I scratch the back of my head. “It’s yours? Mr. Ceepak says it’s his. I don’t know. This is a difficult situation. Maybe I better call the cops. Have them come up here and help us figure this thing out. Oh, wait. I
“Go home, boys,” snarls Mr. Ceepak. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Ben.”
“B-b-but …”
“Beat it. Now.”
The dumb one puts on his tough guy act. “Yo, old man. You owe us …”
“I don’t owe you crap, kid.” Mr. Ceepak finger-flicks the glowing butt of his cigarette at the boy. “Get lost. All of you. Unless you want Boyle here to arrest your pimply butts.”
“Come on, Ethan,” says Ben.
Muttering and mumbling, the young men shuffle off into the darkness.
Mr. Ceepak pops a fresh cigarette into his lips.
“You know, Boyle,” he says, sending the cancer stick wiggling up and down, “the last time I was in the can, my cellmate was a CPA.”
“Huh. I guess you really do meet the most interesting people in jail.”
“Oh, you do, Boyle. You do. This guy, Richard Michael Johnson, he was sharp. Swindled the bank he worked for out of a million bucks just by rounding down numbers on his computer. Nobody noticed. Not until he got greedy. Anyway, he told me all a man really needs is one million dollars to be beer and pretzels rich for the rest of his life.”
“What’s ‘beer and pretzels’ rich?”
“Less than Wine and Cheese. Nowhere near Caviar and Champagne. I get my hands on a million bucks, Boyle, I’m a happy camper. I go back to my trailer park in Ohio, drink beer and eat pretzels all day long.”
“What about protein?”
“What?”
“That’s a lot of carbs, sir. Beer. Pretzels. Where’s the beef? Maybe you should go to Mickey Dee’s and order off the Dollar Menu. You could get a McChicken …”
“Cute, Boyle,” says Mr. Ceepak, bending down to pick up his groceries, that flicking cigarette perfectly balanced in his lips. “You’re still a wise ass, huh?”
“It’s what I do best, sir.”
“Yeah, well, do me a favor. Tell Johnny I’m not greedy. Adele cleared two point three million when her whacky old aunt kicked the bucket. By rights, we should’ve split that payday fifty-fifty. But like I said, I’m not greedy. All I want are my beer and my pretzels. One million bucks, Boyle. That’s all it costs for you boys to never, ever see me again.”
“I thought all we had to do was save your sorry life at the Rolling Thunder roller coaster.”
“That was nothing special. You two are cops. It’s your job. You had to save me or they’d dock your pay.”
“Look, sir,” I say, because it’s getting late and I’m getting tired of the same-old, same-old with Joe Sixpack. “Your ex-wife is not going to give you a dime. End of story.”
“She should. It’s all over the bible. ‘Wives be submissive to your husbands!’”
“Right. I’ll tell Adele you said that.”
“That’s okay. I’ll swing by some day and tell her myself. After all, you and Johnny can’t guard her 24/7 now, can you?”
34
I head into the store, grab a six-pack of Sam Adams Summer Ale for me, a sixer of Coors Non-Alcoholic for Ceepak.
Tempted as I am to pop one for the ride home, I don’t.
It’s a little after eleven when I crunch into the gravel parking lot behind The Bagel Lagoon.
I carry my sack of packaged goods up the outside steel staircase to Ceepak’s apartment on the top floor. Using the spare key Ceepak gave me, I let myself in.
The small one-bedroom apartment is dark. Barkley is too old and deaf to do any kind of watchdog duties any more. He just rolls over and cuts the cheese when I come in the door. Twenty-two-hundred hours is the typical lights-out time for Ceepak and Rita. That’s 10 P.M. in the Eastern Non-Military Time Zone.
There’s a clamshell night-light softly glowing near the fold-out sofa bed, which is made up with sheets and a wool army blanket tucked in so tight you could bounce a dime off it like they always do during inspection in Army movies.
I take the beers to the kitchen area, tuck both six-packs into the fridge, and then pull out a frosty bottle of Sam Adams.
“Mind if I have one of those?”
Ceepak. The guy’s stealthy. Even in his bedroom slippers.
“I picked up some of the Coors for you.”
“Think I’ll go with the real deal tonight. If you have one to spare.”
“Definitely.”
I hand him a bottle. We grab seats at the linoleum topped kitchen table.
“How’s Christine?”
Realizing that “
He nods. “Good.”
“I ran into your dad,” I say. “At the liquor store. Neptune’s Nog, down on Ocean.”
“And?”
“The born-again act is just that-an act. He hasn’t changed a bit. He just has a new price.”
“Which is?”
“One million dollars. Your mother gives him a cut of her inheritance, he promises to leave town.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. He even has bible verses to back up his claims.”
“I’m sure he does. But Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s never going to happen.”
“Roger that,” I say.
We clink bottles, something guys usually only do in beer commercials.
Then we drink and think in silence.
Until it’s time for our second beer.
Then we drink and think some more.
35
Arnold Rosen’s funeral takes place early Sunday morning at the Grossman amp; Mehringer funeral home’s memorial chapel.
Ceepak, Rita, Ceepak’s mom, and I go to pay our last respects.
Grossman amp; Mehringer’s is located on Sea Breeze Drive, just about a block from the Salty Dog Deli, which, I’m told, caters a lot of the post-funeral receptions for those utilizing the services of the funeral home. Probably because the owner, Saul, makes the best Reuben sandwiches in the state, even though Saul once told me they’re not kosher.
“It’s corned beef, Swiss cheese, and sauerkraut on toasted rye bread,” he said. “The combination of Swiss
