Fun House

carton.

“Yeah,” says Becca.

“That means only the other three compete next Thursday?” The guy puts his box on the counter.

“And two of ’em get cut,” says Becca who, apparently, watches Fun House religiously. “Because they already did that immunity deal for the funeral show, so two heads have to be on the chopping block.”

The guy nods, pulls out his cell phone.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Tomasino,” says Becca with a big, bright smile. “Mike’s going to make it to the finals, too. He’s got my vote!”

“Thanks, Becca.” Now he looks up from his phone, realizing that there are two police officers in the room with him. “You two with the SHPD?”

“Yes, sir,” says Ceepak.

“Thanks for all you’re doing to keep our kids safe and the show on the air.”

“Actually,” says Ceepak, “I had recommended that the show be cancelled.”

Mr. Tomasino shakes his head. “You heard the mayor. We do that, the terrorists win. Thanks again for your service.”

He heads out to the parking lot where the cell reception is better. As I watch him walk into a sunny spot of asphalt, I glance over to Eric Hunley, who’s still sitting on his bike, eyes closed, holding open the sides of his vest so his chest can soak up the sun.

“You guys seen enough?” asks Becca, remote aimed at the tiny TV.

“Roger that,” says Ceepak.

Becca presses the “OFF” button. Marty Mandrake and his smiling goatee shrink down into a tiny white dot.

“That was Mike Tomasino’s dad,” says Becca. “They live in Philly, so Mr. T rented a room with us for the show’s final week.”

So, I guess even The Mussel Beach Motel is making money off Fun House.

“Are you guys gonna like bring me more suspects to check out?” Becca asks, flicking her blonde head toward the window and the biker outside. “Is this what they call a line-up?”

“Actually, Mr. Hunley is here to help us conduct an experiment of sorts.” Ceepak gestures at the five-foot-tall stuffed Batman propped up against the front window. “Becca, if you don’t mind, we’d like to borrow your Batman doll.”

“Um, okay. Oh, can you ask Mr. Tomasino what he wants me to do with his inflatable Ab Balls?”

“Come again?”

“Mr. Tomasino and his son, Mike, they’re marketing these inflatable Ab Balls. I guess if Mike wins, they’ll be huge.” She pulls a limp orange, white, and yellow striped beach ball out of the box. On the white panels there’s a screen-printed logo: “Mike Tee’s Hard Body Ab Ball.”

“Is that a beach ball?” asks Ceepak.

“I guess. Mr. Tomasino calls it a ‘prototype.’ He’s been sending them out to investors. Very important people in New York and Hong Kong and Las Vegas.” Becca puts the floppy vinyl wad back into the box. “The cool thing about this kind of exercise equipment? Extremely portable. You can like put it in your purse and exercise anywhere you go.”

I just nod.

Ceepak, on the other hand, wraps his arms around Batman and hoists the caped crusader up off the floor.

“What’s up?” I ask as he lugs the doll out the front doors and heads past the NO VACANCY sign for Hunley and the motorcycle.

“One minute,” he says when we reach Mr. Tomasino.

“Don’t worry,” we hear him say to whoever is on the other end of his phone call. “Call China. Up the order. Mike’s going to make the finals. It’ll be him and Soozy. They have like a pact.”

Finally realizing that we’re standing right there, Mr. Tomasino cups a hand over his cell. He also sort of sizes up Ceepak, who is standing there hugging a giant Batman snuggle toy.

“Can I help you, officers?”

“Yes, sir. Ms. Adkinson asked us to remind you that you left your box in the office.”

“Oh, right. Thanks.” He glances at Ceepak’s gut, even though it is partially obscured by Batman. “You guys work out?”

“Some,” says Ceepak.

“A little,” I add.

“You want a free Ab Ball? I can hook you up.”

“No, thank you,” says Ceepak.

“They retail for $29.99 on TV.”

Really? I think, because, at Wal-Mart, cheap inflatable beach balls cost like three bucks.

“It’s against our code of conduct to accept gratuities of any kind, no matter how generous the offer,” says Ceepak, giving Mr. Tomasino the best two-finger salute he can without dropping Batman on his padded butt.

Mr. Tomasino nods like he gets it, returns to his phone call, and strolls back into the office.

“So, what exactly are we doing with Becca’s Batman?” I ask.

“Something has been bothering me, Danny, ever since I watched the CSI team lower Thomas Hess’s body out of that lifeguard chair.”

Ceepak adjusts his grip on the dummy. Hikes it up a couple inches.

“Mr. Hunley?”

The sun-worshipping biker snaps to.

“Yes, sir?”

“Would you mind dismounting?”

“Sure. No problem.” He swings his leg up and over, hops off the scooped seat.

Ceepak lowers the Batman doll onto the back of the bike.

“Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“How tall would you say this doll is?”

“About five feet.”

Ceepak nods. Hefts the dummy up and down a few times. “And I’d say it only weighs twenty, maybe thirty pounds.”

Yeah, I think, unless your girlfriend makes you lug it up and down the boardwalk all night, then it weighs more like a ton.

“Shoot,” says Ceepak.

“What?”

“Could you run back inside, Danny, and ask Becca if she has a roll of duct tape we might borrow?”

“Um, okay. Can I ask why?”

“Of course. In the death of Paulie Braciole, we have, thus far, assumed that the killer positioned his lifeless and, therefore, limp, body-a body much taller and heavier than this one-onto the back of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle seat, strapped his shoes to the footposts below, then, somehow, kept the dead weight of Mr. Braciole’s body from flopping sideways while climbing aboard, and, finally, wrapping the dead man’s arms around their waist while, simultaneously, unrolling more duct tape to secure Mr. Braciole’s wrists in front of their belt buckle.”

“Right,” I say.

“Well, Danny, I would like to see if I can do all that without any assistance from an accomplice.”

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