Whack A Mole: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

by Chris Grabenstein

  My cell phone chirps.

  Since I'm only doing about twenty miles per hour and Ceepak is no longer sitting next to me, I go ahead and answer it, even though I know it's against the law in New Jersey to drive and talk. On the phone, I mean. You can talk to other people in the car.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Danny! Where are you?”

  It's my buddy Jess.

  “Crawling toward the causeway.”

  “Cool. Head over to The Sand Bar.”

  “Why?”

  “Olivia's here.”

  Jess and Olivia have been together for about two years. They're getting married next Christmas.

  “And?” I know there's got to be more.

  “Aubrey's here, too. By herself. Looking totally hot.”

  Aubrey is a long-limbed beauty who waitresses at a greasy pit of a restaurant called The Rusty Scupper. Ever since Katie left, Jess and Olivia have been trying to fix me up with somebody. Anybody.

  “She's out of my league, bro,” I say and maneuver into the right-hand lane.

  “Dude? She asked us about you.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Totally. She said, ‘Where's Danny?’”

  “No way.”

  “Way. Come on, man. You gotta climb back on that bicycle.”

  He means horse. I think the bicycle is the thing you never forget how to do. The horse is the thing that throws you for a loop but you have to climb back on anyway. I think Katie is more of a horse than a bicycle.

  “You out on the deck?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  “I'll swing by.”

  “Excellent. We'll alert Aubrey.”

  I snap the cell shut and toss it onto the passenger seat.

  For some reason, traffic slows down right before the causeway and then it speeds back up again. Probably some sort of rubbernecking delay. I hope nobody's had an accident. Could be an overheated radiator. Maybe a flat tire. I'll check it out, see if I can help. Hey, a cop is never really off duty. Ceepak tells me that, all the time.

  I move closer to the bridge. I see this curvy girl standing on the shoulder of the road. She's wearing rolled-up military shorts, cowboy boots, and a bikini top. Actually, the top looks more like a bra than a bathing suit. She's sticking out her thumb and every car with a still-breathing male behind the wheel is slowing down to sneak a peek.

  I pull over and roll down the passenger-side window.

  The girl heads over to my Jeep and sticks her head inside. She leans over far enough to give me a pretty good idea of what's holding up the bikini top.

  “Hey,” she says, all breathy and husky, like she thinks a sexy woman is supposed to sound. Her hair is red. Actually, it's more an orange rinse over black roots.

  There's a small stone sparkling near her left nostril, and she's stuck an earring through her right eyebrow—for balance, I guess. I'm figuring she's sixteen, maybe seventeen, tops. She has a Hello Kitty backpack.

  “Got room for one more?” She swipes her tongue slowly across her top teeth. It might actually be sexy if her teeth weren't so grungy.

  I reach over to the passenger window for her backpack, toss it into the back.

  “Hop in,” I say.

  She does.

  CHAPTER SIX

  W.W.C.D?

  What would Ceepak do?

  I should get a hat made like the W.W.J.D. ones the born-again Christian kids wear at the Life Under the Son booth up on the boardwalk. They're always asking, “What Would Jesus Do?” But Jesus never owned a Jeep, so he probably never picked up a semi-naked teenage hitchhiker who sits with her cowboy-booted legs tucked up under her butt in a way that shows off a ton of thigh.

  We're on the island now, approaching the traffic circle right next to King Putt Golf, this miniature golf course where I once scored a hole-in-one on Cleopatra's Loop-D-Loop. You have to shoot your ball up an alligator's snout and wait for it to twirl out the tail.

  Finally, I come up with something to say.

  “So, where you headed?”

  “The beach.”

  “Cool. Which beach?”

  She giggles. “Um, the one near the ocean?”

  I laugh. She laughs. I laugh some more.

  “I mean what street? See, down here, we sort of name the beaches after the streets that dead-end into them. Like Oak Beach is near the east end of Oak Street. Tangerine Beach, Tangerine Street. Maple….”

  “Maple.”

