Fun House (3 page)

“Drug dealers.”

He holds up a tiny glass vial, the kind doctors use when giving you a shot. There’s a small sticker glued on the front. Instead of the usual medical mumbo-jumbo, I see a comic-book illustration of a purple muscleman in a hood and loincloth. His head is a skull.

“Might I see that ampule, Mr. Mandrake?” says Ceepak.

Mandrake hands him the small glass container. “The crew found a bunch just like it when they had to move a couple mattresses in the house to set up a shot.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Anabolic steroids,” says Mandrake, striking a bodybuilder pose, pumping his chicken wings, pretending he has muscles.

“From Skeletor,” adds Ceepak.

3

L
AST
SUMMER
, C
EEPAK
AND
I
ALMOST DIED WHEN THIS
boarded-up ride called the Hell Hole started burning down around us.

Despite the dilapidated old ride’s name, the blaze, or, to quote the newspapers, the “roiling inferno,” was caused by an arsonist, not Beelzebub pitchforking up brimstone from the basement.

We had crawled into the shuttered ride to rescue a couple of junkies shooting up something called “Hot Stuff Heroin,” which was being sold by a homegrown Sea Haven drug dealer who calls himself Skeletor, because, according to our sources, he has a thing for the villain from the 1980s “He-Man: Masters Of The Universe” cartoons.

Skeletor, in the animated episodes—and action figure aisle at Toys “R” Us—was a purple muscleman in a hood and loincloth who had a skull for a head.

The cartoon on the steroid bottle? It’s him.

And branding his drugs with cartoons? That’s him, too. “Hot Stuff,” the little red devil from the old Harvey comic books, was plastered all over Skeletor’s white paper heroin bags, the evidence that led us to the Hell Hole ride.

Ceepak and the SHPD, plus a joint federal/state government task force, have been trying to locate and apprehend Skeletor for nearly two years. He and his gang are responsible for most of the drug traffic up and down our eighteen-mile-long barrier island, not to mention the rest of the Jersey Shore.

Needless to say, we haven’t caught him.

As soon as we figure out where he’s set up shop, he disappears. He’s like a ghost or one of those Al Qaeda dudes hiding in their Pakistani caves: always one step ahead of the law and/or the drones.

“Mr. Mandrake, Ms. Shapiro, Mayor Sinclair?” says Ceepak. “Can you please give us the room? Danny and I need to discuss your security detail proposition with Chief Baines.”

“Sure, sure,” says Mandrake, snapping shut his briefcase.

The mayor sidles over to schmooze the producer. “By the way, Marty, my son, who looks great on video, wanted me to ask you—”

“We can discuss that outside,” says Layla, ushering everybody to the door. “You have our phone numbers?”

“Yeah,” I say because I do. Well, I have hers, not Mandrake’s or the Mayor’s. I’m not really into sixty-year-old guys with Billy Goat Gruff beards or anybody who says “Have a sunny, funderful day” on a regular basis.

“Come on,” Mandrake says to Layla, fiddling with his iPhone. “We’re behind schedule. We need to be shooting the beer pong competition.”

Layla smiles at us. “Thank you gentlemen for your time.”

“My son is quite good at beer pong,” I hear the mayor say as their voices fade away.

“How old is he?” asks Layla.

“Sixteen.…”

I close the door and turn around to face Ceepak and the chief.

“What do you think, John?” says Baines.

“I am, of course, conflicted.”

“Yeah,” I say because I haven’t had breakfast and I know there are doughnuts in the break room but an egg, pork roll, and cheese sandwich would stay with me longer.

“Skeletor,” says Ceepak.

“Yeah,” says the chief.

Ceepak tosses the little steroid vial up and down in his hand like a glass peanut. Normally, he’d be whipping out his stainless steel forceps and tweezering the tiny bottle into an evidence bag so he could have it dusted for prints and scanned for whatever he could scan it for. But since the
Fun House
production crew found this particular piece of evidence under a seedy mattress in a skeevy party house, it’s probably way beyond compromised as far as offering us any useable clues.

