Whack A Mole jc-3

by Chris Grabenstein

  CHAPTER NINE

  I head back to The Sand Bar.

  It's only about nine P.M. but Jess and Olivia are long gone.

  Four sorority sisters sipping Aqua Velva-blue cocktails now occupy our table on the upper deck. They wear neon-green wristbands to prove they're old enough to get smashed. They shimmer in Lycra sundresses and muscle-cut T-shirts to show off gym-sculpted muscles and their honey-colored skin.

  I love the sentiment stretched across the chest of the blondest blonde: NEW JERSEY. ONLY THE STRONG SURVIVE.

  I head back down the steps.

  It's still the weekend for another three hours. I figure I'll spend it flirting with Debbi, the bartender whose work outfit usually involves tattered logo wear and torn-off short shorts with frayed threads trickling down her thighs. On Debbi, it works. Trust me.

  When I reach the bottom of the staircase, I feel like Jacques Cousteau fighting his way through a school of scantily clad tropical fish. All the girls flash ultra-bright smiles because teeth look even whiter when faces go cocoa brown. All of them are twentysomething. They're loose and giddy, made merrier by mango margaritas and pineapple martinis and raspberry mojitos-all served in frosty plastic cups instead of glasses so nobody will be seriously injured once they're totally tanked and start dropping their drinks.

  Strings of Coors Light and Bud Light and Corona Light pennants flutter overhead. It looks like the grand opening of an indoor gas station that only pumps low-cal beer.

  Lots of T-shirts call out to me as I sidle through the crowd. They're like personal ads these beach bunnies can post on their chests. I see JERSEY FRESH on one. MEN SHOULD BE LIKE DESSERT: SWEET AND RICH on another. One babe seems particularly pleased with hers: on the front it instructs passersby to REMEMBER MY NAME, while on the back it says, YOU’LL BE SCREAMING IT ALL NIGHT.

  Oh, the poor neighbors.

  But I'll spend my night wondering about Mary Guarneri and who buried her charm bracelet on Oak Beach along with her picture from a milk carton stuffed inside an old-fashioned sandwich bag.

  It was Ceepak, of course, who had pointed out that the plastic bag was a relic of School Lunches Past.

  “See how the flap tucks in?” he said. “No Ziploc top. No yellowand-blue-makes-green sealing strip. Those were all technological advances yet to come.”

  Yes, thanks to my partner, I now know the sandwich bag development timeline.

  Ceepak is big on the forensic stuff. In fact, he started the whole metal-detecting, treasure-hunting deal as a way to further hone his investigative skills in the downtime between cases. He finds stuff buried in the sand, takes it home, and tries to decipher its secrets.

  You or I might find a coat button on the beach and fling it at an overly annoying sea gull. Ceepak picks up the same button and does enough homework to tell you it most likely came off a very expensive fur coat purchased at Bergdorf's in 1959 and that, coincidentally, the mayor's wife had worn just such a fur coat to the beach one December day back in the early 1960s when Santa Claus used to kick off the Christmas shopping season by coming ashore in a lifeguard's row boat. Then, he'd whip out a Xeroxed article from the December 5, 1962, issue of the Sea Haven Sandpaper and hover his magnifying glass over the accompanying photo to show you where Mrs. Ellen Bullard, the mayor's wife at the time, was missing a button on her coat.

  “Why do you think the bracelet was buried?” Cap'n Pete had wondered.

  “It's unclear,” Ceepak had replied. “We don't have enough information, just two pieces of a larger puzzle.”

  However, he did have more factoids to share with us.

  For example, the use of milk carton panels to spread information about missing children wasn't initiated until the mid-1970s. A missing New Yorker named Etan Patz was one of the first so-called “milk carton kids.” The use of this breakfast table search technique hit its peak in the 1980s.

  Of course, the World Expo charm had already placed our time capsule in the ’80s. So had Mary's hairdo. Very Charlie's Angels.

  Ceepak also brought up Lisa DeFranco-she of the jerk-for-an-exboyfriend and the miserable-excuse-for-a-mom. After all, the same stretch of sand had yielded the 1983 class ring she'd been given.

