I put on my blue button-down shirt.
It's the only one I own. Soon I'll probably have to buy a tie. Growing up can be expensive.
Morgan's Surf and Turf is crowded. This is one of those places the adults visiting the island go on that one night of their vacation when they hire a babysitter or get Grandma and Grandpa to look after the kids.
Morgan's is classy. The napkins here aren't paper and the place-mats don't come with crayons. The waiters and waitresses, even the busboys, all wear black pants and white shirts. Of course, everybody has on a different kind of black pants and a different kind of white shirt, so the uniform is sort of catch-as-catch-can. One dude may have on black Dockers, another black cargo pants, and nobody seems to iron their white shirts, because ironing usually involves steam, and very few folks want to be pumping steam in August. But all in all, the staff at Morgan's Surf and Turf still looks classier than the folks at Rudy Tootie's Root Beer.
I think I'm thinking about this stuff because I'm nervous, standing up front near the bar, waiting for Ceepak, waiting for the chief—my new boss.
My boss. I'm getting The Job.
“Hey, Danny.” It's Olivia, dressed in black pants and a white blouse, looking classy, carrying a black-and-gold wire basket of crackers. “What're you doing here?”
Morgan's is not where my buds and I typically hang. We're more the Sand Bar types, a bayside beer joint more famous for its party deck than its food. In fact, Olivia usually joins us over there when her shift ends here.
“I'm meeting Ceepak,” I say. “And Chief Baines.”
“Wow. The Job?”
“Yeah. Think so.”
“Way to go, Danny Boy.”
She kisses me on the cheek and hustles off, carrying that basket of cellophane-wrapped crackers to its final destination. They've got Waverly Wafers at Morgan's, not just saltines. Like I said, the place is classy.
“Danny?”
It's Ceepak. He wears a white shirt, gray slacks, and navy blue blazer. He looks like someone who might wave a wand over you at the airport.
“Hey.”
“The chief called. Said he might be running a little late.”
“Should we wait at the bar?”
Ceepak shakes his head.
I get it. You really don't want to be sitting at the bar, knocking back a few cold ones when the chief of police strolls in to offer you a fulltime job on the force.
“Let's see if we can be seated at our table,” Ceepak suggests.
“Hi, guys.”
It's the hostess.
“Just two?”
“No,” says Ceepak. “We'll be three altogether.”
“Oh. Well, we can only seat complete parties.”
“Of course. We'll wait over here.” Ceepak moves to this leatherette bench near the front door. Rules are rules. “Chief Baines should be along soon,” he says to the hostess. “He's running a little late.”
“Oh. You're with the Baines party?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Mr. Baines made a reservation.”
“Different set of rules?” Ceepak asks.
“Whole different rule book.” She grabs a stack of menus. She's pretty and more like Ceepak's age. I think she irons her blouse, too. And—she's wearing a black skirt with black stockings. Very unbeachy. But definitely classy.
“Follow me.”
“With pleasure, ma'am,” Ceepak says.
Is he flirting? I believe he is. He's certainly smiling. His dimples kick in like crazy and his eyes most definitely twinkle.
The hostess looks at Ceepak over her shoulder, hugs that stack of menus closer to her chest. She dimples back at him.
Okay. This could get interesting.
CHAPTER TEN
I'm Rita,” she says after we sit down, taking the cardboard Reserved sign off our table. “I'll be your server tonight.”
“I thought you were the hostess,” Ceepak says. I'm wondering if he'll march back up front if Rita proves to be a hostess impersonator and, therefore, not properly authorized to seat us at this table.
“I am. I mean, I was. I was covering for Norma.”
She gestures toward the front where I see a little old lady in a ruffled white blouse and ankle-length black skirt, her bluish hair sculpted into a stiff bubble. She leans against the sign that says “Please Wait For Hostess To Seat You,” trying not to knock it over. When Norma's shuffling people to tables, I bet you do indeed wait a while to be seated.
“Norma had to powder her nose,” Rita whispers.