“This could be the break we’ve been waiting for,” says the chief.

“Indeed,” says Ceepak. “However, we may be forced into an ethical compromise.”

Oh, boy. Ceepak’s not too keen on those.

“We could offer Mr. Braciole and Ms. Kemppainen a deal,” suggests the chief. “They help us nab Skeletor, we drop the charges.”

Ceepak nods. “It’s a possibility.”

Wow. He’s actually considering it.

“The county prosecutor cuts deals all the time, John,” says the chief. “Sometimes, to catch the big fish, you have to let the little ones off the hook.”

Ceepak nods some more. Yes, he lives his life in strict compliance with a rigid moral code and people call him an overgrown Eagle Scout. But hey, this isn’t his first rodeo, as they say, even though I’m not sure why they say it. Ceepak knows how the game is played: we don’t indict Paulie and Soozy on the drunk and disorderly, they give up Skeletor. We let two shrimps skate free to land the big tuna. I’m trying to work with the chief’s fish metaphor here.

“I’m not asking you to lie, cheat, or steal, John. Just to take advantage of the first lead we’ve had on this guy in ages.”

Ceepak thinks. Nods. “Talk to the county prosecutor. See how she wants to play it.”

“You on board if she says cut the deal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You sure?”

“Roger that.”

“What about the other thing?”

“Babysitting
Fun House
?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

“The more time we spend with the reality show cast and crew, the more information we stand to pick up on Skeletor.”

“And,” says the chief, “maybe we can stop another one of those yahoos from passing out on top of some poor kid’s sand castle.”

Chief Baines. Always the dreamer.

“We’ll head over to the TV house,” Ceepak tells the chief. “Start interviewing the residents.”

“I’ll contact the county prosecutor. And John?”

“Sir?”

“Try to stay off camera.”

Ceepak grins a little. “That’ll work.”

As we head out the door, I remember what Dylan Murray said about Paulie Braciole when they processed him here at the house. His screaming, his face going bright orange, his neck tendons tightening up like thick cables.

“Roid rage,” I mumble.

“Come again?” says Ceepak.

“Paul Braciole. Dylan Murray and his brother were the ones who hauled the guy out of the Coin Castle. Said ‘The Thing’ was more like ‘The Hulk.’”

Ceepak stops in his tracks. Ruminates. “Roid rage. Acting in an overly aggressive, hostile manner after taking large doses of anabolic steroids. Manifesting symptoms of schizophrenia, mania.…”

“Tossing Skee-Balls at cops’ heads.”

“An interesting hypothesis, Danny. As you know, many bodybuilders often turn to the synthetic version of the male hormone testosterone as a shortcut to boost their muscle mass.”

Yeah, steroids may make your muscles swell but, from what I hear, they also make other things, such as the family jewels, shrivel down to the size of wrinkled peas. They pump you up, but let you (and your lady friend) down.

“We’ll talk to Paul Braciole first,” says Ceepak. “Good work, Danny.”

“Thanks.”

When we hit the lobby, Dorian Rence, our dispatcher, waves Ceepak over to her cubicle.

“Your mother called. From Ohio.” Mrs. Rence hands him a pink message slip. “She saw you on TV last night.”

“Really? I did not know that she was a fan of the show.”

“Her church friends told her you were going to be on.”

Ceepak grins. Tucks the message slip into his pocket.

“Oh, and an Officer Vic Daniels from the Elyria Police Department called.” She hands Ceepak another piece of pink paper.

“Thank you.”

“That’s up there in Ohio?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Officer Daniels, he’s the same one who called last week. He need help on a case?”

“Something like that. Anything else?”

“No, you’re all clear.”

“Anything for me, Mrs. Rence?” I ask. We all call her Mrs. Rence because she looks like your best friend’s mom.

