“It is quite possible,” says Ceepak, “that your cameras caught him leaving the house with his killer.”
Mandrake puts his hands together to make a prayerful pup tent under his nose.
“You’re right. That would be amazing.”
Layla’s nodding. “Fucking incredible.”
Mandrake runs his hand across the air imagining a movie marquee. “The last minutes of Paulie Braciole’s life. Dead man walking.…”
“It would be fucking awesome,” says Layla. “Unfortunately.…”
She trails off.
“What?” demands Ceepak.
“Last night,” says Mandrake, somewhat sheepishly, “we encountered technical difficulties.”
“How so?”
“A genny glitch,” says Layla.
“Pardon?”
“Our power generator,” says Mandrake. “It died last night too.”
13
Layla is wearing that tight white gym top with the low-slung shorts again-the ones that show off her flat abs and diving pelvis bone.
But I’m not falling for it.
Well, I might.
So I’m forcing myself to stare at Marty Mandrake. His belly button is completely covered by a trampoline-tight polo shirt. I believe said belly button is currently drooped somewhere over his belt buckle.
“You run all this on generator power?” says Ceepak, gesturing at the glowing TV screens and blinking buttons in the command center.
“Yeah,” says Mandrake with an ironic chuckle. “Supposed to protect us against blackouts. Capturing real time, the last thing we need is to lose power when something amazing happens.”
“But you did?” Ceepak’s brow is knit with confusion.
“Go figure. Murphy’s Law, huh?”
“Surely you have a crew member whose sole responsibility it is to keep the generator fully functional at all times.”
“That we do,” says Layla. “And the last guy who had the job got fired this morning at five A.M. when I rolled in and discovered we were completely dark.”
“What happened?” I ask. “Somebody forget to swing by the gas station and fill ’er up?”
Layla shoots me a dirty look. “Yeah, Danny. That’s exactly what happened.”
“Officer Boyle,” says Ceepak.
“What?”
“While engaged in official police business, kindly address my partner as Officer Boyle.”
“Fine. Whatever. Jesus.” And then she mutters, “Put down the corn cob.”
Yep. She is mocking me. This doesn’t usually happen until sometime around the fifth date.
“The genny runs on diesel,” says Mandrake. “The guy on the truck, what can I say? He’s an idiot! The union will have to deal with him. I don’t care if he is a fucking Teamster!”
“What about the handheld cameras?” I blurt out.
Layla ignores me; Mandrake grunts a “huh?”
“The cameras you take on location,” I say. “They run on battery packs, right?”
“Yeah. So? They’re not going to help you with when Paul left the house, kid. Those cameras in the bedrooms, they’re all powered by the genny.”
“We’d still like to see the footage from the portable units,” says Ceepak, giving me the slightest head bob to let me know I done good.
“No problem,” says Mandrake. “What’s mine is yours. Last night, we sent the five remaining contestants to a dance club recommended by your mayor, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Big Kahuna’s?” I say, remembering how Sinclair and the owner of that dance barn, Keith Barent Johnson, III, are tight.
“Yeah. That’s the place. We were shooting the opening scenes for our big dance competition, which was going to be the centerpiece of next week’s show.”
“So now it’s Jersey Shore and The Bachelor Pad meets Dancing with the Stars?” I say before Layla can.
Mandrake shoots me a finger pistol. “You’re good, kid. Of course, we’re scrapping the dance-off. Giving everybody immunity this week. No one will get booted out of the house in Episode Eight.”
“Was Mr. Braciole at the dance club?” asks Ceepak.
Mandrake shrugs. “I assume so.”
“Yes, he was,” says Layla.
Ceepak remains focused on Mandrake. “You weren’t at the shoot last night?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Another shrug. “I took the night off.”
Ceepak gives Marty Mandrake his trademark slow and quizzical head tilt-it’s very similar to how a dog will cock its head when it doesn’t understand what you mean by repeating “roll over” over and over.
“You ever take a night off, officer?” Mandrake says with a wink.
