I grin. The big lug has the heart of a poet. Or, at least, he knows how to borrow from one: Springsteen.
We say no more. We don’t have to. The Boss and his music fill in all the gaps.
We keep walking.
Then Ceepak stops again.
There’s a light bulb over his head. It’s a street lamp, but I can tell he’s having an idea too.
14
“We need to contact Gus Davis,” says Ceepak.
“He was working the security detail last night?”
“Roger that. He would have been at the dance club with the cast. Might be able to fill us in on any details about what transpired there.”
We move into a patch of shade under one of the few trees on the block so Ceepak can read his cell phone screen. He puts it on speakerphone mode so I can hear.
“I quit,” are the first words out of Gus’s mouth, before Ceepak says anything.
“Gus, this is John Ceepak.”
“Yeah, I know. My grandkids figured out how to make this caller I.D. thing work. Freaking phone company.”
“Danny and I need to ask you a few questions.”
“You want to know how freaking sick I am of baby-sitting those drunken ding-dongs? You want to know how much I don’t need their royal pain in my butt? They’re freaking animals. You don’t need retired cops running security; you need zookeepers.”
“Gus, have you heard the news this morning?”
“What? That crap about the school board?”
“No. Paul Braciole. From Fun House.”
“Paulie. He the one with the drug problem? Always wants to flash you his high beams?”
“10-4.”
“What about him?”
“He was murdered.”
“Son of a sea cook. When?”
“Uncertain at this juncture. Most likely late last night or early this morning.”
“Crap on a cracker.”
“Were you there for the entire shoot at Big Kahuna’s dance club?”
“Yeah. Didn’t get home till three in the freaking morning.”
“What can you tell us about Mr. Braciole’s movements?”
“They’re terrible. Dances like Travolta with three left feet.”
“Did he go home with the rest of the cast when they finished filming?”
“No.”
I glance up at Ceepak. He gives me the knowing nod.
“Gus? What happened?”
“He was at the bar, doing that T-shirt flasher bit with a hot toddy who looked totally tanked. Anyways, Paulie’s over there, hiking up his shirt, wiggling her his nay-nays; she’s impressed. They chug a few beers, knock back a few shots of Jägermeister, badda-bing, badda-boom, they’re waltzing out the door looking to book the honeymoon suite at the Motel No Tell, if you catch my drift.”
“Did you follow after them?”
“Nah. Couldn’t. That other one, the one with the hair that looks like a dog bowl, he and the two loudmouth dames started in with some of the locals. You know, John Broadwater and that bunch. I think Broadwater wanted to get his picture in the papers decking the smart mouth with the hair, Tomasino I think his name is. So I’m busy breaking that up, because Tomasino’s going on and on about how he’s going to win a quarter million bucks and hire Broadwater to wipe his butt with hundred-dollar bills, crap like that.”
“So Mr. Braciole and this local girl-”
“She might’ve been a tourist. She was wearing high heels and one of those shiny sausage skirts that barely cover her ass, you know what I mean?”
Ceepak closes his eyes. Sighs. “Yes, Gus. I am familiar with the dress style you are describing.”
“Yeah, I’m figuring she’s a tourist. Local girls know better than to walk around town at midnight looking like two-bit tarts.”
True. They usually have the decency to quit around eleven.
“Did Braciole and his date leave the dance club unescorted?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Like I said, I was busy breaking up that thing between Tomasino and Broadwater. I think Ponytail followed Paulie and his floozy out the door.”
“Ponytail?”
“This mug lugging a camera. Has one of those hippy hairdos. He and two other yahoos went chasing after Paulie and Miss Hot Hiney. Some guy with a freaking bright light; another one holding out something fuzzy on a flagpole. Looked like a giant squirrel tail.”
The squirrel tail on the pole would be a boom microphone. Layla taught me that. Back before she met whoever she’d hooked up with last night.
“Thank you, Gus,” says Ceepak.
“You need anything else?”
“Not right now.”
“Good. I’ve got fish to gut. Catch you later.”
Ceepak thumbs the off button. Presses a speed dial.
“Who you calling next?” I ask.
“Prickly Pear Productions. Ms. Shapiro.”
“She’s probably still in the trailer.” Which, I don’t add, is only about fifty feet behind us.
“Danny, to be honest, I’d rather not go back in there again until we absolutely have to.”
I nod. The feeling is mutual.
“Ms. Shapiro? John Ceepak. Quick question. Does one of your cameramen wear his hair in a ponytail?”
He nods so I can see that he has been answered in the affirmative.
“Where might Jimbo and Unit Three be now? Thank you. What? I understand. However, this is extremely urgent.”
Now Ceepak does something I’ve never seen him do before: he makes a duckbill out of his left hand and flaps the thumb and fingers open and shut-giving me the universal “blah-blah-blah” sign.
“Right. Roger that. Okay. Thank you. We have to run.”
Finally, he snaps shut the phone.
“Danny, do you know the Starfish Boutique?”
“It’s on Ocean Avenue. Most expensive clothes on the island.”
“Apparently the cameraman with the ponytail is named Jimbo Green. He is currently filming Jenny Mortadella at the dress shop because she ‘doesn’t have anything decent to wear.’”
Funny. I thought that was the whole point of the Fun House wardrobe: the more indecent, the better.
And then Ceepak adds the kicker: “She needs a black outfit for Mr. Braciole’s funeral. They’re filming it first thing Monday morning.”
15
We head down to Ocean Avenue.
I’m behind the wheel, wondering what the “weekly competition” will be on Fun House: The Funeral Edition.
Casket-tossing?
Competitive pall-bearing?
Maybe they can do a “rose ceremony” with all the funeral flowers. They could form teams and run a gravesite floral-arrangement contest.
We park at the curb outside the Starfish Boutique. Their motto: “Why just be another fish in the sea when you can be the star?” It’s painted on both display windows flanking the front door. The mannequins wear gowns worked over by someone with a BeDazzler.
The glow of a blindingly bright spotlight swings by the window on the left. Jenny Mortadella, led by a sales associate in what they call “glamorous resort wear,” is being trailed by a full camera crew as she heads over to a rack of black garments. Judging by his ponytail, the man operating the camera aimed at Jenny’s badonkadonk is Jimbo Green.
Ceepak pauses at the front door. He’s polite enough to let Jimbo finish his shot.
“What the fuck is this shit?” Jenny brays, slapping her way through the hanging black dresses.
“These represent the finest in funereal fashion,” says the helpful assistant. “Remember, no matter how somber, funerals are, at their heart, social outings. And, just like weddings, there will be a lot of single, emotional people there. A long black dress with a steep neckline can be respectful and provocative.”