Free Fall

by Chris Grabenstein

  He actually says the word “jarhead” with some affection. Usually, he sneers it at his son. Says stuff like “you effing jarhead moron.”

  Not today. In fact, I have never seen Mr. Ceepak smile so much. And his teeth aren’t the color of brown deli mustard anymore, either.

  “You and Boyle here saved my life, Johnny. I’ll never forget that. Cross my heart and hope to spit.”

  “Please forgive me, sir, if I doubt your sincerity.”

  “Hey, I don’t blame you, Johnny. Goodness, I’d doubt it, too. The way I’ve behaved? Despicable. Heck, I wasn’t much of a dad—to you or Billy. But trust me, Johnny, a man can change. What did Jesus say? ‘There will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.’ Well, let me tell you, boys: right now Jesus and his friends are having one heck of a hosanna hollerin’ hootenanny up there in heaven. Come on, son. Rejoice with Jesus. What once was lost now is found.”

  “How goes the family reunion?” Manager Bob has ambled over to join us. He’s doing that smile and heel-rocking thing again.

  “Peachy,” I say, so Ceepak doesn’t have to speak.

  “Apparently,” says Ceepak, sounding extremely skeptical, “my father is a new man.”

  “That I am, Johnny boy. Be sure to tell your mother. Hey, maybe the three of us can get together for dinner some night soon. You can come too, Boyle. My treat.”

  “That, sir,” says Ceepak, “is never going to happen.”

  His father keeps grinning like an idiot. “How’s Adele doing? I bet she misses me.”

  “No, sir. She does not.”

  “I read about her in the newspaper this morning. They’re calling her Sea Haven’s newest Guardian Angel.”

  “Is that your mom?” says Bob. “The one who hired a lawyer to defend that cute nurse who doesn’t have a pot to piss in? Awesome!”

  “Adele’s my wife …”

  Ceepak holds up his very strong right hand to signal his father to stop right there. “Ex-wife …”

  “Okay. Sure. Say, this gal, Christine Lemondrops, the one your mom bailed out, she a friend of yours, Johnny?” He asks it with just a hint of his old lechery.

  “She’s our friend,” I say. “And her last name is Lemonopolous.”

  “Good. That’s nice, Boyle. You need a gal pal. Johnny here is already hitched and settled down. Speaking of which, when can you and the missus swing by the motel to say hey?”

  “How about never, sir?” says Ceepak. “Will never work?”

  “Ouch,” says Bob, with a goofy giggle.

  But Mr. Ceepak keeps on smiling like those brainwashed people in cults, right before they chug a jug of the Kool Ade.

  “Careful, Johnny,” he says. “‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’ Matthew. Chapter seven. Verse one.”

  “You would do well to memorize the remainder of that chapter, sir.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Verse 15: ‘Beware of the false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves.”

  “Oh-kay,” says Bob, laughing nervously. “We better postpone Bible study till church tomorrow morning and get back at it. We open in fifteen, Joe.”

  “Right. And Bob?”

  “Yes, Joe?”

  “Thanks again. For giving me this opportunity.”

  Bob claps old man Ceepak on the back. “Are you kidding? We’re the ones who should be thanking you. Heck, if you hadn’t answered our ad, your son here would’ve kept the StratosFEAR shut down all summer long.”

  Bob chuckles. Joe chuckles.

  Ceepak and me? We’re not in a chuckling kind of mood.

  20

  WE GRAB A COLD SODA (WHAT CEEPAK STILL CALLS A POP) AT a pizza stand twenty feet away from the StratosFEAR.

  I’m thirsty, so I gulp mine down. Ceepak, on the other hand, sips maybe two drops.

  Both of us watch Mr. Ceepak hoist a couple carloads of squealing riders up the tower and drop them. At first, they scream and kick their feet. Then they laugh. It’s good old-fashioned fun.

  But I’m thinking one of the nearby T-shirt shops ought to start selling clean underpants, too.

  “I don’t trust him or his supposed transformation,” Ceepak finally says.

  Hey, I can’t blame the guy.

  Years ago, Joseph Ceepak murdered his youngest son, William Philip Ceepak—my Ceepak’s little brother. The sneaky bastard made Billy’s death look like a suicide. And he got away with it. For years. Even when Ceepak and I were able to have a prosecuting attorney up in Ohio re-open the case, the slimy worm wiggled off the hook.

  So, I’m with Ceepak. I’m not buying this whole Bible-thumping, born-again Christian act. Joseph Ceepak is not a lost sheep. He’s a wolf who went to a pop-up Halloween shop and asked for the Little Bo Peep costume.

  “He’s here for Mother’s money,” says Ceepak, his eyes focused on the Free Fall. Not the ride; the control booth.

  “Maybe we should request a fresh Emergency Restraining Order.”

  “Trust me, Danny: I have already put in the paperwork.”

  We might’ve stayed there all day, nursing our Cokes, keeping an eye on Joe Ceepak, waiting for him to slip out of his sheep costume, do something stupid enough for us to arrest him, but my cell phone chirps.

