working, level-headed boys who don’t drink Bacardi for breakfast, date San Juan hotties or, you know, other boys.
“Interestingly,” says Professor Ceepak, “the 1994 earthquake in Los Angeles resulted in a four-fold increase in sudden deaths due to heart attacks. In 1991, when Iraq launched scud missiles at Israel, heart attacks doubled. A widow grieving the loss of her husband will see a fifty percent increase in her chances of sudden death due to a heart attack.”
Stress. It’s why I still surf, boogie board, and drink beer on a regular basis. It’s all part of my heart-healthy lifestyle.
But I remember what Skippy said: His mother didn’t want to ride the Rolling Thunder. She was afraid of roller coasters.
But Kevin probably convinced her she needed to be there for PR purposes, the same way political wives have to be there when their husbands call a press conference to confess that they’ve just had an affair with a hooker they met on the Appalachian Trail.
But what if Kevin O’Malley, for whatever reason, wanted to scare his mother to death?
Pretty easy way to get away with murder.
You don’t need a gun or knife or poison or any kind of weapon at all.
You just need to build a big, honking roller coaster.
6
We pull into the parking lot behind the house.
There are about a dozen white cruisers (detailed in beachy turquoise and flamingo pink) angled into slots on the hot asphalt. The cop cars are flanked by assorted civilian cars, including my Jeep. Ceepak, on the other hand, rides his trail bike to work, lets his wife Rita have their one car, a dinged-up old Toyota.
The Sea Haven PD building looks like a sprawling split-level suburban home where the world’s biggest ham radio operator lives. We have this huge antenna tower with all sorts of booms and masts angling off it-and still, our TV reception in the break room stinks.
When we hit the lobby, Chief Buzz Baines, who looks like a handsome TV anchorman back when they all used to have mustaches, is escorting a lumbering Italian bear through the gate in the wooden railing that separates the police from the public.
Bruno Mazzilli. The baron of the boardwalks. He now owns all four of the amusement piers jutting out into the ocean, including Pier Four, which he purchased at a steal according to what Samantha Starky’s mom told me. Mrs. Starky works in real estate. She knows who owns everything and how much they paid for it. Makes me nervous sometimes. Then again, I don’t own anything except my Jeep, and I sort of share that with PNC Bank.
“Ceepak! Boyle!” The chief sees us. “Awesome work out there this morning, guys. Awesome.”
“I only wish we had reached the roller coaster car sooner,” says Ceepak.
“Hey,” says Bruno Mazzilli, “your number’s up, it’s up, am I right?”
Ceepak does not answer.
Mazzilli turns to the chief. “So, you’ll lean on the M.E.?”
The chief’s mustache twitches. “I will ask Dr. Kurth to make her findings public ASAP.”
“Good, good. That’s all I’m askin’. Sooner people hear my partner’s wife had a heart attack because, you know, she had a bum ticker or whatever, the sooner they know it wasn’t our fault. We spent a fortune making sure Rolling Thunder is one hundred percent safe.” He turns to us. “Thanks again, boys. You made the whole town look good, runnin’ up the roller coaster like that and all. Makes tourists feel comfortable coming down here knowin’ we got a world-class police operation. The roller coaster reopens next weekend. Let me know if you guys need free tickets. I’ll fix you up with a stromboli, too.”
Mmm. Stromboli. A rolled-dough sandwich stuffed with salami, provolone, pepperoni, peppers, garlic, and onions, then baked so the grease soaks into the crust. If you don’t puke it up on the first hill of your roller coaster ride, you’ll fart it out on the second.
“See you ’round, Buzz.”
Mazzilli leaves.
“You guys hungry?” asks the chief, maybe picking up on that whole stromboli thread.
Truth be told, I’m starving. I skipped breakfast, figuring I might snag some fried chicken fingers rolled in Cap’n Crunch on the boardwalk. But then we had to run up a few scaffolded hills, instead.
Ceepak? The man could live on bran flakes, fruit, and power bars.
“Sam Starky brought in doughnuts,” the chief adds.
Ceepak must see the starved-puppy look in my eyes.
“Doughnuts sound good,” he says.
I shrug. Try to not drool.
Ceepak smiles. “After you, Danny.”
I lead the way to the break room and I hear this playful little chuckle behind me.
Ceepak. I think me and my stomach amuse him.
“You guys were incredible! I heard the whole thing on the radio, and then Cliff dedicated that Springsteen song, ‘Local Hero,’ to you two, and I said to my friend Kim, ‘I know those two guys, in fact, one’s my boyfriend.’ Here, Danny. This one is the Vanilla Kreme, the kind with the wedding cake white frosting you like in the middle, not the custardy yellow gunk you don’t like because it reminds you of …”
She almost says snot because I think I said it on one of our Sunday-morning-after-Saturday-night Dunkin’ Donuts runs. The Bavarian Kremes. Who wants to see that much mucus in the morning?
Sam bubbles on. “You want some coffee, Ceepak? This box is regular, this box is French vanilla.”
Why do I think there was a third box of hazelnut that Starky has already guzzled? Then again, maybe not. Samantha Starky is a lot like a Colombian coffee bean: naturally caffeinated. She was a part-time summer cop last year, took a bunch of criminology classes at the nearby community college, then decided she’d rather be a district attorney than a police officer, so now she’s cramming for her LSATs.
Her naturally percolated state? Very conducive to good grades.
“So, Danny, how’s Skippy holding up?” she asks.
“Okay, I guess.”
“He looked rather shaken,” adds Ceepak. “I think he blames his brother Kevin for insisting their mother ride the roller coaster this morning. Apparently, she was somewhat reluctant to do so.”
“Wow,” says Sam. “The whole family must feel horrible.”
No, I want to say, not the youngest son. He’s all kinds of happy. And Peter. We haven’t heard from him yet because he’s gay and they wouldn’t let him ride the ride.
“My mom heard that the funeral will probably be this Friday at Our Lady of the Seas. Poor Skippy.” Sam has met Skip. On one of our dates, we played miniature golf at King Putt, the course he works at for his father. “I bet this is tearing him up.”
“Yeah.” I say. “He always gets kind of emotional.”
Actually, Skippy cries a lot. Has ever since elementary school when he was the kid you’d see bawling his eyes out when he missed the ball in kickball.
I don’t hang out with Skip O’Malley too much anymore, not since this one time at the Sand Bar when we were all sharing a couple of pitchers of draft and, as a joke, my buddy Jess played that Garth Brooks song on the jukebox, the one about lives left to chance and how he didn’t want to miss the dance, and Skippy couldn’t take it. The guy sobbed through a whole stack of paper napkins.
“He really wanted to be a cop,” says Starky.
“Indeed,” says Ceepak. “Unfortunately, if I’m honest, he did not display a genuine aptitude for the job.”
He must be remembering busting Skippy’s chops for yammering on his cell phone in the middle of Ocean Avenue a couple of summers ago when he was supposed to be directing traffic around a sewer excavation.
“Yeah,” says Sam. “And then, of course, last fall he cheated.”
