in your face like that.”
“That’s okay. My face is used to being ugly-jumped.”
Ceepak, who can only hear my side of the conversation, shoots me a very quizzical look.
“So, Danny,” says Christine, “if, you know, you’re knocking off for the night, you want to, maybe, hang out?”
“I’m not sure we should.”
“We could meet someplace very public. Would that work? I really want to see you. Make sure we’re okay.”
To tell the truth, I wouldn’t mind that either.
“Let me check with my boss,” I say.
“Sure. And Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell Ceepak I’m sorry for the things I said about him to his mother.”
“You said bad things about Ceepak? To his mother?”
I’m repeating it so Ceepak can hear. He raises both eyebrows in mock surprise and cracks a funny grin.
“I think you’re forgiven,” I tell Christine.
“Great. So, you want to go grab a beer or something?”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to drink beer.”
“I’m not. But you can. I’ll just watch.”
“You going to be near your phone?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll call you right back.”
I tap my phone’s glass screen to end the call.
“Christine wants to get together tonight. Bad idea?”
“Not necessarily. Just make sure there are witnesses to your rendezvous. Pick a popular, crowded spot. And Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“Your ‘date,’ if we can call it that, should conclude in that public space as well.”
Right. No hooking up, getting busy, or horizontal mambo.
I call Christine back and we agree to meet at The Sand Bar-a hot spot on the bay side of the island with three levels of party decks that overlook the sailboats in the marina.
It’s always crowded.
We find a semi-quiet table on the second-floor terrace. I order a beer. Christine, a glass of ice-cold lemonade. I feel like I’m on a date with a nun, maybe a Mormon.
“I’m glad we could make this happen,” says Christine.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“And I apologize if I’ve done anything to slow down your investigation.”
Did I mention that Christine looks particularly attractive this evening? I’m guessing The Mussel Beach Motel has a better selection of toiletries and body creams than Chateau Danny. Her hair is shiny and bouncy. Her breasts in her low cut top? Well, they’re not shiny.
“No worries,” I say, seriously bemoaning the unfairness of Ceepak’s “the date ends in a public place” edict.
“I can understand why some people might see me as some kind of angel of death. Ever since I left the ER, all I’ve worked with are elderly patients facing the end of their lives. And Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s been a blessing. Seriously. Seeing how peaceful my patients look when they pass over, well, it has really helped.”
“So who’s the hottie, Boyle?”
I look up.
Joseph Ceepak is standing-make that teetering-next to our table. He has a mug of beer in his right hand, which explains the wobbly legs, and a curvy redhead in a tank top hanging on to his left arm.
There’s no explaining that.
“Who’s your hot date?” he asks again, sounding skeevier than ever.
“None of your business,” I say. “And yours?”
Mr. Ceepak turns his bleary eyes to the redhead. “What’s your name again, sweetheart?”
“Joey?” she giggles. “How many times I gotta tell you? Heather. And you better remember it, because you’re going to be screaming it all night!”
Mr. Ceepak turns back to me with a look of manly triumph in his bloodshot eyes. “What can I tell you, Boyle? I’ve still got it.”
I turn to Heather. “You heard him. He’s still got it. So be sure you pick up a condom on your way back to the Motel No-Tell.”
Heather giggles. “That’s funny.”
Mr. Ceepak doesn’t agree. He frowns and glowers.
“Come on, Joey. The guy made a joke. How you have like, ‘it,’ you know? Some kind of disease or whatever …”
“Yeah. I got it, babe, okay?”
The girl laughs again. “Now you said ‘I got it!’”
“Right. Very funny. Ha-ha-ha.”
“Relax, Joey,” Heather coos into Mr. Ceepak’s hairy ear. She’s tipsy, too. Margaritas and high heels are never a good mix.
“Joey’s gonna be a millionaire,” she says, slurring most of the words. “And then, once he gets his money, him and me are gonna run down to Mexico and drink our margaritas out of glasses that look like sombreros.”
“Really?” I smirk a little. “Gee,
“In Mexico?” squeals the girl. “I don’t think they have pretzels. Just nacho cheese Doritos.”
“How’d you two meet?” asks Christine, I guess to be polite.
I forgot: she’s never been formerly introduced to Mr. Ceepak. Doesn’t know who this drunken old douchebag is.
“At Joey’s ride,” says Heather. “The Free Fall. I rode it like six times.”
“In her halter top,” adds Mr. Ceepak. “The StratosFEAR is a real boob-bouncer.”
“Joey?” Heather acts like she’s embarrassed, even though I think that might be impossible.
Mr. Ceepak ignores her. Trains his lecherous eyes on Christine’s chest.
“You’d look good riding up and down on my pole, too, honey.”
“Okay,” I say, standing up. “That’s enough.”
“What? We’re just having a little fun, right, Miss … what’s your name?”
“Lemonopolous.”
And Mr. Ceepak’s hackles shoot up.
“You’re the tramp who’s bleeding my ex-wife dry with lawyer bills?” He slams his beer mug down on our table. “You murdering little slut …”
Mr. Ceepak lunges at Christine.
Heather shrieks and flees the scene.
I spring forward, grab hold of Mr. Ceepak’s wrist, and, using his own momentum, steer him toward the nearest exit.
Yeah. He’s drunk and I’ve been studying jujitsu with his son.
We’re halfway across the floor when Mr. Ceepak plants his heels and starts thrashing at me with both his arms.
“Turn me loose, Boyle.”
“Not gonna happen,” I say.