  Maple Beach is pretty close to where I used to hang out when I was her age. Like a decade ago.

  “Where do you live?” I decide to ask.

  “Jersey,” she says.

  Oh.

  “What exit?”

  In the great state of New Jersey, it's standard practice to pinpoint someone's hometown by either their Turnpike or Garden State Parkway exit number. Some lucky people even have both. Me? I'm Exit 62 on the GSP. The Turnpike doesn't come down the shore—it goes to Delaware, instead. Guess it's a much more serious roadway.

  My passenger doesn't answer.

  We're at the red light at the traffic circle.

  “Come on—what exit?”

  “Sorry,” she says. “Not on the first date.”

  “Oh? Is this a date?”

  She leans forward. Her lip gloss smells like test-tube strawberries or some other kind of chemical fruit.

  “If you want it to be….”

  Fortunately, the stoplight changes to green and the New Yorker behind me wastes no time blaring his horn up my bumper.

  “Fuck you!” the girl screams, and flips the guy the finger. “Asshole!”

  I concentrate on making the right turn. Applying pressure to the gas pedal. Letting the New Yorker pass me. Grinning foolishly when he shakes his fist and shouts something you'd never hear in a Disney movie.

  “I'll drive you to where you're going.”

  “Thanks,” she says.

  “So, you hitched all the way down?” I ask.

  “Cheaper than taking the bus.”

  “True….”

  “I don't have my own wheels.”

  “I see. What about your parents?”

  She doesn't answer that one.

  “It's totally easy to hitch.”

  “Totally dangerous, too.”

  She gives me a “whatever” rise and fall of the shoulders. “I'm careful. I never climb in with any, you know, raggedy-ass skeezers or anything.”

  She says this like I should be flattered.

  “Of course,” she adds, “I'm always willing to pay my way.”

  “Unh-hunh.”

  “Always.”

  “Unh-hunh.”

  “There's a couple totally happy truck drivers on the Turnpike right now.”

  “Hunh.”

  I'm focusing on the road but I can feel the heat radiating off her skin as she leans in closer. I smell strawberries again. It reminds me of that weird, day-glow-red stuff they pour on top of ice cream at Skipper Dipper for the folks who don't do hot fudge. Suddenly, a wet tongue is swirling around inside my ear.

  We swerve into the left lane.

  “Sorry,” I say, regaining control of my vehicle—if of nothing else.

  “You want to pull over and mess around some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “We could party.”

  “I'm kind of late.”

  “For what?”

  “I'm meeting some friends.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “The Sand Bar. Burgers, beer, that kind of thing.”

  She moves back into her seat. Thinks for a minute.

  “I'm hungry,” she says. “I forgot to eat lunch.”

  I see my out.

  “Well, if you're planning on hitting the beach, you really need to wait until after you go swimming to eat.”

  Yes! This is what Saint Ceepak would do: he'd lecture this Nympho of the Highways about stomach cramps. He'd do his duty and obey the Scout Law: to help other people at all times;


  to keep himself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.

  Morally straight.

  That's the part I need to concentrate on right now.

  “What's your name, anyway?” she asks.

  “Danny. Danny Boyle. How about you?”

  “Stacey.”

  “Stacey what?”

  “Just Stacey for now, okay?”

  “Sure. Stacey.”

  “A nice, cold brew would be totally awesome.”

  “Yes, it would. But are you anywhere even close to twenty-one?”

  She leans forward in her seat. I glance over just to make sure there's no tongue aiming at my ear.

  “Do I look twenty-one?”

  She looks like trouble, is what she looks like. I'm starting to wonder if I should take this girl back to the mainland. Maybe Avondale. Trenton. Edison. Sea Haven, after all, is the only Jersey township I'm sworn to protect.

  Instead, I make a right turn and we head to The Sand Bar.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Sand Bar is a vinyl-sided three-story building on the bay side of the island, with three levels of party decks under blue canopies out back.

  I figure I'll take Stacey inside and feed her—buy her a burger, maybe some curly fries—but no beer. Then I'll call Ceepak. Ask him what to do.

