Hell Hole

by Chris Grabenstein

  Four-thirty PM.

  Ceepak’s been sitting on the couch not saying anything for like fifteen minutes. I stand up, stretch, and fiddle with my radio unit. It’s squawking with chatter, mostly stuff about the cleanup going on over at the Hell Hole.

  “Hey, they found another twenty kilos of coke,” I report when that news flash screeches through the static. Then I hear one of our guys, Dylan Murray I think, report how he just found “a bunch of burnt cable and some kind of detonator.”

  “Guess that confirms it was arson,” I say to Ceepak. “Somebody hotwired the place to burn. Sort of like the Palace Hotel. Remember that?”

  He still says nothing.

  He’s thinking. I should probably shut up. Turn off my radio and my mouth. Maybe go find us both some coffee.

  “Danny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you have a quarter?”

  “I think so.” I dig in my pockets. Find two.

  Ceepak takes them and marches over to the bank of pay phones bolted to the wall. He drops in a coin, presses in the numbers.

  “Hello, dear. Yes. We’re still at the hospital. Waiting to talk to Lieutenant Worthington. Yes. I think so. Could you please do me a favor? We need to look at all of Shareef Smith’s cell phone bills. No. The sisters won’t have to go home. With his next of kin’s permission, we should be able to obtain the information directly from the service provider. Right. Good. I’m still without a mobile phone so I need to ask a second favor. That’s right. You can coordinate with Denise Diego, the tech officer. Right. Thank you, Rita. We will. Me too.”

  He hangs up.

  “Who do you think Smith called?” I ask.

  “His friend.”

  “Worthington?”

  “Roger that. We’ll also be able to ascertain who, if anybody, called Smith.”

  “Officer Ceepak?”

  Ohmigod. Mount Rushmore himself is striding down the hall. Senator Worthington or, as I now like to call him, suspect number five. Or thirteen. Depends on whether you count him as a single or lump him in with all eight of his bodyguards.

  “I want to thank you two gentlemen for rescuing my son.”

  He sticks out his hand. I shake it. Now it’s Ceepak’s turn.

  He doesn’t take it.

  “We need to talk to your son, sir.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. He is very heavily sedated.”

  Yeah. He was that way when we found him too.

  Ceepak keeps pushing: “We believe your son has information vital to an ongoing investigation.”

  “And what is it you’re investigating?”

  Ceepak pauses.

  I jump in: “Somebody stole air bags and a CD player out of Shareef Smith’s car!”

  “Really?” Man, does that come out icy. The hospital could turn off their central air. “Well, officers, I hope you will understand if I insist that my son be allowed to recuperate a short while longer. I’m certain there is no critical urgency for you to apprehend these petty car thieves.”

  “There’s more to it,” says Ceepak.

  “Is that so? More? I see. Are you attempting to operate outside the legal limits of your current jurisdiction?”

  “We’re searching for the truth.”

  “Always a noble cause. Do we all seek the truth? Of course we do. But can the truth, once found, do more damage than good? Indeed it can, gentlemen, for this country is at war and in dire need of heroes. Does my son’s military record serve a higher purpose, no matter what his personal failings? Good heavens, yes. Therefore, in this specific instance, containing what you might consider the ‘truth’ is, as I’m sure you’ll agree, the nobler path for us all to follow.”

  Ceepak looks annoyed. No, pissed. I don’t think he can make his eyes any more intense without popping them out of their sockets.

  “We are not interested in exposing the truth about your son’s drug addiction—”

  “It’s not an addiction. A weakness? I suppose one could call it that. A painful and unfortunate habit picked up while he willingly and selflessly served his country on treacherous foreign soil.”

  I glance down.

  Oh, yeah. He’s wearing the boots. Might ruin his presidential plans if the press found out the whole truth about the man who wore them first. That guy on Meet the Press might ask Senator Worthington if he ever found any tiny bags of white powder hidden inside his boots’ hollowed-out heels.

  “Your son told us something when we pulled him out of the fire,” says Ceepak.

  “The ramblings of an incoherent and traumatized victim.”

  “He mentioned a camera.”

  “I’m certain he mentioned a great many things in his delirium.”

