Mad Mouse js-2

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Would either of you gentlemen like a cocktail?” she asks.

  “No, thank you,” I say.

  “Not right now,” says Ceepak. “Maybe later?”

  The way he says it? I swear it sounds like he's asking Rita out on a date.

  “Sorry I'm late.” It's Chief Baines. “I had to meet with the mayor.” He yanks out his chair, sits down.

  “Would you care for some water, sir?” Rita asks.

  “Sure. Put it in my Scotch.” The chief winks at Rita. “You guys order drinks?”

  “Just water,” I say, letting him know what a good boy I am. Our host crinkles his brow.

  “You sure you don't want a beer, Danny? I was going to propose a toast.”

  “A beer would be good,” Ceepak says.

  Okay. Twist my arm.

  “Sure. I'll have a Bud.”

  We clink glasses, do our toast, and the chief offers me a full-time job starting Tuesday, the day after Labor Day.

  “Of course, we'll want you to take some classes at the community college and some training seminars offered by the state police.”

  I nod and act like I was already planning on signing up for Criminology 101 this fall even if I went back to busing tables or working at Wal-Mart or that telemarketing gig with the mortgage broker.

  Next, Baines tells me Ceepak has requested that he and I partner up.

  “You're lucky. An experienced officer like Ceepak can teach you a lot.” Baines tilts his glass in his direction.

  “He already has.”

  And I mean it.

  Now it's time to order. Ceepak and the chief go with Morgan's world-famous cheese-covered concoction of lumpy crabmeat swimming in congealed cream sauce the consistency of wet cement, the dish Katie warned me about.

  I order the prime rib. I'm sure it'll clog my arteries, too, but I'm only twenty-five, and I figure I have years to repent for such youthful cholesterol sins.

  Silverware scrapes across plates. The chief happily demolishes his crab pie and tells us stories about where he used to work. Florida. He asks Ceepak about Iraq, but all Ceepak says is, “It was something.”

  That's as far as he'll go tonight.

  So, we move on to a new topic. Labor Day and the big beach blowout.

  “I think we're ready,” the chief says. He puts away a huge slug of scotch and water. Licks his lips. “As ready as we'll ever be.”

  After our main courses, Rita comes by to wonder if we'll be having dessert and coffee.

  The chief can't. He has to run. He's got a meeting with some MTV folks at the Sea Spray Hotel. He's looking pretty pleased with himself.

  He stands up. So does Ceepak. So do I.

  “Rita?” The chief signs the credit card slip. “If these two gentlemen order anything else, just add it on. And make sure you give yourself a nice tip.”

  “I'm sorry, sir-I can't do that.”

  “Oh?” The chief flashes her a dazzling grin. I think he uses those Crest Whitestrips.

  “I mean-I can't fill in the tip amount. That wouldn't be right.”

  I think I just heard Ceepak's heart skip a beat, and it has nothing to do with cholesterol-clogged arteries. Sounds like Rita has Ethics, maybe even a Code.

  “Why don't you just put what we've had up till now on your charge slip,” Ceepak suggests. “Then, if Danny and I order dessert, I'll pick up the tab. I'd like to treat my new partner this evening, as well.”

  “Fair enough.” Baines scribbles some numbers in the boxes on the credit card slip and signs it. Ceepak and Rita smile at each other. I enjoy having everybody else pay for my food and booze.

  “Catch you guys tomorrow,” Baines says.

  “Roger that.”

  We sit back down. Rita pulls out her pad.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Danny? How about another beer?”

  “Are you having one?”

  “Is it possible for one to call a cab should that prove necessary?” Ceepak asks Rita.

  “Of course. Another round?”

  “No. I'd like a Sambucca.”

  “Very good, sir.” She's impressed.

  “And a slice of the Mississippi Mud Pie.”

  “Excellent choice.”

  “I'll try that too,” I say.

  “Would you like a scoop of ice cream on the pie?”

  “Of course,” Ceepak says. I think he wants to stay here all night. “Chocolate ice cream.”

