Mad Mouse js-2

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Send him flying!”

  A motor whirrs. A chain clicks on a pulley. All of a sudden, the Saddam Hussein target slides back and forth, while Osama stays still.

  “Saddam moves around a lot.” The guy chuckles, sure he's hooked another sucker. “Before we nabbed him, he was always running from one spider hole to another.”

  “Does your target move as well?”

  “Nah. Osama's just sitting there, hiding in his cave.”

  “I see.”

  “Hey, pal-you're the one who picked Saddam.”

  “Actually, you picked him for me.”

  “What? You think I'm cheating or something?”

  “I don't think it. I know it.”

  “Oh, so now you want out? You just want to talk big, flash your cash, then back down?”

  “No,” Ceepak says. “I just want to be clear.” He puts the tiny rifle stock up to his shoulder.

  “Thirty balls, pal.”

  “Thirty. Roger that.”

  “Fire at will.”

  I hear that pop, pop, pop again, only now it's in total stereo. Like everybody on both sides of the boardwalk is stomping on paper cups. I also hear a lot of thwacks, paint splatting on pressboard.

  The guy who runs the booth? He's good. A couple of his shots miss Osama's head. Some splatter on his robe below the neck. One or two whoosh past the turban altogether. But he's basically nailing his target. I'd say about two dozen paintballs explode dead center on Osama's nose and obliterate his face in no time flat. Like I said, the guy's good.

  But he's no John Ceepak.

  Every single one of Ceepak's shots hits Saddam smack in that bushy mustache. No misses. No near misses. All thirty shots hit the exact same spot on the moving target. He's just stacking whacks on top of each other.

  Those medals Ceepak got in the army? A couple were for marksmanship.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Ring Toss,” the arcade guy mumbles.

  “Excuse me?” Ceepak puts down his air gun.

  “T. J. He works mornings up at the Ring Toss.”

  “I know where it is,” I say.

  This superskinny guy in chocolate chip desert camo shorts, a matching T-shirt, and what they call a boony hat steps out of the crowd.

  “Wanna shoot again?” he says to Ceepak.

  “No, thank you.”

  “You army?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But you used to be, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Figures.”

  When I say this guy's skinny, I mean he's a six-six skeleton, like somebody who just crawled out of a tomb.

  “Army asshole.”

  “Sir,” Ceepak says, “I need to leave. Perhaps you should consider doing the same.”

  “Perhaps you should consider kissing my ass,” he says and grins. His teeth are bony too, like he doesn't have any gums. “You army creeps make me sick!”

  Ceepak points at the guy's camo getup.

  “You served?”

  “No.” The smile slams shut. He fidgets with that hat. “They wouldn't take me. But I could take you, man. I could take you down.”

  I start to feel sorry for him. Under that boony hat, I figure he's got a few loose lug nuts.

  Now he jabs a bony finger at me.

  “I could take you down, too, punk.”

  I want to smack the guy's hand, get that gnarly finger out of my face.

  “Danny?” says Ceepak, poker-faced. “We need to move along.”

  “Right.”

  We walk away.

  “We need to maintain focus on our mission.”

  “Yes, sir. The Ring Toss is just another block up.”

  We reach W-A-V-Y's live boardwalk broadcast booth. Music thumps out of humongous outdoor speakers. When the song fades, the deejay yammers.

  “Hey, this is Skeeter-burning up the Jersey Shore on W-A-V-Y. I'm joined by a very special guest …”

  Springsteen? Southside Johnny? Bon Jovi?

  “Sea Haven's own-Mayor Hugh Sinclair.”

  Oh. Him.

  “Great to be here, Cliff.”

  Cliff Skeete and I went to high school together. We even tried to run this party-music deejay business for a couple of months. It didn't pan out. There was this incident at a wedding. All I can say in my defense is that I was very hungry and the cake had excellent frosting.

  Cliff catches my eye and gives me a wave. They wave a lot at W-A-V-Y, the “Crazy Wave of Sound for Sea Haven and the Jersey Shore,” as they say between songs. Constantly.

  “I hope everyone's having a sunny, funderful day,” says Mayor Sinclair. He says that all the time. It's the town's official slogan even though it's stupid. “Skeeter, I want to personally invite you and all your listeners to the World's Biggest Beach Party and Boogaloo BBQ!”