  After we're parked, Stacey reaches into the back to unzip her backpack and pull out “something a little nicer” to wear for dinner. Good thing, since she's dangerously close to violating the eatery's longstanding “NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE” edict in her bra-and-combat-shorts ensemble.

  “Where's my top?”

  Finding it seems to require wiggling her bottom a lot. I decide it's time for me to step away from the vehicle, as we say on the job.

  I check out the restaurant's upper deck, where my buds usually hang.

  Jess sees me, waves down.

  “Hey!” he hollers. “Where you been?”

  “Traffic.”

  “Too bad. Aubrey had to split. What took you so long?”

  As if on cue, Stacey climbs out of the car. She's wrapping on this prairie skirt and adjusting a turquoise tube top. It fits her like a sausage skin.

  Jess leans back and shoots me a double thumbs up.

  It's not what you think, I gesture.

  He gives me a sure, sure nod 'n' wink.

  As Stacey walks toward me, the tube top is straining to keep everything in place. I try not to pay attention to the struggle.

  “Where's the little girls’ room?” she asks, giving me a bored look. Now that we're here maybe she's thinking it's not her kind of scene.

  “Go to the bar and make a left.”

  She puts her hands on her hips, leans back, checks out the upper deck. “Those your friends?”

  I see that Olivia has joined Jess at the railing. They're both cradling longneck Buds. Watching us.

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. I'll meet you guys upstairs.”

  “Where'd you find her?” Olivia asks.

  There's no bullshitting Olivia. She's way too smart. She's goes to med school up in New Brunswick and comes home in the summer to earn money for the stuff all her scholarships don't cover. And Olivia's pretty intense. I guess that's why she and Jess are such a good combo. He's totally mellow—works as a house painter when he's not too busy goofing off or surfing.

  “She was hitchhiking,” I say. “Causing a traffic jam near the causeway.”

  Jess nods. “So you took prudent police action, right?”

  “I figured I needed to take her someplace safe. Yes.”

  “Sure,” says Jess. “Someplace safe. Like a seaside bar. Good call. It's like a convent in here.”

  “This is only temporary,” I say. “I'm calling Ceepak. We'll try and find her a bed….”

  Jess raises an eyebrow.

  I fling an onion ring, nail him on the nose.

  Olivia shakes her head, takes a pull on her beer. Jess and I reach for the onion rings. We're all sharing a basket before we decide what we actually want to eat.

  “So,” she asks, “you think your friend got lost trying to find the bathroom?”

  I check my watch. She's right. Stacey should have joined us half a bottle ago.

  “I'll be back.” I head downstairs.

  The place is packed. Lots of guys and girls making a mosh pit around the bar. Lots of noise. Music. The bleeps and bloops of electronic pinball machines.

  I don't see Stacey.

  I check the hallway outside the restrooms.

  “Excuse me,” I shout to the girl at the head of the line. There's bass-thumping music blasting out of the concert-sized speakers suspended from the ceiling. “Are you waiting for a redhead to come out?”

  She looks puzzled.

  “What?”

  “The girl who's in there—is she a redhead?”

  “No. Blonde.” Now she grins. “You like redheads?” She steps into a dusty beam of light.

  She's a redhead. She's also extremely drunk.

  “I'm looking for my sister,” I lie.

  “Too bad.”

  The music breaks into a fuzz-box guitar solo that growls enough to cover my exit. I head back into the bar. No Stacey. Frustrated, I decide to head through the crowd and make my way outside.

  I see more people clustered just beyond the door, smoking cigarettes and laughing.

  Then I see my Jeep.

  Both doors are wide open.

  I hustle over. The Hello Kitty backpack is gone. The papers and crap I stow up under my sun visor are scattered all over the driver's seat. Looks like everything is still there except, of course, the twenty-dollar bill I keep hidden for emergencies.

  Next, I check the cup holder. My coins have been cleaned out, too. At least she left me my Dunkin’ Donuts coffee mug. At least I no longer have to search the yellow pages for the local Runaway Teen Shelter .