“I see. Nice of you to cover for her.”
Rita places menus in front of us.
“I do my best,” she says.
“It's all any of us ever can do,” says Ceepak.
Rita stops. Not only do we not get the whole Welcome-to-Morgan's routine, I think Ceepak just made her forget tonight's catch of the day.
“Would you like some water?” she asks, going with the part of the script easiest to memorize.
“Water would be wonderful.”
I figure Rita is thirty, maybe thirty-five. I know Ceepak is thirty-four. Rita has a big swoosh of blond hair that's too long to be in style, looks more like that Farrah Fawcett poster from the ’70s, the one they still sell on the boardwalk. Her eyes tell me she's probably somebody's mom because they look tired, maybe even sad. I figure her kid is a teenager. I remember my mom's eyes when my brother and I were teenagers—she looked like we never let her sleep. I also figure Rita is a single mom. Maybe it's the way she looks when Ceepak is polite, like maybe her first guy wasn't so nice.
“Would either of you gentlemen like a cocktail?” she asks.
“No, thank you,” I say.
“Not right now,” says Ceepak. “Maybe later?”
The way he says it? I swear it sounds like he's asking Rita out on a date.
“Sorry I'm late.” It's Chief Baines. “I had to meet with the mayor.” He yanks out his chair, sits down.
“Would you care for some water, sir?” Rita asks.
“Sure. Put it in my Scotch.” The chief winks at Rita. “You guys order drinks?”
“Just water,” I say, letting him know what a good boy I am. Our host crinkles his brow.
“You sure you don't want a beer, Danny? I was going to propose a toast.”
“A beer would be good,” Ceepak says.
Okay. Twist my arm.
“Sure. I'll have a Bud.”
We clink glasses, do our toast, and the chief offers me a full-time job starting Tuesday, the day after Labor Day.
“Of course, we'll want you to take some classes at the community college and some training seminars offered by the state police.”
I nod and act like I was already planning on signing up for Criminology 101 this fall even if I went back to busing tables or working at Wal-Mart or that telemarketing gig with the mortgage broker.
Next, Baines tells me Ceepak has requested that he and I partner up.
“You're lucky. An experienced officer like Ceepak can teach you a lot.” Baines tilts his glass in his direction.
“He already has.”
And I mean it.
Now it's time to order. Ceepak and the chief go with Morgan's world-famous cheese-covered concoction of lumpy crabmeat swimming in congealed cream sauce the consistency of wet cement, the dish Katie warned me about.
I order the prime rib. I'm sure it'll clog my arteries, too, but I'm only twenty-five, and I figure I have years to repent for such youthful cholesterol sins.
Silverware scrapes across plates. The chief happily demolishes his crab pie and tells us stories about where he used to work. Florida. He asks Ceepak about Iraq, but all Ceepak says is, “It was something.”
That's as far as he'll go tonight.
So, we move on to a new topic. Labor Day and the big beach blowout.
“I think we're ready,” the chief says. He puts away a huge slug of scotch and water. Licks his lips. “As ready as we'll ever be.”
&
nbsp; After our main courses, Rita comes by to wonder if we'll be having dessert and coffee.
The chief can't. He has to run. He's got a meeting with some MTV folks at the Sea Spray Hotel. He's looking pretty pleased with himself.
He stands up. So does Ceepak. So do I.
“Rita?” The chief signs the credit card slip. “If these two gentlemen order anything else, just add it on. And make sure you give yourself a nice tip.”
“I'm sorry, sir—I can't do that.”
“Oh?” The chief flashes her a dazzling grin. I think he uses those Crest Whitestrips.
“I mean—I can't fill in the tip amount. That wouldn't be right.”
I think I just heard Ceepak's heart skip a beat, and it has nothing to do with cholesterol-clogged arteries. Sounds like Rita has Ethics, maybe even a Code.
“Why don't you just put what we've had up till now on your charge slip,” Ceepak suggests. “Then, if Danny and I order dessert, I'll pick up the tab. I'd like to treat my new partner this evening, as well.”