  I think this newly dreamed-up Labor Day deal is supposed to be some kind of mass hypnosis designed to make us all forget what happened at the Tilt-A-Whirl back in July. I know it won't work on me, but I'm always up for a good party. This one should be awesome. Big-name bands. Cheap, greasy food. Girls in teeny bikinis. I think they're having a “Best Tan” contest. Maybe they'll need an extra judge. Maybe Skeeter will put in a good word for me.

  Up ahead, I see “The Lord of the Rings Toss.” Of course it's not in any way officially tied to the movie. Somebody just ripped off the poster art and used it for their plywood signs. They've even painted in some characters who sort of look like Gandalf and the Elf guy with the arrows.

  A kid, probably fifteen or sixteen, works inside the game shed. He's the one who pulls plastic rings off these two-liter soda bottles filled with black water. The rings are gold, just like Frodo's, only Frodo's wasn't spray-painted.

  The kid has bleach-blond dreadlocks pulled back by a wide white headband that makes the dreads stick up like a feathered headdress. He's bare-chested and wears droopy shorts that show off the elastic waistband on his underpants. He has about two dozen rubber rings stacked up to his elbow on his left arm. The right forearm is wide open, showing off a swirling tattoo. I think it's some kind of sea creature wrestling with a mermaid.

  The barker, the Ring Toss boss, sits out front, trying to draw a crowd. He has on one of those Madonna microphone headsets so everybody can hear how bored he is.

  “Win a bunny for your honey,” he drones. “Win a Tweetie for your sweety. Take home a SpongeBob for your heartthrob.”

  He doesn't seem any too thrilled by his own pitch or prizes.

  “You know, Danny,” Ceepak whispers, “many of these carnival games are inherently dishonest.”

  Since Ceepak will not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those who do, I can tell he considers Mr. Ring Toss Boss a potential Code Violator. To me, though, it's a borderline case, since Ring Toss is, technically, what they call an “amusement.” You pay your money, you take your chances.

  “That must be T. J.” I nod toward the bottle boy.

  “Roger that.”

  Ceepak steps up to counter.

  “Six rings for a dollar, sir,” the barker mumbles. “Score two, you're an Elf, win any prize on the bottom shelf.” He points. The bottom shelf is filled with brightly colored crap. Key chains and plastic flashlights and whistles. Crap.

  “How much for the plush pig?” Ceepak points to a stuffed hog on the top shelf. He lays into the word “pig” so T. J. is sure to hear it. “The pig in the Harley Davidson outfit?”

  “The Harley Hog?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That's top-shelf merchandise. That'll cost you six rings.”

  “Six rings on six bottles?”

  “Ring six, win any prize you picks.”

  Ceepak nods. He understands the rules. “I'll take six rings.”

  “You need to ring six bottles to win big, need six to take home the pig.”

  “Maybe you should buy more rings,” I suggest.

  Ceepak smiles.

  “I've studied the game.”

  “Really? You
can study Ring Toss?”

  “You can study anything, Danny, and you'll always learn something.”

  Duly noted. He lays a dollar on the counter.

  “T. J.? Fix him up,” the barker says to blondie.

  The kid counts out six rings.

  Ceepak studies T. J.'s hands.

  “I see you used thin skins. Did they warm in your pockets prior to loading?”

  The kid looks at Ceepak.

  “Here's your rings,” is all he says. Then he sort of shuffles to one side. I catch him checking out his hands before he buries them deep inside the pockets of his droopy shorts.

  “What's a thin skin?” I ask Ceepak.

  “Inexpensive paintball. They have a tendency to burst prior to loading.”

  “Win a bunny for your honey!” The barker is back at it. He's lost interest in us. The next sucker with a couple of bucks to toss his way is all that counts.

  Ceepak squats under the counter, puts himself level with the bottle tops.

  “I've done some preliminary research, and my findings suggest that children win this particular game more often than adults.”

  We're drawing another crowd.

  “Children, you see, operate closer to bottle level. Therefore, their release point is better, their throwing arc relatively low.”

