and his crew grab one last handful of Oreos and bright orange cheese balls, pick up their camera and gear, and head into the Fun House like Layla told them to. Knit Cap is in charge of lugging a cardboard flat of water bottles and soda pop for everybody.
I can see why Layla wanted to use the Sea Haven Fun House as the backdrop for the big finale. The brightly colored building looks like a three-story-tall clown castle with striped turrets topped off with colored pompoms: jolly birthday party hats jutting up against the sky. There are clown-face gargoyles all over the second and third floors, not to mention carousel elephants and circus animals, and, of course, red chaser lights spelling out FUN HOUSE in a wildly animated sequence of blinks, flashes, and strobes.
The main entrance to the castle is that wide-open clown mouth (picture Mick Jagger working for Ringling Brothers). The entryway is maybe fifteen feet tall, with a red-tongue carpet leading the way into the first mirror maze. To the right of the entrance is a “Shoot The Clown In His Mouth, Pop The Balloon” water gun shooting gallery. After the laughing clown dummies inside the Fun House torment you with their mirror mazes, spinning floor, DayGlo tumble tunnel, and slide-in-the-dark exit ramp, folks like to give the jokers a little payback.
At least that’s how it was the summer I worked the Fun House. There was nothing better after finally escaping the madness than aiming your water pistol at a frozen fiberglass Bozo and bursting his balloon.
Ceepak, who used to run security outside the Green Zone in Baghdad, knows how to lock down the boardwalk surrounding the TV shoot. He has Joey Thalken, this friend of ours from the Sea Haven Sanitation Department, commandeer all sorts of salt-dumping trucks from maintenance yards off the Turnpike where the big, burly vehicles spend their summers dreaming about blizzards.
“Load them up with sand,” Ceepak tells Joey T. “Park them there and there.” He hand-gestures to the point where the boardwalk steps connect with the public parking lot. “Block all vehicular access.”
“Okay,” says Joey, “but how would, you know, a car with like a suicide bomber in it be able to climb up all those steps?”
“You make a good point, Joe,” says Ceepak. “Give me a third truck at the bottom of the handicap access ramp in case, once again, the attack is mounted on motorcycles.”
“Cool,” says Joey T as he and his SHSD buddies set up a barricade of heavyweight dump trucks at all possible access points to Pier Two.
Meanwhile, half a dozen SHPD cops are linking sections of aluminum fencing together, stringing them across the boardwalk, leaving only a six-foot-wide access point, soon plugged with a pair of airport-style metal detectors rented from whoever rents them to the Secret Service when the president visits New Jersey.
While Ceepak supervises Joey T and the trucks, I amble over to the Fun House because I see Layla near the Squirt Gun Arcade. She’s carrying a clipboard and talking to somebody through a headset wired to a walkie- talkie.
I’m hoping that, since we sort of had a connection once upon a time-oh, a few weeks ago-she might spill what she knows about her boss and his connections with a certain Atlantic City crime family.
“Hey,” I say.
She holds up a hand to let me know she is busy but almost done barking orders at whoever’s on the other end of her radio transmission. “I don’t give a shit. Marty wants smoke in the mirror maze. The second one. Upstairs. Right. I don’t care. Just do it.” She’s snarling. “Tell the fire marshal to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.”
Okay. Don’t think Dunkin’ Donuts is ever gonna use
Layla jabs a button on the radio slung low on her hip, much like her cargo shorts. The girl likes displaying her ripped midriff. She tosses back her hair and smiles.
“Officer Boyle. Whazzup? You and your partner hatch any more harebrained theories about who killed Paulie and Skeletor?”
“Nah. We’re sticking with the one we’ve got.”
“That Marty did it?”
“No. That he hired other people to do it for him.”
“So he could pump up our ratings?”
“Hey, you’re the number one show in America.”
“Because of my idea to work in the ‘cops’ angle. That’s when the numbers started trending up. Sorry, Officer Boyle. Your boss Ceepak had more to do with making this show a hit than my boss Marty.”
“So what about his Friday-night trips down to A.C.?”
“What can I tell you, the man likes to gamble. Me? I prefer a sure thing.”
“Are there any?”
“Sure: sex and violence. They sell. Always have. It’s why all those buff gladiators back in Rome wore skirts but no shirts. It’s why the motorcycle episode was huge. Sexy college kids. Violent dudes on motorbikes. Works every time.”
“You know, Layla, you and me-”
“Met cute. Dated a couple times. It was fun, now it’s done.”
“But-”
“What? You think I owe you something because you saved my life back at the Rolling Thunder? Fine. Here’s the dealio: no way Marty Mandrake did or engineered to have done what you and Ceepak think he did or had done. He’s not that clever. Lacks imagination. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to find a puppy dog.”
“What?”
“Don’t tell anybody, it’s a secret till we go live, but America voted for Mike Tomasino.”
Of course they did. Vinnie with Barry Manilow and Jenny with that lousy lounge lizard never had a snowball’s chance in Miami.
“Now Mike and his dad have pulled a fast one,” says Layla. “While Soozy plays for the All American Tanning Team, they have Mike playing for some kind of Save The Starving Puppies charity. Gotta run.”
And she does.
So, with nothing to show for my efforts, I head back to where we’ve set up a police command center under a bright blue tent we borrowed from Mrs. Ceepak’s catering company. We don’t have a craft services table. Just a box of doughnuts and a cardboard jug of coffee.
I hope none of the doughnuts start rolling.
37
By 1 P.M., we’re all set up. No one can get on or off the boardwalk without passing through a metal detector and I.D. check, and then they have to be on the magic ticket list if they want to gain access to Pier Two.
Prickly Pear Productions has provided us with the names of pre-screened studio audience members and charity representatives who will start shuffling through security around four-five hours before the live show starts. We have a battery-powered TV set up in our command tent and keep it tuned to the
Instead, all I hear is hype about the show:
“Danny?” This from Ceepak as he comes up the ramp from where Joey T parked the last of the sand-filled dump trucks.
“Yeah?”
“It appears Mr. Gabe Hess has arrived.” He head gestures toward the All American Snack Shack, which is directly across from the Fun House, on the other side of the Pier Two boardwalk, which, in this section, is about the width of a four-lane highway.
“Why is he insisting on not shutting down for the day?” I ask. “He won’t have any customers, except maybe a couple crew members who get tired of all the free food at the craft services table.”
“I assume,” says Ceepak, “that, for Mr. Hess, who is something of a libertarian, it is the principle of the thing. He refuses to shut down his business simply because someone in authority told him he had to. In fact, given
