He's got our attention again.
“Which one?” Ceepak asks.
“What?”
“Which car wash did you use?”
“Cap'n Scrubby's,” Gus says. “They give us a discount.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It's right before ten on Sunday morning.
The chief will meet Mendez and Ms. Stone for brunch at Chesterfield's. We're on our way to the car wash. Sounds like Gus could have lost his gun at the one place everybody who recognizes Squeegee says they've seen him.
The car wash is fast becoming one of Ceepak's more definite possibilities.
Maybe our prime suspect did an extra-good job cleaning out Gus's car. Maybe, while wiping down the dashboard, he even tidied up the glove compartment.
On the way to Cap'n Scrubby's, we drive past a few church parking lots. They're fuller than usual. Most people take a little vacation from the Lord while they're down here taking a vacation from everything else. But this Sunday, people seem to be out in force, undoubtedly praying for the safe return of Ashley Hart.
When we stop at traffic lights, I can see flyers stapled to the telephone poles.
MISSING.
Under that big, scary headline is the face of the pretty blond girl we met yesterday. I look up Ocean Avenue. The flyers are nailed to every single pole, taped to every light post.
Traffic seems kind of heavy for Sunday morning. I notice a lot of cars are taking the turn for the Causeway and heading home. I guess people checked out of their rentals early because they'd rather lose their deposits than their children.
We pass the entrance to Sunnyside Playland.
The ground is blanketed with bouquets. Bunches of tissue-wrapped roses-the kind you can buy in the refrigerator case at the A amp;P. A couple of teddy bears and some stuffed green turtles are stuck into the chain-link gate. The newspapers had told everybody how much young Ashley and her father liked turtles, why they were on the Turtle-Twirl Tilt-A-Whirl before it even opened. They'd worked all the human-interest angles pretty good.
There's a sheet draped over a section of the Playland fence, covering up some of the “Fun In The Sun” slogan. It's the kind of banner we used to paint for high-school homecoming games. Only this one says, “Please Come Home Safe Ashley!” and has a smiley face in the dot under the exclamation point.
We're on our way to Cap'n Scrubby's to see if we can help make that wish come true.
“Gosh, I was just thinking about calling you guys.”
The manager of Cap'n Scrubby's Car Wash looks like he took the job right after a quick stint managing the local Blockbuster because he's wearing the same basic uniform: pleated khaki pants and an oxford blue button-down shirt. He also has on, I kid you not, a tie with foaming soap bubbles printed all over it. His name is Steve. Says so right on his nametag. I figure the guy's a little older than me. Maybe even thirty. He was just opening his doors when we marched in.
“You recognized the sketch?” Ceepak says.
“No, I'm not a hundred percent certain, or I would have called. The towel boys are a very transient labor force.”
“And this man?” Ceepak pushes the Squeegee sketch across the desk.
“Like I said, he kind of sort of looks familiar. But frankly, a lot of the vagrants out back look like this. Unkempt. He might've worked here. Maybe.”
“Do you keep employment records?”
“Sure.”
He pulls out the metal file drawer on the right side of his little desk. It squeaks.
We're sitting in the lobby. The manager's desk is in the far corner, near big plate-glass windows, tucked behind a low cubicle wall to give him a little privacy, to make him think he actually has an office. There are a pair of tiny American flags stuck into a wooden holder on his desk, part of the Proud American Deskset they sell at Office Max.
A cashier is stationed up front, near the lobby door. She's dressed in khakis and a blue polo shirt with Cap'n Scrubby's face embroidered where the alligator or polo player usually sits. The Cap'n's head is a big soap bubble under a Jolly Roger pirate hat. His moustache? It's a scrub brush.
The lobby is also where you buy air fresheners to hang on your rearview mirror. They've got the classic pine trees in all ten colors, Yosemite Sams, Garfields, Playboy Bunnies-they hang alongside other car crap like fuzzy dice and leatherette steering-wheel wraps, stuff you might just purchase while you're waiting for your car to finish its automated bath.
“Hmmm,” Steve says after flipping through a few file folders.
“Problem?”
Ceepak is not interested in “hmmms” this morning.
“Well, as I say-some of our labor force is transitory in nature. Migrant workers, if you will….”
“You don't have records?”
“Not anything, you know, official. Not for the drifters and homeless folks.”
“Pay stubs?”
“Well, we don't really, you know, ‘pay’ the towel boys per se. They're not actually employees.”
“They work for the tips? That's it?”
“That's right. But we provide them with the treasure chest.”
“The tip box?”
“Yes. We had it made up to look like a pirate chest. Adds to our whole nautical ambience … maintains Cap'n Scrubby's imaging system….”
The guy must've taken a marketing class back at community college.
I've had my car cleaned at Scrubby's a couple times. (They charge extra for minivans.) Once the mechanized track drags your vehicle through the scrubbers and sprayers and drying curtains, you meet it out back where a gang of seven or eight guys goes at it with tattered towels.
These guys have a padlocked box with a slit on top for tips. I usually stuff a buck or two into it when they finish rubbing wet towels around my windows and smearing them up worse than they were before they started. It's like you're paying them to stop. Please.
My guess is Steve has the keys to the tip box and he's the one who divvies up the dough. I wouldn't even be surprised if ol’ Cap'n Scrubby takes a cut of the tips meant for his hardworking mateys out back.
“Have you ever heard of the minimum wage law?” Ceepak says to Steve.
“Oh, sure. You bet. But technically, the boys out back? As I said, they aren't employees. So technically, they are not wage earners, nor are we in violation of any labor laws.”
“What about the spirit of those same laws?”
My man Ceepak doesn't like folks who skirt around a law by scoping out its loopholes.
“As I said, Cap'n Scrubby's is in full compliance with all state and federal labor laws.”
Sounds like another seminar Steve took.
Either that, or Mr. Sinclair, our mayor, who also happens to own this fine car-washing establishment, told him what to say if anybody ever asked. It's why Steve gets to wear the tie and call men twice his age “boys.”
“Mr. Sinclair feels he is providing a charitable public service by allowing the towel boys to work here for tips. Better than having them beg on the beach, he says.”
“Steve?” Ceepak stands up. He has that subtle cop way of leaning on his holster so the leather creaks and you remember that he has a gun, you don't, and that maybe you ought to listen very carefully to what he's about to say.
“Yes, sir?”
Ceepak slides the sketch back across the tiny desktop.
“One more time. Do you recognize this man?”
“As I stated earlier….”
“I know. He wasn't an employee. But was he part of your social outreach program?”
Steve picks up the sketch. Studies it.
“Yes. He was a troublemaker.”
“How so?”
“Patrons accused him of theft. Coffee mugs. Cell phones. Loose change. Anything that wasn't nailed down inside their cars. The police were called here on several different occasions.” Steve pushes the sketch back at Ceepak. “Eventually, we asked him not to come back.”