in Paul Braciole’s head: He died instantaneously from a single bullet that pierced both hemispheres of his brain. He was then hauled from that crime scene to the boardwalk on the back of a motorcycle. The collar of dry blood ringing his neck and the droplets smearing up toward his cheeks were a result of a helmet being forced down over his head and then, later, pulled off.
Of course the killer didn’t give Paulie his spare helmet for protection; it was to hide The Thing’s famous face-even though it was bloody and lifeless-from anybody else driving around town at three in the morning.
That’s when Dr. Kurth says Paulie died.
Not too long after leaving Mandy’s place.
“We need to find that Mustang,” says Ceepak when we’re done checking in with the ME.
“You think that’s where Skeletor killed him? In Mandy Keenan’s car?”
“I think that when we find the car Mr. Braciole borrowed to drive home, we should also find clues pointing us to where he was murdered.”
Right. One step at a time. That’s the Ceepakian way. Me? I like landing on squares with a chute or ladder so you can skip a few of the boring back-and-forth moves in between.
We take a quick detour over to Big Kahuna’s Dance Club. Bud is behind the bar, slicing limes, prepping for what he tells us “might be the busiest Saturday night in shore bar history.” News of Paulie’s death is all over the TV, radio, Facebook, and Twitter. The island is jammed with
Ceepak reminds him that, per state and local fire regulations, occupancy by more than 855 persons is considered dangerous and unlawful.
“We’ll keep it to 854, tops,” says Bud, trying to make a joke.
Ceepak nods. “Be sure you include yourself and the rest of the staff in the head count.”
Bud nods very slowly. “Right.”
“So what can you tell us about the big
“Not much. They had like three camera crews crawling all over the place. Ton of guys lugging lights and microphones around behind other guys lugging cameras.” He shrugs. “Other than that, it was the usual crowd. Guys in muscle shirts and hair gel. Girls in whatever shows off their tan best.”
“Did you notice anybody unusually tall?” asks Ceepak.
“You mean like a basketball player?”
“How about anyone super skinny?” I ask.
“Oh, sure.”
“Yeah?”
“You remember Lindsey? From high school?”
“Yeah. Kind of.”
“Dude, I think she’s gone all anorexic on us. Total gristly chicken.”
Bud’s got nothing we can use.
We leave Big Kahuna’s, head up to the boardwalk. When we pull into the municipal parking lot bumping up against the entrance to Pier Two, Bill Botzong calls Ceepak on his business cell.
“I’m putting you on speaker,” he announces. “Danny’s here with me.”
I guess I laugh.
And Botzong hears it.
Ceepak too.
“Danny,” he says, “as you might recall, duct tape analysis helped lead to the arrest of two-year-old Caylee Anthony’s killer.”
Ceepak’s nodding.
Man. I really need to spend less time watching
“Were you able to I.D. the type of duct tape utilized?” asks Ceepak.
Ceepak sighs.
Because we’re basically in the same boat with Botzong.
“Bill, it looks like we’re going to need you to go on TV Thursday night,” Ceepak says.
“Roger that. We’ll arrange a meeting with Prickly Pear Productions.”
“The folks responsible for
The way Ceepak says “responsible,” it’s like they were the rats that carried the bubonic plague to Paris or wherever.
The oily odor of French-frying pancake batter hits us at fifty paces.
Across the boardwalk from the clown-mouth Fun House, I see a red-white-and-blue booth, with red-white- and-blue striped banners, red-white-and-blue blinking light bulbs, and side panels cluttered with hand-lettered red-white-and-blue menu items: Deep Fried Oreo Cookies, Deep Fried Twinkies, Deep Fried Snickers, Milky Way, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and Ho-Ho’s.
America’s two favorites. Junk Food and Deep Fat Frying.
One menu item catches Ceepak’s attention.
“Deep Fried Pepsi Balls?” he mumbles.
Being a junk-food junkie, I explain: “You make the batter with Pepsi syrup, flour, eggs, and butter. Roll the dough into balls and drop ’em into the French fryer. Then you top them with powdered sugar and more Pepsi syrup.”
“Fascinating,” he says.
We approach the booth.
I see an older guy with white bristle-brush hair and wraparound sunglasses bossing two acne-riddled kids rigging up a sheet of cardboard behind one of the gurgling oil vats so the grease won’t splatter into the tub of powdered sugar.
They’re attaching the cardboard to the back of the fryer with duct tape.
I glance at Ceepak.
He sees it too.
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Danny,” he whispers.
The boss turns around and looks like he has Pepsi Balls for lunch every day. He’s wearing an American flag golf shirt that shows off his sagging laundry-sack abs. I’m pretty positive Skeletor wasn’t feeding him free steroid samples.
Mr. America smirks when he sees us.
“Ha! Give me the fool gear!” he says with a belly laugh. The two young kids working the fry baskets turn around to see what’s so funny.
“Dude!” says one, whose American flag polo shirt is splattered with what looks like baby poop shot out of a blender without a lid. “Put down the corn cob!” He jabs a basket full of sizzling Oreos at me. It splashes a few droplets of hot grease on his co-worker’s canvas All-Stars.
“Shit!” says the co-worker, hopscotching in place. Scalding hot oil seeps through canvas every time.
“What do you need, boys?” asks the boss. “A pair of fresh Balls?”
He chuckles again.
Ceepak doesn’t chuckle back. In fact, he is in glare mode.
“I meant Pepsi Balls,” says the fry guy. He jerks a thumb to the sign offering “Two Giant Balls” for two