  “Try the caramel crunch,” Rita whispers. “It's fantastic.”

  Ceepak smiles. Nods. “Caramel crunch. That'll work.”

  Rita is writing up our drink and dessert order when T. J. walks into the restaurant. What's he doing here? Shouldn't he be out defacing signs and maiming people with paintball blasts? Now he's wearing a Burger King uniform like he works there, too. He heads straight to our table.

  “Mom?” He's talking to Rita.

  “Hey. What's wrong?”

  “Nothin'. I just forgot my keys.”

  Rita looks sort of embarrassed to be interrupting our dinner with her personal life. “I'm sorry …”

  “No problem,” says Ceepak.

  “I'll get my keys,” she says to her son.

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you eat dinner?”

  “Half a Whaler.”

  Rita nods her head toward a small table near the back of the dining room.

  “Go sit down. I'll have the kitchen fix you some real food.”

  Ceepak stands up.

  “Is this your son?” he asks.

  “Yes. I'm sorry. This is T. J. Thomas James.”

  Ceepak sticks out his hand. T. J. takes it. They shake.

  “I'm John Ceepak. This is my partner, Danny Boyle.”

  I stand up, shake the kid's hand, wonder whether he's had time to scrub that blue paint out from under his nails.

  Ceepak doesn't lie about meeting T. J. earlier. But he doesn't rat him out to his mother, either. Rita beams. She's proud to see her boy being treated like such a man.

  “Go grab a seat, hon.”

  “Okay, mom.”

  I polish off my second beer and then hit the head. While I'm gone, Rita brings dessert.

  When that's done and there's nothing on our plates but Mississippi mud stains, Ceepak calls Rita back to the table so he can order coffee.

  T. J.'s at the staff table inhaling a salad and some fried shrimp smothered with ketchup. I can see that his mom makes him drink a glass of milk, too.

  Ceepak pays for dessert and the second round of drinks.

  “Should I call that cab?” Rita asks.

  “Danny?”

  “I'm good to go.”

  Ceepak looks at his watch. It's almost ten P.M. He's been timing my beers. Plus, I've had two cups of coffee. I can see Ceepak's internal calculator doing the math.

  “No, thank you, Rita.” I guess I made it under the wire. “Everything was wonderful. Best meal I've had since moving to the island. And it was definitely a pleasure meeting you.”

  Rita blushes. “I hope we'll see you in here you more often.”

  I can't tell whether she's speaking on behalf of Morgan's or herself.

  “I'd like that. Danny?”

  “Thank you, ma'am. Everything was great.”

  “Thank you. Oh-and congratulations on your new job.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ceepak and I head toward the front door.

  “Danny?”

  It's Olivia.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you guys hang for a second? The kitchen made key lime pie tonight. It's Jess's favorite.”

  “Then I definitely need to take him a slice.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is he home?”

  “No. Working.”

  “No problem.”

  “You want some, too?”

  I never say no to cake or pie.

  “Totally.”

  Our buddy Jess is a painter, and in the summer he likes to work at nigh
t, while it's cool, while he's not dripping as much as his brush.

  “He's at that house on Maple,” Olivia says.

  “Still?”

  “Yeah. Do you guys mind waiting?”

  “Not at all,” says Ceepak.

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  “We'll hang out front,” I say, since we're kind of blocking the flow of traffic near the door.

  “Great.”

  Ceepak and I head outside.

  Morgan's parking lot is still full. Their crab pie really is famous. I guess word about how lethal it is just hasn't gotten around.

  “Good place,” Ceepak says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Top-notch seafood.” He fiddles with the loose fiber on the dock rope Morgan's has strung between pier pilings along the walkway to their front door. On top of each post is an antique-looking brass lantern, the kind you'd find on a ship. Some of the pier posts have nets or lobster traps tied off on them. It's all very nautical. In a bogus kind of way.