  “No, just the one. He urged us to find Corporal Smith’s camera.”

  “Oh, right. The African American. Tragic how he chose to end his life”

  “We don’t believe it was his choice.”

  The senator smiles. Holds up a hand to silence Ceepak. “Officer Ceepak, if I were in your position, if I were a beat cop on a small town police force, I would not concern myself with anything my son might have said while, undoubtedly, in an advanced state of shock. My goodness, he was trapped in a fire. Almost died. I would also not waste any more time waiting here to talk to my son because that is simply not going to happen. Do we understand each other?”

  Yeah. I think we do.

  “Come on, Danny,” says Ceepak.

  “Good day, gentlemen,” says the senator. It sounds like he’s gloating. “Oh—and best of luck catching those car thieves.”

  Ceepak stops. Turns around to face the senator.

  He even smiles.

  “Thank you, sir. We appreciate your words of support. Oh, by the way,” he adds, “we’re getting closer all the time. Much closer.”

  31

  We’re getting closer all the time?

  Geeze-o, man!

  Maybe Ceepak actually did inhale some of that wacky tobacky smoldering back at the Hell Hole. It would explain his warped world-view. How can we be getting closer when he just expanded our suspect list to include all the guys at the party house, Senator Woodrow Worthington, his bodyguards, the entire Department of Defense—not to mention the whole military-industrial complex, which is this thing I heard Gladys rant about one time when I was at Veggin’ on the Beach because this girl I was dating was way into energy booster drinks. (PS—we broke up. The girl never wanted to go to bed. Not with me, not with anybody. She basically never slept. I think that booster shot powder they scoop out behind the juice bar is really a tub of pulverized No-Doz tablets.)

  So now we’re traveling across the causeway, headed back to the island, all set to police our small town and live our insignificant lives so we can dutifully pay our federal income taxes and finance the salaries of the great men doing important things down in Washington.

  “Where to next?” I ask Ceepak. I’m driving. He’s staring out the window watching seagulls swoop over the bay, maybe wishing he could swap places with them. “You want to head over to Kipper Street? Talk to Sergeant Dixon, ask why he lied about Worthington’s war wound? Or maybe we should go up to Feenyville. Talk to the pirates. We never did interrogate that janitor, Osvaldo Vargas.”

  “I’d like to hit the house first,” says Ceepak. “Reexamine those exterior surveillance camera tapes.”

  “Okay. Sure. What’ll we be looking for?”

  “A certain black GMC Denali.”

  “The senator’s security detail?”

  “I’m thinking someone might’ve followed Lieutenant Worthington to his rendezvous with Smith. If so, their vehicle might be evident on the tape.”

  “But, we looked pretty closely,” I say. “All we saw was Worthington’s car. He greets Smith, the two of them chat, then they head in to the building. Four minutes later, the camera cable gets snipped, probably by our car thieves, or maybe Osvaldo the janitor, working for the crew he knows will be showing up later, and the screen goes blac
k.”

  “And so, Danny, we look again,” says Ceepak. “We look closer. We also pay more attention to the other three cameras.”

  True. We were more or less focused on the upper right quadrant because that showed where Shareef Smith’s car was parked.

  “Do you think Senator Worthington set up a Special Forces—type hit on Smith, because Smith knew about his son’s drug trouble and, if it came out, it could ruin his chances of being elected to anything except superintendent of sewers?” I ask.

  “I think I want to relook at those tapes.”

  One step at a time. That’s Ceepak. Me? I’m forever jumping to conclusions. It’s how I wind up flat on my ass so often.

  The radio mounted on the dash crackles.

  “Unit twelve?”

  Ceepak grabs the mike. “This is twelve. Go ahead.”

  “We need you over at the Acme Supermarket. Ten-thirty-five.”

  They want us to check out a suspicious person at the grocery store. I wonder what the guy did—fondle too many chicken breasts?

  “Sergeant Pender?” says Ceepak. “We are not currently operating in a patrol mode. In fact, as I’m sure the chief has informed you, we are presently involved in an increasingly complicated investigation of—

  “It’s your father, Ceepak.”

