I remember years ago when some local ladies in a club, The Very Rich Daughters of the American Revolution or something, formed a Preservation Society to save The Palace, what they called “The Dowager Queen” of seaside hotels. They made the governor declare this dump a Cherished State Landmark, and that means nobody can tear it down without jumping through all sorts of hoops and red tape.
There are hundreds of rooms, but only about a dozen look like they still have windows with any glass. I can see water stains and mold on the peeling wallpaper in the lobby. I suspect anything worth money-all the fixtures and oriental rugs and stained glass and carved furniture-was hauled out years ago.
“Let's take a little walk,” Ceepak says and points to a dilapidated dock out back behind the sagging hotel.
We march through the lobby. I can hear water dripping somewhere. Must be why the whole place reeks of mildew.
We reach the doorjambs on the far end of the lobby. No doors. Just some rusty hinges where, I guess, doors used to hang.
We head toward The Palace's private pier.
“You see it?” Ceepak whispers.
Finally I do.
There's a small aluminum fishing boat tied up to an ancient piling.
The dock creaks as we walk.
“Watch where you step.”
“Right.”
This time, I don't think Ceepak's worried about me stepping on evidence. I think there's a good chance one or both of us will step right through this rotting wood. I can see jagged holes where others already have.
We reach the post where the boat is tied up.
Ceepak lies down on his stomach on the deck.
“Danny? Grab my ankles.”
“Sure.”
I hold his socks, like I'm spotting him for a quick set of upside-down situps.
Ceepak leans down into the bobbing fishing boat. While he's hanging, he unsnaps a pocket, pulls out the Canon Sure Shot, and somehow snaps a digital photograph.
“Danny?”
He reaches back with the camera and I take it, using my knee to hold an ankle and temporarily free up a hand.
Meanwhile, his hand feels around his cargo flaps, snaps open a different pocket, digs inside, and fishes out the tweezers.
He lowers himself farther off the edge. If I let go now, he'll be head-banging the boat bottom and flipping into the drink for a dip.
“Got it!” he says. “Rotating.”
I have no idea what “rotating” means until I feel his very strong legs move around inside my grip so he's upside down and backwards and able to do this incredible abdominal crunch thing that brings him up to a sitting position on the dock.
In his tweezers, he's snared another surfer bracelet.
Another breadcrumb.
We move along the back of the hotel, under what must have been the grand verandah back when William Howard Taft was here putting on the feedbag.
We reach the remains of an in-ground pool. The water's all green and slimy and filled with crap. Stinks too, like it's been a bird toilet too long. Poolside, there's nothing but flaky chunks of concrete, bleached dry by the sun that used to shine so bright back here.
It's like that Springsteen song about Atlantic City:
“Everything dies
Baby that's a fact
But maybe everything that dies
Some day comes back.”
Then again, maybe not. Springsteen probably never saw The Palace Hotel's scummy pool.
Man-I can't wait until I see what even-more-depressing stuff we find inside. I think knowing Ceepak's sniper rifle is in the cargo bay of our cop car has put me in some kind of glum, gloomy mood.
I'm too young to think about death and dying. But I guess pretty much everybody thinks that way, no matter how old they happen to be.
“Looks like a restaurant,” Ceepak says. “Or a nightclub.”
We're standing in a big half-circle room surrounded by three tiered terraces for tables. I imagine this was the dance floor.
“Hungry?” Ceepak asks.
“Kind of.”
Good. He wants to eat, not dance.
Ceepak pulls two Power Bars out of his left pants leg.
There are a couple of cocktail tables and rusting café chairs. We sit down to our foil-wrapped suppers.
Having skipped both breakfast and lunch, I wolf down half my bar in one bite.
Ceepak laughs.
“Hungry?”
“Starving.” When I say it, it sounds more like “snar-vink” because I've crammed so much food in my face.
“You remind me of my little brother,” Ceepak says.
My mouth is full of mashed protein powder and nuts, so I just make a “really?” kind of face.
“Yeah. He was always hungry. Ate fast, too. Afraid somebody would steal his supper.”
“How old is he?”
“He would have been about your age now. Twenty-three. Twenty-four.”
Would have been. Past tense.
Jesus.
More death.
Ceepak puts down his Power Bar and stares out at the ocean framed by tall arched windows behind the dance floor. He balls the wrapper up in his right hand and fidgets with it.
I think the waves are mesmerizing Ceepak, putting him into some kind of trance. I also think he's waiting for the sun to go completely down so he can do what he thinks needs doing under the cover of darkness.
“William Philip Ceepak. Billy.”
“That your brother?”
“He killed himself. Put a pistol in his mouth …”
“I'm sorry….”
“I was already in the Army, so I guess Billy was about eighteen. High school.”
I can tell Ceepak wants to make certain he gets his facts straight, that it's important he remember the details of his brother's death correctly.
“My father is a drunk,” Ceepak says matter-of-factly. “I remember how he used to roughhouse with us and all the cousins when we were kids. Down in the basement. You know-after Christmas, Thanksgiving dinner. Everybody thought he was such a great guy-going downstairs to play with the kids while the rest of the dads stayed upstairs and watched the game and smoked. But the basement? That's where he hid his booze. He swore to Mom he had quit. ‘Cross my heart and hope to spit,’ he'd say. He'd wink at her and she'd laugh. But while we were downstairs, the kids all wrestling on these old mattresses on the floor, he'd sneak under the staircase to where he hid his stash. Whiskey. Vodka. He had quite a collection going, little airplane bottles tucked behind all the baby-food jars filled with nails and screws.
“I was the only kid old enough to know what he was doing. Sometimes he'd catch my eye while he sucked one of those little bottles dry. ‘Don't tell your mother.’ He'd wink at me the way he winked at her. ‘Promise?’ I'd say I promised, because, you know-he was my dad.
“A drunk can be fun. Funny, too. But then, a couple hours later, he usually gets sad and angry and things turn ugly. The wrestling is a little rougher and maybe somebody's head gets banged against the steel pole in the middle of the cellar and there's crying and somebody comes running down to see what all the commotion is about. Maybe your dad roughs up your mom later that same night for embarrassing him in front of all the aunts and uncles, the whole family, and you hear her in their bedroom sobbing and when you run down the hall to help her your father swats you across your face….”
Jesus.
I wonder how long it's been since Ceepak let any of this stuff out.
“Anyhow,” he says, giving me, I”m sure, the abridged version of his time spent in Hell, “what does Springsteen say?”
“About him and his dad?”
“Yeah. Lots of songs on that one. Sons and fathers. Same-old same-old, I guess. ‘Nothing we can say is gonna change anything now….’”
“So you left?”
“Joined the Army. Went overseas. I wasn't around to protect Billy or Mom any more. I deserted my post….”
“No, you were….”
“I wasn't there. Eventually, Billy got out. Sort of. Started hanging out at the church. This new priest came to town and organized a youth group. And the priest? Oh, he was a swell guy, Danny. Young. Cool. Athletic. He had keys to the church school gym, so Billy and his buddies could play basketball any time they wanted. He took the boys on camping trips. Baseball games. Made them into movie stars….”