  Ceepak gazes up at the starry sky and the silhouette of the huge water tower across Ocean Avenue. At night, the water tank resembles a Tootsie Pop for King Kong.

  “That was nice,” I say.

  “Great meal.”

  “No. I mean how you didn't bust T. J. in front of his mom.”

  “Here you go, guys.” Olivia comes out and hands me a white paper bag. I unroll the top to peek inside

  “Did you wrap the pie up with foil and make it look like a swan?”

  I hear two pops.

  Olivia's white shirt explodes with green paint.

  The bag flies out of my hands and smacks me in the ribs.

  “Down!” Ceepak shouts. He grabs Olivia's shoulders and throws her behind a car.

  I hear a third pop. My hair goes sticky.

  Ceepak shoves me down behind one of the piers. I see him tuck and roll. I hear a snap and feel a rush of wind zip past my head right before some glass shatters behind me.

  That wasn't a paintball.

  That was a bullet.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Stay down!”

  Ceepak scrambles across the parking lot, using the cars for cover.

  “Olivia?” I grunt.

  “Yeah.” She doesn't sound so good.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I think. Yeah.”

  “Stay down.”

  “My knees are bleeding.”

  “Stay down, okay? Stay behind that car.” I kind of crawl forward. It's hard to breathe. My lungs ache when they push out against my ribs. I check my shirt. No blood. Just bright yellow-green paint. Pretty soon, I won't have anything left to wear.

  I drag myself over to the closest car-a big Lincoln in the handicapped spot up front. There's an empty patch of asphalt with blue stripes for unloading wheelchairs. From here, leaning up against the car, I can cover Olivia and see Ceepak. He's all the way across Ocean Avenue and scaling the chain-link fence surrounding the base of that big water tower. I never thought about the water tower as a potential sniper nest before. Just that giant Tootsie Pop.

  I figure Ceepak's back in Iraq. Chasing rooftop shooters, looking for bad guys with rocket-propelled grenades. I look to the left of the water tower. There's a two-story house on the corner. The first floor is a shop. A nail salon. They'll paint palm trees on your fingertips. Upstairs is somebody's house or apartment. They have a deck and a widow's walk on top of the roof. I look north. Another house where the first floor is retail space. That house has a dormer, an extra window pierced into the roofline, turning the attic into a bedroom, or somebody's shooting gallery.

  Right across from Morgan's, there's nothing but a fenced-in lot for the base of the water tank. I can't remember if there are ladder rungs welded into the tower. We never climbed up to spray-paint our high school team colors on it like they do in Iowa or wherever. We were too busy drinking beer and surfing.

  It's dark, but there's some moonlight. I hear the rattle of fence against pole and see Ceepak clear the curled concertina wire up top with a sideways swing of his legs like he's a gymnast doing that pommel horse deal in the Olympics. Pretty impressive. I hear him land hard on the gravel on the other side.

  “That was delicious.”

  A couple comes out of the restaurant. The man pops wedding mints in his mouth.

  “Get back inside! Now! Move!” I scream. I think the guy choked on his mints when I yelled. “Go! Close that door!”

  The guy takes a look at me. He looks horrified. I touch my moist head and figure it out: in the dim light of the pier lamps, it must look like my brain is gushing blood.

  He makes a move toward me.

  I hold up my hand.

  “I'm fine. Go back inside, sir. Please. You could get hurt out here.”

  “Do it,” Olivia moans.

  The guy swings his head right.

  “Ohmigod.” He sees the dark wet splotch covering the front of her blouse. Now he must think he's looking at a weeping chest wound, the kind you see in the movies when someone's been blasted with a shotgun at point-blank range.

  Our friend finally gets the picture and pushes his wife back toward the door.

  “We'll call the police!”

  “We are the police,” I want to say, but I don't. I go with “Thanks,” instead.

  I look over to the one lantern that isn't lit anymore. Its glass globe has a spider web cracked into it. The bulb is shattered. Guess that's where the bullet went after it zinged past my ear. I hold my hand up to my ear and touch it. It's wet. I check my palm. Still neon green. Still paint. Still no blood.

