Some guys have your classic scary tats up on their shoulders. Spider webs and skulls and angry ladies biting knives. Others have Thai tribal etchings scrolled around their biceps. Then there are the girls with naughty little drawings or Chinese letters peeking out from under their bikini bottoms, front and back.
Scanning the inked-up passersby, Ceepak decides its time to narrow our search.
“Where's the paintball arcade?” he asks.
Paintball Blasters is a politically incorrect shooting gallery right across from the Mad Mouse pier.
The gimmick is the targets. You get to splatter life-size photographs of folks like Osama Bin Laden, Adolf Hitler, O. J. Simpson, Saddam Hussein, and, of course, Britney Spears. Or Michael Jackson. They're all strung up on a clothesline about twenty feet back on the firing range
When you get tired of defacing America's current crop of evildoers, you can take a shot or two at this garbage can lid that pops open to reveal a red, white, and blue bull's-eye target. Then, when that gets boring, you can blast away at a rusty old Pontiac down in the sand underneath the dangling targets. Looks like the windshield is a popular spot to splatter.
“Ten balls for five bucks,” the burly guy running the place says when Ceepak and I step up to his counter. He's reading a newspaper and doesn't look up. “Thirty for ten.”
“Are these Trippman 98s?” Ceepak asks.
I can tell Ceepak did his paintball homework last night on the Internet. The burly guy puts down his newspaper.
“What?” He snuffles his nose and sounds like he might hock a loogie. “Am I supposed to be impressed here or something? You know the name of a gun?”
“I was merely inquiring.”
“Huh.” The paintball proprietor turns back to his paper.
“Who's your best?” Ceepak now asks.
“What?”
“Who's your top gun?”
“Me.” He proudly snorts some more wet stuff back into his throat.
“Who besides you?”
“Depends. What category? Kid? Adult? Local? Tourist?”
“Juvenile. Boy. Spiky blond hair. Tattoos on his forearm. Sound familiar?”
“Why should I tell you?”
Ceepak smiles.
“Because I'm a better shot than you.”
“What?”
“I believe you heard me the first time.”
“You sayin’ you're better than me, slick?”
“That's right.”
“Bullshit.”
“My friend never lies,” I say.
Ceepak pulls out a ten-dollar bill.
“That's for my first thirty shots.”
“You challenging me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don't give away prizes or nothing. You want prizes, go over there, grab a squirt gun, and pop a clown's balloon.”
“I don't want a prize. I want information. About the boy.”
“T. J.?”
“Is that his name?”
“Maybe.”
Ceepak picks up a rifle.
“Let's shoot. If I win, you tell me where I find T. J.”
“And if I win?”
“You keep the ten bucks.”
“What? No fucking way. I get the ten bucks for renting you my fucking gun.”
“Right you are.” Ceepak pulls out his wager—a crisp fifty-dollar bill he tucks under the barrel of the rifle to his left so it won't blow away.
I turn around and see we're drawing a small crowd.
Ceepak's rival hops up on the counter and swings his feet over.
“You're on, ace.”
Ceepak takes up his rifle and checks out the sighting down the barrel.
“You want Saddam?”
“Fine.” Ceepak's cool with Saddam. They've tangled before.
“I'll take Osama. We both fire thirty rounds. Most headshots wins. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Hey, Joey?” The arcade guy is yelling down to some old geezer I hadn't seen before. He's off to the side of the range, dressed in a sleeveless Italian-grandpa undershirt, chewing on the stub of an unlit cigar. He sits on a stool behind a plywood partition. Must be the target master.
“What?” Grandpa grumbles.
“Hang me a clean Osama and Saddam.”
“Why?”
“Because I fucking told you to is why.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He spits out the cigar stub and drags some clean cardboard targets out to the clothesline.
“You ever use glow-in-the-dark paintballs?” Ceepak asks while they wait.
“Nah. Too expensive.”
“What about T. J.?”
“Maybe. I don't know. I'm not his fucking mother.”