Ceepak doesn’t wink back.
“I let Layla and Rutger run things.”
Ceepak takes a step forward. “Where exactly were you, Mr. Mandrake?”
“What?”
Ceepak whips out his trusty notebook and stubby pencil. “We need to account for everybody’s whereabouts.”
“You saying I need an alibi?”
“No. I am asking: ‘Where were you last night?’”
“I was down in Atlantic City. Trust me-I left a trail of credit card charges. A very deep trail. Satisfied?”
“For now. Yes.”
Now Ceepak turns to Layla.
“Were you at the club, Ms. Shapiro? Big Kahuna’s.”
“For the pre-light and first roll. I, too, needed a night off.”
“And where were you?”
She doesn’t give Ceepak any guff, because she just saw how well that tactic worked for her boss.
“I had a date.”
“With whom?”
“A guy.”
“Does this ‘guy’ have a name?”
“They usually do.”
Ceepak waits. Me, too. Curious to see who has replaced me in the whoo-hoo department.
“Phil. No, I’m sorry. Bill. Billy. I met him at the bar.”
“Do you have proof to substantiate your claim?”
“You want to see the used condom?”
Ceepak’s face reddens. “A local phone number will suffice.”
She pulls out her iPhone. Diddles her fingers across the glass.
“I’ll text you the text he texted me after I sent him home at three. Parental discretion is advised. Billy’s totally into sexting. You do not want to open the attachments.”
In my pocket, I can feel my cell vibrating. I let it roll into the message center.
Ceepak puts away his note pad.
“Where is the dance club footage?”
“Still in the cameras,” says Mandrake. “The crew worked late. Didn’t wrap until three, maybe four in the morning. We had to give them an eight-hour turnaround. It’s a union rule. And then boom: Unit Two is down on the boardwalk, covering you guys doing your thing in the Knock ’Em Down booth; Rutger’s here at the house rolling on reactions from Soozy; Unit Three’s down on Ocean Avenue with Jenny.”
“We’ll talk to Mr. Reinhertz first,” says Ceepak.
“Rutger?” Mandrake makes a big deal of looking at his watch. “Jesus, guys-you’re killing me. We’re on a tight schedule.”
“Us too,” says Ceepak. “We’ll be with Mr. Reinhertz.”
Ceepak and I head out the door and tromp down the metal steps. We start hoofing it around the corner, heading for the Fun House.
Suddenly, Ceepak stops in his tracks.
So I stop too.
Ceepak looks me square in the eyes. I have never seen so much parental concern; especially not from my parents.
“I’m sorry that didn’t work out, Danny.”
“Huh?”
He nods back toward the trailer. “Ms. Shapiro. Rita and I both imagined that you two might become romantically involved.”
I shrug. “We only dated a few times.”
Ceepak stuffs his hands into his pockets. Drops his head slightly. We shuffle up the block. All of a sudden, I feel like I
’m on the cover of an L.L. Bean catalog, walking in the woods of Maine, having a man-to-man chat with my dad, who would never actually talk with me this much about “girl trouble.” He’d just tell me to go see my mother or send me to the library to ask for a brochure.
“Given how you two met,” Ceepak continues, “it is understandable that there would be an immediate and overwhelming physical attraction.”
He means the fact that Layla Shapiro and I had met when, together, we defused a very tense hostage situation in the control room of the Rolling Thunder roller coaster. And, by defused, I mean we both could’ve been killed.
“Yeah,” I say. “They say an adrenaline rush is a surefire aphrodisiac.”
Ceepak nods. “But now young faces grow sad and old and hearts of fire grow cold.”
I grin. The big lug has the heart of a poet. Or, at least, he knows how to borrow from one: Springsteen.
We say no more. We don’t have to. The Boss and his music fill in all the gaps.
We keep walking.
Then Ceepak stops again.
There’s a light bulb over his head. It’s a street lamp, but I can tell he’s having an idea too.
14
“We need to contact Gus Davis,” says Ceepak.