  It’s Christine Lemonopolous.

  She’s sobbing.

  “Christine?” I say. “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s dead, Danny. Dr. Rosen. He died this morning.”

  21

  CEEPAK AND I HEAD OVER TO THE ROSEN HOUSE ON BEACH LANE.

  “They want Christine out of the house,” I say, relaying the rest of our conversation. “Today. Like right now.”

  “Sad,” Ceepak says.

  “Yeah. Where’s she gonna go?”

  “Actually, Danny, I was thinking about the late Arnold Rosen.”

  Oh. Right. The dead guy. Guess he’s worse off than even Christine.

  And then neither of us says anything else on the fifteen-minute drive down Beach Lane from the boardwalk. Death will do that to you, get you thinking. About Ceepak’s baby brother, Bill. My only real girlfriend, Katie Landry. My buddy Mook. Dominic Santucci.

  And the two men I’ve personally sent to their graves.

  When the Grim Reaper is riding with you, he always hogs the mental radio.

  We park and climb out of my Jeep just as two gentlemen in black suits carry a rubberized body bag out the front door.

  Ceepak stops walking and bows his head.

  I do the same.

  And then I hear Ceepak start muttering a prayer: “God full of mercy who dwells on high, grant perfect rest to the soul of Arnold Rosen.”

  When Ceepak was over in Iraq, he saw a lot of guys die. Christians. Jews. Muslims. I’m guessing he memorized the right things to say for every religion when nothing you can say seems right.

  We wait for the funeral home attendants to do their job and drive away in their black vehicle with the black-tinted windows. I make a sign of the cross. Sorry. It’s a nun-inflicted reflex.

  Making our way toward the front porch, I notice that brand-new dune buggy wheelchair still sitting in the driveway. Guess Dr. Rosen never got to try it. Guess Monae never hid it in the garage like she was supposed to.

  Inside the house, we see three mourners clustered around Dr. Rosen’s empty hospital bed: two men, one woman.

  The woman has long, white-blonde hair and is dressed in a canary yellow tennis outfit that’s a little too short and hugs her body a little too tightly—especially since she has a whole lot of body to hug. I’m guessing this blonde is Shona Oppenheimer’s sister, Judith, even though Shona has jet-black hair.

  Judith only has jet-black eyebrows.

  And unlike super-skinny Shona, Judith has bulges and lumps swelling up in places where woman don’t usually have what Ceepak calls “protuberances.” Even her face is sort of bloated. Her cheeks and jowls crowd out her eyes, nose, and m
outh so much it’s hard to tell if she and her sister have similar facial features.

  Standing next to Judith is a beanpole-ish, balding man sporting a scraggly goatee. He’s wearing shorts, sandals, and a faded pink polo shirt. He also looks a little nebbishy, a Yiddish word that my buddy Joe Getzler taught me (along with schmuck, putz, and bupkes). It basically means he looks “pitifully timid.” I’m guessing he’s David Rosen because the other guy, standing across the bed from Judith, looks totally Hollywood and has to be the rich son, Michael, from LA-LA land.

  Michael is wearing black jeans, black cowboy boots, and an open-collar black shirt that looks like it probably cost several hundred dollars at some black clothes boutique in Beverly Hills. His hair and beard are so neatly trimmed they appear to be the exact same length. That takes work. Or money.

  “Oh, hello,” says Judith, very sweetly. When she smiles, she looks like one of those puffy marshmallow clouds on a TV weather map. “May we help you gentlemen?”

  “Sorry to intrude,” says Ceepak. “I’m Detective John Ceepak with the Sea Haven Police. This is my partner Danny Boyle. Please pardon our intrusion and know that we are sorry for your loss. Dr. Rosen was good man.”

  Judith blinks her piggy little eyes. Repeatedly.

  “Did you know my father-in-law?” she finally asks.

  “Only briefly,” says Ceepak. “But he had a very stellar reputation among the long-term residents of Sea Haven.”

  “He certainly did,” says the guy with the close-cropped hair and beard. “I’m Michael. Do you know my big brother David?”

  “No,” says Ceepak, stepping forward and extending his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” He shakes David’s hand and then turns to Michael to shake his, too.

  Like always, I follow along and do what Ceepak just did.

  “Again,” says Ceepak, “our condolences on your loss.”

  “Gosh, detectives,” says Judith, “I don’t mean to be rude but, may I ask: Why are you gentlemen here?”

  “My dad was ninety-four years old,” says David with a goofy grin. “Surely you don’t suspect foul play in his death.”

  “Of course not,” says Ceepak.

  “Of course not,” echoes Judith, with a soft smile. She has a very sweet and gentle presence. Reminds me a little of this movie from the 1960s they used to show us at Holy Innocents Elementary. Debbie Reynolds in The Singing Nun. I half expect her to break into song: “Dominique, nique, nique.”

  Then I remember the Rosens are Jewish.

  “We’re here,” says Ceepak, “to assist Ms. Lemonopolous.”

  “Christine?” says Michael.

  “Yes. We understand she needs to vacate the premises.”

