We're not flashing lights or wailing sirens, but we have scooted over to Ocean Avenue so we can zip south a little faster. Along the way, we pass The Ice Cream Scoop Sloop, Cap'n Scrubby's Car Wash, The Bagel Lagoon, and The Treasure Chest Gift Shoppe. What can I say? We're a tourist town on an eighteen-mile-long strip of sand and surf. I think the Chamber of Commerce only recognizes businesses with seminautical names.
The Mussel Beach Motel is a two-story, horseshoe-shaped stucco box with a sign out front advertising a Newly Refurbished Pool.
"They should change that sign,” says Ceepak as we pull into the parking lot.
He's right. Becca's dad fixed the cracks in the swimming pool a couple years ago so the sign is, basically, lying—Ceepak's honor code extends to billboards.
"Officers!"
A bald man with horn-rimmed round glasses comes out of Room 114 windmilling his scrawny arms up over his head.
"Mr. Ryan?” says Ceepak.
"Yes. What took you so long? These people are ruining my vacation."
In the distance, I can hear animated voices.
"Get outta my face!"
"No. You get outta this room!"
"Calm down, Connie."
"Get out. Seriously."
"They're on the second floor,” says Mr. Ryan, his voice shaky. I don't think he's used to dealing with confrontation. At his height (short) and weight (puny), I don't blame him.
"Have you registered a complaint with the management?” asks Ceepak.
"Who? That blonde bimbo in the office?"
Ceepak narrows his eyes. That “bimbo” is our mutual pal Becca who has been known to wear her bathing suit on the job because, well, she looks extremely good in it.
"Ohmigod. Did he call you guys?” It's Becca. She comes out of the motel office wearing the terry cloth wrap she usually puts on after sunset. “Mr. Ryan, I told you I'd take care of it!"
"But you didn't, did you? You should evict them."
"Mr. Ryan?” This from Ceepak.
"Yes, sir?"
"Perhaps it would be best if you went back into your own room."
My partner is a six-two tower of power who could probably bench press two Mr. Ryans with one arm, so when he makes the suggestion, Mr. Ryan quickly agrees and scurries back into his motel mole hole.
"It's the DePinna family,” Becca says with a sigh, leading us over to the outdoor staircase leading up to the second floor. “There's, like, twenty of them. Family reunion. Eight rooms. Checked in this afternoon. I think Mr. Ryan is ticked off because, well, he was supposed to check out today and then decided he wanted to stay, but I couldn't let him keep the room he'd been in because the DePinnas wanted a block all in a row, you know?"
"Sure,” I say. “Makes the family fights easier to organize."
Becca shrugs. “What can I say? They're Italian. They're passionate."
She's probably right. It's why operas are so loud.
"This is also, like, an engagement party,” says Becca.
"Come again?” says Ceepak.
"The youngest daughter, Connie, is getting married in September, so they're all here to show their love and support—"
"Get outta here, Donna!"
"Make me."
"Shut up, tramp."
Oh yeah. You can just feel the love in the air tonight.
We reach the second floor, head up the balcony.
"Connie's always been your freaking favorite!” I hear a woman holler as we pass Room 202.
"I think they're in the parents’ room,” says Becca. “Room 210."
Great. We have to listen to this family feud all the way down to the far end of the second floor balcony.
We pass a couple of pudgy, dark-haired boys sitting in lawn chairs outside their rooms, totally enjoying listening to their mothers scream at each other, shaking Doritos bags over their faces so they don't miss a crumb.
"Donna's right! Connie's your baby so you spoil her! She always gets anything she wants."
"Oh . . . my . . . gawd! I did not ask for it, Jackie. Seriously."
"That's enough!” says an angry older man. “You girls apologize to your mother!"
"For what?"
"Saying those things you just said."
"What, Dad? Oh, you mean telling the truth?"
"Knock it off, Jackie!” shouts a woman who, it seems, has enough clout to get everybody else in the room to shut up. “Sit down Donna! Leave Connie alone. The youngest daughter gets the ring. That's the way it's always been and always will be. I was the youngest. My mother gave it to me when I got married. Connie's my youngest. She's getting married, she gets the ring. When the time comes, she'll pass it on to her youngest daughter."