“He was working the security detail last night?”
“Roger that. He would have been at the dance club with the cast. Might be able to fill us in on any details about what transpired there.”
We move into a patch of shade under one of the few trees on the block so Ceepak can read his cell phone screen. He puts it on speakerphone mode so I can hear.
“I quit,” are the first words out of Gus’s mouth, before Ceepak says anything.
“Gus, this is John Ceepak.”
“Yeah, I know. My grandkids figured out how to make this caller I.D. thing work. Freaking phone company.”
“Danny and I need to ask you a few questions.”
“You want to know how freaking sick I am of baby-sitting those drunken ding-dongs? You want to know how much I don’t need their royal pain in my butt? They’re freaking animals. You don’t need retired cops running security; you need zookeepers.”
“Gus, have you heard the news this morning?”
“What? That crap about the school board?”
“No. Paul Braciole. From Fun House.”
“Paulie. He the one with the drug problem? Always wants to flash you his high beams?”
“10-4.”
“What about him?”
“He was murdered.”
“Son of a sea cook. When?”
“Uncertain at this juncture. Most likely late last night or early this morning.”
“Crap on a cracker.”
“Were you there for the entire shoot at Big Kahuna’s dance club?”
“Yeah. Didn’t get home till three in the freaking morning.”
“What can you tell us about Mr. Braciole’s movements?”
“They’re terrible. Dances like Travolta with three left feet.”
“Did he go home with the rest of the cast when they finished filming?”
“No.”
I glance up at Ceepak. He gives me the knowing nod.
“Gus? What happened?”
“He was at the bar, doing that T-shirt flasher bit with a hot toddy who looked totally tanked. Anyways, Paulie’s over there, hiking up his shirt, wiggling her his nay-nays; she’s impressed. They chug a few beers, knock back a few shots of Jägermeister, badda-bing, badda-boom, they’re waltzing out the door looking to book the honeymoon suite at the Motel No Tell, if you catch my drift.”
“Did you follow after them?”
“Nah. Couldn’t. That other one, the one with the hair that looks like a dog bowl, he and the two loudmouth dames started in with some of the locals. You know, John Broadwater and that bunch. I think Broadwater wanted to get his picture in the papers decking the smart mouth with the hair, Tomasino I think his name is. So I’m busy breaking that up, because Tomasino’s going on and on about how he’s going to win a quarter million bucks and hire Broadwater to wipe his butt with hundred-dollar bills, crap like that.”
“So Mr. Braciole and this local girl-”
“She might’ve been a tourist. She was wearing high heels and one of those shiny sausage skirts that barely cover her ass, you know what I mean?”
Ceepak closes his eyes. Sighs. “Yes, Gus. I am familiar with the dress style you are describing.”
“Yeah, I’m figuring she’s a tourist. Local girls know better than to walk around town at midnight looking like two-bit tarts.”
True. They usually have the decency to quit around eleven.
“Did Braciole and his date leave the dance club unescorted?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Like I said, I was busy breaking up that thing between Tomasino and Broadwater. I think Ponytail followed Paulie and his floozy out the door.”
“Ponytail?”
“This mug lugging a camera. Has one of those hippy hairdos. He and two other yahoos went chasing after Paulie and Miss Hot Hiney. Some guy with a freaking bright light; another one holding out something fuzzy on a flagpole. Looked like a giant squirrel tail.”
The squirrel tail on the pole would be a boom microphone. Layla taught me that. Back before she met whoever she’d hooked up with last night.
“Thank you, Gus,” says Ceepak.
“You need anything else?”
“Not right now.”
“Good. I’ve got fish to gut. Catch you later.”
Ceepak thumbs the off button. Presses a speed dial.
“Who you calling next?” I ask.
“Prickly Pear Productions. Ms. Shapiro.”
“She’s probably still in the trailer.” Which, I don’t add, is only about fifty feet behind us.
“Danny, to be honest, I’d rather not go back in there again until we absolutely have to.”