  “Come again?”

  “The individual misbehaving at the Acme is a Mr. Joseph Ceepak. He told Malloy and Kiger that he’s your dad. I just thought, you know …”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Pender.” He slips the mike back into its bracket. “Danny?”

  We hit Ocean Avenue and I hang a left. We’re on our way to the grocery store with a very short shopping list: deal with Ceepak’s old man.

  “It’s five o’clock somewhere! Hell, son, look at your watch! It’s five o’clock right here in New Jersey!”

  Mr. Ceepak is standing in the middle of the beer and chips aisle. Judging by the pile of empties near his feet, he is currently on his fourth can of warm suds. Personally, I would’ve headed one aisle over—to the cold case. Guess Mr. Ceepak has been an alkie so long, he doesn’t care if half of what he’s drinking is tepid foam.

  “You want some chips, Johnny? Salsa?” Now he starts grabbing jumbo bags of Doritos and jars of Chi-Chi’s. He tears into the bags with his teeth. Holds out a salsa jar then drops it on the floor where it explodes and splatters out a pattern resembling a squished octopus. Looks like Mr. Ceepak’s been doing the salsa-bomb drops for a while now. The linoleum up and down the aisle is blotted with tomato and jalapeño chunks. We definitely need a mop in aisle six.

  “Guys?” Ceepak calls to the first officers on the scene: Mark Malloy and Adam Kiger. They’re at the far end of the aisle, blocking Mr. Ceepak’s retreat. We’re at the front end, near the five-gallon buckets of pretzels. “Clear out those civilians behind you. Move them toward the deli counter.”

  “Ten-four,” says Kiger. He heads off to manage crowd control. Malloy stays in position to block the elder Mr. Ceepak’s potential escape route.

  “What?” laughs Mr. Ceepak. “You gotta move folks out of harm’s way, boy? Why? You gonna gun me down?”

  “Only if I have to.”

  “Bullshit! You don’t have the balls!”

  I hear Velcro rip back. Ceepak’s unfastening the flap that secures his Glock inside its holster. I do the same.

  “You want a beer, Johnny?” The crazy old bastard tears open another cardboard suitcase of Budweiser.

  “No. I want you to kneel on the floor and put your hands behind your back.”

  “Kneel? You think I’m some kind of altar boy like your faggot brother Billy? Forget it! I’m not kneeling down in front of you, Johnny! No way in hell am I doing that!”

  “Do it! Now!”

  “Fuck you, Johnny. Okay? Fuck you! Hey, Malloy?” he shouts over his shoulder. “Johnny ever tell you how he bent up the fuclcing frame on his first bike? One car in the whole goddamn parking lot and he rams right into it. He any better at pistols than he was with bikes? You know what, Malloy? If I were you, I’d get the hell out of Dodge—”

  “Kneel on the floor! Do it!”

  “Fuck you!” Mr. Ceepak flings the torn cardboard suitcase full of twelve-ounce cans to his left. Some fly free and smash into the lowest shelf, tearing it off its bracket. Snacks get crushed. Nothing serious. Peanut butter cheese crackers, mostly.

  “Where the fuck is she, Johnny? Where the hell did you hide my wife?”

  Man, are we drawing a crowd. The grocery store is always jammed at 5:00 because everybody’s done with the beach for the day and now they’re trying to figure out what they’re going to eat for supper. So Mr. Ceepak isn’t the only one interested in what’s on sale in the beer and chips aisle. These people are on vacation. Beer and chips? Down the shore, they’re like beef: it’s what’s for dinner.

  “Where the fuck did you hide your goddamn mother?”

  “Okay,” I say, because, basically, I’ve had enough. “You heard Officer Ceepak.” I walk past my partner. Move down the aisle, march at old man Ceepak. First off, I think the grizzled drunk might actually obey a police officer who isn’t his son. Second, he’s so tanked, I don’t think he can hurt me, even if he takes a swing with another suitcase full of beer cans. I’m guessing if he tries, it’ll be high and wide and slow. “Please kneel down on the floor, sir.”

  “Fuck you, kid.”

  “Not here. Too many spectators.”

  “Whaa?” He’s blitzed and befuddled.

