“Appreciate it, Reggie.”
“No problem. Hey, this gig will sure beat my side job unloading ice cream pallets at the Acme.”
“10-4,” says Ceepak.
It’s true. Most cops have to work a second job-carpenter, plumber, supermarket loading dock schlub-on their days off to make ends meet. At least half of the SHPD’s eighty-some cops will jump at the chance for a ton of easy overtime pay babysitting the TV show. And Prickly Pear Productions is picking up the tab. It’s what they call a win-win situation. Unless, of course, The Thing starts chucking Skee-Balls at you or, worse, wiggling his nips in your face.
Ceepak reracks the radio mic.
“Take Kipper,” he says when we pass King Putt miniature golf.
I flick on my turn signal.
Even though the Fun House is up on Halibut Street, the production offices are in trailers and Winnebagos lining Kipper and John Dory streets. The streets in this part of the island are all named after fish; farther south, you get trees. After that, the Sea Haven Street Naming Commission just sort of gave up and started going with the alphabet and numbers. There’s even a “Street Street” way down near the southern tip. I think the Commission was meeting over at the Frosty Mug during happy hour when they made that particular decision.
A young Class I SHPD officer in a glo-stick green fluorescent vest waves at us. He’s a summer cop, like I used to be back when I first met Ceepak. The department already has four “seasonal hires” working traffic control in the blocks surrounding 102 Halibut Street, the rundown rental where the TV kids are spending the summer.
The house on Halibut is one of the butt-uglier ones on the island: a one-story house that looks like a three- story bungalow because it’s propped up on top of a two-car garage and has a triangle-roofed bedroom up where the attic used to be. To get to the main floor, you have to hike up a set of rickety wooden steps lined with PVC railings.
First stop is the main party deck, with its hot tub, picnic table, and gas grill (that’s where the guy named Vinnie taught the girls how to toast cream-filled cannoli pastries on a stick-like sober people do with marshmallows).
A sliding glass patio door leads you into the living room/ kitchen/pigsty. The sides of the house are covered with tobacco-brown shingles, but the garage doors below are painted green, white, and red so they look like two aluminum Italian flags.
Paulie, Mike, and Vinnie, the three guys left in the house (Tony DePalma got the boot in Episode One; Salvatore “Salami” Amelio lost the Skee-Ball competition), are always calling themselves Guidos. Soozy K, Jenny, and Nicole, the three remaining girls, call themselves Guidettes.
Meanwhile, Italian-Americans everywhere call them “
“Parking could prove problematic,” says Ceepak as we crawl up the street crowded with trucks, campers, step vans, a diesel-guzzling generator-all sorts of major vehicles corralled behind bright orange parking cones. There’s even a pop-up pavilion serving chips and salsa and Oreos and pretzel sticks and M amp;Ms to any crew members who waddle by. The crew guys all have radios jangling off their belts and multi-colored tape rolls bouncing against their thighs.
“Maybe we should swing up Shore Drive, park there,” I suggest.
“That’ll work.”
As we inch along, seashells crunching beneath our tires, I see more crew members, all of them dressed in cargo shorts and sloppy tees. They’re rolling carts loaded down with video gear, lighting equipment, electrical cables. They’re pushing lights on rolling tripods, carrying stanchions rigged with flags of black cloth, hauling props. They shove dollies, trolleys, and laundry carts with wheels gone wobbly. These are the grips and gaffers and best boys and electricians and all those technicians listed at the end of a movie when they roll the credits. Not that I stick around to watch them-except in movies that give you funny bloopers, too.
With the help of a summer cop who keeps calling us “Sirs,” we find the last available parking slot on Beach Lane and walk past a gaggle of “looky-loos”-tourists straining to see one of the reality show stars or have their picture taken in front of the Fun House. I imagine half the guys posing for cell phone pix will tug up their shirts and try to wiggle their nipples.
“Hey, Danny! Ceepak!”
It’s Layla. She comes bounding down a set of steel steps attached to a gleaming white mobile home.
“Great to have you guys on board,” she says, beaming that smile that got me hooked on a New York City girl in the first place. Layla has changed into a tight gym top that doesn’t quite cover her belly button. Cargo shorts hug her hips. All kinds of radios spank her fanny.
Sometimes, a dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste.
“We’re rolling live up at the house. There’s coffee at craft services. You need to hit the head?”
This is how Layla Shapiro talks. Scattershot. She’s what they call a multi-tasker. While she’s telling us about the toilets, she’s texting on her BlackBerry and futzing with the volume dial on the walkie-talkie clipped to her hip.
“Is there somewhere we can go to discuss the details of our liaison work moving forward?” says Ceepak.
“Sure,” says Layla, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder. “This is the production office. Marty’s inside. There’s bagels. It’s air-conditioned.”
My turn to smile. Hey, it’s August, 98 degrees with 98 percent humidity. My shirt is glued to my back. My sunglasses are fogged up because I had the AC blasting in the Crown Vic. There’s only one way to defog them: more AC.
“We should have the full duty roster for the coming week completed within the hour,” says Ceepak when we’re inside the nice and chilly trailer.
“Excellent,” says Layla, clicking her BlackBerry. We’ve only dated twice, but the girl has lots of lists. And schedules. If we do have sex on our third date, I’m sure she’s already blocked out exactly when it needs to happen and what gear and refreshments need to be on location. “Can you put a downloadable PDF in your cloud?”
“Come again?” says Ceepak.
My man doesn’t know from Internet file-sharing clouds. Hey, he’s thirty-seven. His generation still sends e- mails instead of texting.
“We’ll have Mrs. Rence fax it over,” I say.
“Awesome,” says Layla, her thumbs launching into a fresh text message.
Marty Mandrake is in the truck with us, munching on a bunch of grapes, staring at a bank of monitors. Three of them, the ones directly in front of Mandrake, seem to feature today’s big scene: the beer pong tournament being played on and around the picnic table on the Fun House deck. Twelve smaller monitors built into the wall above the “hot” camera feeds remind me of the screens you’d see behind the security desk in a high-rise office building. High-angle, locked-off shots peering down on every room in the house. Very Big Brotherish.
On the three main screens, I can see Paulie and Mike Tomasino. They’re tossing ping-pong balls into a triangle of ten red Solo cups set up on opposite ends of the table. The cups are semi-filled with beer. The rules of this extremely popular frat house drinking game are quite simple: you plop your ball into a cup, the other team has to drink it. First team to have the other guys drink all their cups wins.
“Are these organic?” Mandrake snaps, plunking a grape into his pie hole.
“Yes, sir,” says Layla. “We had a P.A. pick them up at the Whole Foods up in Red Bank.”
I’m impressed. Red Bank is about sixty miles north of Sea Haven.
“Oh!” says Mandrake. “How long was that, Grace?”
Mandrake is sitting in one of those foldout director’s chairs with “Mr. Mandrake” stenciled across the back. A middle-aged woman with three different stopwatches dangling around her neck is seated beside him. Her chair doesn’t say “Grace.”
“From when Paulie ricocheted his ball off the porch railing until it bounced off the wall and plopped into the middle cup?”
“Yeah.”
“Five seconds.”
