Fun House (23 page)

“Did she say why?”

“No. But then again, she didn’t seem too interested in me anymore neither, so we didn’t actually, you know, discuss matters much.”

“And why did you come over here today?” asks Ceepak.

“Because for like a week, Soozy wouldn’t answer my calls, my texts, nothing. Then, today, she sends me this text. Two letters. ‘GL.’”

“What does that mean?” asks Ceepak.

“Either ‘good luck’ or ‘get lost,’” I say.

“Exactly,” says Eric. “Or maybe God I Love You, Eric.”

Yes, the man is a dreamer who doesn’t really understand how abbreviations work.

“The correct answer was ‘Get Lost?’” says Ceepak.

“Yeah. So I take a ride up here, we have a face-to-face, then Soozy calls for the two rent-a-cops and they call for you.”

“What did Ms. Kemppainen say during your talk?”

“That she don’t need or want me no more. That if I show up again, it’ll piss off Tomasino and she needs him to think they have something going on. That’s her strategy or whatever, at least up to the finals. Then she’ll screw the guy over because, trust me, that girl will do whatever it takes to win the big bucks. Quarter million dollars can make a person do some crazy shit, you know what I’m saying?”

“Did she tell you anything else?”

“Yeah. That I should ‘climb back on my fucking tricycle and get the fuck out of her life.’ That kind of made me mad.” He drops his eyes and fiddles with a fringe flap on his vest. “Sorry if I gave those two security guards a heart attack or whatever.”

“They will be fine,” says Ceepak. “They are both retired police officers and, even unarmed, know how to handle themselves in crisis situations.”

Ceepak doesn’t say it, but what he means is: “Gus Davis and Andrew Stout would have whipped your leather-fringed ass, biker boy.”

Instead, Ceepak turns to stare at Hunley’s bike.

He walks over to it.

Touches the seat. Runs his hand along the long leather cushion.

“Danny?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Let’s head back to the Mussel Beach Motel. I want to run an experiment.”

“Am I free to go?” asks Hunley.

Ceepak snaps out of his temporary trance. “Do we have your word that you will stop harassing Ms. Kemppainen?”

“Who?”

Geeze-o, man, this guy is thick. “Soozy K,” I say.

“Oh. Yeah. I’m pulling for Jenny Mortadella now. She’s way hotter. I dig tattoos on chicks.”

“Do not come within one hundred yards of any of the show’s contestants,” says Ceepak.

Hunley puts up his hands. “Don’t worry, dudes. I’m out of it. Fucking reality chicks are too phony for me.”

Ceepak nods. “Mr. Hunley, are you free for the next hour?”

“Huh?”

“You could be of great service to us and Sea Haven.”

Hunley shrugs. “Sure. I’m free. Besides, I figure I owe you guys one.”

“Then kindly follow us on your motorcycle down to the Mussel Beach Motel.”

“Cool.”

“Danny?” Ceepak gives me a head-bob toward our police cruiser.

Guess we’re escorting Eric Hunley back to Becca’s motel to run some kind of experiment.

I just hope it’s not that one about the pool water changing color when you pee in it.

29

W
E
’
RE CRUISING SOUTH ON
B
EACH
L
ANE
.

I glance up into the rearview mirror.

Eric Hunley is right behind us, tooling along on his Harley, leather fringe flapping in the breeze. He looks like one of the old hippies in that movie
Easy Rider
.

Over in the passenger seat, Ceepak is cogitating, a form of heavy thinking that, in his case, involves a knuckle pressed to his lips and a partial shuttering of his eyelids.

“So,” I say, “you think, maybe, Soozy killed Paulie?”

The knuckle stays up, but the half-open eyes peer over at me. “Pardon?”

“Eric says Soozy will do anything to win the quarter-million dollars. You think she bumped off Paulie?”

“Firing one perfectly aimed bullet to the head, then hauling his body on the back of a motorcycle to the Knock ’Em Down booth, where she hung him up on the wall in the middle of the stuffed animal prizes?”