  Ceepak flings his first rubber ring. It wobbles around a bottle neck and slides down.

  “If I use a topspin release …”

  He flicks another. It rings a bottle.

  “… coupled with a sidearm throwing style …”

  Dink! Another one.

  “… much like that utilized when flinging a Frisbee …”

  Dink. Dink. Five in a row.

  “… I significantly increase my chances of victory.”

  Dink. Six for six. We have a winner. The small crowd goes wild. They applaud and whistle and laugh. Ceepak stands up, and everybody else pushes forward. They all want to play now that he has showed them how to win.

  “How the hell did you …?” The barker looks half pissed off, half amazed.

  “Sometimes you just know what you know,” Ceepak says and turns to T. J.

  “We're closed!” the barker yells at the crowd. Guys shove money in his face. “Closed!”

  “What about my pig?” Ceepak asks. “I want to give it to a friend. Perhaps she'll display it in her restaurant.”

  “T. J.? Grab Professor Squat here his Harley Hog.”

  The kid takes down the pig, hands it to Ceepak.

  “I know what you did, T. J.”

  T. J.'s pale face goes about as pink as the pig. “I didn't do anything.”

  “Your fingernails.”

  The kid flips his hands over, looks at his nails.

  “Is blue your usual color?” asks Ceepak.

  I see it now. There's blue crud under the kid's nails. One of those thin skins must've burst in his hands. He is so busted.

  “Is that the douchebag who splattered us?” I look over my shoulder. It's Mook. Where'd he come from?

  “Back off, Mook,” I say. “We've got it under control.”

  I see Mook jerk his arm up and down. He's shaking a bottle of Fanta grape.

  “Douche bag!”

  Mook spews a purple gusher at T. J.'s crotch.

  “Fuck!” T. J. steps back, throws up his hands.

  “Drop it!” snaps Ceepak.

  Mook drops the bottle and holds up his hands in mock surrender. The crowd hoots.

  “We're closed!” the barker screams. “Closed!”

  This isn't going the way Ceepak planned.

  “That's enough,” he says. “Move along. Show's over.”

  The crowd disperses.

  Mook swaggers up to the counter.

  “Gotcha, punk! Gotcha good!”

  “Sir?” Ceepak says.

  “What?”

  “Move along.”

  “I'm with Danny!”

  “Danny? Tell your friend to leave. Now.”

  “Mook?”

  “What?”

  “Go.”

  “Fuck you, Danny. Okay? Fuck you.”

  Mook talks tough but walks away. Backwards, and with a swagger. Then he flips me the finger-the junior high school version with fingers one and three in the bent knuckle position flanking a fully extended middle digit. Extremely mature.

  “I apologize for that,” Ceepak says to T. J.

  “Shit.” The kid is staring at his wet pants.

  Ceepak pulls out his fifty-dollar bill. “I hope this will cover the cost of any replacement clothing.” Ceepak picks up his Harley Hog.

  We turn around to leave. Our crowd has moved on to other boardwalk amusements.

  All except one fan.

  That creepy guy in the camo shorts. Mr. Bones. He hangs back in the shadows under a pretzel cart awning.

  He smiles that bony smile.

  Then, he flips me the finger, too.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Mussel Beach Motel is a cozy little cinderblock box on the sandy side of Beach Lane.

  Becca's mom and dad own and operate the place, and the family occupies rooms 101 through 103. I've always thought it would be so cool to live in a motel. You could get a bucket of ice anytime you wanted and your toothpaste cup would always be sealed in plastic, your toilet seat Sanitized For Your Protection.

  But Becca tells me the ice machine moans all night long and clunks out cubes so it sounds like an avalanche, and sometimes she has nightmares about rockslides and gravel trucks. Not to mention Becca's the one who sanitizes all the toilets.

  I drop by to see how she's doing. Ceepak has gone to the house-that's what we call the police station-to report our findings to Chief Baines. I guess I've aced my final exam.

  On the way over to the motel, I grabbed Becca a box of saltwater taffy. The Sea Haven variety comes in a white box with striped letters on the front. There's also this drawing of a beach chair, a sand bucket, and a starfish. Actually, it's the same box they use anywhere that has a beach.

  “Thanks, Danny,” Becca says, sucking on a peppermint tube.