I nod. The feeling is mutual.
“Ms. Shapiro? John Ceepak. Quick question. Does one of your cameramen wear his hair in a ponytail?”
He nods so I can see that he has been answered in the affirmative.
“Where might Jimbo and Unit Three be now? Thank you. What? I understand. However, this is extremely urgent.”
Now Ceepak does something I’ve never seen him do before: he makes a duckbill out of his left hand and flaps the thumb and fingers open and shut-giving me the universal “blah-blah-blah” sign.
“Right. Roger that. Okay. Thank you. We have to run.”
Finally, he snaps shut the phone.
“Danny, do you know the Starfish Boutique?”
“It’s on Ocean Avenue. Most expensive clothes on the island.”
“Apparently the cameraman with the ponytail is named Jimbo Green. He is currently filming Jenny Mortadella at the dress shop because she ‘doesn’t have anything decent to wear.’”
Funny. I thought that was the whole point of the Fun House wardrobe: the more indecent, the better.
And then Ceepak adds the kicker: “She needs a black outfit for Mr. Braciole’s funeral. They’re filming it first thing Monday morning.”
15
We head down to Ocean Avenue.
I’m behind the wheel, wondering what the “weekly competition” will be on Fun House: The Funeral Edition.
Casket-tossing?
Competitive pall-bearing?
Maybe they can do a “rose ceremony” with all the funeral flowers. They could form teams and run a gravesite floral-arrangement contest.
We park at the curb outside the Starfish Boutique. Their motto: “Why just be another fish in the sea when you can be the star?” It’s painted on both display windows flanking the front door. The mannequins wear gowns worked over by someone with a BeDazzler.
The glow of a blindingly bright spotlight swings by the window on the left. Jenny Mortadella, led by a sales associate in what they call “glamorous resort wear,” is being trailed by a full camera crew as she heads over to a rack of black garments
. Judging by his ponytail, the man operating the camera aimed at Jenny’s badonkadonk is Jimbo Green.
Ceepak pauses at the front door. He’s polite enough to let Jimbo finish his shot.
“What the fuck is this shit?” Jenny brays, slapping her way through the hanging black dresses.
“These represent the finest in funereal fashion,” says the helpful assistant. “Remember, no matter how somber, funerals are, at their heart, social outings. And, just like weddings, there will be a lot of single, emotional people there. A long black dress with a steep neckline can be respectful and provocative.”
“I’ll fucking melt. You can’t wear fucking black in the fucking sun!”
“Cut!” shouts Jimbo.
“We’re cutting,” echoes his stopwatch-clipboard guy. Off goes the floodlight. Down comes the squirrel-tail boom microphone. Ceepak pushes open the door.
“Mr. Green?”
Jimbo whirls around, camera mounted on his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“I’m Officer John Ceepak with the Sea Haven Police Department. This is my partner, Danny Boyle.”
“Yeah, sure! From the parking lot. ‘Give me the fool’s gear.’ Right on.” He gives us a righteous-dude fist pump. “You two rock.”
“Oh, um, hey, Danny!” says the sales associate.
I recognize her now, even though she’s wearing grownup clothes. Her name is Lissa. We went to high school together. She always looked great in black, which is all she wore, because, back then, she was like our class’s Goth chick poet. Wrote about sea gulls contemplating suicide a lot.
“We need to ask you a few questions,” Ceepak says to Jimbo.
“Cool.”
“Um, can I take my break now?” asks Lissa.
“Yes, ma’am,” says Ceepak. “That might be a good idea.”
“Five minutes, sweetheart!” says Jimbo. “And you did good with the script. Keep it up, you’ll be a star.”
“Ha,” snarls Jenny. “Fat fucking chance.”
Lissa ignores Jenny and breezes past Ceepak and me. I realize she still smells like patchouli oil and pot. I hear a locker bang open and shut in the storeroom. Probably where she stashes her bong or bowl. I guess she wants to stash her weed some place better so we don’t find it.
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