Bravera had knowledge of security systems and Randolph knew a thing or two about safes. For him, tumblers and electronic lock sequencing were merely different sets of notes to master. Tomorrow they were going to take down the beach house of the matching-hair couple. Yes, they agreed, the two of them had one sweet hustle going.
When the alleged Lori McLaughlin had come on to him, the possessive Bravera did some checking and turned up that she was Carlson’s daughter. Randolph and Bravera didn’t know what the pitch was, but figured the two were setting him up for an Oswald — be the fall guy. The piano player had hinted to the bartender that he’d beaten a dope charge in Baltimore. That was a lie, just part of the dodge, like his funky apartment near the track. But the Carlsons must have figured a footloose brother hiding out in Orange County, wanted on a criminal charge elsewhere, was a good fit for a robbery-murder here in town.
Randolph and his older lover and partner, not wishing to pass up an opportunity for enrichment, had let the scheme unfold. In another month or so, not so foolish to push their luck, they’d move on.
“Like Duke explained, man, you gotta play with intent to do something,” the pianist said sotto voce, then hummed and teased the keys, ending his extended version of “On Green Dolphin Street.” There was sustained clapping and several patrons rose and dropped large bills into the snifter. Before the tune, Randolph had announced he was taking up a collection to bury father and daughter. Bravera put in a fifty, smiling at him. He lifted the glass with both hands, bowing slightly to the gathered from his piano seat.
The Happiest Place
by Gordon McAlpine
Anaheim
The happiest place on the entire planet, my ass... Derek called me into the office, his voice an out-of-tune reed instrument in my earpiece, just as I was herding a dozen sunburned tourists and their jabbering children off the teacup ride, which had broken down for the third time in a week. “Carl, we need to see you immediately,” Derek said. “Headquarters, now.” He acted as if being a security day-shift lead made him Batman, or at least Commissioner Gordon. Sure, he had military and a little police experience on his resume, and since 9/11 that was all anybody valued in security. The downing of the Twin Towers changed everything at the park — not because terrorists have ever shown up on Huck Finn’s Island or among the mannequin pirates on the splash-splash boat ride, but because the new security hires all thought they were better than the rest of us, especially me. My twenty-three years of experience counted for nothing to them. All that mattered was that I’d been hired during a “kinder, gentler” period of American history, sans military or police experience, when former school teachers like me were considered adequate for the job of herding tourists off broken-down attractions, managing crowd-control during the fireworks display, or busting preteens for smoking cigarettes on the sky ride. I knew the new breed thought of me as a middle-aged, hefty embarrassment, particularly after I became literally the last of the “old guard.” I knew how much they wanted to put rat ears on my head, shove a tail up my ass, and send me out the main gate forever. But I always did my job and there was nothing they could do to get rid of me — at least, not until the day Derek called me away from the teacups.
When I got to the security office, Derek wasn’t even involved in the inquiry.
It was Jeffrey, the department head, former FBI, who asked me to take a seat in the conference room, which I’d visited only once before, in ’98, to help plan a birthday party for one of the secretaries. The room hadn’t changed. Dozens of large, framed photographs of the park’s long-dead founder lined the walls. Two grim Anaheim city policemen entered, their handcuffs jangling on their polyester pants and their boots echoing across the linoleum floor. They sat at the long table, accompanied by a lawyer from corporate, a stenographer, two interns, and a video technician. Excepting the cops, everyone wore standard employee name tags — first names only. Bob, Tom, Steve...Friendly, huh? But how else would you expect employee relations to be at the world’s happiest place? The video technician made final adjustments to a small camera pointed in my direction, then indicated we could begin.
“We’re videotaping for legal purposes,” Jeffrey said, his smooth delivery more like that of a weatherman than a topcop. He was weatherman handsome too. All he needed was a name like Dallas Raines or Johnny Mountain and his toothy grin would have been on TV screens instead of here in my face.
“What’s this all about?” I asked.
“We’ve had a complaint,” Jeffrey said, indicating a manila folder on the desk. “A female guest in her teens filed a report that says you followed her around the park, leering at her.”
“What?” I recalled no particular young lady. How could I? Every hour of every day I saw thousands of girls in their teens walking around the park (just as I saw thousands of sour-faced, divorced fathers scrambling to keep up with their children, thousands of overwrought mothers toting handy-wipes and pushing strollers, thousands of obese tourists reeking of sweat and tanning lotion, thousands of school-age boys and girls who moved like flocks of birds from one “land” to the next, thousands of retirees in souvenir T-shirts and sun visors, thousands of foreigners in baseball caps, thousands of chattering children in pirate hats, thousands and thousands and thousands of everything...). “One paranoid guest files a complaint and you call me in for this inquisition?”
Jeffrey smiled. His manner remained friendly but coldblooded, doubtless a technique learned at Quantico. He turned his chair to face me directly. “Need I remind you that here at the park we do not tolerate dissatisfaction in any form from any of our guests.”
“Sure, but one report—”
He interrupted: “Are you suggesting that following only one young woman around the park, bothering her with unwanted and aggressive sexual attentions, is acceptable?” He straightened in his chair, his expression growing stern.
“Aggressive sexual attentions?” This was outrageous. The others at the table averted their eyes. At first, I assumed they were embarrassed to be part of this kangaroo court. But after a moment I realized they were embarrassed for me, as if I’d actually done something wrong. “Look, I don’t even talk to guests, male or female, unless they talk to me first. So even if I happened to be following an attractive young woman, it would only have been out of boredom, nothing more.”
“Is following an attractive young woman ‘out of boredom’ a part of your job description?” Jeffrey asked.
“I was speaking hypothetically.”
“But if one actually did such a thing?” he pressed.
“Well, no. Obviously, it’s not part of my job description, if I did such a thing.”
He nodded, smug, and turned to the video technician across the table. “Run the video, please.”
Every square foot of the park is covered by cameras, primarily for the legal department’s use in defending lawsuits (as opposed to the stated purpose of busting criminals or terrorists or nine-year-old boys pocketing souvenir pencils from the gift shops). The particular time-stamped surveillance footage compiled for our viewing showed me walking directly behind a nubile park guest who wore a revealing halter top and very short shorts. From the angle of the camera it appeared that I may indeed have been staring at her ass. But one angle proved nothing. Unfortunately, they had more than one angle — the video cut to another camera that picked up where the first left off, capturing the two of us moving in single file through the Land of Clichéd Yesteryear to the Land of Harmless Adventures and on to the Land of Saccharine Fantasy, the footage from all the cameras edited together to form a single, incriminating sequence. I didn’t remember the girl, though for a few minutes of a particular day she had undeniably engaged my attention. It was not pleasant to observe — the security guard uniform made me look heavier than I actually am (and everyone knows video adds ten to twenty pounds to anyone’s appearance); additionally, I was old enough to be the girl’s father and my attentions toward her, isolated and edited in this manner, were humiliating.