“You two ever talk about it?”
“Maybe. Once. He said he wished he had this special hopper that pumped UV rays into the balls so they glowed or something. Sounded expensive as shit.”
“Set!” Grandpa hollers and shuffles back to his stool, picking up his wet cigar butt on the way. I see that the plywood wall he sits behind has been pelted, too. I guess when you get bored nailing the targets you can always try to nail a live geezer.
“Crank it up!”
I hear an air pump hammer—like on a power washer. The guns are pressurized.
“Send him flying!”
A motor whirrs. A chain clicks on a pulley. All of a sudden, the Saddam Hussein target slides back and forth, while Osama stays still.
“Saddam moves around a lot.” The guy chuckles, sure he's hooked another sucker. “Before we nabbed him, he was always running from one spider hole to another.”
“Does your target move as well?”
“Nah. Osama's just sitting there, hiding in his cave.”
“I see.”
“Hey, pal—you're the one who picked Saddam.”
“Actually, you picked him for me.”
“What? You think I'm cheating or something?”
“I don't think it. I know it.”
“Oh, so now you want out? You just want to talk big, flash your cash, then back down?”
“No,” Ceepak says. “I just want to be clear.” He puts the tiny rifle stock up to his shoulder.
“Thirty balls, pal.”
“Thirty. Roger that.”
“Fire at will.”
I hear that pop, pop, pop again, only now it's in total stereo. Like everybody on both sides of the boardwalk is stomping on paper cups. I also hear a lot of thwacks, paint splatting on pressboard.
The guy who runs the booth? He's good. A couple of his shots miss Osama's head. Some splatter on his robe below the neck. One or two whoosh past the turban altogether. But he's basically nailing his target. I'd say about two dozen paintballs explode dead center on Osama's nose and obliterate his face in no time flat. Like I said, the guy's good.
But he's no John Ceepak.
Every single one of Ceepak's shots hits Saddam smack in that bushy mustache. No misses. No near misses. All thirty shots hit the exact same spot on the moving target. He's just stacking whacks on top of each other.
Those medals Ceepak got in the army? A couple were for marksmanship.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Ring Toss,” the arcade guy mumbles.
“Excuse me?” Ceepak puts down his air gun.
“T. J. He works mornings up at the Ring Toss.”
“I know where it is,” I say.
This superskinny guy in chocolate chip desert camo shorts, a matching T-shirt, and what they call a boony hat steps out of the crowd.
“Wanna shoot again?” he says to Ceepak.
“No, thank you.”
“You army?”
“No, sir.”
“But you used to be, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Figures.”
When I say this guy's skinny, I mean he's a six-six skeleton, like somebody who just crawled out of a tomb.
“Army asshole.”
“Sir,” Ceepak says, “I nee
d to leave. Perhaps you should consider doing the same.”
“Perhaps you should consider kissing my ass,” he says and grins. His teeth are bony too, like he doesn't have any gums. “You army creeps make me sick!”
Ceepak points at the guy's camo getup.
“You served?”
“No.” The smile slams shut. He fidgets with that hat. “They wouldn't take me. But I could take you, man. I could take you down.”
I start to feel sorry for him. Under that boony hat, I figure he's got a few loose lug nuts.
Now he jabs a bony finger at me.
“I could take you down, too, punk.”
I want to smack the guy's hand, get that gnarly finger out of my face.
“Danny?” says Ceepak, poker-faced. “We need to move along.”
“Right.”
We walk away.
“We need to maintain focus on our mission.”
“Yes, sir. The Ring Toss is just another block up.”
We reach W-A-V-Y's live boardwalk broadcast booth. Music thumps out of humongous outdoor speakers. When the song fades, the deejay yammers.
“Hey, this is Skeeter—burning up the Jersey Shore on W-A-V-Y. I'm joined by a very special guest …”
Springsteen? Southside Johnny? Bon Jovi?
“Sea Haven's own—Mayor Hugh Sinclair.”