"But, it's a Tiffany diamond, mom!"
"So?"
And that's when we knock on the door.
It swings open.
"What?” The woman just on the other side puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head sideways to let us know how annoyed she already is with us. She's probably thirtysomething. Bronzed skin and thick raven hair. Her upper arms look like they have their own personal trainers. Her face has that tough wife-of-the-Roman-emperor look. “What?” She says it even more annoyed this time.
"Uh, well,” Becca stammers.
"We received a noise complaint,” says Ceepak.
The Roman empress gives my man the once-over with her dark, angry eyes.
"You're freaking kidding me."
"No, ma'am. We would not be here otherwise. I'm Officer Ceepak. This is my partner, Officer Boyle."
The woman spins around in a huff. “Can you freaking believe this? Someone called the freaking cops."
"For what?” whines the other thirtysomething woman in the room. This one has a vague family resemblance to the woman at the door, except most of her facial features have been professionally smoothed out, her cheeks tightened up into bongo drum heads.
"For making too much noise,” I say.
"Noise?” says a white-haired woman in a white pants suit as she strides across the suite.
"The shouting and stuff."
"Shouting?” Now she puts her hands on her hips, and I figure that's where her daughter, the one who looks like Caesar's wife, learned how to do it. “We were having a family discussion."
"Rather loudly,” says Ceepak. “We heard you down on the first floor."
Now the young girl, the one who's probably my age, gets up from the edge of the bed. Her eyes are a deep rich brown—the color of chocolate chips after they melt. She's wearing a two-piece tomato red bathing suit that hides only what the law requires it to hide, because like Becca, she has the taut, tan body to walk around in drip-dry underwear 24-7. When she flashes me her dazzlingly white smile, I am hit with the same lightning bolt that knocked Michael Corleone for a loop in the original Godfather movie when he first set eyes on Apollonia while hiding out in Sicily.
"Danny?” whispers Becca.
Becca and I have been friends since forever. When I fall in love at first sight—something that happens on a semiregular basis with scantily clad, olive-skinned beach babes—she can usually tell.
"I'm sorry, Officers,” the young girl gushes in a husky voice that fits her even better than the bathing suit. “I guess our celebration went a little overboard. I'm Connie DePinna. I'm getting married!"
She wiggles her right hand. It sparkles.
"My mother like totally surprised us all and gave me the Galuppi family diamond."
I hear Becca gulp.
"Yunh-hunh. Two carats."
"Two point five,” says the mother.
"Um, would you like me to lock that up downstairs in the office safe?” Becca asks.
The bride-to-be giggles. “Of course not. I'm never going to take it off my finger."
* * * *
All the DePinnas promise not to yell so loud the next time they have a family discussion. We send everybody back to their rooms.
The older ladies, Jackie and Donna, go all icy on their baby sis
ter once we're outside their parents’ motel suite.
"What time you guys want to hit the beach tomorrow?” Connie asks.
They don't even answer, just clack away on their stiletto high heels.
"We're still family, you guys!” Connie pouts at their backs.
Both sisters give her an over-the-shoulder, one-digit Jersey salute.
"Oh . . . my . . . gawd. I can't wait to show Billy!” Connie gushes, recovering nicely from being blackballed by her sisters. Abandoned by her seething siblings, Connie is left with Ceepak, Becca, and me. We escort her and “the Galuppi family diamond” all the way down the balcony to room 202. “The diamond is cut into a heart shape because a heart is like the universal symbol of love and junk."
"Are you sure you don't want me to lock that in the safe?” asks Becca.
"Positive. It's too amazingly beautiful to hide, don't you think, Officer Boyle?” She wiggles her hand in front of her chest. I try to stay focused on the sparkly diamond.
