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….”
“Movie stars?”
“He had them pose naked. Do things to each other. Do things to him. The priest put it all on tape and sold it on the Internet. One of the boys? He told his folks what was going on. That takes guts, you know? To tell your parents what this holy man, this great guy, what he's really up to? The cops bust the priest, there's a trial, and pretty soon everybody in town sees the tapes.
“Billy? He toughed it out for three years. Everybody snickering about what that priest did to him. My father? Oh, he was a real champ. Said Billy got what he deserved. Said God, the almighty Father on high, God himself was punishing Billy for trying to run away from his real father.”
Ceepak tightens his grip on the Power Bar foil in his fist.
“My father? He's not a real father, Danny. A real father does everything he can to protect his children. He doesn't terrorize his family because he's thirsty for a drink. A real father risks his life to make the world safer for his sons. My father? He called Billy sissy boy. Porno queen. It's like he put the bullets in the gun and all Billy had to do was squeeze the damn trigger.”
Jesus.
I think Ceepak just told me why he has to kill Squeegee tonight.
I don't know what to say.
So I keep quiet and let him look at the ocean.
The sun is gone. The stars are starting to come out. The waves keep rolling up on the beach.
Finally, I feel I should say something.
“So, where's your dad now?”
Ceepak looks at me.
“Don't know, Danny. We sort of lost track of each other.”
“Yeah. Sure. And your mom?”
“She's safe.”
He bites into his Power Bar.
That's all I'm going to get tonight, probably more than anybody has heard in years. Maybe even more than he told the chief, back when they were hunting down that chaplain in Germany. I see now, of course, why Ceepak was so motivated on that particular military mission.
“Well,” Ceepak says, standing up, dusting the crumbs off his lap. “Guess we've wasted enough time….”
“Yeah.”
“Let's start working the hallways. See if-”
We hear a dog bark.
Then this woman's voice.
“Oh, fuck!” she shouts.
In the shadows I see a figure with frizzy hair. It's so dark, I can't see much of her, except her feet. She uses brown paper sacks for socks.
She also has a mangy German shepherd on a leash made out of twine.
The dog barks again.
“I know, Henry. It's the motherfucking fuzz!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Ma'am?”
For an old lady, she's fast.
She and the dog run out a door and up what I guess is a hall.
Right now, they have the advantage. They've been here before; we haven't. We're first-time guests and they appear to be long-term residents. So they know where the hell they're running. We don't.
“Danny?”
“Right behind you, boss.”
We both pull out our flashlights and tear up the tiered terraces to the exit she used.
On the other side of the door, I bang into this rickety old grocery cart loaded down with trash bags, nickel-deposit bottles, an old moving pad, books, and an eyeless stuffed panda bear with dirt on its nose.
We hear the dog barking somewhere up the corridor.
“Leave it, Henry! Leave the fucking rat alone!”
Now that she mentions it, I can hear the scratchy-toed devils scurrying around inside what's left of the plaster walls.
“Put him down!”
Wonderful. Henry's a “ratter.” But his assorted barks and snarls act like a homing beacon, helping us figure out which way they're running.
Ceepak leads us up a long, dark corridor lined with rooms. Like most hotel hallways, there are no windows. That means there's also no light. No moonlight, no nothing. Our tiny flashlights shoot jittery spotlights across the walls as we run. I half expect a rat in a top hat to jump out and tap-dance like that frog on the WB.
The carpet squishes under our feet as we run. Guess the roof leaks. Or the toilets.
After about fifty yards, we come to a landing where the grand staircase swoops up from the lobby. Tall casement windows in the stairwell let in just enough light for us to see a few shadows and dim outlines.
I smell gasoline.
So does Ceepak. He goes to the staircase. Most of the planks have been ripped out and all that's left are the stringers on the sides and the support joists in between. Guess the floorboards, the treads, were mahogany or oak or something worth stealing.
“C-4,” Ceepak says, looking at what appears to be a brick wrapped in black plastic and duct-taped to a crossbeam. His finger traces the red and white and green wires snaking from th
e plastic explosive up and down the steps to, I guess, more wads of C-4. There's a gas can sitting in the windowsill.
“Arson?” I say.
“Looks like.”
“Why? There's not much left to burn.”
“More like a demolition.”
The dog barks.
“Come on,” Ceepak says.
