Fun House

“They cut him loose. No one is covering his back. Thomas is completely on his own.”

“How come?” I ask, even though I think I know the answer.

Mr. America tips his white fuzzy head toward the closest plasma-screen TV glowing with more somber footage of Paulie’s casket being carried up the center aisle of the church.

“This much publicity is bad for business,” he says. “We like to keep a low profile. That thing in the parking lot at Morgan’s? Well, that was fun. Nobody got busted. But this? This is bad. Thomas is attracting way too much heat.”

I peer at the guy. Something about this isn’t right.

“You know I’m a cop, right?”

“Yeah.” His lip can’t help but curl a little, like he just smelled sour milk.

“So, you talking to me. The Creed finds out, won’t they ostracize you, too?”

“Maybe. But it’s the chance I have to take for my brother.”

“You’d go against all your Creed brothers for the sake of one?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Cause he’s my brother.”

I must look confused, because I am.

Bushy-head helps out: “My real brother.”

Now my face telegraphs that I’m not buying it. I see absolutely no physical resemblance between this tubby guy and the towering Skeletor.

“Same mother. Different fathers. His was tall. Very tall.”

Oh. Okay.

“Why’d you think I let him sell that shit out of the back of my booth after some asshole torched his Hell Hole hideout?”

Ah, brotherly love. It knows no limits. No wonder they named a city after it.

“So, what does Thomas want?” I ask.

“The same thing you want: to turn himself in. Before something horrible happens. Before some hardass state trooper guns him down in cold blood.”

Man. This guy actually believes all the conspiracy crap on cable TV.

“How soon can Thomas surrender?” I ask.

“You and your partner free Saturday?”

“Why Saturday? Why not tomorrow? Why not tonight?”

“He’s got some shit to take care of.”

“What kind of ‘shit’?”

“There’s this lady friend. Maybe a baby. I’m not sure.”

Geeze-o, man.

“Look,” I say, “the sooner Thomas turns himself in, the sooner we can start protecting him.”

“I know, but my baby brother has an extremely thick skull.”

I take a sip of the beer the guy brought me and think about the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski, and his brother, David, the guy who, basically, turned the nutjob in. It can’t be an easy thing to do.

“Is Thomas in immediate danger?” I ask.

“No. If the Creed wanted him dead, he’d already be dead. They’re just cutting him loose. Letting you guys do their dirty work for them.”

I glance up at the TV screen.

Bill Botzong, head of the New Jersey State Police Major Crimes Unit, is on. He looks very professional in his starched dress uniform, golden shoulderboards, and admiral-style hat. He asks the public for any and all assistance they can offer as to the whereabouts of the drug dealer known to state and federal law enforcement authorities only as Skeletor, a prime suspect in the murder of Peter Paul Braciole.

And, it turns out, to make things even more interesting, the producers of Fun House are offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of “this man.”

When Botzong says that, the screen fills with a very scary sketch of our gaunt-faced friend in his floppy- billed Boonie hat.

“Did Thomas serve in Vietnam?” I ask his half-brother, who’s swigging from his beer bottle, not even glancing at any of the dozen TV screens surrounding us. “Is that why he likes the hat?”

“No. The Army wouldn’t take him.” He taps the side of his head. “He has issues, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah.” I push my beer bottle away. “Look, I need to talk to my partner. Organize things.”

“Sure.” Mr. America stands up. Extends his hand. “I’ll bring Thomas to the police station first thing Saturday morning. How’s eight? Too early?”

“No. Eight is cool.”

I guess we’re making a deal here, so I go ahead and take his hand. Shake it. “You want us to arrange for a lawyer?” I ask.

“You know a good one?”

“Couple. Yeah.”

“He can’t afford to pay much.”

“I know somebody good in the public defender’s office.”

“Thanks. Appreciate it. I’m Gabe.”

“Danny.” Then I remember my official position and how this isn’t just some dude I’m meeting over a cold one. “Officer Boyle.”

“Okay. Officer Boyle.”

We break out of the handshake.

“You know where to find me if your partner has a problem,” he says.

“Yeah. We’ll probably swing by your stand tomorrow. Iron out any logistics.”

Gabe nods. “Thanks. Enjoy the rest of the show.”

He slips out of the bar as Chip Dale strides onto the sundeck of the house on Halibut Street.

“And so we say farewell to Paulie. The Thing. The young man who lived his life with such joy, such gusto, such … liveliness. Sad to think that, only a few short weeks ago, Paulie was right here, on this sundeck, doing what he liked best: playing beer pong with his buddies, making them smile.” Chip gives a sincere shuck of his head. “Let’s hope they have a pong table for him up in heaven. Next week?” Man, this guy can shift gears faster than a drag racer stoked on methamphetamines. “It’s double elimination time! The four remaining contestants all had immunity tonight. But next week? Two contestants will be seven days closer to a quarter-million dollars while two of their housemates will be packing their bags and heading home. We hope you’ll be watching. We know Paulie will. Until then, this is Chip Dale for Fun House. Be safe, be who you are, and be sure to have some fun at your house! Good night, America.”

As they roll the credits, they put up Skeletor’s image again and superimpose a title done up in Wild West type: “WANTED. REWARD: $50,000.”

I don’t call Ceepak right away to tell him about Skeletor’s brother. Hey, they gave the show two full hours tonight, pushed back the local news. It’s eleven o’clock. The Ceepaks have lights-out at twenty-two hundred hours. I don’t think he actually blows Taps on a bugle, but they’re pretty rigid about it.

On the drive home, I start wondering about the $50,000 reward. Maybe Gabe will get it for turning in his brother. He could do a lot of good with the money. Donate it to a Clogged Artery Charity.

I stop thinking about the reward money when my phone rings at 6 A.M. Friday morning.

It’s Ceepak.

The TV show worked.

Somebody found Skeletor.

There’s only one problem: he’s dead.