Oh. Him.
“Great to be here, Cliff.”
Cliff Skeete and I went to high school together. We even tried to run this party-music deejay business for a couple of months. It didn't pan out. There was this incident at a wedding. All I can say in my defense is that I was very hungry and the cake had excellent frosting.
Cliff catches my eye and gives me a wave. They wave a lot at W-A-V-Y, the “Crazy Wave of Sound for Sea Haven and the Jersey Shore,” as they say between songs. Constantly.
“I hope everyone's having a sunny, funderful day,” says Mayor Sinclair. He says that all the time. It's the town's official slogan even though it's stupid. “Skeeter, I want to personally invite you and all your listeners to the World's Biggest Beach Party and Boogaloo BBQ!”
I think this newly dreamed-up Labor Day deal is supposed to be some kind of mass hypnosis designed to make us all forget what happened at the Tilt-A-Whirl back in July. I know it won't work on me, but I'm always up for a good party. This one should be awesome. Big-name bands. Cheap, greasy food. Girls in teeny bikinis. I think they're having a “Best Tan” contest. Maybe they'll need an extra judge. Maybe Skeeter will put in a good word for me.
Up ahead, I see “The Lord of the Rings Toss.” Of course it's not in any way officially tied to the movie. Somebody just ripped off the poster art and used it for their plywood signs. They've even painted in some characters who sort of look like Gandalf and the Elf guy with the arrows.
A kid, probably fifteen or sixteen, works inside the game shed. He's the one who pulls plastic rings off these two-liter soda bottles filled with black water. The rings are gold, just like Frodo's, only Frodo's wasn't spray-painted.
The kid has bleach-blond dreadlocks pulled back by a wide white headband that makes the dreads stick up like a feathered headdress. He's bare-chested and wears droopy shorts that show off the elastic waistband on his underpants. He has about two dozen rubber rings stacked up to his elbow on his left arm. The right forearm is wide open, showing off a swirling tattoo. I think it's some kind of sea creature wrestling with a mermaid.
The barker, the Ring Toss boss, sits out front, trying to draw a crowd. He has on one of those Madonna microphone headsets so everybody can hear how bored he is.
“Win a bunny for your honey,” he drones. “Win a Tweetie for your sweety. Take home a SpongeBob for your heartthrob.”
He doesn't seem any too thrilled by his own pitch or prizes.
“You know, Danny,” Ceepak whispers, “many of these carnival games are inherently dishonest.”
Since Ceepak will not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those who do, I can tell he considers Mr. Ring Toss Boss a potential Code Violator. To me, though, it's a borderline case, since Ring Toss is, technically, what they call an “amusement.” You pay your money, you take your chances.
“That must be T. J.” I nod toward the bottle boy.
“Roger that.”
Ceepak steps up to counter.
“Six rings for a dollar, sir,” the barker mumbles. “Score two, you're an Elf, win any prize on the bottom shelf.” He points. The bottom shelf is filled with brightly colored crap. Key chains and plastic flashlights and whistles. Crap.
“How much for the plush pig?” Ceepak points to a stuffed hog on the top shelf. He lays into the word “pig” so T. J. is sure to hear it. “The pig in the Harley Davidson outfit?”
“The Harley Hog?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That's top-shelf merchandise. That'll cost you six rings.”
“Six rings on six bottles?”
“Ring six, win any prize you picks.”
Ceepak nods. He understands the rules. “I'll take six rings.”
“You need to ring six bottles to win big, need six to take home the pig.”
“Maybe you should buy more rings,” I suggest.
Ceepak smiles.
“I've studied the game.”
“Really? You can study Ring Toss?”
“You can study anything, Danny, and you'll always learn something.”
Duly noted. He lays a dollar on the counter.
“T. J.? Fix him up,” the barker says to blondie.
The kid counts out six rings.
Ceepak studies T. J.'s hands.
“I see you used thin skins. Did they warm in your pockets prior to loading?”