“Fair enough.” Baines scribbles some numbers in the boxes on the credit card slip and signs it. Ceepak and Rita smile at each other. I enjoy having everybody else pay for my food and booze.
“Catch you guys tomorrow,” Baines says.
“Roger that.”
We sit back down. Rita pulls out her pad.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“Danny? How about another beer?”
“Are you having one?”
“Is it possible for one to call a cab should that prove necessary?” Ceepak asks Rita.
“Of course. Another round?”
“No. I'd like a Sambucca.”
“Very good, sir.” She's impressed.
“And a slice of the Mississippi Mud Pie.”
“Excellent choice.”
“I'll try that too,” I say.
“Would you like a scoop of ice cream on the pie?”
“Of course,” Ceepak says. I think he wants to stay here all night. “Chocolate ice cream.”
“Try the caramel crunch,” Rita whispers. “It's fantastic.”
Ceepak smiles. Nods. “Caramel crunch. That'll work.”
Rita is writing up our drink and dessert order when T. J. walks into the restaurant. What's he doing here? Shouldn't he be out defacing signs and maiming people with paintball blasts? Now he's wearing a Burger King uniform like he works there, too. He heads straight to our table.
“Mom?” He's talking to Rita.
“Hey. What's wrong?”
“Nothin'. I just forgot my keys.”
Rita looks sort of embarrassed to be interrupting our dinner with her personal life. “I'm sorry …”
“No problem,” says Ceepak.
“I'll get my keys,” she says to her son.
“Thanks.”
“Did you eat dinner?”
“Half a Whaler.”
Rita nods her head toward a small table near the back of the dining room.
“Go sit down. I'll have the kitchen fix you some real food.”
Ceepak stands up.
“Is this your son?” he asks.
“Yes. I'm sorry. This is T. J. Thomas James.”
Ceepak sticks out his hand. T. J. takes it. They shake.
“I'm John Ceepak. This is my partner, Danny Boyle.”
I stand up, shake the kid's hand, wonder whether he's had time to scrub that blue paint out from under his nails.
Ceepak doesn't lie about meeting T. J. earlier. But he doesn't rat him out to his mother, either. Rita beams. She's proud to see her boy being treated like such a man.
“Go grab a seat, hon.”
“Okay, mom.”
I polish off my second beer and then hit the head. While I'm gone, Rita brings dessert.
When that's done and there's nothing on our plates but Mississippi mud stains, Ceepak calls Rita back to the table so he can order coffee.
T. J.'s at the staff table inhaling a salad and some fried shrimp smothered with ketchup. I can see that his mom makes him drink a glass of milk, too.
Ceepak pays for dessert and the second round of drinks.
“Should I call that cab?” Rita asks.
“Danny?”
“I'm good to go.”
Ceepak looks at his watch. It's almost ten P.M. He's been timing my beers. Plus, I've had two cups of coffee. I can see Ceepak's internal calculator doing the math.
“No, thank you, Rita.” I guess I made it under the wire. “Everything was wonderful. Best meal I've had since moving to the island. And it was definitely a pleasure meeting you.”
Rita blushes. “I hope we'll see you in here you more often.”
I can't tell whether she's speaking on behalf of Morgan's or herself.
“I'd like that. Danny?”
“Thank you, ma'am. Everything was great.”
“Thank you. Oh—and congratulations on your new job.”
“Thanks.”
Ceepak and I head toward the front door.
“Danny?”
It's Olivia.
“Yeah?”
“Can you guys hang for a second? The kitchen made key lime pie tonight. It's Jess's favorite.”
“Then I definitely need to take him a slice.”
“Thanks.”
“Is he home?”
“No. Working.”
“No problem.”
“You want some, too?”
I never say no to cake or pie.
“Totally.”
Our buddy Jess is a painter, and in the summer he likes to work at night, while it's cool, while he's not dripping as much as his brush.
“He's at that house on Maple,” Olivia says.
