“Gus?”
“Yeah?”
“Has anyone broken the law?”
“No. Not yet, anyways. But I gotta tell you: something doesn’t smell right about this setup in here.”
“Stand by, Gus,” says Ceepak. “Hold down the fort. We have company.”
He nods his head at a guy cruising into the parking lot on a rumbling Harley-Davidson motorcycle.
A guy wearing an Army-surplus Boonie hat.
His chopper scoots between a couple cars, heads straight for the lamp pole where Paulie Braciole, hands stuffed into his baggy shorts, stands waiting.
“You guys want wedding mints?” Gus suddenly asks over the walkie. “Smitten and me both snagged a pocketful from the bowl up front. They got jelly in the middle. Mint jelly, like with lamb.”
“Sure, Gus,” says Ceepak, distractedly. His eyes are glued on Skeletor as the drug dealer dismounts. “We’ll be inside, ASAP.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Roger, wilco.”
Ceepak buries the radio under his flowered shirttails.
“He is once again wearing the Boonie hat,” Ceepak mumbles, totally focused on his prey. “No helmet.”
And Skeletor definitely needs one. His emaciated head looks as brittle as an empty eggshell. The guy is maybe six-six, all jangling bones and knobby joints. He looks like a cadaver who just slinked out of his tomb.
I stare at his hat-a floppy, stiff-brimmed, camouflaged number that a lot of vets still wore after they came home from the jungles of Vietnam.
Believe it or not, I recognize it. The hat!
Two summers ago, we were patrolling the boardwalk, looking for a paintball prankster who had been splotching up billboards and people all over town. This creepy guy came up to us while we were conducting an interview. Super skinny. Dressed in chocolate-chip camo shorts, a matching T-shirt, and a Boonie hat. Challenged Ceepak to a shooting match. Called him an Army asshole when Ceepak refused.
Back then, I called him Bones.
But it was Skeletor.
And he’s been more or less challenging us ever since.
8
“Ms. Wood?” says Ceepak. “audio?”
“Roger that.” She learns quickly.
“You lookin’ good, man.” This from Skeletor. His voice wispy and thin, like even his voice box is bony.
“Thanks, bro,” says Paulie, sounding nervous.
“Where’s Soozy K?” I see Skeletor go up on tippy-toe, peer over Paulie’s shoulder.
“Inside.”
“For real?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool, cool. You tap that stuff?”
“Soozy?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe.”
Skeletor makes basketball palms over his chest. “Those tig ol’ bitties. Those real, man?”
“Nah,” says Paulie.
“For real? They’re fake?”
“Inflatable airbags, man.” Paulie. Such a gentlemen. He touches and tells.
“What about the skanky one?Jenny?”
“She’s the real deal.”
“Yeah?”
“You see the hula hoop dealio?”
“Sure. Episode Three.”
“They bounce and swing like that, bro, those biznoobies be real.”
“All right,” says Skeletor, wiping a bony elbow under his bony nose. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
“So, you bring the juice?”
Skeletor twitches some. Adjusts his hat. “Am I on TV?”
“No, man.”
“Why you wearing that microphone?”
“This?” We hear a “fwump” as Paulie taps his chest. “I always got to wear this fucking thing.”
“Even when you take a dump?”
“Yeah. But there’s a switch to, you know, turn it off.”
“Which he never uses,” mumbles Ms. Wood in the back.
“So,” says Paulie, sounding antsy, “I need to get back to work.”
“Work? Shit, man, all you people do is get drunk, play Skee-Ball, and bang each other. You call that fuckin’ work, bro?”
Paulie laughs. “Not really, man. But you know, I want to make the finals; win the fuckin’ money.”
“I’m pulling for you, bro. Big fan of The Thing. Want The Thing to take the whole thing, know what I mean?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Now Paulie pulls a crumpled wad of cash out of his baggy shorts.
Skeletor doesn’t take it. He has this crackbrained gleam in his eye. In a flash, his hand reaches for his belt.
Mine goes to my Glock.
Has Skeletor figured out this is a buy-and-bust?
No.
He yanks up his T-shirt. Flashes Paulie his bony ribcage. “Check it out. This is The Thing you wish you had. The Thing you wish you could be.”
He starts cackling like a crazy person.
I start breathing again.
“Cute,” says Paulie. “Cute.”
Now Skeletor drops his shirt. Turns around and pops open the hardcase trunk on the back of his motorbike. Palms something we can’t see, but maybe the cameras do. He swivels in a blur back to Paulie. Looks left, right, left again. Shakes Paulie’s hand.
“No charge, bro,” he says.
“Huh?” says Paulie.
“You’re a celeb, man. People see you on TV, looking all chiseled, I tell them how they can look the same way.” He turns his thumb and pinky finger into a jiggling telephone. “One call scores it all!”
“I’d rather pay,” says Paulie. “I got the money.”
“Sorry, bro. Your green is no good. That Red Power Ranger Go-Go Juice is on the house. Compliments of me and my crew.”
I glance over at Ceepak.
Technically, there’s been no buy; so can there be a bust?
And, so far, we have no proof Skeletor was ever actually in possession of steroids, so we can’t bust him on that.
I raise my eyebrows to ask Ceepak, “What now?”
“Thirty-nine, three dash seventy-six dot seven,” mumbles Ceepak.
My eyebrows go higher.
“The State of New Jersey’s Mandatory Helmet Law.”
Oh. Right. That thirty-nine dash-dot-whozeewhatzit.
Ceepak works the listening buds out of both ears and mutters the memorized ordinance: “No person shall operate or ride upon a motorcycle unless he or she wears a securely fitted protective helmet.”
Great. Instead of a drug bust, we’ll slap Skeletor with a twenty-five-dollar fine for wearing a floppy Army surplus hat.
Earphones out, Ceepak yanks up on his door handle. I’m a split second behind him. Go for my weapon.
“Keep it holstered,” says Ceepak through a tight smile without even looking over to see what I’m doing. “Too many innocent civilians.”
Yeah. The prospect for collateral damage is extremely high right now. Folks are piling out of cars. Moms, dads. Couple kids. Granny with her walker.
We stroll casually across the parking lot. Ceepak even whistles a little. “Waitin’ on a Sunny Day.” More Springsteen.
Paulie Braciole looks over. Sees us.
Skeletor’s bony head bobs sideways. He sees Paulie seeing something. Twirls around.
He sneers. His teeth are spiky. The guy has no gums.
“Hello, Army asshole.”
That’s what he called Ceepak that day at Paintball Blasters. I was right. It’s the same walking bone bag.