Fun House

“Yeah.”

“Maybe.”

Skeletor makes basketball palms over his chest. “Those tig ol’ bitties. Those real, man?”

“Nah,” says Paulie.

“For real? They’re fake?”

“Inflatable airbags, man.” Paulie. Such a gentlemen. He touches and tells.

“What about the skanky one?Jenny?”

“She’s the real deal.”

“Yeah?”

“You see the hula hoop dealio?”

“Sure. Episode Three.”

“They bounce and swing like that, bro, those biznoobies be real.”

“All right,” says Skeletor, wiping a bony elbow under his bony nose. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

“So, you bring the juice?”

Skeletor twitches some. Adjusts his hat. “Am I on TV?”

“No, man.”

“Why you wearing that microphone?”

“This?” We hear a “fwump” as Paulie taps his chest. “I always got to wear this fucking thing.”

“Even when you take a dump?”

“Yeah. But there’s a switch to, you know, turn it off.”

“Which he never uses,” mumbles Ms. Wood in the back.

“So,” says Paulie, sounding antsy, “I need to get back to work.”

“Work? Shit, man, all you people do is get drunk, play Skee-Ball, and bang each other. You call that fuckin’ work, bro?”

Paulie laughs. “Not really, man. But you know, I want to make the finals; win the fuckin’ money.”

“I’m pulling for you, bro. Big fan of The Thing. Want The Thing to take the whole thing, know what I mean?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Now Paulie pulls a crumpled wad of cash out of his baggy shorts.

Skeletor doesn’t take it. He has this crackbrained gleam in his eye. In a flash, his hand reaches for his belt.

Mine goes to my Glock.

Has Skeletor figured out this is a buy-and-bust?

No.

He yanks up his T-shirt. Flashes Paulie his bony ribcage. “Check it out. This is The Thing you wish you had. The Thing you wish you could be.”

He starts cackling like a crazy person.

I start breathing again.

“Cute,” says Paulie. “Cute.”

Now Skeletor drops his shirt. Turns around and pops open the hardcase trunk on the back of his motorbike. Palms something we can’t see, but maybe the cameras do. He swivels in a blur back to Paulie. Looks left, right, left again. Shakes Paulie’s hand.

“No charge, bro,” he says.

“Huh?” says Paulie.

“You’re a celeb, man. People see you on TV, looking all chiseled, I tell them how they can look the same way.” He turns his thumb and pinky finger into a jiggling telephone. “One call scores it all!”

“I’d rather pay,” says Paulie. “I got the money.”

“Sorry, bro. Your green is no good. That Red Power Ranger Go-Go Juice is on the house. Compliments of me and my crew.”

I glance over at Ceepak.

Technically, there’s been no buy; so can there be a bust?

And, so far, we have no proof Skeletor was ever actually in possession of steroids, so we can’t bust him on that.

I raise my eyebrows to ask Ceepak, “What now?”

“Thirty-nine, three dash seventy-six dot seven,” mumbles Ceepak.

My eyebrows go higher.

“The State of New Jersey’s Mandatory Helmet Law.”

Oh. Right. That thirty-nine dash-dot-whozeewhatzit.

Ceepak works the listening buds out of both ears and mutters the memorized ordinance: “No person shall operate or ride upon a motorcycle unless he or she wears a securely fitted protective helmet.”

Great. Instead of a drug bust, we’ll slap Skeletor with a twenty-five-dollar fine for wearing a floppy Army surplus hat.

Earphones out, Ceepak yanks up on his door handle. I’m a split second behind him. Go for my weapon.

“Keep it holstered,” says Ceepak through a tight smile without even looking over to see what I’m doing. “Too many innocent civilians.”

Yeah. The prospect for collateral damage is extremely high right now. Folks are piling out of cars. Moms, dads. Couple kids. Granny with her walker.

We stroll casually across the parking lot. Ceepak even whistles a little. “Waitin’ on a Sunny Day.” More Springsteen.

Paulie Braciole looks over. Sees us.

Skeletor’s bony head bobs sideways. He sees Paulie seeing something. Twirls around.

He sneers. His teeth are spiky. The guy has no gums.

“Hello, Army asshole.”

That’s what he called Ceepak that day at Paintball Blasters. I was right. It’s the same walking bone bag.

“Sir?” Ceepak flashes his badge. “We’re with the Sea Haven Police Department.”

Skeletor retreats a step. “So?”

“Is that your motorcycle?”

“Yeah. So?” Cocky as hell, Skeletor straddles his motorbike. Plops his bony butt down on the seat.

“Where is your helmet, sir?”

Skeletor kick-starts the bike. The engine varoom-pop-pops to life. He puts a hand to his ear. “What?”

“Where is your helmet?” Ceepak shouts as we move closer. Paulie, The Thing, moves backward, his hands trembling.

Skeletor tugs down on the Boonie hat’s leather straps.

“I don’t need a fucking helmet.”

“Yes, sir. You do. In New Jersey, all motorcyclists are required to wear DOT-approved headgear.”

“Not me. I got other protection.”

“Sir, you need the full gear,” says Ceepak. He gestures at Skeletor’s hat. “Not the fool’s gear.”

I think Ceepak’s cribbing that corny line off a motorcycle safety poster he hung up in the SHPD locker room a few months ago.

Skeletor responds by flicking his wrist on the twist grip throttle to rev his engine, make it go chug-pop- pop.

“Sir? Kindly shut down your engine and dismount.”