  “You feel okay?”

  “Yeah. How do I look?”

  “Like Ray Charles.”

  Becca has on this huge pair of Ray-Ban Daddy-O sunglasses despite the fact that we're sitting inside in the lobby.

  “You seeing Katie today?” she asks.

  “I might, you know, drop by the Landing.”

  During her summer school break, Katie works at Saltwater Tammy's, a candy shop in Schooner's Landing, this multilevel mall of shops built around a tall ship, a schooner, I guess. The sails have “Schooner's” and “Landing” painted on them like huge, flapping billboards.

  “She likes you, you know,” Becca says.

  “Well, I like her, too.”

  “I mean she likes you.” Becca punches my thigh.

  All of a sudden, I feel like we're back in fifth grade: “Katie Landry told Becky Adkinson to tell you …” We should pass notes or at least text message each other.

  “You two make an extremely cute couple.”

  It's been a while since I've been in a couple, cute or otherwise.

  “She has her break at three thirty. Be there.” Becca pops another stick of taffy in her mouth, the blue one, whatever flavor blue is. “And thanks for the taffy!”

  Three twenty P.M. I sit on a bench in Schooner's Landing across from the entrance to Saltwater Tammy's.

  The candy shop has huge plate-glass windows, so I can see bins of bright-colored goodies. Gummi Bears. Jelly Bellies. Spearmint Leaves. Pinwheel lollipops that stand on the counter like funky sunflowers. It's Willy Wonka land in there. The display case is crammed with malted milk balls, chocolate-covered pretzels, chocolate-covered coconut clusters. Ladies with wide bottoms and shorts that strangle their dimpled thighs waddle out the door with white paper sacks and say, “Just one more piece, then I'm saving the rest.”

  So far, no one I've watched has saved anything.

&nb
sp; I don't see Katie. She might be in one of the side windows dipping apples in caramel goop or working the taffy-pulling machine.

  Schooner's Landing, tucked into three square blocks, has its own tiered boardwalk and ramps. The buildings are all designed to look like sea shanties or New England cottages. There's a big lighthouse at one end of the top level and a pretty decent seafood restaurant called The Chowder Pot at the other.

  Three twenty-two.

  I figure I'll “drop by” in about five minutes. While I wait, I watch this old lady on a bench toss chunks of her soft pretzel to some gulls. At the same time, five jocks thunder past like the front line of the Giants. They trample the pretzel crumbs. Smoosh ‘em flat.

  Three twenty-four.

  It's time to pretend to be “just in the neighborhood so I thought I'd drop by.” “Danny?”

  It's Katie. She comes out of the candy shop, smoothing down her shorts, fluffing up her hair. She doesn't have to. She looks great.

  “What're you doing over here?”

  “I was just, you know … in the neighborhood.”

  “Cool.”

  “You wanna go grab a coffee or something?” she suggests.

  “Hey, cool. Yeah.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yeah.”

  If we manage to remember some words beyond “cool” and “yeah” when we hit the coffee shop, we might actually have a conversation.

  Sun Coast Coffee is up on the third level. Katie and I sit outside under an umbrella. She has a cappuccino. I'm doing a double espresso.

  “So, what'd you do on your day off?” she asks.

  “Hit the boardwalk. I think we found the kid who paintballed us last night.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Awesome. I've got bruises on my butt!”

  I think about saying, “Can I see them?” but don't.

  “We got a lucky lead this morning. The same kid vandalized the Pig's Commitment.”

  Katie's eyes sparkle. “The blue balls?”

  “You saw it?”

  “Yeah. I know it's terrible.”

  “But kind of funny?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought so, too. But don't tell Ceepak.”

  We both sip our coffees. Katie gets some froth on her lip and licks it away with a flick of her tongue and a giggle. She's in uniform today. Sleeveless white top with Salt Water Tammy's stitched over her left breast, not that I'm staring at her breasts which, okay, I guess I am. I quickly shift my gaze over to the marina. Up here on the third floor, you get a great view of the whole bayside of the island. This is where the older people like to live, the ones who dig sailboats and sunsets more than the beach and surfboards. I can see a new development of condos under construction up past where the yachts are docked.