I'm feeling kind of pumped, like I clutched victory from the jaws of defeat and ended the day on a high note.
I turn in the cop car, punch out at headquarters, jump into my own wheels, and head home to lose my work clothes and grab a quick shower. Then, I think I'll head down to The Sand Bar, see what I can see, download my day.
I'm starting to think maybe I could be a cop. A real one, not just this part-time deal for the summer. Ceepak? He'll do that to you- he'll make you start thinking about being all you can be, like they used to sing in those old Army commercials.
The Sand Bar is buzzing.
It's 8:30 P.M. and I'm out on the deck with a few of my buds (most of whom are drinking Buds) watching the sun slip down behind the docks and sailboats on the bay side of the island. There's a screened-in porch with picnic tables, and sometimes we like hanging out here better than inside at the bar. You can hear most of the music but not as much of the bull people at the bar start spewing after their third or fourth beer.
Everybody wants me to tell them about the murder but I say “No comment,”like I've seen lawyers do on cop shows.
“Who do they think did it?”
“No comment.”
“You have some suspects though, right?”
“No comment.”
Sounds like I know everything without having to say anything at all.
Some of my friends wonder if Sunnyside Playland will ever reopen. And if they do, will they tear down the Tilt-A-Whirl? This one girl, my friend Becca, who works at her family's motel on Beach Lane, she thinks they have to.
“Would you want to ride on a ride where somebody was murdered? How gross….”
“No comment,”
’ I say.
“Jesus, Danny-is that all you're gonna say all night?” It's Jess. He's right. I sort of sound like a skipping CD somebody needs to whack so I'll move on to the next track.
“Can't you say anything else?”
“How about another brewski? I'm buying.”
“Okay. That's better.”
“Much better,” Becca adds. “And grab some popcorn.”
“Roger that,” I say.
“Who's Roger?”
I forgot I'm with civilians.
“Nobody. You guys want to eat?”
“Sure.”
“Grab some menus. I'll grab the beers.”
“10-4, good buddy,” Jess says. He's confused. By adding “good buddy,” he's doing Truck Driver instead of Cop. This stuff is kind of subtle.
I work my way inside and move through the crowd to the bar. It's noisy. The speakers hanging off the ceiling are thumping something fierce.
Down at the far end of the bar, I see this Abercrombie-Fitch type kid with a tray of Jell-O shots. He looks to be seventeen. Maybe sixteen.
He shouldn't be in here buying booze. So I do what I think Ceepak would do.
“Debbie?” I yell loud enough so my friend the bartender can hear me over the Saturday night racket. Debbie looks particularly fetching in her tattered-neck Sand Bar T-shirt and torn-off short-shorts. Add a parrot, she could be a pirate wench.
“Hey. What's up, Danny Boy?”
“That kid down there? I hope that's the Jell-O jiggler sampler you just served him. Something he could share with the whole class when he goes back to kindergarten in the fall….”
“Hey, man-I checked his driver's license. Says he's twenty-one. Says he's cool.”
“Is that so? Well, I got a piece of paper back home that says I'm Star Wars TIE-Fighter Commander on account of I drank enough Pepsi at Pizza Hut….”
“You goin’ all-cop on me, Danny Boy? Taking this summer job seriously all of a sudden?”
“I just don't want you guys to lose your liquor license. That's all.”
“Then ease up.”
“What if that kid gets in a car wreck?”
“He won't.”
“How do you know?”
“His father probably took away his keys. In case you haven't heard, there's this killer on the loose and nobody wants their kids driving anywhere until the cops catch the creep. If they can catch him. If they're not too busy running around town hassling people, checking fake IDs….”
Debbie can dish it out pretty good.
“I need three beers,” I say.
“Buds?”
“Yeah. Long-necks.”
Debbie moves back down the bar to the cooler.
I'm thinking about asking the kid with the fake ID a few questions like Ceepak would do. “So-you’re twenty-one? What year were you born? How many touchdowns did Mickey Mantle score that year? Hah! Gotcha. Mickey Mantle never played football….”
The kid's cell phone rings. He sticks his finger in his empty ear, looks at his watch, says something like “right now?” (from what I can read on his lips), and snaps his flip phone shut.
“Gotta bounce.”
I hear him say good-bye to the high-school buddies clustered behind him.
“I'm late for a blow job.”
I hear that one, too. His buddies slap him on the back and the kid slurps down a Dixie pixie cup of (I'm sure) vodka-soaked red Jell-O and walks out the door.
Debbie brings me the beers in a plastic bucket filled with ice.
“You got some ID, Danny?”
She's still busting my chops, but I play along and whip out my wallet.
“See? We card everybody in here.”
“Good for you, Debbie.”
And to think-we used to date. Back in high school, when I was the big man with the fake ID. Maybe Debbie's right. Maybe I'm taking this cop thing too seriously.
I uncurl five extra bucks and leave them on the bar as a tip so Debbie knows I'm sorry if I was acting like an asshole.
“You need popcorn?” she asks.
“Yeah. Popcorn would be great.”
She scoops me up a bucket and smiles. All is forgiven.
I hug both buckets and hustle out to the porch where my thirsty friends wait.
Becca, per usual, regales us with lurid stories of sordid motel guests. She works at the front desk, so she sees and hears everything. This week, she says, it's “Latino Soprano” week at The Mussel Beach Motel.
“We've got all these tough customers hanging out around the pool. Mendez. Ramirez. Echaverra. And you should see the tattoos-which I, of course, did.” Becca is known to admire the sculpted male physique. Probably why she and I don't date. “This one guy? Virgilio Mendez? His chest and arms look like an art museum. He's pumped to the max and has the Blessed Virgin Mary inked on his right shoulder … Jesus with the crown of thorns on his left pec….”
Halfway through the beers-my second, their third-we decide it's time to order dinner. So we flag down a waitress and order some fried shrimp and fried clam tenders and a French-fried lobster.
The fried food always comes to the table fastest.
I'm just getting started on my clam strips and curly fries when my cell phone rings.
I figure it's Ceepak, calling to make sure I'm tan, rested, and ready for our big day tomorrow.
Caller ID confirms my hunch. It's my 9:30 tuck-in call.
“Yes sir?”
“Danny-how many beers have you had?”
“Two.”
“That'll work. I need you down here at the beach house.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Negative. Ashley Hart is missing.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I've never seen so many cop cars.
Red and white lights are swirling everywhere. The road is clogged with armed troops lugging all kinds of heavy firepower. I even see some guys with black Kevlar helmets and full body armor. I swear-it looks like we're about to invade the next town down the shore.
I see Adam Kiger. He's got another Dunkin’ Donuts coffee going. This one's iced, one of those slushy Coolatas they sell, because it's still hot and muggy and the wind isn't even blowing.
“Guess I'm never gonna get any sleep,” Adam jokes when I catch his eye.
“Yeah. You seen Ceepak?”
“Out back. That's where the girl snuck out.”
“Thanks, man.”