“Well, hey there, Danny. I’m Bob.”
I knew that already. It says “Bob” on his plastic nametag.
Ceepak pulls a sheaf of paper out of his sport coat’s inside pocket.
“As you may know, Mr. …”
“Please, Detective-call me Bob.”
“Very well. As you may know, Bob, this ride was formerly erected at a small amusement park in Troy, Michigan.”
Bob clucks his tongue. “Tragic what happened. But that’s ancient history. Water under the bridge.”
“We’ve cleaned the ol’ gal up. Given her a new paint job. Jazzed up the lights and sound effects. Added some additional safety devices.”
Bob hands Ceepak the thick accordion file.
“Here’s all our paperwork. The engineers’ reports. Structural analysis. Maintenance reports. Everything the state requires for a passed-with-flying-colors pre-season, pre-operational inspection. As you’ll see, Sinclair Enterprises is in full compliance with title five, chapter fourteen-A of the New Jersey Administrative Code as it pertains to Carnival and Amusement Rides.”
Bob is rocking back on his heels, proud to be the smartest kid in the class.
Ceepak flips through the documents tucked into little slots inside the file holder. He skims and scans them. Lets Bob sweat some.
“Good work, Bob,” Ceepak finally announces. “Everything seems to be in order.”
“Thank you. Now, if you fellows are on the same page …”
“How did you score on section five-fourteen-A dash four point eight?” says Ceepak.
“Come again?”
“The section pertaining to training and certification of ride operators.” Ceepak nudges his head toward the control booth where Ben Sinclair sits, thumbing a text message into his phone.
“I believe the State Inspector was fine with our setup. Should be a paper in there …”
“Is Benjamin your proposed ride operator?”
“Yes. And you guys can thank me later for finding a way to keep him off the streets this summer. I hear he had another run-in with the law this morning? Some kind of misunderstanding in the Olde Mill?”
“No, Bob,” says Ceepak. “There was no misunderstanding. Benjamin Sinclair attempted to snatch a purse. He then resisted arrest. He should be sitting in a jail cell right now, contemplating the consequences of his actions, not operating a potentially dangerous ride.”
“Whoa, ease up, detective. There’s nothing ‘dangerous’ about this ride.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Ryan would disagree.”
“What? Who are they?”
“The parents of the fourteen-year-old girl who died on this Free Fall ride when it was called the ‘Terminal Velocity’ up in Michigan.”
Ceepak lets that sink in as he pulls a laminated card out of another sport-coat pocket.
“Was Benjamin Sinclair trained by Sandusky Amusements, the manufacturer of this ride?”
“Huh?”
“Does he have a certification from the manufacturer, Sandusky Amusements, in a format prescribed by the New Jersey Department of Community Affairs?”
“They didn’t really ask for anything like that …”
Ceepak turns to face the control booth.
“Mr. Sinclair?” he calls out.
Ben is so startled, he nearly drops his cell phone.
“What?” It’s amazing how he can make one word have so much snarky attitude.
Ceepak glances down again at his laminated card. “What is the weight limitation on this ride?”
“Huh?”
“The weight limitation.”
“You don’t have to answer that, Benjamin,” says Bob.
“Yes, he does,” says Ceepak. “Mr. Sinclair? The manufacturer’s suggested weight limitation?”
Sinclair shrugs. “I dunno. Two fatties and one dude with a big butt?”
Ceepak turns to face Bob again.
“You will not be opening your ride any time soon.”
“Wait a minute … the State.…”
“We will inform the State of your failure to comply with five-fourteen-A dash four point eight.”
“Do you know how much money …”
“I’m not interested in financial details. But, rest assured, Bob, this ride will remain closed until such time as you hire a certified operator who has been trained by the manufacturer to operate the ride in accordance with the manual and any supplemental safety bulletins, safety alerts, or other notices related to operational requirements.”
Poor Bob. Ceepak memorized more of the rulebook than he did.
“Danny?”
“Sir?”
“We’re done here.”
We turn to leave.
“Sore losers!” mutters Bob.
We turn back around.
“I beg your pardon?” says Ceepak.
“I know what’s going on here. You two are still upset about the election. First you haul Hugh’s kid off to jail on a trumped-up charge. Now this crap about operator certificates? Face it, boys, you backed the wrong horse. Adkinson lost. Sinclair won. Get over it.”
Ceepak simply smiles.
“Hire a certified operator, Bob.”
“We will.”
“Then it’s all good.”
And this time when we turn to leave, we turn and leave.
All the other rides we inspect during the week pass, even the ones owned by Sinclair Enterprises.
His other operators all know their height requirements and weight limitations. “Two fatties and one dude with a big butt” is never the correct answer.
After work on Friday, Ceepak invites me to join him at his mother’s condo for dinner.
“If you have no other plans this evening.”
I don’t. So I do.
Ceepak’s wife, Rita, is working the Friday night dinner rush at Morgan’s Surf and Turf, so it’ll just be Ceepak, Adele, and me.
Mrs. Ceepak lives in an Active Adult Retirement Community called The Oceanaire. You have to check in at the gatehouse and be announced before the guards will even let you drive along the winding road that snakes around The Oceanaire’s clubhouse and meanders through its manicured landscape of 25 semi-identical cape-style homes.
Mrs. Ceepak is waiting for us on the front porch of her unit. It’s brand-new; neat and tidy.
“You like spaghetti and meatballs, Daniel?” she says when we climb out of my Jeep.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“Good. I know John does. Come on in. Let’s eat. And then you boys need to help me find a good lawyer.”
