Of course they did. Vinnie with Barry Manilow and Jenny with that lousy lounge lizard never had a snowball’s chance in Miami.
“Now Mike and his dad have pulled a fast one,” says Layla. “While Soozy plays for the All American Tanning Team, they have Mike playing for some kind of Save The Starving Puppies charity. Gotta run.”
And she does.
So, with nothing to show for my efforts, I head back to where we’ve set up a police command center under a bright blue tent we borrowed from Mrs. Ceepak’s catering company. We don’t have a craft services table. Just a box of doughnuts and a cardboard jug of coffee.
I hope none of the doughnuts start rolling.
37
BY 1 P.M., WE’RE ALL SET UP. NO ONE CAN GET ON OR OFF the boardwalk without passing through a metal detector and I.D. check, and then they have to be on the magic ticket list if they want to gain access to Pier Two.
Prickly Pear Productions has provided us with the names of pre-screened studio audience members and charity representatives who will start shuffling through security around four—five hours before the live show starts. We have a battery-powered TV set up in our command tent and keep it tuned to the Fun House network, just so we can keep up with any late-breaking developments.
Instead, all I hear is hype about the show: “Will the gang-bangers make good on their death threat and take Soozy K out of the competition for good? Tune in tonight at nine, eight Central, for television’s most exciting, death-defying season finale ever!”
“Danny?” This from Ceepak as he comes up the ramp from where Joey T parked the last of the sand-filled dump trucks.
“Yeah?”
“It appears Mr. Gabe Hess has arrived.” He head gestures toward the All American Snack Shack, which is directly across from the Fun House, on the other side of the Pier Two boardwalk, which, in this section, is about the width of a four-lane highway.
“Why is he insisting on not shutting down for the day?” I ask. “He won’t have any customers, except maybe a couple crew members who get tired of all the free food at the craft services table.”
“I assume,” says Ceepak, “that, for Mr. Hess, who is something of a libertarian, it is the principle of the thing. He refuses to shut down his business simply because someone in authority told him he had to. In fact, given his recent loss, due in no small part to the presence of the TV show here in Sea Haven, he is probably even more defiant than usual.”
I nod. It sort of makes sense. He’s mad as hell and he’s not going to close down his fried Oreo stand anymore.
“I’m going to ask him if he has heard anything from The Creed,” says Ceepak.
“Are they still suspects?”
“We need to cover all bases.”
I nod, even though I still think Ceepak’s hunch about Mandrake is correct but it seems that part of my partner’s penance for tipping our hand to the primary suspect will be to doggedly pursue a few dead ends.
“What would you like me to do?” I ask.
Another head bob from Ceepak. This time it’s something behind me.
“Talk to Rebecca.”
I turn around. Here comes Becca Adkinson, in high heels, a bright orange bikini, and a gauzy floral cover-up that barely does. If I’m not mistaken, Becca has been basting herself in coconut oil and lying out on the Mussel Beach Motel sun deck something fierce. Either that, or she dipped herself in a chocolate swimming pool—like the peanut M&M guy used to do. Her tan is darker than that orange-faced congressman from Ohio; the one who looks like he’s related to The Great Pumpkin.
“Hey,” I say to Becca as Ceepak hikes across the boards to the candy-bar booth.
“Geeze-o, man, Danny—am I gonna get shot?”
“What?”
“All this security. Metal detectors? What’s with those trucks blocking the steps? I had to walk around them and almost snapped off a heel. Is this because of the death threat?”
“Yeah.”
Now I notice that Becca has a green All Access Pass dangling on a chain around her neck, nestling right where her cover-up plunges down to show the world that Becca Adkinson could model swimsuits for Victoria’s Secret without an assist from any of their underwire architecture.
Becca sees me staring at her chest, something I’ve been known to do ever since sixth grade. She was an early bloomer. I was an early gawker.
“My eyes are up here, Danny.”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
Then she kind of adjusts her chest to fluff everything up. “I look hot, though, right?”
“Yeah. So, why are you here?”
