorial supply closet is located! Man, Ceepak’s good. I should try this thinking thing when I get home at night instead of, you know, just peeling off my clothes and scratching myself.

  The pig bells over the front door jingle. They’re like sleigh bells, only the metal balls are molded to look like Porky.

  It’s Samantha Starky.

  And that state trooper. Wilson. The one who knows so much about air bags.

  Sam’s still in her valet parking pants and red vest. Wilson’s in shorts and a pink polo shirt. The shorts show off swollen quads that more or less match his arm muscles. The guy could probably bench-press a Buick.

  “Officer Boyle! Officer Ceepak!”

  She’s up front near the cash register, waving. Practically jumping up and down, flashing us her pearly whites. If this law enforcement thing doesn’t work out, Starky need not worry—I figure the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders are always hiring.

  Now the guy named Wilson is waving too. Like we’re old pals even though we’ve only met once.

  “Do you know the young man with Officer Starky?” asks Ceepak as the two giddy young kids bound over to join us.

  “State trooper. He was at the rest stop Friday night. Knows lots of air bag statistics.”

  “Indeed?”

  I said it to be snarky. Ceepak sounds genuinely interested.

  “Hey, you guys!”

  Ceepak is standing because basically he’s a gentleman and Starky’s a lady. I try to get up. My knees bump the table. There goes the coffee creamer. The ones shaped like potbellied pigs are always wobbly.

  “I’ll get that,” says Grace, racing back to the table with a towel to mop up my mess.

  “Thank you, Grace,” says Ceepak.

  “Yeah,” I add. “Thanks.” As usual, I’m a step or two behind him.

  “Just coffee for you two?” Grace now asks Starky and her boy toy.

  “No,” says Sam. “We’re starving!”

  “Been up all night,” adds Wilson.

  “After the party ended at like five or whatever, Wilson picked me up and we went down to the beach and watched the sun rise.”

  “Some very interesting constellations are visible at that hour,” says Wilson. “Venus.”

  Venus. Goddess of love. Torturer of Danny.

  Ceepak is still standing.

  “Grace?”

  “Yes, John?”

  “You have friends and family in Baltimore, correct?”

  “Of course. I still consider it my home.”

  “I was wondering if you knew a Tonya Smith?”

  Grace thinks for a second. “No. The name doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “How about Jacquie Smith?”

  Grace ponders that one. “No. Sorry. Who are these Smith women?”

  “Sisters. They both live in Baltimore. We need to talk to them. However, they don’t wish to talk to us.”

  “I see. They don’t trust the police?”

  “So it would seem. I was hoping you might reach out to them.”

  “Are they black, John?”

  “Yes.”

  Now Ceepak gets the scornful lift of an eyebrow. “And you assume we all know each other?”

  “No, Grace. I simply assumed these two women might be more willing to talk to you than they were to talk to us.”

  “Why?”

  Ceepak grins. Shows Grace his dimples. “Because you can talk to anyone. You make everyone feel at ease.”

  Grace sloughs off the compliment. “True. Comes with running a restaurant for thirty years, I suppose. Do you have their phone numbers?”

  “No,” Ceepak admits, somewhat sheepishly. “The sisters were not inclined to give that information to me.”

  “John?”

  “Yes?”

  “While I am typically impressed with your investigative prowess, I must confess—in this instance, you disappoint me. No phone numbers? How am I supposed to contact these ladies? Did you assume that I, at some point in the not too distant past, memorized the entire Baltimore phone book?”

  “No, I—”

  “We have their numbers,” says Starky.

  Ceepak finally sits down. “You do?”

  “Wilson has’em, right?”

  “Hmmm?” Wilson had been busy—studying the menu. Took all his powers of concentration. In my peripheral vision, I saw him silently sounding out the hard words: “Bay-kun. Pan-kakes.”

  “The Smith sisters,” says Starky and, believe it or not, now she shoots me a wink. “You have their phone numbers. Wilson is the one who contacted them down in Baltimore and gave them the bad news about their brother.”

  Wilson puts down his menu. Nods. I think the guy can only do one thing at a time. Nod or read. Walk or chew gum.

  “Always tough duty,” says Ceepak.

  “Yeah. Then I had to call them again. Gave them the name of a local funeral home.”

  Ceepak nods. He understands.

  “They needed the car back too,” Wilson says slowly. “That was my third call.”

