Having skipped both breakfast and lunch, I wolf down half my bar in one bite.
Ceepak laughs.
“Hungry?”
“Starving.” When I say it, it sounds more like “snar-vink” because I've crammed so much food in my face.
“You remind me of my little brother,” Ceepak says.
My mouth is full of mashed protein powder and nuts, so I just make a “really?” kind of face.
“Yeah. He was always hungry. Ate fast, too. Afraid somebody would steal his supper.”
“How old is he?”
“He would have been about your age now. Twenty-three. Twenty-four.”
Would have been. Past tense.
More death.
Ceepak puts down his Power Bar and stares out at the ocean framed by tall arched windows behind the dance floor. He balls the wrapper up in his right hand and fidgets with it.
I think the waves are mesmerizing Ceepak, putting him into some kind of trance. I also think he's waiting for the sun to go completely down so he can do what he thinks needs doing under the cover of darkness.
“William Philip Ceepak. Billy.”
“That your brother?”
“He killed himself. Put a pistol in his mouth …”
“I'm sorry….”
“I was already in the Army, so I guess Billy was about eighteen. High school.”
I can tell Ceepak wants to make certain he gets his facts straight, that it's important he remember the details of his brother's death correctly.
“My father is a drunk,” Ceepak says matter-of-factly. “I remember how he used to roughhouse with us and all the cousins when we were kids. Down in the basement. You know-after Christmas, Thanksgiving dinner. Everybody thought he was such a great guy-going downstairs to play with the kids while the rest of the dads stayed upstairs and watched the game and smoked. But the basement? That's where he hid his booze. He swore to Mom he had quit. ‘Cross my heart and hope to spit,’ he'd say. He'd wink at her and she'd laugh. But while we were downstairs, the kids all wrestling on these old mattresses on the floor, he'd sneak under the staircase to where he hid his stash. Whiskey. Vodka. He had quite a collection going, little airplane bottles tucked behind all the baby-food jars filled with nails and screws.
“I was the only kid old enough to know what he was doing. Sometimes he'd catch my eye while he sucked one of those little bottles dry. ‘Don't tell your mother.’ He'd wink at me the way he winked at her. ‘Promise?’ I'd say I promised, because, you know-he was my dad.
“A drunk can be fun. Funny, too. But then, a couple hours later, he usually gets sad and angry and things turn ugly. The wrestling is a little rougher and maybe somebody's head gets banged against the steel pole in the middle of the cellar and there's crying and somebody comes running down to see what all the commotion is about. Maybe your dad roughs up your mom later that same night for embarrassing him in front of all the aunts and uncles, the whole family, and you hear her in their bedroom sobbing and when you run down the hall to help her your father swats you across your face….”
I wonder how long it's been since Ceepak let any of this stuff out.
“Anyhow,” he says, giving me, I”m sure, the abridged version of his time spent in Hell, “what does Springsteen say?”
“About him and his dad?”
“Yeah. Lots of songs on that one. Sons and fathers. Same-old same-old, I guess. ‘Nothing we can say is gonna change anything now….’”
“So you left?”
“Joined the Army. Went overseas. I wasn't around to protect Billy or Mom any more. I deserted my post….”
“No, you were….”
“I wasn't there. Eventually, Billy got out. Sort of. Started hanging out at the church. This new priest came to town and organized a youth group. And the priest? Oh, he was a swell guy, Danny. Young. Cool. Athletic. He had keys to the church school gym, so Billy and his buddies could play basketball any time they wanted. He took the boys on camping trips. Baseball games. Made them into movie stars….”
“Movie stars?”
“He had them pose naked. Do things to each other. Do things to him. The priest put it all on tape and sold it on the Internet. One of the boys? He told his folks what was going on. That takes guts, you know? To tell your parents what this holy man, this great guy, what he's really up to? The cops bust the priest, there's a trial, and pretty soon everybody in town sees the tapes.
“Billy? He toughed it out for three years. Everybody snickering about what that priest did to him. My father? Oh, he was a real champ. Said Billy got what he deserved. Said God, the almighty Father on high, God himself was punishing Billy for trying to run away from his
Ceepak tightens his grip on the Power Bar foil in his fist.
“My father? He's not a real father, Danny. A real father does everything he can to protect his children. He doesn't terrorize his family because he's thirsty for a drink. A real father risks his life to make the world safer for his sons. My father? He called Billy sissy boy. Porno queen. It's like he put the bullets in the gun and all Billy had to do was squeeze the damn trigger.”
I think Ceepak just told me why he has to kill Squeegee tonight.
I don't know what to say.
So I keep quiet and let him look at the ocean.
The sun is gone. The stars are starting to come out. The waves keep rolling up on the beach.
Finally, I feel I should say something.
“So, where's your dad now?”
Ceepak looks at me.
“Don't know, Danny. We sort of lost track of each other.”
“Yeah. Sure. And your mom?”
“She's safe.”
He bites into his Power Bar.
That's all I'm going to get tonight, probably more than anybody has heard in years. Maybe even more than he told the chief, back when they were hunting down that chaplain in Germany. I see now, of course, why Ceepak was so motivated on that particular military mission.
“Well,” Ceepak says, standing up, dusting the crumbs off his lap. “Guess we've wasted enough time….”
“Yeah.”
“Let's start working the hallways. See if-”
We hear a dog bark.
Then this woman's voice.
“Oh, fuck!” she shouts.
In the shadows I see a figure with frizzy hair. It's so dark, I can't see much of her, except her feet. She uses brown paper sacks for socks.
She also has a mangy German shepherd on a leash made out of twine.
The dog barks again.
“I know, Henry. It's the motherfucking fuzz!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