“I’m Soozy’s charity.”
“What?”
She shoulder-slugs me. The way my sister would if, you know, I had one.
“Pay attention, Danny Boy. I told you: I’m president of the local SPF chapter. The Skin Cancer Prevention Fund? Soozy’s playing for us tonight. I’m supposed to be like her partner in the mad dash through the Fun House. I’m gonna be on TV!”
“Oh. Cool.”
“So?”
“What?”
“Is it safe?”
“What? Oh, you mean all this?” I casually wave at the battalion of cops and barricades and metal detectors and trucks filled with sand.
“Uh, yeah,” says Becca, adding a look that says “duh, Danny.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s all for show.”
“You’re kidding. What about the death threat?”
“The TV people did it themselves. To boost ratings.”
“Get! Out!”
I shrug. “It’s TV.”
“Oh. Okay. You’re sure I’m safe?”
“Totally.”
Becca beams. “Excellent. I have to go check in. Catch you later, Danny boy.” She bops off to enjoy her fifteen minutes of fame.
“Hey, kid?”
I turn around. Marty Mandrake. It looks like he wants to exit the boardwalk but Vic Daniel, one of the SHPD cops Ceepak has stationed at the metal detectors, won’t let him out. It also looks like Mr. Mandrake isn’t used to people telling him what he can’t do.
I amble over.
“I don’t have all day,” snaps Mandrake. I grin because, basically, thanks to him, I do.
“What’s up?”
“This meathead won’t let me leave my own set.”
“First of all,” I say, “this is Officer Vic Daniel. And, trust me, he wouldn’t be allowed on the force if his head was made out of meat. We have to take this physical—”
“Cute, kid. Cute. Look, I know your partner Cheepak has some cockamamie theory about me,” he flaps his hand toward the Fried Oreo Stand where Ceepak and Gabe Hess are locked in some kind of intense conversation. “But I only gave the crew one hour for lunch and the catering company decides they’re gonna grill everybody a burger.”
I sniff the air. The scents of sizzling beef and charcoal do, indeed, waft on the breeze.
“Smells good,” I say.
“I don’t eat red meat, kid. I need to head over to this veggie place I found. Eat something that won’t clog my arteries and kill me.”
Ah, yes. Marty Mandrake—Veggin’ On The Beach’s best customer.
“We’re trying to keep this area secure,” I explain. “Limit access in and out.”
“I told you, kid: there’s nothing to worry about. The threat is bogus.”
“You seem so sure about that.”
“What? You think I’m running out to check in with my hired killers? This is the finale. Even if I did what your partner claims, why would I need to keep on doing it? After tonight, the show’s over.”
“Maybe you’re cooking up a cliff-hanger. Like they did on Lost. Suck everybody back for another season of fun in the sun.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with Ms. Shapiro.”
No, I want to say, I haven’t. Not for a couple weeks, anyway.
“Come on, kid. Now I only have fifty-five minutes till we’re back.”
I relent.
“Let him out, Vic,” I say. “But screen him again when he comes back. And, Mr. Mandrake, you need to check in before six. That’s when the boardwalk becomes a frozen zone.”
“What?”
“Hey, we’re taking this death threat seriously.”
“See me when you get back,” adds Vic.
“Yeah, yeah.” Mandrake starts muttering as he scoots through the metal detector and hustles across the parking lot to his Mercedes convertible. “Just like fucking Nixon.…”
Vic Daniel turns to me. “Who’s Nixon?”
I shrug. “I think he was president. Before Ford.”
“The car company?”
“Yeah,” I say because it’s easier.
Mandrake climbs into his sporty little ragtop, which is somewhat difficult, given his paunch and general lack of elasticity. He’s powering down the German-engineered roof when Ceepak joins us at the metal detectors.
“Where is Mr. Mandrake headed?” he asks.
“Veggin’ On The Beach. Catering’s serving burgers for lunch today. He’s having a cow about it.”
“Very well. You and I need to leave as well.”
“What’s up?”
“A gentleman by the name of Axel would like to talk to us over on Pier One.”