  “Unlike Ms. DeFranco, Mary Guarneri had concerned people actively searching for her. We should be able to learn what happened to her. Perhaps she eventually came home. Or a body was found.” He uttered this last possibility with appropriate gravity.

  Cap'n Pete closed up the shoebox. He handed it over to Ceepak, entrusting him with its hidden truths. “I hope you find us an answer. I surely do….”

  Ceepak said he would try his best.

  Me, I was going back to The Sand Bar.

  Tonight is not my night.

  I finally find a stool at the bar but Debbi, my tattered T-shirt temptress, is not the bartender. I guess she doesn't work Sundays anymore. Instead, I get Ralph.

  “Hey, Danny.”

  “Hey, Ralph.”

  We're both kind of bar-shouting-speaking loud enough to be heard over the din of drunks.

  “Where's Katie?” Ralph asks.

  “California.”

  He nods. Small talk is officially over. “What are you drinking?”

  “Beer.”

  “Bud?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Glass?”

  “Nah.”

  He marches over to the cooler to fish me out a longneck.

  Ralph has been doing this bartending gig way too long. He's about forty-five and hates his job. I know this because I worked here one summer as what they call a “bar-back.” I was the guy who went downstairs to the ice machine and scooped up the five-gallon buckets of cubes to dump into the ice bin. Mostly, I stood around and cleaned glasses and listened to Ralph gripe about the “skanks” and “sluts” he had to serve.

  Ralph looks angry, too. Shaves his beard and head every third day-wears stubble in both departments on the days in between. And when he slices up limes and lemons into wedges, I believe he gives them names first.

  “Here's your beer.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  I put a five on the counter.

  Ralph waves it off. “Keep it. You're family.” He strokes his chin. “Not like these other motherfuckers….”

  Then he flashes a big fake grin.

  “Hey, whataya need, pal?” he says to some guy in a pink polo shirt standing behind me.

  “Coors Light and a piña colada.”

  “Comin’ right up.”

  I sip my Bud.

  “Asshole,” Ralph mutters.

  I notice that Pinkie has moved away from the bar to wait for his drink order alongside his lady friend.

  “Blender crap.” This is Ralph at his best. “All night long it's fucking blender crap.” He only disses his customers to their backs-the tips work out better that way.

  He attacks the ice with the blender jug, using it like a snow shovel.

  “I'm getting too old for this shit, Danny Boy.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ralph has lived in Sea Haven all his life. Maybe he stays in town because he has just about the coolest house in the world: it's a boat. A houseboat-pretty much the same great set-up as that private investigator from Florida in those old paperback mysteries my dad loves.

  Ralph tips juice bottles, booze bottles-sloshes all sorts of syrupy stuff into the ice. He jams the jug onto its base, slaps on the lid, punches the grind button. I think this is his favorite part of the job- listening to sharp steel gnashing against hard ice.

  While I'm watching him, a guy moves behind the empty stool immediately to my left. He's in my peripheral vision zone, so I turn. Our eyes meet. Now I need to nod.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey.” He says the same thing. Nods. Doesn't sit. We've both firmly established that neither one of us is gay.

  Ralph pours the finished concoction into a frou-frou glass. It comes out slow and thick-like cold applesauce.

  Pinkie returns for his order, slaps
a soggy ten on the bar, and says, “Keep the change.”

  “It's twelve bucks,” says Ralph.

  Pinkie puts another five on the counter and wiggles away in time to the rap number rocking the rafters. I check out his girl. She, of course, is wearing a T-shirt: JERSEY GIRL. I NEVER PUMP MYSELF. Some gag writer hit pay dirt when he realized how the New Jersey state ordinance prohibiting self-serve gas stations could actually sound fashionably sleazy.

  “What do you need?” Ralph now asks the guy who came up to the bar after Pinkie.

  “What was that he had?”

  “A royal pain-in-the-ass piña colada.”

  “I see. How about a beer?”

  Ralph stalks back to the cooler.

  “Is he always in such a good mood?”

  “Nah. I think he took his meds tonight. Usually he's real crabby.”

