“I need you to call your drug dealer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The steroids.”
“They’re not mine.”
“Yes, they are.”
“I swear-”
“Look, Paulie. If you help these gentlemen,” she gestures toward Ceepak and me, “they might let you off the hook.”
“What?”
“Did you know that simple possession of anabolic steroids is a federal offense, punishable by up to one year in prison and/or a minimum fine of one thousand dollars?”
I glance over at Ceepak. He can’t help but grin to hear Layla parrot him so perfectly.
“Remember where Marty found you?” she continues.
“Yeah,” mumbles Paulie.
“You want to go back to your mother’s basement when you get out of jail?”
Paulie curls a lip. Shakes his head.
“Okay. Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to call your dealer. Set up a meet.”
“I didn’t go lookin’ for the shit,” says Paulie. “Dude hit me up first.”
“How so?” asks Ceepak.
“I was at the local gym. Beach Bods.”
“Go on.”
“He came up to me. Skinny dude. He’s all like ‘I love your show, man,’ and ‘You got a pretty good bod, man, but science could make you buffer.’ Shit like that.”
“Paul?” says Layla.
“Yeah.”
“I want you to contact this guy.”
“Okay.”
“Set up a buy.”
“Okay.”
“Then tell me where and when.”
“These guys gonna be there for the meet?” He gestures toward Ceepak and me.
“Is that a problem, Paulie?”
“Hell, no. This skinny dude? He’s trouble, man. Has psycho eyes. Wore one of those floppy camouflage hats.”
Ceepak pulls a notepad and pen out of his shirt pocket.
“Can you tell us anything else?”
“You mean like his name?”
“Yeah,” I say. “A name would be good.”
“It’s even freakier than the hat. Dude calls himself ‘Skeletor,’ like the old cartoon. How whacked is that?”
6
I’m sure Ceepak can’t believe our good fortune.
By doing like Layla suggested, we’re saving all sorts of time.
We kick Mike Tomasino out of the attic bedroom. Boom-Paulie calls his local druggist. Skeletor answers on the second ring. He’s happy to hear from The Thing. Caught the show last night.
They chat about that for a minute.
“So, I need a refill,” says Paulie.
He nods at us. Gives us a big thumbs up. Skeletor will meet Paulie Braciole in the parking lot of Morgan’s Surf and Turf at 8:30 P.M., right before the cameras start rolling inside the restaurant for the etiquette challenge.
Skeletor is such a fan of the show, he wants to visit the set.
The slippery drug dealer, the man who has evaded local, state, and federal authorities for at least two years, will be bringing Paulie some fresh steroids and a “This Is The Thing You Want” T-shirt so Paulie can autograph it for him.
“You handled that quite well,” Ceepak says to Paulie when the phone call ends.
“Thanks, man. Can I go downstairs now?” he asks Layla. “I need to hit the tanning bed.”
“Go,” she says. Paulie hurries down the steps. I think the tanning beds are parked down in the garage since none of the kids in the house is allowed to have a car. Drunks stumbling up and down the beach and boardwalk make for funny TV; drunks driving cars, not so much.
“Danny?” says Ceepak when Paulie is out of the room.
“Yeah?”
“Meet me at Morgan’s at twenty-hundred hours.”
That would be 8 P.M. Thirty minutes before the “buy-and-bust.”
“Wear street clothes. Conceal your sidearm.”
“We’re working this thing undercover?”
“Roger that.”
“Do you think ‘sidearms’ are really necessary?” asks Layla.
“Yes, ma’am. The last time Officer Boyle and I were close to Skeletor, we were almost cremated while still alive.”
Layla nods. I think she gets it. She may work in reality TV. But Ceepak and I have to work in the real world, where really bad people have all sorts of real weapons.
Before leaving the Fun House, Ceepak radios the desk sergeant to finalize the “enhanced security” detail schedule. Mrs. Rence will fax it over to Layla in the production office.
Everybody’s happy, including Gus Davis, who’ll be working the first shift with Alex Smitten, covering the kids while they’re inside Morgan’s Surf amp; Turf, one of the classiest restaurants on the island. Gus loves Morgan’s World Famous Crab Pie-a melted cheese-covered concoction of lumpy crabmeat congealed in a cream sauce the consistency of half-melted butter. I figure, at age 66, Gus still has one artery left to clog.
Ceepak has also arranged additional armed backup for when the Skeletor deal goes down at twenty-thirty hours (that’s 8:30, outside the military time zone). Unmarked SHPD patrol cars, two of them, will be parked on the side streets near the restaurant. Ceepak and I, wearing our best beach-bum gear, will be stationed in my Jeep, a few feet away from the spot in the parking lot that Paulie set up as the rendezvous point for his drug transaction/T-shirt signing.
Ceepak and I will both be packing Glock 31.357’s, our brand new, official SHPD service weapons. According to the catalog, these semi-automatics are “characterized by extremely high muzzle velocity and superior precision even at medium range.” I like the Glock because it’s light and because I’ve already won a few ribbons (not to mention a couple friendly wagers) with it down at the firing range.
We can only assume that Skeletor will be packing whatever lethal sidearms have made the New Jersey Skeevy Drug Dealer Association’s approved weapons list this year.
To kill time between 5:30 and 8, Layla and I go on our third date.
Given the tight time parameters, I don’t think it’s going to be, you know, real “third date” material. I’m not sure where the rule about sex being a semi-given on date number three came from, but no way are Layla Shapiro and I going to get intimate during the two and half hours between the Fun House and the crab pie-not that I typically need that much time to, you know, express my intimacy.
Besides, at the risk of sounding girly, I’m not really ready. I like to know someone before I
