When he was done, he took a deep breath and turned to me. Shook my hand.
“You did good out there today, Danny.”
“Thank you.”
“Real good.”
EPILOGUE
Tuesday morning. The day after Labor Day. My first day as a full-time cop.
I head to the house, figuring there are official papers to sign, W-2s to fill out, orientation videos to watch.
Instead, Chief Baines sees me, calls me into his office.
“Officer Boyle?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You did a fantastic job yesterday.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Take today off. You earned it.”
He salutes. I salute. That's that. My first day on the job? It's a day off.
I leave the chief's office, head up to the front desk.
“Have you seen Ceepak?” I ask Gus.
“He's off. Make-good for working the holiday.”
“Oh. Right.”
I check my watch. 8:15 A.M. I guess I could head home, take a nap. Katie's still at the hospital, so I could …
“I hear he has a date,” Gus says.
“Ceepak?”
“Meeting a young lady friend for breakfast.”
“Really?”
This could be fun.
“Where?”
“The Pig's Commitment. Best scrapple in town.”
Now that Gus mentions everybody's favorite breakfast meat, I realize I'm kind of hungry.
I head out the door.
Rita Lapczynski, the pretty thirtysomething waitress from Morgan's Surf and Turf, is sitting by herself in a booth sipping coffee from a curve-handled mug.
Great. Their first date and Ceepak stands her up. My man has much to learn. Perhaps I can teach him. I have more experience in modern dating etiquette. Might be the one area where I'm the Zen master and he can be Grasshopper.
“Hello, Danny,” Rita says when I walk to her table. “Have you eaten yet?”
“No.”
“Sit down then.”
“You all alone?”
“I sure am.” She sounds chipper. Happy about it. “Sit down.”
“Okay.”
“Have you ever had the blueberry pancakes here?” she asks.
“Sure. You ought to try them. The blueberries are baked into the batter, not just, you know, clumped on top.”
This is kind of awkward. It's like I'm on a date with Ceepak's date.
“I know,” Rita says. “That's what I had.”
“Oh. You already ate?”
“We finished a while ago.”
“You and T. J.?”
“And John.”
“Ceepak?”
She laughs. “Does everybody call him by his last name?”
“Most everybody.”
“Ceepak,” she says it out loud, trying it on for size. “I just hope he doesn't start calling me Lapczynski. Doesn't have the same ring. Lapczynski.”
“No,” I laugh. “Guess not.”
Rita looks rested this morning. Her eyes don't seem so sad or weary.
“Is Ceepak still here?” I ask.
“Mmm-hmm.” She gestures over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “Out back. You should go say hey.”
“Yeah.”
I stand up.
“You want me to order those pancakes for you when the waitress comes by?”
“That'd be great. But please-no scrapple.”
“You don't know what you're missing,” she jokes.
“Yes, I do.”
She smiles and I walk past tables crowded with happy tourists talking about how much fun they had on the boardwalk yesterday. I see Mayor Sinclair over in a corner table. A mob of local merchants drops by to congratulate him on the Labor Day celebration's success.
I head into the kitchen, pass the sputtering griddles, smell the sizzling bacon. My empty stomach urges me to stop and devour a skillet or two. Instead, I head out the door.
I see Grace Porter, hands on hips, staring at the back wall of her building.
“You gentlemen do excellent work,” she says.
“Thank you, ma'am.” It's Ceepak.
“Thanks.” And T. J.
They both have paint rollers on poles and are working pink paint over the pig cartoon, covering up the blue paintball splotches T. J. put there earlier.
“Good morning, Officer Boyle,” Grace says to me. “Why aren't you on duty?”
“The chief gave me the day off.”
“Excellent. Did you eat breakfast?”
“No ma'am.”
“I'll bring out a basket of muffins.”
She heads inside.
“We're almost finished with the second coat of pink,” Ceepak says.
“You need a hand?”
“No thanks. T. J. and I have the situation pretty well under control.”
“We're cool,” says T. J.
“Hey, thanks for looking out for Jimmy yesterday,” I say to T. J.
“No problem. Jimmy's cool.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know T. J. designed his own arm tattoo?” Ceepak says. “He's quite talented.”
“I just, you know, like to draw and stuff.”
“He's awesome. Going to redraw the cartoon lines on the pig for us. I'm afraid I'd make a mess were I to attempt such intricate work.”
“It's easy,” T. J. says. “All in the wrist.” He picks up a can of black paint and starts working in the lines, carefully restoring the big pig to its former glory. “See?”
“It's all good. Real good.”
Watching the two of them, I am, of course, reminded of another Springsteen song. I guess Bruce wrote it about his dad. He could've written it about Ceepak though if, you know, the two of them had ever met:
Well so much has happened to me
That I don't understand
All I can think of is being five years old
Following behind you at the beach
Tracing your footprints in the sand
Trying to walk like a man
Like I've said before, John Ceepak has a code he tries to live by. He will not lie, cheat, or steal. He will, however, leave some damn decent footprints for you to try and trace in the sand.
Even if you're a young kid like T. J.
Or an older one like me.
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