The kid looks at Ceepak.
“Here's your rings,” is all he says. Then he sort of shuffles to one side. I catch him checking out his hands before he buries them deep inside the pockets of his droopy shorts.
“What's a thin skin?” I ask Ceepak.
“Inexpensive paintball. They have a tendency to burst prior to loading.”
“Win a bunny for your honey!” The barker is back at it. He's lost interest in us. The next sucker with a couple of bucks to toss his way is all that counts.
Ceepak squats under the counter, puts himself level with the bottle tops.
“I've done some preliminary research, and my findings suggest that children win this particular game more often than adults.”
We're drawing another crowd.
“Children, you see, operate closer to bottle level. Therefore, their release point is better, their throwing arc relatively low.”
Ceepak flings his first rubber ring. It wobbles around a bottle neck and slides down.
“If I use a topspin release …”
He flicks another. It rings a bottle.
“… coupled with a sidearm throwing style …”
Dink! Another one.
“… much like that utilized when flinging a Frisbee …”
Dink. Dink. Five in a row.
“… I significantly increase my chances of victory.”
Dink. Six for six. We have a winner. The small crowd goes wild. They applaud and whistle and laugh. Ceepak stands up, and everybody else pushes forward. They all want to play now that he has showed them how to win.
“How the hell did you … ?” The barker looks half pissed off, half amazed.
“Sometimes you just know what you know,” Ceepak says and turns to T. J.
“We're closed!” the barker yells at the crowd. Guys shove money in his face. “Closed!”
“What about my pig?” Ceepak asks. “I want to give it to a friend. Perhaps she'll display it in her restaurant.”
“T. J.? Grab Professor Squat here his Harley Hog.”
The kid takes down the pig, hands it to Ceepak.
“I know what you did, T. J.”
T. J.'s pale face goes about as pink as the pig. “I didn't do anything.”
“Your fingernails.”
The kid flip
s his hands over, looks at his nails.
“Is blue your usual color?” asks Ceepak.
I see it now. There's blue crud under the kid's nails. One of those thin skins must've burst in his hands. He is so busted.
“Is that the douchebag who splattered us?” I look over my shoulder. It's Mook. Where'd he come from?
“Back off, Mook,” I say. “We've got it under control.”
I see Mook jerk his arm up and down. He's shaking a bottle of Fanta grape.
“Douche bag!”
Mook spews a purple gusher at T. J.'s crotch.
“Fuck!” T. J. steps back, throws up his hands.
“Drop it!” snaps Ceepak.
Mook drops the bottle and holds up his hands in mock surrender. The crowd hoots.
“We're closed!” the barker screams. “Closed!”
This isn't going the way Ceepak planned.
“That's enough,” he says. “Move along. Show's over.”
The crowd disperses.
Mook swaggers up to the counter.
“Gotcha, punk! Gotcha good!”
“Sir?” Ceepak says.
“What?”
“Move along.”
“I'm with Danny!”
“Danny? Tell your friend to leave. Now.”
“Mook?”
“What?”
“Go.”
“Fuck you, Danny. Okay? Fuck you.”
Mook talks tough but walks away. Backwards, and with a swagger. Then he flips me the finger—the junior high school version with fingers one and three in the bent knuckle position flanking a fully extended middle digit. Extremely mature.
“I apologize for that,” Ceepak says to T. J.
“Shit.” The kid is staring at his wet pants.
Ceepak pulls out his fifty-dollar bill. “I hope this will cover the cost of any replacement clothing.” Ceepak picks up his Harley Hog.
We turn around to leave. Our crowd has moved on to other boardwalk amusements.
All except one fan.
That creepy guy in the camo shorts. Mr. Bones. He hangs back in the shadows under a pretzel cart awning.
He smiles that bony smile.
Then, he flips me the finger, too.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Mussel Beach Motel is a cozy little cinderblock box on the sandy side of Beach Lane.
Mad Mouse: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries) Page 4