  “You okay, ma'am?” Ceepak is back, kneeling in front of Olivia.

  She's crying.

  I'm not used to seeing Olivia cry. She's always been “tougher than the rest,” to copy Ceepak and borrow a line from a Springsteen song. Now she's tugging at her soppy blouse, looking at where the exploding paint balloon tore open a middle button and exposed her bra. Ceepak takes off his blazer and drapes it backwards over her like a blanket.

  “Thank you,” Olivia whispers.

  “Danny? Preliminary injury assessment?”

  My man cuts through the crap. I guess this is the no-nonsense battlefield talk you use when your buddies are getting blown up all around you in Fallujah.

  “I'm okay. Ribs hurt. That's the worst of it.”

  “Hang in there, partner.”

  “Roger,” I say. “Wilco.” I think that means I will cooperate with his request. I will hang in there.

  Ceepak duckwalks to the shattered lamp.

  “Possible seven-six-two millimeter special ball,” he mutters to himself when he sees the shatter pattern in the glass light fixture. The bullet hole in the center of the cracked web isn't very big; in fact, it sort of looks like a hole you'd punch into the top of a mayonnaise jar if you were collecting fireflies.

  “Ceepak? We should probably move Olivia inside.”

  “Roger that. Can you walk?”

  “Yeah. But I'd rather run.” Now she sounds more like herself.

  “Stay low. I've got your back.”

  They move to Morgan's front door, hunched over, Ceepak covering her back. When they reach the door, he kicks it open so they never miss a stride. As it swings in, I can see that ancient hostess Norma with her hand over her chest like she might need CPR and paddles from the first ambulance to arrive on the scene. There's a whole crowd up near the hostess station. The bartender. A couple of waiters. People clutching doggie bags.

  I see Rita. T. J.'s standing next to her. I guess it wasn't him shooting at us this time, not unless he's like The Flash instead of The Phantom and ran real fast from the water tower and got back into the restaurant before anybody even noticed he was gone.

  The door glides shut.

  “I found this taped to the base of the water tower.”

  Ceepak holds out what looks like a plastic-laminated Marvel Comics cover, only it's the size of a baseball card. On the card, in blocky orange-fading-to-yellow lettering I can
read the word “Avengers.” The covergirl is a superhero with flaming red hair and a tight-fitting leotard that makes her boobs look like falling bombshells. Her white-gloved hands are splayed out, like she just lost her grip on the trapeze or she's grabbing for something. Her face indicates that she's pissed.

  Ceepak tucks the card inside his shirt pocket after first feeling instinctively for his cargo pants hip pouch, which his dress slacks don't have.

  I turn around and see a cop car with twirling roof lights swing into the parking lot off Ocean Avenue. Sea Haven's finest have arrived.

  “We need to secure this site,” Ceepak says to Mark Malloy and Adam Kiger, the first cops on the scene.

  “You got it,” Kiger says.

  “Roll out the tape,” Malloy says. “I'll work the crowd inside.”

  He heads into the restaurant. Kiger opens the trunk of their cruiser to dig out a roll of yellow “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape.

  “More units are on their way,” he says. “Chief Baines, too.”

  I hear our dispatcher squawking from the radio inside the car.

  “All available units. Ten twenty-four. Morgan's Surf and Turf.”

  10-24. Assault.

  “This lamp,” Ceepak says, pointing to the shattered light fixture. “Lock it down. We might find our bullet.”

  “Bullet?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Malloy lets that register for a second.

  “I'm on it,” he says.

  “Thanks, Mark.” Ceepak turns to me. “Danny?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “We need to move you indoors.”

  “I'm okay. We should go across the street, check out those houses.”

  “Did you see something in either location, Danny? Barrel flash? Shadow movement?”

  “No … it's just that … I want … I mean I have to …”

  Ceepak looks at me. I see something in his eyes, like he understands. Bad people hiding in the shadows have shot at his friends, too.