  “Anyway,” says Starky, sounding way too hyper and chipper given the recent topic of table talk, “this morning, after we studied Venus and all, he wrote down their pho
ne numbers, because last night, in between parking cars, Danny told me how important it was for you guys to get in touch with Mr. Smith’s sisters and then, this morning, I figured, you know, we might find you guys here and you were.”

  And the girl hasn’t even touched her coffee.

  “Give Officer Boyle the numbers, Wilson.”

  I receive another wink.

  Ah-hah. Studying astronomy with muscleman? Nothing but a clever ruse to aid me, Ceepak, and the SHPD in our ongoing criminal investigation of the Feenyville Pirates and their theft of Shareef Smith’s air bags and CD changer.

  “Here you are, sir.” Trooper Wilson hands me a business card with two numbers scribbled on the back. On the front, I read his full name: William Wilson Goodson, Jr. Yeah. I’d go with “Wilson,” too. I hand the card to Ceepak. Ceepak hands the card to Grace. The chain of command is clear.

  Grace studies the card. “What do you want me to ask these two ladies?”

  “We need to find out more about their brother Shareef’s friends. Did he have any in this area? Who do they think it was that he met in the parking lot?”

  “And why do you need to know about their brother’s friends?”

  “We suspect one of them killed Shareef Smith.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Some friend. I’ll be in the office.”

  Ceepak and I watch Starky and Trooper Wilson devour twin towers of flapjacks flanked by the pork sampler plate: bacon, sausage, scrapple, and ham. Sometimes, after I eat breakfast here, I seriously consider switching to a total tofu diet.

  It’s nearly 9:45. We need to be at King Putt Golf at 10:00. Grace has been back to the table twice with the same news: “No answer. Both numbers.”

  The pig bells over the front door jangle again, louder than usual.

  “Ohmigosh!” says Starky. “It’s Senator Worthington!” I think she’s gushing.

  One of the senator’s personal bodyguards must’ve given the door a hearty shove. The bell strand overhead is still swinging like a piggy piñata.

  The senator comes into the restaurant, works the dining room. He’s going from table to table, pumping hands. Greeting constituents. About half the folks visiting Sea Haven any given weekend in the summer hail from Philly. Then they go home where they can vote for Worthington every six years.

  The senator is in a plaid short-sleeve shirt and khaki pants. The guys on his early-morning security detail are, once again, in dark blue suits. Probably the only suits on the island that aren’t swimsuits.

  Ceepak stands again. The senator nears our table.

  I stand too because I want to check out Worthington’s feet.

  Yep. He has on the boots.

  “Good morning, folks,” the senator says, taking Ceepak’s hand. Cranking it up and down as if he desperately needs well water for his parched horse.

  “An honor to meet you, sir,” says Ceepak. “Thank you for all you do for our troops.”

  The senator squints, crinkles up the corners his eyes. Looks wise and earnest. “Did you serve, son?” He must’ve noticed Ceepak’s hairdo.

  “Yes, sir,” says Ceepak. “One hundred and first Airborne.”

  “Iraq?”

  “First wave in.”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Ceepak. John Ceepak.”

  The senator braces Ceepak’s shoulder with his free hand, keeps working the other one up and down. “Well, John Ceepak, thank you for all you’ve done for this country.”

  Ceepak nods.

  The senator finally lets go of Ceepak’s hand. Maybe he heard the shoulder joint squeaking. Anyway, he moves around the table, shakes everybody’s outstretched hands. I fling mine out there too.

  “Good to meet you. How’s it going? Enjoying your vacation? Goodness, have fun.”

  He never pauses long enough to give anybody a chance to answer. If he did, I’d let him know that when I go on vacation, it’s usually to Arizona where my folks live in this retirement village where children under the age of eighteen are basically considered illegal.

  “Good man,” says Ceepak as the senator moves on to other tables and other hands.

  “His bodyguards are mostly ex-Marines and stuff,” says Starky. “One used to be with Special Forces. Another was a Navy SEAL.”

  “Really?” I’m amazed Starky knows so much about the senator’s staff.

  “Yeah. I talked to one of them last night at the party. Mr. Parker.”

  Starky. With that sweet face, she can ask any guy anything and they’ll usually blab their fool heads off just to bask in her smile.

  “He also told me that the Department of Defense considers Lieutenant Worthington to be a very valuable recruiting asset. Since he won the Purple Heart and his father is a senator, anywhere he goes, the news cameras follow. Entertainment Tonight. Access Hollywood. Inside Edition . The guy goes to a lot of amazing parties to help the Army recruit new soldiers.”

  Sounds like pretty cool duty.

  I might’ve signed up for it myself if, you know, you didn’t have to get wounded first.