Okay. When you say it like that.…

“Well,” I say, refusing to quit while I’m behind, “maybe she borrowed Eric’s motorcycle. Maybe Eric did the shooting. Maybe they did it together.”

“Interesting. Apparently, Danny, you and I are hypothesizing along parallel paths.”

We are? I thought I was just saying stupid stuff to get him to tell me why the heck he’s over there chewing his knuckles.

But he just turns back to his window, stares at the buildings blurring by.

I pull into the parking space out front you’re supposed to use when registering at the Mussel Beach Motel. We’re right outside the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window of the office. I can see Becca inside, aiming a remote at the television set mounted in the corner, right above the window air-conditioner Mr. Adkinson decided to hang through the wall because the only window that slides open was too far away from an electrical outlet.

Ceepak’s already out of the car and looking through the window at the TV set.

“I wonder if that’s the press conference,” he mutters.

On cue, Marty Mandrake and Mayor Sinclair appear on the screen. They’re outdoors, standing behind a Plexiglas-topped podium in front of an ugly white wall where blocky letters spell out “Borough Hall, Sea Haven, N.J.”

Eric Hunley putters into the space next to our cop car, takes off his helmet, shakes out his shaggy hair. In his bare chest and vest, he looks a little like a bloated version of one of those beefcake cover boys on the romance novels my mother likes to read and then store in her bathroom on top of the toilet tank near the dish of pink soaps shaped like seahorses.

“Mr. Hunley?” says Ceepak. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to catch a little of the news conference before we get started with our experiment.”

“No problem. I’ll hang here. Need to give my tan a booster shot.” He closes his eyes, flaps open the vest, leans back to soak in the rays.

“Danny?” says Ceepak.

“I’m with you,” I say and we head into the motel office.

“That’s not him,” says Becca when we whoosh open the glass door.

Ceepak and I must look confused, because she clarifies:

“That guy on the motorcycle. That’s not the guy I saw out back that night. He’s too big. The guy I saw was more, you know, average. Five-seven, five-nine. Slender waist.”

“Thank you, Becca,” says Ceepak. “That’s very helpful.” Now he gestures up to the TV. “Have they started?”

“Yuh-huh. Mayor Sinclair said he hopes everybody is having a sunny, funderful day, and that, to let the terrorists know they can’t scare us, the show must go on.”

On screen, Marty Mandrake steps to the podium. He has to adjust the two gooseneck microphones on the podium because he’s taller than Mayor Sinclair. Then again, so are many Chihuahuas.

“Thank you, Mayor Sinclair. Ladies and gentlemen, as my esteemed colleague just said, Soozy K has received a death threat.…”

“I can’t believe they’re announcing it like this,” grumbles Ceepak.

Me? I believe anything. TV people have no shame. You ever watch that show where people who weigh five hundred pounds dance? Or that one where parents send in video clips of their kids slipping on ice?

“But,”
Mandrake continues,
“the show must go on. With the help of the Sea Haven Police Department, who have beefed up security around our Fun House, we will complete our exciting summer season, despite the heinous death threat leveled against Soozy with a special, two-night season finale spectacular next Thursday and Friday.”

Somebody applauds. My guess? Mandrake brought along his script girl Grace, the lady with all the stopwatches around her neck.

“You know,”
Mandrake continues, giving the cameras an awshucks shuck of his head,
“it was Soozy K, herself, who, just this morning, came to me and said ‘Marty, we can’t quit now. If we do, the bad guys win. And then what was all our sacrifice for?’”

Ceepak is shaking his head slowly. I think he’s heard this argument one too many times. He has also seen its consequences. My partner spends a lot of his vacation days and holidays visiting Army buddies in VA hospitals or, worse, cemeteries.