“Axel?”
“He is one of Mr. Hess’s other brothers.”
“The Creed?”
Ceepak nods. “He’s waiting for us at Pasquale’s Pizza.”
38
AXEL LOOKS LIKE A BALDER HULK HOGAN IN A BACKWARD baseball cap.
Ceepak and I stroll into Pasquale’s Pizza (the best slices on the boardwalk, btw) and see this guy with a white handlebar mustache, Ray-Bans, five tiny golden earrings, and a serious ’tude sitting in a booth by himself. He’s wearing a tomato-red tank top so we can admire the various tattoos displayed on his bulging arm muscles. I particularly enjoy the flaming skull and crossbones on his right biceps. However, the Jesus in the Confederate soldier cap on his left forearm just confuses me.
“You Ceepak?” Axel says to Ceepak. I’m guessing Gabe Hess gave him a description that included the adjective “muscular,” so he knows it’s not me.
“Yes, sir. This is my partner, Officer Boyle.”
We both flash our badges. Seeing how we’re not wearing uniforms, it’s the least we can do.
We slide into the booth. Axel has a crushed Pepsi can and a grease-stained paper plate sitting in front of him. Guess he already ordered.
“Either of you wearing a wire?” he asks.
“Negative,” says Ceepak.
“You packing?”
“Are you asking if we are armed?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course. We’re on duty.”
Axel raises both arms off the table a couple inches. “I’m clean.”
Ceepak nods.
“But I got six brothers covering my back.”
I glance around the pizza parlor. All I see are guys in white aprons tossing dough in the air, tourists lined up three-deep at the counter, and my friend from high school, Sarah Pierce, grabbing drinks for customers out of the cold box.
“Don’t worry,” says Axel, taking off his sunglasses. “They can see you.”
“Gabe informs me that you wish to exonerate your motorcycle club from involvement in the death of his brother, as well as that of Paul Braciole.”
I can’t believe Ceepak just called an outlaw biker gang a “motorcycle club.” Then again, Axel, who looks like he taste-tests every batch of steroids they ship out so he can pump up like Popeye, might have gone ballistic and ripped our heads off if we’d called his “club” something more sinister-sounding.
“Yeah,” says Axel. “We didn’t do any of this shit.”
“What about the stunt at Morgan’s Surf and Turf?” I say.
“Well, yeah, obviously we did that shit, but none of this other. That shit at the restaurant wasn’t the shit I was talking about.”
“You were in no way involved in the death of Paul Braciole?” says Ceepak.
“Nope. Sure, most of the brothers thought he was a douchebag. But being a douche isn’t sufficient grounds for termination.”
Good to know the Creed has rules for this kind of stuff.
“And Skeletor?” says Ceepak.
“No way.”
“And we are expected to take your word for all this?”
Axel grins. At the edges of his Pringle-man mustache, the guy has dimples. “No.”
Now he reaches under the table and pulls out an interoffice envelope somebody in his motorcycle “club” probably stole from their day job.
“This is what we call a good-faith offering.” Axel untwirls the string clasp and slides out a stack of eight-by-ten photographs.
Ceepak flicks the first one over.
It’s a photograph of a Lincoln Town Car parked in a crappy section of some equally crappy city. In some state. Somewhere.
“What exactly are we looking at here?” Ceepak asks.
Axel leans across the table, taps the photograph with a finger. I see he wears the “88” tattoos on his knuckles.
“You see the guy behind the wheel?”
“Yes.”
“That’s Georgio Accardi, driver for Bobby Lombardo.”
“How do you know this?” asks Ceepak, even though it’s probably a dumb question.
Axel smiles. “Let’s just say the Lombardos are friends of friends. You don’t believe me, check it out with the Feds.”
“We will run this by the FBI, have them confirm the identity of the driver.”
“You do that.” He head-nudges for Ceepak to check out photograph number two.
Ceepak flips over the second eight-by-ten.
“Holy shit,” I say out loud.
“Indeed,” says Ceepak, without reprimanding me for my poor choice of words. He’s too shocked.
