I pull away from the curb, real, real slow. I can't see any signs but I assume 10 m.p.h. is below the posted speed limit.
I can't afford two fifty-dollar tickets in one day.
The late-night guy on the radio is saluting “The Summer of '96,” reminding us what idiots we were back then.
Great.
He's going to make us listen to her warble like a bird that just sucked helium.
It's almost midnight. We're the only ones on the beach. Most of the houses beyond the dunes are dark because they're rented to families with kids who wake up at six A.M., watch a couple of cartoons, and are ready for their water wings and boogie boards around six fifteen. The parents need to go to bed early. They probably also need vodka.
I like the beach at night. The black sky blends in with the black ocean and the only way to tell the two apart is to remember that the one on top has the stars and the one below has the white lines of foam that look like soap suds leaking out from underneath a laundry room door.
Katie's sitting with the other girls around our tiny campfire, smooshing marshmallows and gooey Hershey bars between graham crackers. I bet she's the kind of kindergarten teacher who'd let you have s'mores in class on your birthday. She's that sweet, even though she grew up faster than any of us. Her parents died eight or nine years ago. Car wreck.
I need another beer.
I slog up the sand to the cooler. Mook and Jess are hanging there, probably talking baseball, about the only thing they still have in common. Mook wears this floppy old-man bucket hat he thinks makes him look cool. He has one hand jammed in the pocket of his shorts, the other wrapped around a long-neck bottle of Bud, his thumb acting like a bottle cap. The world is his frat house.
“Hey, Danny …” Mook shakes the Bud bottle. “Think fast.”
He lifts his thumb and sprays me with beer. Now it looks like I just pissed my pants.
Mook's belly jiggles like a Jell-O shot, he's laughing so hard.
“Jesus, Mook.” Jess says it for me.
I forgot about Mook's classic spray-you-in-the-crotch gag. One of his favorites. He also used to buy plastic dog poop at the Joke Joint on the boardwalk and stuff it in your hamburger bun when you weren't looking.
“Very mature, Mook.” I wipe off my shorts.
“You're not going to arrest me, are you, Detective Danny?”
“No. I'll let you off with a warning. This time.”
“You want a beer, Danny?” Jess fishes a long-neck out of the watery ice.
I check my watch.
“What's with the watch?” Mook saw me. “You're actually waiting an hour between brewskis? What a weenie! Your cop pal is a hardass. And that haircut! Who does he think he is? GI Joe?”
If Mook knew Ceepak like I do he'd realize: GI Joe probably plays with a Ceepak Action Figure. The guy's that good. I shake my head, ignore Mook, and mosey away with my beer.
Becca, Olivia, and Katie are sitting in short beach chairs, the kind that put your butt about two inches above the sand. I plop down with them.
“Someone please remind me why we hang out with Mook,” I say.
Becca shrugs. “Because we always have?”
I guess that nails it.
On the radio, the deejay's yammering about
They've been hyping this Labor Day deal all month. Come Monday, the beach will be so crowded, you'll be lucky to find enough sand to spread out a hand towel, maybe a washcloth.
The radio throbs with “C'mon 'N Ride It (The Train)”-a bass-thumping dance tune from the Quad City DJs, the same people who gave the world “Whoot, There It Is.” The choo-choo song was big in 1996, the summer The Marshmallow Crew first got together and somebody said, “You know what? We should do this again next summer!”
“Hey, let's dance!” Katie pops up, like she's ready to teach us all the hokey-pokey-the adults-only version.
The girls fling off flip-flops, kick up sand. Becca cranks up the volume on the radio, shimmies her blond hair like she's in a shampoo commercial. I attempt to get my groove thing going. Basically, when I dance, I stand still and sway my hips back and forth. Tonight, I also “move my arm up and down” as the singer suggests. Lyrics like that are extremely helpful for those of us who are dance impaired.
“Hey, isn't dancing on the beach against the law?” Mook brays like an annoying ass. Actually, the herky-jerky moves he is currently making should be ruled illegal. “You gonna haul us off to jail, Danny? Get your picture in the paper again?”
Ceepak and I got some press back in July. The wire services and magazines picked up the Tilt-A-Whirl story. I was semifamous for about a week. On top of being obnoxious, Mook sounds jealous.
Fortunately, any thoughts of Harley Mook drift away when Katie sashays over to dance with me instead of the whole group. She opens up her arms, swings her hips, invites me to move closer.
Then I hear these pops.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Like someone stomping on Dixie cups up on the street.
I'm hit.
My chest explodes in a big splotch of fluorescent yellow.
Katie's hands drop down and fly behind her. She must be hit, too.
Pop!
A paintball hits the radio and sends it backwards. The batteries tumble out. The music dies.
Pop! Snap! Pop!
We're all hit-splattered with this eerie yellow-green paint that shines like a cracked glow stick. My sternum stings where the paintball whacked me.
“Danny?” It's Becca. She sounds hurt. “Danny?”
She sinks to her knees and brings a hand up to cover her eye.
It's fluorescent yellow and red.
The paint is mixing with her blood.
CHAPTER TWO
Call nine-one-one,” I yell. “We need an ambulance.”
Jess is on it. He whips out his cell phone while I check out Becca.
“Danny?”
She has her hand cupped over her eye. Blood trickles down her cheek, streaking through caked paint.
“It hurts.”
“I know …”
“Motherfucking kids.” Mook's right but not much help.
“Grab some ice, Mook.”
“Danny-you're the cop. Go catch the little fuckers!”
“Go grab some ice,” I say again.
“I'll get it,” says Katie. She's keeping cool, like she must when one of her kids topples off the monkey bars.