  18

  We get up from the table because it’s time to head over to King Putt Golf and meet Saul Slominsky.

  We hit the sidewalk and see the Mutt and Jeff of the Feenyville Pirates: Nicky Nichols and Mr. Shrimp. They’re sitting on one of the benches Grace has out front for people waiting for a table. There’s another tough guy with them. The three of them are yukking it up, smoking cigarettes, flashing gang signs, scaring the tourists.

  The new guy is jockey-short with mocha-colored skin. His oily hair is sheared off in a bowl cut with bangs. His dark eyes dart all over the place, especially when Ceepak and I come into view. We’re not in uniform, but we definitely look like the Law. Well, Ceepak does. I sort of look like a guy who needs more sleep or coffee or both.

  “Gentlemen,” says Ceepak when he locks eyes with Nichols and Shrimp, something that’s impossible to do with their young friend—his eyes don’t stay in one place long enough to lock in a target. “Here for breakfast?”

  “Yeah,” says Nichols.

  “Enjoy,” says Ceepak.

  “You hassling us?” asks Shrimp.

  “Hardly,” says Ceepak. “Might I suggest you try the scrapple? It’s not to be missed. Have a good one.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Shrimp is up off the bench.

  Ceepak gives the little pirate a two-finger salute off the brim of his cap. “Have a good day, gentlemen.”

  “Who’s your new friend?” Before I leave, I have to ask it.

  “What?” Shrimp tries to jump in my face, as they say. Except he’s too short so he aims his anger up at my chin. “You got a problem?”

  “No. No problem. We just like to know who your new recruits are.” I figure the Feenyville Pirates are like the U.S. Army—they always need to replenish the ranks.

  “Why don’t you mind your own beeswax?”

  While I pause to ponder how a would-be pirate-gangsta could actually use the term beeswax, Nichols, the lumbering giant, finds the strength to tilt back his medicine ball of a head and speak again: “That’s Osvaldo Vargas.”

  “Nicky?”

  “What?”

  Shrimp takes off his glasses. Rubs his weary eyes. Can’t believe he’s still working with this dum-dum.

  “Vargas?” says Ceepak, suddenly interested in more than exchanging Sunday morning pleasantries. “Osvaldo Vargas?”

  The young man’s eyes flick back and forth like windshield wipers in a summer thunder boomer.

  “Are you currently employed as a member of the custodial staff at the rest area off exit fifty-two on the Garden State Parkway? Do you work for the HMM Host Corporation?”

  “Maybe” is his mumbled answer. Of course, seated there on the bench, he’s fidgeting like crazy with a frayed baseball cap he keeps twirling around between his knees. When the front spins into view, I read it: HMM Host.

  “You got a warran
t?” says Shrimp.

  “Excuse me?” asks Ceepak.

  “You got a warrant?”

  The other people waiting for tables, the ones with kids and very few visible tattoos, are moving away—checking out the big plastic pig sculpture down at the corner, heading into the bookstore up the block to check out the beach reads and sudoku collections.

  “Why would we need a warrant?” asks Ceepak.

  “You’re cops. You can’t ask questions without a warrant!”

  “Yes, we can,” I say. “We can’t search without a warrant, but we can ask anybody anything.”

  “However,” adds Ceepak, “you are not compelled to answer our questions. Silence remains your prerogative, should you so choose.”

  Ceepak? He not only plays by the rules, he makes sure the other side knows them too.

  “You heard the man, Osvaldo,” says Shrimp. “You don’t have to say shit.”

  “It’s a pretty good job,” says Nichols. “The janitor gig.”

  “Jesus, Nicky!”

  “He only has to clean the toilets once an hour. I could do that.”

  Shrimp looks boiled. Guess pirating was easier back in the days before your brother buccaneers fried their brains out with recreational drugs.

  Osvaldo sits there. Head down now. Not saying a word. Staring at the hat in his hands.

  Ceepak and I mentally file Osvaldo Vargas’s connection to the Feenyville Pirates under “Interesting Coincidence?” and head over to King Putt.

  We keep the cop car angled against the curb and walk because the miniature golf course is basically across the street from the Pig’s Commitment, on Ocean Avenue at Oyster Street.

  You can see King Putt’s tee-shaped pylon sign from half a mile away. At its base, chained to the pole, is a six-foot-tall resin statue of the chubby Boy King himself—a bratty kid with raccoon-style mascara around the eyes and a floppy pharaoh hat. Instead of the classic staff of Ra, he totes a putter.