“Still?”
“Yeah. Do you guys mind waiting?”
“Not at all,” says Ceepak.
“Cool. Thanks.”
“We'll hang out front,” I say, since we're kind of blocking the flow of traffic near the door.
“Great.”
Ceepak and I head outside.
Morgan's parking lot is still full. Their crab pie really is famous. I guess word about how lethal it is just hasn't gotten around.
“Good place,” Ceepak says.
“Yeah.”
“Top-notch seafood.” He fiddles with the loose fiber on the dock rope Morgan's has strung between pier pilings along the walkway to their front door. On top of each post is an antique-looking brass lantern, the kind you'd find on a ship. Some of the pier posts have nets or lobster traps tied off on them. It's all very nautical. In a bogus kind of way.
Ceepak gazes up at the starry sky and the silhouette of the huge water tower across Ocean Avenue. At night, the water tank resembles a Tootsie Pop for King Kong.
“That was nice,” I say.
“Great meal.”
“No. I mean how you didn't bust T. J. in front of his mom.”
“Here you go, guys.” Olivia comes out and hands me a white paper bag. I unroll the top to peek inside
“Did you wrap the pie up with foil and make it look like a swan?”
I hear two pops.
Olivia's white shirt explodes with green paint.
The bag flies out of my hands and smacks me in the ribs.
“Down!” Ceepak shouts. He grabs Olivia's shoulders and throws her behind a car.
I hear a third pop. My hair goes sticky.
Ceepak shoves me down behind one of the piers. I see him tuck and roll. I hear a snap and feel a rush of wind zip past my head right before some glass shatters behind me.
That wasn't a paintball.
That was a bullet.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Stay down!”
Ceepak scrambles across the parking lot, using the cars for cover.
“Olivia?” I grunt.
“Yeah.” She doesn't sound so good.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I think. Yeah.”
“Stay down.”
“My knees are bleeding.”
“Stay down, okay? Stay behind that car.” I kind of crawl forward. It's hard to breathe. My lungs ache when they push out against my ribs. I check my shirt. No blood. Just bright yellow-green paint. Pretty soon, I won't have anything left to wear.
I drag myself over to the closest car—a big Lincoln in the handicapped spot up front. There's an empty patch of asphalt with blue stripes for unloading wheelchairs. From here, leaning up against the car, I can cover Olivia and see Ceepak. He's all the way across Ocean Avenue and scaling the chain-link fence surrounding the base of that big water tower. I never thought about the water tower as a potential sniper nest before. Just that giant Tootsie Pop.
I figure Ceepak's back in Iraq. Chasing rooftop shooters, looking for bad guys with rocket-propelled grenades. I look to the left of the water tower. There's a two-story house on the corner. The first floor is a shop. A nail salon. They'll paint palm trees on your fingertips. Upstairs is somebody's house or apartment. They have a deck and a widow's walk on top of the roof. I look north. Another house where the first floor is retail space. That house has a dormer, an extra window pierced into the roofline, turning the attic into a bedroom, or somebody's shooting gallery.
Right across from Morgan's, there's nothing but a fenced-in lot for the base of the water tank. I can't remember if there are ladder rungs welded into the tower. We never climbed up to spray-paint our high school team colors on it like they do in Iowa or wherever. We were too busy drinking beer and surfing.
It's dark, but there's some moonlight. I hear the rattle of fence against pole and see Ceepak clear the curled concertina wire up top with a sideways swing of his legs like he's a gymnast doing that pommel horse deal in the Olympics. Pretty impressive. I hear him land hard on the gravel on the other side.
“That was delicious.”
A couple comes out of the restaurant. The man pops wedding mints in his mouth.
“Get back inside! Now! Move!” I scream. I think the guy choked on his mints when I yelled. “Go! Close that door!”
The guy takes a look at me. He looks horrified. I touch my moist head and figure it out: in the dim light of the pier lamps, it must look like my brain is gushing blood.
Mad Mouse: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries) Page 6