There's another bark. And another. A whole series.
“Henry? Shush!”
Now Henry tosses in a couple of howls, like he's singing opera. All the noise comes from below.
“Come on! Down the steps!”
We head down the grand staircase, stepping on the crossbeams and stringers because, like I said, there aren't any actual stairs any more. Once again, I have a really good chance of slipping through a gaping hole and landing on my butt.
We make it to the second floor and hear a long, slow dog yawn.
Downstairs.
I grab hold of the banister and try not to look down where the floorboards used to be. It's like running down a steep railroad track, stepping only on the ties. The boards bang my arches and sting like hell. Before this is over, I know I'm going to make some bone doctor a very rich man.
“Henry? Come on! Henry!”
Now she sounds like she's right below us.
“Henry?”
Sounds like he isn't cooperating.
We reach the lobby. She's tugging on that twine leash, but Henry is lying like a lump in the middle of the floor, all flopped out, breathing hard.
“You need a nap? Now?”
“Ma’am?” Ceepak moves toward what I'm guessing is a crazy homeless person. His hand never goes anywhere near his gun. “Ma'am?”
“Shhhh! Henry's napping. Can the noise, would ya?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Jesus,” she huffs. “Some people. Yak, yak, yak. Ma'am, ma'am, ma'am.”
In the lobby, I get a better look at our quarry. She's tiny. Not even five feet tall. She has on Converse basketball shoes with the canvas toes ripped out and, like I saw earlier, brown paper bags for socks. She's wearing about three different skirts, plaid and denim, with a petticoat underneath. There's a tie-dyed shirt up top over what I figure, from all the bumps circling her like spare tires, is a goose-down vest. Her silver hair is wiry and dirty and wild and curls around her head like a worn-out scrubbing pad.
“You're not going to shoot me, are you, fuzz?”
“No, ma'am.”
“Good.”
“Is that your dog?”
“No. That's Henry.”
“Yes, ma'am. That's a pretty shirt,” Ceepak says. It's tie-dyed all kinds of colors-just like the one Ashley said Squeegee was wearing when he shot her father.
“My boyfriend loaned it to me. I was cold.”
“Does your boyfriend have a name?” he asks. He's made the tie-dye connection, too.
“Jerry. His name is Jerry.”
Ceepak nods, the way you nod when you're visiting the mental ward and a patient tells you the ashtrays have been saying mean things about them lately.
“Jerry Garcia?” Ceepak says, playing along.
“From the Grateful Dead?” the bag lady says.
“That's right. He wears a lot of tie-dye shirts.”
“Jerry Garcia?” she says again.
“That's right. Did Jerry Garcia loan you his T-shirt?”
The bag lady stares at Ceepak like he's an idiot.
“Jesus. Jerry Garcia died like, what? Ten years ago. Don't you read the papers? Watch TV?”
“I thought, perhaps….”
“You need to stay better informed. Especially in your line of work….”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Jesus. My friend's name is Jerry Shapiro. You know….”
She reaches into what I can only imagine is a dirty brassiere rigged up under that T-shirt and down vest and who knows what else she has piled on top of her sagging cleavage.
“Jerry Shapiro!” She pulls out a folded piece of newspaper. “He's famous.”
She unfolds the newspaper and of course it's the sketch of Squeegee.
“You know Squeegee?” I blurt out.
Now it's my time to get the look.
“Squeegee? How fucking insulting. Jerry is a man, not a tool one uses for washing windows. What do they teach you kids in school? To demean those who labor with their hands? Nobody calls him Squeegee except the fuzz and the goons and bulls who run the capitalist car wash.”
“Red calls him Squeegee,” Ceepak says.
“Red Davidson?”
“I never actually caught his last name.”
“Red hair? Like Bozo the clown?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Figures. Red is an a-hole. He's pissed because I won't hop in the sack with him any more. That's over, you know? Red and me? That's history.”
I'm getting a little queasy imagining this lady hopping in the sack with anybody.
“He kicked Henry,” she says.
“Your dog?”