"You need to take extra precautions when vacationing with precious jewelry,” says Ceepak, always the overgrown Eagle Boy Scout. “Keep your door locked at all times. If you leave the room, take the ring with you. I'm certain the hotel maids here are honest, however professional jewel thieves familiarize themselves with cleaning crew schedules and procedures and—"
"Don't worry, Officer. I am never taking this freaking thing off my finger."
"Then,” says Ceepak, “be aware that sand and concrete can easily scratch the precious metals in the band. Chlorine in the swimming pool can, likewise, weaken and discolor the gold . . ."
We reach room 202, and Connie opens the door.
"Yo,” says the young guy jiggling air conditioner controls inside the room, over near the thick drapes. “This thing is like still making noises. This hotel sucks.” He's dressed in flip-flops, baggy shorts, and no shirt so he can show off his chiseled chest and gold chain collection. He kicks the through-wall AC unit. Sheet metal shakes. The condenser thrums awake. “Hey, Connie—what was all the hollerin’ about?"
"Mom gave me the freaking diamond! The Galuppi!"
"For real?"
She struts over, jiggles her hand in front of his face.
"Whoa. Awesome."
"Totally."
Now the droopy-eyed dude spies the two cops and one hotel manager clustered in the doorway.
"Wazzup, dudes?"
"Oh,” says Connie. “Somebody called the cops. Said we were making too much noise."
"For real?"
Ceepak steps forward. “Sir?"
"Yo?"
"Are you Miss DePinna's fiancé?"
"Yeah,” says Connie. “This is Billy. He gave me this other ring!"
Now she shows us her left hand.
Geez-o, man. Looks like Billy needs to land a better job. Experts on these things say you should drop two months’ salary when purchasing your beloved's engagement ring. Judging by the tiny chip of glass on Connie's ring finger, Billy clears maybe a buck fifty every four weeks.
"Perhaps,” Ceepak continues, “you can convince Miss DePinna to safeguard her valuables downstairs in the hotel safe."
Connie giggles. “I already told you, Officer—"
Billy wraps his arm around Connie, clutches her at the hip. “Don't worry. I won't let the DePinna family jewels out of my sight."
"It's the Galuppi diamond,” says Connie. “From my mother's mother."
Billy shrugs. “Whatever."
"Will you be staying in this room with Miss DePinna?” asks Ceepak.
Billy laughs. “I wish."
"My parents are soooo Catholic,” says Connie, lowering her eyes, hoping none of us are nuns. “They don't believe in, you know, premarital relationships."
"So they stuck me all the way down in Room 211. Right next to their freaking room!"
"I can look after my own valuables,” says Connie. “I don't need Billy or the Sea Haven Police Department or the motel safe. I'm not a baby."
"No,” says Billy, “but you're my baby, baby.” He tugs her closer. She giggles again. I'm ready to hurl.
"Very well,” says Ceepak, checking his wristwatch. “Come on, Danny. We have a summons to serve."
"Roger that,” I say. It's what Ceepak always says, so I decide I might as well say it too.
Ceepak gives Miss DePinna a two-finger salute off the brim of his cap. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss DePinna. However, I hope we are not called back to meet you or your family again."
"Don't worry, officer. My sisters are just upset. They'll get over it. Blood is thicker than water. At the end of the day, we're family."
Ceepak just nods.
Then he, Becca, and I head for the staircase.
"Thanks you guys,” says Becca.
"If there is a further disturbance—"
"There won't be. I promise. I told my parents I could handle running the motel on my own and I can! Oh, is, uh, Jim working tonight?"
"Officer James Riggs?” says Ceepak.
"Yeah."
Big Jim Riggs is the resident bodybuilder on the Sea Haven police force. I don't think he does steroids, but he sure has the kind of muscles you usually only see popping up on the cop stripper at a bachelorette party, the guy who does the lewd limbo with his nightstick. Becca and Big Jim have been “dating” on and off for a couple months.
"He, uh, stopped by for coffee this morning."
Right. Coffee.
"And he, you know, forgot his baseball hat."
Ceepak nods. “We'll be happy to run it by the house as Officer Riggs will need the, uh, regulation cap to maintain his professional appearance and to be in full compliance with Chief Baines's all-officer dress code."
