“We're interested in anything unusual you might have seen or heard at Paintball Blasters.”
“I heard you kicked ass.”
Ceepak smiles, saying only, “I had a pretty good day.”
“Totally. I haven't been shooting much lately. Not for a couple weeks.”
“How come?”
“Well, like I said, I only get two fifteen-minute breaks. I usually grab something to eat on the first break and head over to Blasters on the second. Try to squeeze in ten minutes or so on the targets. It's my only chance to shoot, blow off a little steam.”
“You don't have your own paintball gun?”
“No. Can't afford it. Not with rent and all.”
“You pay your mother's rent?” I say.
“She doesn't charge me or anything. I just, you know, chip in.”
“Admirable,” Ceepak says.
T. J. shrugs.
“My dad dumped her before I was born. We try to help each other out. Besides, it's pretty easy to find work around here. Especially in the summer. I do a night gig at Burger King.”
Ceepak nods his head. I think he likes this kid.
“So-you got the hots for my mom?”
Before Ceepak can say anything, T. J. plunges ahead. “My mom. Rita? Are you, you know, interested or just stringing her along?”
“Well, I'm … we only just met … the other night.
“You ought to ask her out, man. She's cool, not so totally uptight like you might think when you first meet her. You should take her on a date or whatever. She's cool.”
Ceepak's ears? Redder than red. I think they call it crimson.
I step in to give him a breather.
“So,” I ask, “have you noticed any unusual characters at the paintball place? Anybody stick out?”
“No. Just your usual weirdos. Sandman. He's this skinny dude who always wears desert camo and one of those boony hats like they had in Vietnam. Then there's these two goth chicks. They dress all in black, even in the middle of summer. Black lipstick, too. Gemmy and Jackelyn. Gemmy's the one with the dog collar. They both like to shoot at the Britney Spears target. Take turns. Oh, then there's this dork I call Asswipe. He's the main reason I haven't shot much lately.”
“Who is he?” Ceepak asks.
“Asswipe? Older guy. Twentysomething. About his age.” T. J. points at me. “All last week, he hogged number three.”
“What's number three?”
“My favorite gun. I know how to sight it, you know what I mean?”
“Sure.”
“Anyway, Asswipe likes number three, too. I tell him it's my favorite and like I only have a couple minutes, and he tells me to go fuck myself. He won't budge. Keeps hogging the rifle even when there's four or five other guns nobody's using. Even when the dude behind the counter, Larry, tells Asswipe to cut me some slack, Asswipe just smiles and says shit like, ‘I paid, didn't I? I can use any gun I choose, can't I?’ Total asswipe.”
“Is there anything special about weapon number three?” Ceepak has his pad out.
“I dunno. It's just the best gun. I think the barrel is a little straighter or something. Maybe the rifle's a little newer. I know it's the one Larry uses whenever he challenges anybody to a shootout.”
Ceepak smiles.
“Roger that. I was on number four.”
“And he was next to you on three, am I right?”
“Right.”
“Larry is so lame. And you still beat him?”
“Tell me more about this guy.”
“Asswipe?”
Ceepak nods. Too bad. I wanted to hear him say “Yes, Mr. Asswipe,” like that was the guy's name.
“Let's see, he's kind of tall. Has this wavy, weird hair and a bushy little beard. Wore a pair of nerd glasses.”
“Nerd glasses?”
“Yeah. Old ones. Like he's had the same pair since high school or whatever. I got real tired of him pretty fast.”
“How do you mean?”
“You know-him acting like he was smarter than anybody on the beach, and being all happy ruining my day, taking my favorite gun away from me and everything.”
“Any distinguishing marks? A tattoo perhaps?”
“This guy? No way. He looked way too straight. Wore these color-coordinated pants and windbreaker, like his mom picked them out at Sears or wherever. I remember one day he had on this totally brown outfit. Brown pants. Brown zippered jacket. Who wears brown on the boardwalk, man?”
“Only asswipes,” I say, thinking I'm being cute.
Ceepak shoots me a look. So does T. J. I guess they both think I should stick to my grown-up words.
“Have you seen this fellow lately, T. J.?”
“No, sir. Not since, like, last Wednesday.”
“Was he a local?”
“No. At least I don't think so. His skin was pasty white. Like he lived under a rock someplace cold.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Ceepak checks his watch. “We know you have to get back to work.”
“Yeah.”
“You want the rest of my fries?”
“Nah. Thanks. I'm cool.”
“Can I ask one last question, T. J.?”
“Shoot.”
“If you don't own a paintball gun, how did you attack The Pig's Commitment?”
It's a classic Ceepak move: slip in the big question when the witness thinks you're all done.
T. J. looks embarrassed. He also looks like he's tired of telling lies, like he figures he'll do better with Ceepak if he tells the truth. He's right.
“Slingshot.”
“I see.”
“I borrowed paint balls from Larry.”
“Borrowed?”
“I didn't steal them. Larry gave them to me. It was his idea, kind of. Thought the blue balls on the sign would be funny. Larry basically hates black people. Hates Grace. Said somebody needed to knock her down a few notches, put her in her place.”
“What about you?”
“I just wanted to, you know, do it for a goof. Show him I could.”
“You don't dislike Ms. Porter?”
“Nah. She's pretty cool. We talked the other day.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I went by her place to tell her I was sorry. Told my mom, too.”
“Good for you. What did Ms. Porter say?”
“Said she was too damn busy to deal with me on account of the holiday weekend and I should come back Tuesday if I wanted to apologize so damn much.”
Yep. That sounds like Grace Porter.
“Then she made me breakfast.”
“Really?”