  The newcomer nods. He doesn't really belong here. Sure, he has on a T-shirt, but all it says is PRINCETON. And, I'm sorry, his blue jeans are creased. He obviously sends them out to the cleaners, probably has them starched, too. The same with the tee. It's too crisp. Plus, the guy is about fifty. Hard to tell exactly how old he is because he's fit and trim and has his white hair all crimped and spiky and gelled like he's still twenty-two. He also smells. Like a muskrat frolicking in a very expensive pine forest.

  “You know, I believe that fellow worked here back in the good old days,” he says.

  “Really? Ralph?”

  “Uhm-hmm. Of course, he was a lot younger. Had hair. I was in college. Med school. Came down the shore to unwind.”

  While he yaks away, I realize: I've seen him before.

  Didn't like him then, either.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Not much has changed,” says Mr. Princeton. “No indeed.”

  He turns around to admire the sea of healthy young girls swirling all around us.

  “Sea Haven has always been my private island paradise.”

  Who he is, is the tourist in the Docksiders-without-socks from the bagel shop this morning. The one whose wife stomped out the front door.

  “Here you go,” says Ralph, putting a cold beer on the bar.

  “Thanks.” Mr. Princeton creases a twenty into a horizontal fold and slips it under a coaster. He sips his beer like it's wine. Sniffs the foam. “Ah. Excellent. Very refreshing.”

  “Beer's five bucks,” says Ralph, like the guy is purposely trying to kill him by making him hike all the way back to the cash register. “You got anything smaller?”

  “Keep the change.” The guy tips his frothy glass toward Ralph.

  Since Ralph knows the guy expects him to smile over a fifteen-dollar tip, he doesn't. He just swabs at the bar with a tattered rag and glowers.

  “Excuse me.” Mr. Princeton taps me on the shoulder. “Sorry to be a bother but where might one purchase beer to go at this hour?”

  “Your best bet is Fritzie's. It's a package store.”

  “Fritzie's? They're still here?”

  “Yeah. They're open till ten.”

  “Fantastic.” He checks his watch. “I'm meeting a young lady friend out front at nine-thirty.”

  He winks. I nod. Why do I suspect the “lady friend” is not his wife?

  “Fritzie's is still the spot, then, eh?”

  “Yeah. It's a couple blocks down Jacaranda Street….”

  He holds up his hand. Nods. “I know: where it hits Ocean Avenue. The corner there. Correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fantastic. Good to know some things never change. Thank you.”

  “No problem. But do me a favor,” I say. “Don't even think about drinking and driving.”

  Mr. Princeton drains about half of his mug.

  “And who, pray tell, are you? My mother?”

  “No. I'm a cop. Sea Haven Police Department.”

  “Really? You seem awfully young.”

  I shrug. “Me being young only means I can run fast and catch the bad guys. Especially the older, slower ones.”

  “I see. Well, not to worry. My friend and I simply intend to grab a cold six-pack and head over to an establishment three or four blocks up the street. We'll walk. Smuggler's Cove. Another oldie but goodie.” He chuckles.

  He checks his watch again.

  “Well then….” He polishes off his beer. “Early day tomorrow. Taking a charter out. Maybe catch a few bluefish.”

  “Have fun,” I say, since it's our civic duty to say that kind of stuff to tourists.

  He heads toward the door, checking out every midriff-baring babe he passes along the way. A few of the girls check out Mr. Princeton, too-the ones in the naughtier T-shirts.

  As I said, I don't like this guy.

  I don't like his spiky hair or creased jeans. I don't like him trying to buy Ralph's love for fifteen bucks. And I absolutely hate the fact that his plans for the evening include grabbing a six-pack and heading over to Smuggler's Cove, our local Hotel No Tell, for his own private version of Girls Gone Wild.

  “He was in here last night, too,” Ralph now says to me.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. That bit with the twenty? He pulled the same shit. Then he waltzed out with this totally tanked chick young enough to be his daughter, you know what I'm saying?”

  “Yeah.”

  I think it's pretty clear why Mrs. Princeton was so pissed this morning. Hubby probably crawled home ten minutes before I saw them. And maybe when she'd last seen him, he was wearing his socks.