“No, Danny, sorry. Oh, that Layla Shapiro who signed in earlier, that’s the girl who helped you at the Rolling Thunder, am I right?”

“Yeah. She’s with the TV show.
Fun House
.”

“She’s cute.”

“Thanks.”

Mrs. Rence gives me a quizzical look.

“Danny and Ms. Shapiro have been dating,” says Ceepak to clear up any confusion as to why I would say thank you for a compliment directed at someone else.

“Oh!” says Mrs. Rence. “You’re not with Samantha Starky anymore?”

“No.”

“Well, what about that other one?”

“No,” I say, even though I have no idea what “other one” she’s talking about. To be honest, there’ve been a few.

“Oh,” she says. “Well, be careful out there.”

“Will do,” says Ceepak. “Danny?” He bobs his head toward the door.

We head out the exit, go down the porch steps, and swing around back to the parking lot to pick up our Crown Vic police cruiser.

“You want to drive?” I ask, fishing the keys out of my pocket.

“Negative.”

I can tell: Ceepak wants to use the ride over to the rental house on Halibut Street to ruminate some more. Formulate his line of questioning for Paul Braciole.

“So,” I say after we slide into the car. “That Officer Daniels up in Ohio—he offering you a job or something?”

I add a “heh-heh-heh” to let him know I’m joking.

Ceepak turns. Looks at me.

“Yes, Danny. Officer Daniels, a high school classmate of mine, is reaching out on behalf of the Lorain County Sheriff’s Department. They’re interested in me becoming their new chief of detectives.”

I nod. Swallow. “Good salary?”

“Yes. With an excellent benefits package. Plus, my mother, as you might recall, lives in Lorain County, Ohio. I’d be moving home.”

Ceepak.

The guy will not tell a lie—even when you wish he just would.

4

W
E
’
RE CRUISING NORTH ON
O
CEAN
A
VENUE
.

I’m behind the wheel; Ceepak’s working the radio. By the time we hit Cap’n Scrubby’s Car Wash at Swordfish Street, Ceepak and the desk sergeant have just about worked out a duty roster for
Fun House
’s enhanced security detail.

“We offer shifts to off-duty personnel only,” Ceepak reiterates.

“And retirees,” Sergeant Pettus crackles back through the radio.

“Roger that. Reach out to Gus Davis. He can help you put together a list of names.”

“On it.”

“Tell everybody it’s an eyes-and-ears assignment only. They see something, sense trouble, they radio it in. On-duty SHPD personnel respond in an appropriate manner.”

“It’ll take me about an hour to make the calls.”

“Appreciate it, Reggie.”

“No problem. Hey, this gig will sure beat my side job unloading ice cream pallets at the Acme.”

“10-4,” says Ceepak.

It’s true. Most cops have to work a second job—carpenter, plumber, supermarket loading dock schlub—on their days off to make ends meet. At least half of the SHPD’s eighty-some cops will jump at the chance for a ton of easy overtime pay babysitting the TV show. And Prickly Pear Productions is picking up the tab. It’s what they call a win-win situation. Unless, of course, The Thing starts chucking Skee-Balls at you or, worse, wiggling his nips in your face.

Ceepak reracks the radio mic.

“Take Kipper,” he says when we pass King Putt miniature golf.

I flick on my turn signal.

Even though the Fun House is up on Halibut Street, the production offices are in trailers and Winnebagos lining Kipper and John Dory streets. The streets in this part of the island are all named after fish; farther south, you get trees. After that, the Sea Haven Street Naming Commission just sort of gave up and started going with the alphabet and numbers. There’s even a “Street Street” way down near the southern tip. I think the Commission was meeting over at the Frosty Mug during happy hour when they made that particular decision.

A young Class I SHPD officer in a glo-stick green fluorescent vest waves at us. He’s a summer cop, like I used to be back when I first met Ceepak. The department already has four “seasonal hires” working traffic control in the blocks surrounding 102 Halibut Street, the rundown rental where the TV kids are spending the summer.