  My cell phone—which, thank God, I had tucked into my shorts before heading into The Sand Bar—chirps. I wonder if it's Stacey, Little Orange Robbing Hood. I wonder if she found my number somehow, and is calling to laugh at me.

  I snap it open.

  “Hello?”

  “Danny?”

  It's Ceepak. I dial down my rage.

  “Hey. What's up?”

  “Are you busy?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  All of a sudden I hear this big “woof.”

  “What's that?” I ask.

  “Barkley,” says Ceepak.

  “You're still at the shelter?”

  “No. We're home.”

  Another woof. I guess it was inevitable. Ceepak adopted the prisoner.

  “It's all good, boy.” I hear Ceepak say, and suddenly Barkley is quiet. I think somebody just got another Pupperoni. Ceepak comes back on line. “Sorry about that.”

  “What's up?”

  “Danny, if it's convenient, can you meet me at Captain Pete's?”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. Now. Say five, make that ten minutes?”

  “Sure. What's up?”

  “The captain went treasure hunting this afternoon.”

  “Oh. Did he find another old shoe?”

  “No. A charm bracelet.”

  I roll my eyes. I can't believe this. Ceepak wants me to spend my night off gawking at a charm bracelet?

  “Danny?” he says, as if he can read my mind over the telephone.

  “Yeah?”

  “It should prove extremely interesting. Pete found something else.”

  “What?”

  “A picture of the girl who lost it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I say my goodbyes to Jess and Olivia, snag one last onion ring, and walk the two blocks up Bayside Boulevard to Gardenia Street and Cap'n Pete's Pier House, where he keeps his boat and runs his charter business.

  It's not really a house. Looks more like a motel office straddling a dock. There's an ice machine out front, a picnic table, and a little sign detailing
the daily tide table and Pete's hourly rates. There's also a wide breezeway along the side of the building that takes you out to the dock and the Reel Fun, Cap'n Pete's trusty sport-fishing vessel.

  The building's decorated with funny coconut pirate heads and party lights—brightly colored ones shaped like flamingos, tropical fish, and chili peppers—strung all over the place. Hanging near the front door he has one of those battery-powered parrot-in-a-cage things that flaps its wings and repeats whatever you say. Inside, there's a rubber Billy The Bigmouth Bass that sings “Take Me to the River.”

  You go fishing with Cap'n Pete, even if you don't come back with anything but a sunburn, you're guaranteed to have a good time.

  Looking around, I don't see Pete anywhere, so I go to the office and knock on the screen door.

  “Cap'n Pete?”

  No answer. I shield my eyes, peer inside.

  The singing fish plaque is hanging on the wall behind the little desk where you hand Pete your credit card or sign the clipboard with the liability waiver papers. Next to it is a framed photo of Pete's wife and kids and, next to that, one of his mother. When we were kids, we used to call his mom, Mrs. Molly Mullen, “Cap'n Hag.” Not to her face, of course. She used to run the office and hated kids. Thought we made everything we touched sticky. Yelled at us to wait outside while our parents went into the office to fork over their cash.

  We didn't mind. This meant we got to hang out on the dock with Pete, pick out our fishing rods, laugh at his goofy jokes and riddles. Guess the Cap'n got his funny genes from his father, because his mom sure didn't have any. Maybe that's why she left Pete's dad and moved to Sea Haven.

  Anyway, old Molly Mullen died about fifteen years ago, and Pete took over the whole operation. That's when all the decorations went up and children of all ages rejoiced.

  I knock again.

  “Yo! Cap'n Pete?”

  I move around the office, walk under the breezeway, and hit the dock. There's a plastic table out here where Pete cleans and guts fish for the folks who want to cook what they caught but prefer to see it looking like it does at the grocery store. But instead of Styrofoam and shrink-wrap, he tidies up their catch and presents it to them in newspaper. A pile of the Sea Haven Sandpaper, our local weekly, is stacked inside a milk crate.