  I put my five-dollar bill back on the bar.

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, I told you-it's on the house.”

  “If he can tip you, so can I.”

  Ralph cracks a grin and slides my money into his tip jar. “It's really not a club you want to join.”

  Yeah. And I probably couldn't afford the membership fees.

  Both doors of my Jeep are closed and locked. The top is zipped into place. No one has broken in to steal my loose change again, but it doesn't really matter since I was totally hoovered out the first time.

  At the far end of the lot, underneath a streetlamp, I see Mr. Princeton. He's looking at his watch again. Guess his lady friend stood him up.

  Good. Serves him right. Maybe he'll have better luck tomorrow, hooking up with some striped bass.

  Time to head home. Roll call comes early: seven-thirty A.M.

  “Hey, Teddy!” I hear this female voice from the darkness. It sounds familiar. Husky. “Am I like totally late?”

  “Well, my dear, we did say nine-thirty.”

  “Sorry….”

  Okay. I'm at least thirty feet away but now I can hear all sorts of slurpy lip-smacking.

  When the streetlamp catches the orange glints in her hair, I realize: Stacey has returned to the scene of the crime. She's not currently robbing her new guy-unless, of course, she's simultaneously picking Mr. Princeton's pockets while kneading his butt cheeks with both hands.

  Finally, they break out of their lip-lock.

  “Come on!” he says.

  They race up the sidewalk.

  She's wearing the Hello Kitty backpack.

  Somehow, I don't think my twenty's still in it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  You have a good weekend, Danny?”

  “Not bad,” I lie. “How about you?”

  “Excellent, my friend. Absolutely excellent.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  It's 7:25 on a Monday morning but behind the front desk, Sergeant Reginald Pender is already feeling frisky, despite the fact that the big man never drinks coffee-says it only serves to dehydrate an individual. He's our new desk sergeant, having taken over from grumpy Gus Davis who retired last winter after almost thirty years on the job.

  Reggie couldn't look more different than his predecessor, who was old and white and hipbone scrawny; Reggie is young and black and carries a small paunch above his belt buckle. He looks like a football player who doesn't run his wind sprints anymore but still eats
everything on the training table. A lineman.

  “You better hustle, Officer Boyle,” he says with a jerk of his head toward the wall clock.

  I check it out: 7:27.

  I head for the duty room.

  Ceepak, of course, is already seated in the back row. He likes to say, “If you're not five minutes early, you're ten minutes late.”I still don't really understand what that means-guess that's why I'm always the last cop in the room.

  Ceepak has his notebook open on his desk. His pencil looks freshly sharpened. Every hair on his head is neatly combed and plastered into its pre-assigned position.

  Ceepak likes to be prepared.

  I know thinking ahead helped save his ass a couple times over in Iraq. Once, he saw a dead dog lying by the side of the road and, since he'd done his homework, he knew that canine carcasses were often used by the insurgents to hide their improvised explosive devices. He saved everybody in his Humvee that day because he saw the wires sticking out of the animal's jaws before its belly blew.

  All the other cops in the room are busy finishing their coffee and doughnuts, scanning the Sandpaper to see if they made the Crime Blotter, waiting for Chief Baines to make his 7:30-sharp entrance. Old Buzz likes to do the early Monday roll call himself. The rest of the week, he lets Pender handle it.

  “Find a seat, Boyle,” snarls Dominic Santucci. He has his sunglasses on-indoors. He likes the way they make him look menacing and mysterious. He also doesn't like me so much.

  “Danny?” Ceepak motions to the chair next to him, which he has saved for me like kids used to do for their friends on the school bus.

  “Thanks.”

  When I sit down, my holster squeaks. The leather is that new. Last summer, I was a part-timer without a gun. This summer, I wish I didn't have to carry one. Unfortunately, last summer, I also saw what bullets could do.

  Now Ceepak checks off an item on a list he has inside his spiral notebook.

  “I ran the milk carton data by Officer Diego,” he says. “She's going to run some searches on Mary Guarneri.”

  “Cool.”

  “She'll also do a data sweep on Lisa DeFranco. See what she comes up with.”