“And it isn’t just about winning the quarter-million dollars for Soozy,”
says Mandrake,
“because, in the finale, our two remaining contestants will also be playing for their favorite charities. Whoever wins, their charity wins too! Ten thousand dollars!”

The assembled crowd of reporters and assorted Borough Hall hangers-on applauds, even though it sounds like the charities are kind of getting stiffed.

“Soozy has already picked her charity: SPF!”

“Yes!” says Becca, pumping her fist in the air. “Whoo-hoo!”

Okay. I have no idea what an SPF is or why it makes Becca so happy.

Then Marty Mandrake explains:

“The American Skin Cancer Prevention Fund wants to make sure everybody tans safely.”

“I’m president of the local chapter,” says Becca.

Of course she is. Tanning is her life.

“Mike, Vinnie, or Jenny will also be playing for a favorite charity,”
says Marty Mandrake.
“That is, if your votes put them through to the final round.”

I wonder what charity Jenny Mortadella picked. The Italian Deli Meat Anti-Defamation League?

“Now, to play it safe,”
Mandrake
says, “the network and I have reached a unanimous decision: Soozy K will receive immunity in next Thursday night’s show. She’s going straight to the Friday finals, which will be broadcast live from the Sea Haven boardwalk behind a ring of steel; the tightest security ever thrown up around a network TV show! We’ll make it fun, but we’ll keep it safe!”

More applause.

I shake my head.

Mandrake sounds like a condom commercial.

30

“T
HEY
’
RE PUTTING HER THROUGH
?”
SAYS THIS GUY WHO JUST
walked into the motel lobby, toting a cardboard carton.

“Yeah,” says Becca.

“That means only the other three compete next Thursday?” The guy puts his box on the counter.

“And two of ’em get cut,” says Becca who, apparently, watches
Fun House
religiously. “Because they already did that immunity deal for the funeral show, so two heads have to be on the chopping block.”

The guy nods, pulls out his cell phone.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Tomasino,” says Becca with a big, bright smile. “Mike’s going to make it to the finals, too. He’s got my vote!”

“Thanks, Becca.” Now he looks up from his phone, realizing that there are two police officers in the room with him. “You two with the SHPD?”

“Yes, sir,” says Ceepak.

“Thanks for all you’re doing to keep our kids safe and the show on the air.”

“Actually,” says Ceepak, “I had recommended that the show be cancelled.”

Mr. Tomasino shakes his head. “You heard the mayor. We do that, the terrorists win. Thanks again for your service.”

He heads out to the parking lot where the cell reception is better. As I watch him walk into a sunny spot of asphalt, I glance over to Eric Hunley, who’s still sitting on his bike, eyes closed, holding open the sides of his vest so his chest can soak up the sun.

“You guys seen enough?” asks Becca, remote aimed at the tiny TV.

“Roger that,” says Ceepak.

Becca presses the
“OFF”
button. Marty Mandrake and his smiling goatee shrink down into a tiny white dot.

“That was Mike Tomasino’s dad,” says Becca. “They live in Philly, so Mr. T rented a room with us for the show’s final week.”

So, I guess even The Mussel Beach Motel is making money off
Fun House
.

“Are you guys gonna like bring me more suspects to check out?” Becca asks, flicking her blonde head toward the window and the biker outside. “Is this what they call a line-up?”

“Actually, Mr. Hunley is here to help us conduct an experiment of sorts.” Ceepak gestures at the five-foot-tall stuffed Batman propped up against the front window. “Becca, if you don’t mind, we’d like to borrow your Batman doll.”

“Um, okay. Oh, can you ask Mr. Tomasino what he wants me to do with his inflatable Ab Balls?”

“Come again?”

“Mr. Tomasino and his son, Mike, they’re marketing these inflatable Ab Balls. I guess if Mike wins, they’ll be huge.” She pulls a limp orange, white, and yellow striped beach ball out of the box. On the white panels there’s a screen-printed logo: “Mike Tee’s Hard Body Ab Ball.”