high school version with fingers one and three in the bent knuckle position flanking a fully extended middle digit. Extremely mature.
“I apologize for that,” Ceepak says to T. J.
“Shit.” The kid is staring at his wet pants.
Ceepak pulls out his fifty-dollar bill. “I hope this will cover the cost of any replacement clothing.” Ceepak picks up his Harley Hog.
We turn around to leave. Our crowd has moved on to other boardwalk amusements.
All except one fan.
That creepy guy in the camo shorts. Mr. Bones. He hangs back in the shadows under a pretzel cart awning.
He smiles that bony smile.
Then, he flips me the finger, too.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Mussel Beach Motel is a cozy little cinderblock box on the sandy side of Beach Lane.
Becca's mom and dad own and operate the place, and the family occupies rooms 101 through 103. I've always thought it would be so cool to live in a motel. You could get a bucket of ice anytime you wanted and your toothpaste cup would always be sealed in plastic, your toilet seat Sanitized For Your Protection.
But Becca tells me the ice machine moans all night long and clunks out cubes so it sounds like an avalanche, and sometimes she has nightmares about rockslides and gravel trucks. Not to mention Becca's the one who sanitizes all the toilets.
I drop by to see how she's doing. Ceepak has gone to the house-that's what we call the police station-to report our findings to Chief Baines. I guess I've aced my final exam.
On the way over to the motel, I grabbed Becca a box of saltwater taffy. The Sea Haven variety comes in a white box with striped letters on the front. There's also this drawing of a beach chair, a sand bucket, and a starfish. Actually, it's the same box they use anywhere that has a beach.
“Thanks, Danny,” Becca says, sucking on a peppermint tube.
“You feel okay?”
“Yeah. How do I look?”
“Like Ray Charles.”
Becca has on this huge pair of Ray-Ban Daddy-O sunglasses despite the fact that we're sitting inside in the lobby.
“You seeing Katie today?” she asks.
“I might, you know, drop by the Landing.”
During her summer school break, Katie works at Saltwater Tammy's, a candy shop in Schooner's Landing, this multilevel mall of shops built around a tall ship, a schooner, I guess. The sails have “Schooner's” and “Landing” painted on them like huge, flapping billboards.
“She likes you, you know,” Becca says.
“Well, I like her, too.”
“I mean she
All of a sudden, I feel like we're back in fifth grade: “Katie Landry told Becky Adkinson to tell you …” We should pass notes or at least text message each other.
“You two make an extremely cute couple.”
It's been a while since I've been in a couple, cute or otherwise.
“She has her break at three thirty. Be there.” Becca pops another stick of taffy in her mouth, the blue one, whatever flavor blue is. “And thanks for the taffy!”
Three twenty P.M. I sit on a bench in Schooner's Landing across from the entrance to Saltwater Tammy's.
The candy shop has huge plate-glass windows, so I can see bins of bright-colored goodies. Gummi Bears. Jelly Bellies. Spearmint Leaves. Pinwheel lollipops that stand on the counter like funky sunflowers. It's Willy Wonka land in there. The display case is crammed with malted milk balls, chocolate-covered pretzels, chocolate-covered coconut clusters. Ladies with wide bottoms and shorts that strangle their dimpled thighs waddle out the door with white paper sacks and say, “Just one more piece, then I'm saving the rest.”
So far, no one I've watched has saved anything.
I don't see Katie. She might be in one of the side windows dipping apples in caramel goop or working the taffy-pulling machine.
Schooner's Landing, tucked into three square blocks, has its own tiered boardwalk and ramps. The buildings are all designed to look like sea shanties or New England cottages. There's a big lighthouse at one end of the top level and a pretty decent seafood restaurant called The Chowder Pot at the other.
Three twenty-two.
I figure I'll “drop by” in about five minutes. While I wait, I watch this old lady on a bench toss chunks of her soft pretzel to some gulls. At the same time, five jocks thunder past like the front line of the Giants. They trample the pretzel crumbs. Smoosh ‘em flat.
Three twenty-four.
It's time to pretend to be “just in the neighborhood so I thought I'd drop by.” “Danny?”
It's Katie. She comes out of the candy shop, smoothing down her shorts, fluffing up her hair. She doesn't have to. She looks great.
“What're you doing over here?”
“I was just, you know … in the neighborhood.”
“Cool.”
“You wanna go grab a coffee or something?” she suggests.
“Hey, cool. Yeah.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah.”
If we manage to remember some words beyond “cool” and “yeah” when we hit the coffee shop, we might actually have a conversation.
Sun Coast Coffee is up on the third level. Katie and I sit outside under an umbrella. She has a cappuccino. I'm doing a double espresso.
“So, what'd you do on your day off?” she asks.
“Hit the boardwalk. I think we found the kid who paintballed us last night.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Awesome. I've got bruises on my butt!”
I think about saying, “Can I see them?” but don't.
“We got a lucky lead this morning. The same kid vandalized the Pig's Commitment.”
Katie's eyes sparkle. “The blue balls?”
“You saw it?”
“Yeah. I know it's terrible.”
“But kind of funny?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought so, too. But don't tell Ceepak.”
We both sip our coffees. Katie gets some froth on her lip and licks it away with a flick of her tongue and a giggle. She's in uniform today. Sleeveless white top with Salt Water Tammy's stitched over her left breast, not that I'm staring at her breasts which, okay, I guess I am. I quickly shift my gaze over to the marina. Up here on the third floor, you get a great view of the whole bayside of the island. This is where the older people like to live, the ones who dig sailboats and sunsets more than the beach and surfboards. I can see a new development of condos