  I place a hand gently yet firmly on his shoulder. “Turn around, sir.”

  “I thought you wanted me to kneel on the floor?”

  “Nah. I changed my mind. Made what we call a situational adjustmeant.”

  “Whaat?” I think I’m confusing him. Good. All part of the plan. To tell the truth, I don’t expect much resistance. He’s totally smashed. Been drinking all day. Probably ready to sleep some of it off. It’s how I used to feel after an all-day-and-nighter with my beach buddies. I also think getting arrested is what he wants or he wouldn’t have told Kiger and Malloy that he was Ceepak’s dad. I think he wants to bunk down in the jail back at police headquarters so he can bug my partner 24-7.

  “Just put your hands behind your back and we’ll call it a day, okay? You think you can manage that? The turning around bit?”

  “Yeah,” he mumbles and stumbles into a turn. “Like this?”

  “Excellent. Nicely done, sir.” I slip a pair of FlexiCuffs over his wrists. “You, of course, have the right to remain silent.”

  He belches—passing on that particular constitutional privilege.

  “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” I continue. “You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand these rights as I’ve recited them to you?”

  “Yeah. You did it good. Just like on TV.”

  “Thank you, sir. Let’s go book you a bed.” I indicate with a light shoulder tap that he should try to start walking forward. He does. It’s more of a shuffle, but we’re moving in the right direction.

  “Can I grab a couple beers for the road?”

  “Sorry. No can do.”

  “Hell, it’s cocktail hour.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say as I help him maneuver up the aisle toward his son. “Like you say, it’s always five o’clock somewhere.”

  “You’re okay, kid.”

  “If you say so, sir. Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Is Johnny coming with us?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s his turn to drive.”

  “Careful, kid. He might wreck the car like he wrecked that damn bike.”

  “Sounds like good times, sir. Good times.”

  He looks at me. Dazed now. His few functional brain cells scrambled like scalded eggs in a skillet.

  Sometimes I have that effect on people. Even s
ober people.

  32

  We lock up Mr. Ceepak in our holding cell, where he’ll spend the night on a drunk and disorderly.

  “You handled that well, Danny,” says Ceepak.

  “I speak ‘Drunk.’ Besides, if it was my old man, you would’ve done the same thing.”

  “Does your father frequently steal warm beer and drink it in the middle of a crowded grocery store while simultaneously destroying snack food items?”

  “No. But this one time—I swear I saw him pluck a grape in the produce section and plop it in his mouth.”

  Ceepak smiles. “Fine. The next time your dad’s in town, it’ll be my pleasure to arrest him.”

  “Cool. So let’s go look at that tape again.”

  “Roger that.”

  He heads up the hall toward the front desk.

  All the other cops milling around in the lobby are trying real hard to not make eye contact with Ceepak. Face it, it’s pretty embarrassing, having to haul your old man into the slammer so he can sleep off a drunk. Sons are supposed to be the ones out on the street raising hell. Not fathers.

  “Excuse me? Sirs? I am so glad I found you!”

  It’s Samantha Starky, bounding through the front door and swinging open the little gate that separates the public from the police.

  “The Smith sisters are fine, Rita’s looking after them, so I took my mother an iced mocha latte.” She’s hyped up on adrenaline, maybe latte fumes. “You know that house on Kipper Street? The one where we had to do that ten-forty-three run Friday night, sir? The house that guy Sergeant Dixon said belonged to his uncle?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” I remember all this but I’m not half as wound up about it as Starky.

  “Well, sirs, he was lying!”

  Naturally, Ceepak’s ears perk up. “How so?”

  “My mom? She’s a Realtor down at All-A-Shore Realty?”

  When Starky’s excited, everything comes out sounding like a question.

  “They’ve had one heck of a time renting it this summer.”

  She hands us each a real estate flyer for 22 Kipper Street. Five bedrooms, three baths, six beach badges, all utilities included. The weekly rental price has, according to the screaming type in an exploding sunburst, been “$eriously Slashed.” Guess that’s why there’s still a For Rent sign stuck in the front yard: nobody was biting for the old “$eriously Expen$ive” price.