“Red kicked Henry in the butt because we had this mattress upstairs last winter and Henry wanted to sleep with us because the floor was cold. Henry? He has a gas problem. He's old, he's earned it. Henry farts and Red kicks him. Kicks him ’til he yelps, I kid you not. He yelps. Jerry?” She waggles the newspaper clipping to remind us Jerry is Squeegee. “He and I aren't even dating or messing around back then, but the next day, when we're all, you know, hanging out, doing our thing, Jerry tells Red to cut that dog-kicking shit out. Says dogs are not pets, they're our spiritual companions in this earthly realm. Who made man king of the jungle, anyhow? Tarzan? Reagan?”
She tugs at the tie-dye shirt.
“Jerry lent me his T-shirt because I was cold. You got any food?”
Ceepak pulls one more Power Bar out of his pants.
Henry hears the wrapper crinkle and lifts his head. He's interested. Ceepak pulls a Pupperoni jerky strip out of another pocket. The guy lives the Boy Scouts motto. He is always prepared!
“Can your dog have a treat?”
“Is it all-natural?”
“I'm not certain. It's what they call a Pupperoni.”
Henry is licking his chops.
“Pupperoni?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Fine. But if he farts? It's your fucking fault.”
Ceepak bends down and lets Henry eat out of his palm.
“Here you go … good boy….”
The bag lady is staring at the Power Bar.
“Jesus. You got like a veggie sandwich or something? Maybe tomato-mozzarella on a baguette with some pesto or something?”
“I could check another pocket.” Ceepak is trying to make a little joke.
The lady does not know this. She waits.
So he checks another pocket.
“Sorry.”
“Jesus.” She settles for the Power Bar. “What the hell is in this thing? Chemicals and chalk?”
“Yes, ma'am. I believe so.”
“Fucking yuppie food. Next time, bring me that sandwich.”
“Roger that.”
“And grab some chips. Taro chips. Snapple, too. But none of that NutraSweet shit. That's a plot. A conspiracy. All about mind control. The fucking Republicans….”
“Will do.”
“You’re a cop, right?”
“Yes, ma'am. I work with the Sea Haven Police.”
“No shit, Sherlock. How's Scooter Boy?”
“You know Officer Kiger?”
“Don't get me started. That kid Kiger wakes us up all the time. Comes along on that goddamn scooter. ‘Wake up, wake up, you sleepyheads. Get up, get up, get out of bed.’ Kicks us off the beach before the rich people show up. Fascist fuzz….” She stops to fan the air in front of her face. “Whoo! Thank you Mr. Pupperoni.”
“Ma’am-do you know where Jerry is now?”
“Why do you keep calling me ‘ma'am’ like that?”
“Just trying to be courteous….”
“Wel
l, knock it off. Jesus. You sound so fucking subservient. Why? No bourgeois man or woman is your better. All power rests with the people!”
She raises her fist in some kind of salute. I think she might be an intellectual when she's not stoned. Or a socialist. One of those.
“So, just so we're all clear here,” she says, “Jerry didn't do it.”
“Didn't do what?”
“What the papers say he did.” She waves the newspaper in Ceepak's face. “Murder? Kidnapping? Lies and bullshit. Just because it's in the paper doesn't make it true. It's just propaganda-paper and ink and lies and bullshit. Republican bullshit.”
“If that's the case, Mr. Shapiro has nothing to fear from me.”
“Bullshit. You're the fucking fuzz. Can't trust the fuzz.”
“You can trust me,” he tells her.
“Really? How come? What makes you so super-special?”
“I give you my word.”
“Your word? Like your solemn vow?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Wow. That's some heavy, serious shit. You give me your word? Wow. Just like Nixon? He gave us his word. ‘I am not a crook.’ So did Clinton. ‘I didn't have sex with that woman.’ Bush. ‘Saddam has nukes.’ Fucking Republicans.”
She's staring at Ceepak, trying to figure out who he might really be.
“You can trust him,” I say.
“What?”
“He cannot tell a lie.”
She stares some more at him.
“Really? Who is he? George Fucking Washington?”
“Officer Ceepak doesn't know how to be dishonest,” I say.
Now she's studying his eyes.
“What's the matter? Your parents never taught you how?”
“They tried,” he says. “However, they failed.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Uh-uh-uh. You did that damn ma'am thing again.”
“Sorry. Do you know where Jerry is?”
“Maybe.”
“I'd like to talk to him.”
“You won't hurt him?”
“I give you my word.”
“When I was cold? He gave me his shirt. His favorite fucking shirt.”
“I will not hurt him.”
The bag lady bends down to rub the dog's head.
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