"Right,” Becca mumbles. “It's in the office."
"Roger that."
We clomp down the metal steps, squeeze past a few bumpers in the parking lot, and step into the motel office. The walls are decorated with a stuffed fish, a couple paint-by-number oil paintings of lighthouses, and a window air conditioner jammed through the wall because Mr. Adkinson didn't want to buy a three-prong extension cord and put it in a window.
"Are they leaving?” This from Mr. Sean Ryan, who is standing in front of the swirled-blue fake marble counter. Apparently, he didn't stay in his room like Ceepak suggested. “Did you evict them?"
"No, sir,” says Ceepak.
"I told you, Mr. Ryan,” says Becca, “the DePinnas booked my whole second floor for a full two weeks. It's why I needed your room."
"Rest assured, however,” says Ceepak, “that we have asked the DePinna family to keep any future family discussions down to a dull roar."
"But . . .” Ryan sputters. “I read the rules!"
Ceepak cocks an eyebrow. “Come again?"
"In the frame on the back of the door. It says loud and abusive noises are prohibited. Boisterous activities too! It's right there with public urination—"
"Look, Mr. Ryan,” says Becca, “we cut all our guests a little slack in the summer. Everybody's here on vacation, right? Didn't I accommodate you, even though you didn't have a reservation? You were a walk-in."
Ryan exhales loudly. “Fine. But, if those people . . ."
"If they cause another public disturbance,” says Ceepak, “we will be back."
Ryan nods. Shoves his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. “Okay. Thanks.” And he shuffles out the door.
Becca hands me Big Jim Riggs's cop cap (totally avoiding making eye contact on the pass-off).
"Thanks, Danny boy,” she mumbles.
"No problem,” I mutter back.
Then Ceepak and I head back to our Crown Vic cruiser.
We need to go ruin the ring toss boss's night.
* * * *
The week clicks by like normal.
We write up people doing forty-five in a twenty. That's shorthand for speeding like a maniac through a residential street clogged with kids lining up behind the Skipper Dipper ice cream truck, the one with the annoyin
g dinky-donka-ding-ding music.
We clean up a few fender benders and issue a ticket for defiant trespass (without laughing) to this guy at the Schooner's Landing shopping complex who was wearing inappropriate attire: a woman's bikini top, a pair of extremely short jogging shorts, and a very snazzy feathered pillbox hat. Kids were pointing. Grannies were having heart attacks.
At roll call on Wednesday, Chief Baines passes out an FBI JAG (Jewelry and Gem) bulletin about a YACS (Yugoslavia, Albania, Croatia, and Serbia) gang that's been running “smash and grab” operations in the Philadelphia area, smashing out jewelry store windows, grabbing thousands of dollars worth of gold and gemstones.
Half our visitors every summer hail from Philly, so it's conceivable a herd of YACS could head down the shore. Conceivable but not very likely. Which is good news for Connie DePinna: A couple YACS see that Galuppi family rock, they might haul her home in a sack to Sarajevo (I only memorize the names of foreign cities where they've had Olympics).
Thursday, we have a day off. But that doesn't stop Ceepak from ticketing a car he sees parked in front of a fire hydrant on his walk home from the gym.
I call Becca to see if she wants to grab a burger over at the Rusty Scupper.
"I can't,” she says. “These DePinnas are driving me crazy, Danny!"
"You want me to come over? I could wear my cop cap."
"No. I want them to quit complaining."
"About what?"
"Let's see: the towels, the pool, the breakfast buffet, the beach badges they lost, the ice machines, which, by the way, they empty every night so they can fill up their coolers even though my dad has signs up asking people not to do that! They say they're going to write a letter to the Better Business Bureau and trash the motel online. Tell the world the Mussel Beach Motel is a dump. Worst motel on the Jersey Shore."
"I'm sure your mom and dad are gonna love that."
"They'll never let me run my own place."
"What?"
"That's the plan. My dad wants to expand. Buy another motel, put me in charge."
I hear noise in the background.
AHMM, June 2010 Page 4