That’s where Mr. Joseph “Sixpack” Ceepak has parked his red pickup truck.
11
I race across the asphalt to the King Putt office-this pink stucco building shaped like one of the pyramids: you get your balls and putters in the base; the O’Malleys keep the books and computers up in the peak.
A couple of kids, tears streaking down their cheeks, come running out of the office, screaming, “Mommy! Daddy! Mommy! Daddy!”
I see parents near a minivan.
“Sea Haven Police,” I say, even though I’m wearing baggy shorts, sandals, and a Hawaiian shirt. “Please stay in the parking lot. We have a situation inside.”
Hey, if Mr. Ceepak is in there, we probably do.
When I enter the office, the first thing I see is Skippy O’Malley behind the counter, panic in his pie-wide eyes, a terrified cat in his arms. Skippy’s in his official King Putt costume: a fake bronze breastplate, striped skirt, and a Pharaoh hat.
The cat he’s clutching to his chest-a tabby with pointy ears very similar to those on the carved Pharaoh cats propping up the brochure racks-is hissing angrily at Ceepak’s dad, who is standing in front of the cash register, swinging a putter back and forth like he might shatter a display case on his next shot.
Ceepak and Rita have putters, too. They’re standing to the right, in front of a Coke machine.
“You want me to call for backup?” I shout.
Ceepak-the good one-shakes his head. “No need, Danny.”
Mr. Ceepak swivels around. Stares at me with glassy eyes. I have a feeling that this morning he swilled what he could out of all of Big Kahuna’s empty beer bottles before he tossed them in the Dumpster.
“Boyle,” he slurs. “Good name for you, kid, because you’re a goddamn boil on my butt I can’t get rid of no matter how much puss I squeeze out of it!”
Great. Not exactly the kind of description you want to hear so soon after wolfing down a Chunky’s Cheese Steak with extra cheese.
Mr. Ceepak staggers back around and lurches toward his son, gripping his putter under the head so he can hold it like a ball-peen hammer.
Rita retreats half a step.
Ceepak does not. In fact, he nonchalantly hands Rita his putter. He doesn’t need a weapon to face his sorry excuse for a father.
“Where is she, you sanctimonious sack of shit?”
“I’ll ask you once more to refrain from using foul language.”
“Fine. But first-you tell me where the hell your mother is hiding.”
“As I stated previously,” says Ceepak, striding forward, not at all afraid of the golf club quivering in his old man’s hand, “she is where you will never find her.”
“She has my fucking money! Three million dollars!”
“You are mistaken. Aunt Jennifer willed that money, in no uncertain terms, to Mom, and Mom alone.”
“What’s hers is mine.”
“So you keep saying. However, according to the divorce papers-”
“We’re Catholic, Johnny.”
“While you were in prison, she had your marriage annulled by a church tribunal.”
“She can’t do that.”
“She did.” He hands his father a piece of paper.
Mr. Ceepak takes it. “What the fuck is this?”
“A restraining order.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a civil order that provides protection from harm by a family member or a psycho stalker,” I chime in, because Sam chirped it to me the other night while she was cramming for her LSATs.
“You,” Ceepak says to his father, “are not to have any further contact with me or my family, in person, by phone, at home, work or anywhere I or my wife and stepson happen to be.”
“Fuck that-”
“Trust me, sir-if you violate this order, you will be incarcerated.”
“Hey, he’s violating it now!” This from Skippy. “You want me to cuff him? I have handcuffs.”
He does? Did he save a pair as a souvenir when he was an auxiliary cop?
“My guns are at home but I have a wood back here.” Skippy lets go of the cat, who jumps into a fuzzy doughnut-shaped bed as Skippy bends down to grab a driver with a humongous head, which, I guess is what Putt-Putt owners use for self-defense instead of the more traditional mom-and-pop grocery store baseball bat.
“Stand down, Mr. O’Malley,” says Ceepak.
“Ten-four,” says Skippy who seems to be enjoying playing cop-for-a-day.
Mr. Ceepak is staring at the sheet of paper his son just handed him. Trying to focus his bleary eyes. Moving his lips as he reads what is written there.
“How long you been planning this?”
“Ever since I heard from Lisa Porter Burt, the prosecuting attorney in Ohio. She informed me that you were angling for early release under the auspices of the new state law.”
“Be prepared, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fucking overgrown Boy Scout. This piece of paper is bullshit.”
“I assure you, sir, it is not.”
“Really? Okay, jarhead. How’d you find a goddamn judge on a Sunday morning?”
“This is what is known in New Jersey as an emergency restraining order. They may be obtained at any police station in the state.”
Like the one where Ceepak and I work.
“Tomorrow, Judge Mindy Rasmussen will issue a temporary restraining order that will remain in effect for ten days or until our court hearing, whichever comes first. You, of course, will be invited to attend the hearing to tell your side of the story.”
“Oh, I’ll tell ’em, Johnny. I’ll tell the world what a lousy excuse for a son you turned out to be. A goddamn disappointment. I’ll tell that judge how you signed up for the fucking army instead of coming to work for me. Thought you were too good to be a roofer.”
“Tell Judge Rasmussen anything you like. However, right now, you are in clear violation of the restraining order. If you do not vacate these premises immediately, it will be my duty as a duly sworn law enforcement officer to arrest you.”
Ceepak’s duty, my pleasure.
Mr. Ceepak stuffs his legal documents into his back pocket. “This ain’t over, Johnny.”
“Of that, I am quite certain, sir. However, I won’t see you again until our court date. If I do, I will arrest you.”
“Me, too,” I toss in.
“Danny?” says Ceepak.
“Yeah?”
“Much as we all like you, you are not a family member.”
“True. But if I see him near Rita or T.J. and you’re not around …”
“Ah! Then you may indeed arrest him.”
“Thought so.”
Mr. Ceepak squints at us hard. Guess he doesn’t like to see everybody in a room smiling except him.
“Fine. All I want is to find my wife. Work things out between us. But, no-you have to blow everything out of
