“Oh. I see. He’s George Fucking Washington?”
“No. He’s John Fucking Ceepak.”
Ceepak shoots me a look. Slowly shakes his head, like I shouldn’t have given him that particular middle name. I shrug. He’s right. My bad.
But Mr. Hess ticks me off. I would have said he “pisses me off,” but Ceepak wouldn’t like that either.
“Here.” I say, handing Hess one of our business cards. “If you want to help, call a few of your friends, then call us.”
“What do you mean, ‘my friends’?”
“Officer Boyle is suggesting that you make contact with your other brothers-the members of The Creed motorcycle gang.”
“Why?”
“We have reason to suspect,” says Ceepak, “that your brother’s death is directly linked to that of Paul Braciole.”
“That jerk from the TV show?”
“The young man found murdered in the Knock ’Em Down booth.”
“The Creed didn’t do that.”
“Well, somebody riding a Harley sure did,” I chime in.
“Says who?”
“A video from a nearby security camera,” says Ceepak.
“I don’t care what the fuck you think you saw. The Creed would not waste their time on that steroid-popping punk, and they sure as hell wouldn’t kill Thomas.”
“Are you one hundred percent certain of that, Mr. Hess?”
Hess doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he actually thinks before engaging his mouth. He tucks the business card I handed him into his star-spangled shirt pocket.
“I’ll make a few calls.”
“We’d appreciate that,” says Ceepak. “In the meantime, it would be helpful if you could come with us to Oak Beach.”
“What? You want me to identify the body?”
“Yes. If you’d rather wait until your brother’s body has been moved to the county morgue.…”
Gabe stands up. “No. Let’s do it now. Get it over with.”
We walk out of the booth.
I can’t help checking out the deep fat fryers.
The cold grease pits have congealed icebergs of black-flecked lard floating on the surface. Guess that’s what dead fried Oreos look like after rigor sets in.
We shuttle Gabe Hess to the beach and, then, back to the boardwalk.
Now the chief is back on our radio.
“Do we have a situation?”
I’m behind the wheel but turn to look at Ceepak, who’s turning to look at me because we’re both thinking the same thing:
“Surely,” he says into the radio mic, “with the newly discovered death threat against Ms. Kemppainen, Mr. Mandrake is shutting down his show.”
The chief hesitates before responding.
So I flip on the roofbar and we jet down to Halibut Street.
In the driveway, I see Marty Mandrake, Layla Shapiro, Mayor Hugh Sinclair, and Chief Buzz Baines huddled around a foldout picnic table, jabbing at some kind of rolled-out plans. Mandrake is strutting around, making grand arm gestures. Layla is dutifully nodding her head and taking notes.
Ceepak and I climb out of our cruiser and stroll down to join the brain trust.
“John, good,” says Chief Baines. “I want Prickly Pear to run you through their production schedule for the next seven days.”
“No problem,” says Layla, thumbing the BlackBerry, which, I think, has been surgically attached to her hand. “This week will be a busy one. Starting today, we shoot footage for the quarterfinals show, slated for next Thursday’s regular airdate. We also simultaneously gear up for a special Friday night finale.”
“We’re doing it live!” says Mandrake, shooting up both hands like exploding starfish to give the word “live” a little more pizzazz.
“Excuse me?” says Ceepak.
“The finale,” says Mandrake. “It’ll be a live broadcast. A week from tonight.”
“Surely you jest,” says Ceepak, because he can say stuff like “surely you jest” without people sniggering at him.
“Huh?” says Mandrake, stuffing a sugar-coated cruller into his mouth. As usual, there are all sorts of snack food items spread out on the makeshift meeting table.
“Surely, Mr. Mandrake,” says Ceepak, “you can’t seriously consider exposing Ms. Kemppainen to that kind of risk.”
“We’re giving Soozy automatic immunity in the quarterfinals shows,” says Layla. “We’ll keep her under wraps and out of public places. She’ll just talk about the threat and how it makes her feel, maybe she does a one-on-one sit-down with Chip.”
“Beautiful,” says Mandrake. “But I need her in the fucking live finale on Friday.”
“Obviously,” says Layla. “Since she’s guaranteed to be one of the two finalists.”
“That’s what the fuck I’m saying, Layla!” Mandrake looks around for a servant who isn’t there. “Where’s my goddamn mochachino?”
Layla turns to Ceepak. “We’ll be out of your hair in seven days, officer. Next Friday night, we do our season closer live from the Fun House on the Sea Haven boardwalk.”
“What a trouper,” says Mayor Sinclair, who’s bouncing up and down on his heels. “That young girl is an inspiration to us all.”
“Again,” says Ceepak, “I must protest.”
“Save it, John,” says Chief Baines, sounding kind of snippy, the way people do when their bosses order them to do crap they don’t really want to do. “The mayor, the town council … it’s been decided.”
Marty Mandrake struts over to Ceepak. “Officer, I understand your trepidation. But hell-
Ceepak turns to Chief Baines, his eyes pleading for sanity.
The chief’s mustache wiggles like a queasy dust bunny. “I need you to head this thing up, John. Unfortunately, I promised some folks down in Florida I’d swing by before the end of summer. Can’t be here for the final shows. Wish I could. But, well, I gave my word. You know how that goes.”
Before coming to Sea Haven, Chief Buzz Baines ran a police department in the Sunshine State. Guess he needs to go home periodically to guzzle some O.J. or wrestle a gator.
“But-” is all I can stammer before the mayor gives me The Hand.
“Save it, Officer Boyle. You’re either with us or against us; and if you’re against us, well, you’re not who we want with us, are you?”
Mayor Hugh Sinclair does not like me or my partner very much, not since back in June when, thanks to our crack investigatory skills, the mayor’s wife found out what he’d been doing with a few of his curvier constituents in a hot tub.
“If we call off the show,” Sinclair continues, “the local economy will suffer an incredible blow, and, worst of