Because in photo number two, we see a certain young lady, wearing sunglasses and a conservative business suit, toting a boxy attache case and walking up to Georgio Accardi’s Lincoln; a certain young lady who bears a striking resemblance to one Layla Shapiro.
“You know the chick, am I right?”
“From the distance this photograph was taken,” says Ceepak, “it’s hard to be one hundred percent certain.”
“Try the next one. We zoomed in for you.”
Ceepak flips over the third picture. It’s a little grainy, a little blurry, but crystal-clear.
It’s Layla.
“We started tailing these production people as soon as the TV started saying we were the ones who bumped off Paulie Braciole, because we knew we didn’t have nothing to do with that. We figured they did.”
“The TV people?” says Ceepak, not letting on that he had recently reached a similar conclusion.
“Yeah,” says Axel, leaning back in his chair. “You make that big of a stink about something, it’s like a fart, you know what I mean?”
Ceepak looks confused.
So I lend a hand: “He who smelt it, dealt it?”
“That’s right, kid. He who denied it, supplied it.”
“What is in the briefcase?” asks Ceepak.
“Cash,” says Axel.
“How can you be sure?”
“The driver, Georgio, he is like a brother to me, you know what I mean?”
“He is a member of your organization?”
“I ain’t saying he is, I ain’t saying he ain’t. Be that as it may, Mr. Accardi did not like seeing The Creed Brotherhood being maligned on TV. He witnessed the transfer of certain funds from this chicky who works for Mandrake, the big-shot producer who, not for nothin’, needs to take remedial gambling lessons before he heads back to A.C.”
“Perhaps Ms. Shapiro was simply acting as a courier to pay off her boss’s gambling debts,” says Ceepak, back in his let’s-not-jump-to-conclusions mode.
“Maybe,” says Axel. “Only, Georgio says as soon as little miss hot body is out of his Lincoln, his boss gets on
this secure satellite phone he keeps in the back seat, makes a call.”
“This is all hearsay,” says Ceepak. “Where is Mr. Accardi? Perhaps we should talk to him.”
“Sorry. That ain’t gonna happen. And, if you send that black FBI bastard down to A.C. to knock on Georgio’s door, we’re done. I will swear up and down we never even had this conversation we’re having here.”
Guess the Creed has been tailing us, too. They know about Special Agent Christopher Miller’s involvement in our investigation.
Ceepak sighs. “Very well. What was the nature of Mr. Lombardo’s conversation, as reported to you via Mr. Accardi?”
“The meet took place a day or two after you boys found Braciole strung up with the stuffed animals. The money was for a hit. And, get this.” Axel leans in. Looks both ways before talking. “It was, and I quote, a hit for a repeat customer.”
“Come again?”
“Bobby Lombardo tells his contact that this job is being ordered by the same guy who ordered the last one, the one that got all the TV attention.”
“You mean Paulie Braciole?” I say.
Up go his shoulders. “Mr. Lombardo don’t come right out and say it, he don’t name names. He just calls it the ‘other one. From TV.’”
Wow. Ceepak was one hundred percent correct. Mandrake set up both hits. He had his chief lackey, Layla, deliver the down payments, because, I gotta figure, you don’t pay everything up front when you order a hit, in case the contractor doesn’t complete the job. It’s sort of like putting in a swimming pool. You pay the guy up front, the only pool you’re gonna see is where your backyard floods after a good rain.
“Why are you telling us all this?” asks Ceepak. “Why would your friend Georgio endanger his own life to pass along the confidential conversations of a reputed mob boss?”
“I told you: none of us like seeing our name dragged through the mud like this. Saying we took out Skeletor, a brother? That’s shit-canning everything the Brotherhood stands for, man.”
“But you realize, none of this is actionable. As I already stated, it’s all hearsay—”
“Hell, you can at least start looking at somebody besides us for doing Skeletor like that. The Paulie punk, too.”
“Trust me, sir, we are. However—”
Fun House (John Ceepak Mystery) Page 20