  “We’d appreciate it,” says David, kind of brusquely. “Her services, as you might imagine, are no longer required now that Dad has passed. Monae has already moved out of her room.”

  Yeah, I think, because Monae can probably move in with her brother or sister. Christine cannot.

  “We’ve already contacted the rabbi,” says Judith. “The temple is making arrangements for Dad’s funeral.”

  “Which,” adds David, “needs to happen right away.”

  “Jewish tradition,” adds Michael.

  Ceepak nods. Me, too. I went through a lot of this when Joe Getzler’s grandfather died a couple years ago.

  “We’ll be sitting shiva at our home,” says Judith. “Just makes everything easier.”

  “Plus,” says David, “we need to clean this place up. Get it ready to put on the market. Can’t have anyone camping out in the guest rooms. It’ll slow things down. Christine has got to go.”

  “Understandable,” says Ceepak. “Where is Christine now?”

  “We asked her to take a walk on the beach,” says Judith. “The three of us needed to discuss some family matters. In private.”

  “For instance,” says Michael, “we need to decide who gets to take home all of these lovely photographs of my nephew, Little Arnie.”

  “Dad liked them,” says David.

  “Oh, I’m sure he did.” Michael gestures toward a photograph of the blonde boy poised like a quarterback about to heave a pass. “This is my personal fave. Such the little athlete. Guess he must take after Judith’s side of the family.”

  Judith smiles and blinks some more.

  David’s eyes drop, like he needs to examine his sandal straps.

  Michael grins like he’s holding the hot cards in a high-stakes poker game.

  Geeze-o, man.

  This is one weird, freaky family.

  22

  FINALLY, JUDITH BREAKS THE LONG, AWKWARD SILENCE.

  “Our emotions are little raw right now, officers,” she calmly explains.

  “Understandable,” says Ceepak. “We’ll wait outside for Christine.”

  “Do you have some place for her to stay tonight?” asks Michael, the only one who seems the least bit concerned about the displaced help.

  “We’ll work something out,” I say.

  Mentally, I’m already speed-dialing Becca. But it’s the middle of June now. Schools are letting out. The Fourth of July and a horde of tourists are coming fast. The “NO” signs are popping up in front of the “VACANCY” lights on hotels up and down the island.

  Ceepak and I head out the back door.

  We walk across a weather-beaten deck filled with graying teak furniture plus a rusty Weber kettle grill with antique cobwebs glued to its legs. We’re on a bit of a bluff overlooking the ocean maybe fifty feet in front of us. This is an impressive piece of property. Somebody’s about to inherit an awesome beach house.

  “Perhaps you should give Christine a call,” Ceepak suggests after we both scan the shoreline, looking for her.

  I pull out my cell phone. “So where do we take her this time? The Mussel Beach Motel is probably booked up for the rest of the summer.”

  “Roger that,” mumbles Ceepak. I can tell he’s perplexed, too.

  “And now she doesn’t have any kind of job. No way can she pay rent, unless she goes back to the emergency room.”

  “She may not be ready for a return to the ER at this juncture,” says Ceepak, who, like I said, understands Christine’s PTSD better than anybody. Working in a trauma center, faced with life-and-death decisions every time the double doors swing open? That’s probably not what her doctors and psychiatrists are ordering for Christine right now.

  “Well,” I say, “maybe she has some savings. But this is the start of the peak tourist season. Rents will be jacked up till Labor Day. If she had any family in the area, she never would’ve had to spend the night in Dr. Rosen’s driveway …”

  “Could she stay at your apartment, Danny?”

  Wow. First Ceepak’s mom wants me to date Christine. Now her son wants her to move in with me?

  “You, of course, could stay with Rita and me,” he continues. “T.J.’s sofa bed is still available.”

  Okay, this is tough.

  I mean I like Ceepak and his wife, Rita. Living with them would be okay. I guess. Unless Ceepak makes me get up every morning and run three miles before we all do military-style jumping jacks.

  On the other hand, it’s baseball season. I love my own plasma screen TV—even though it’s only half as big as the one Michael bought for his father. I also like how close my refrigerator is to my couch. You don’t even need to stand up to grab a beer.

  But then I see Christine’s mop of dark, curly hair bouncing up over the dunes. Soon I see her. She’s not in a bathing suit or anything but she looks good.

  And sad.

  No, crushed is more like it.

  She’s probably been wandering up and down the beach wondering the same stuff Ceepak and I have been wondering about. Now that Dr. Rosen is gone, what’s going to happen to her?

  “Yeah,” I say. “Your place sounds like a plan.”

  “Just for the time being,” says Ceepak. “We’ll figure something out.”

  “It’s all good,” I
say. Then I smile at Christine as she makes her way over the dunes.

  “Hey, guys.” She sniffles back a tear. “Can you believe it? They say it was probably a heart attack. I think it was my fault …”

  “What? Come on, Christine. He was ninety-four years old …”

  “But the restraining order mess. Me and Shona going to court. Judith getting all upset. I think it sent his blood pressure shooting through the roof …”

  “Christine?” says Ceepak, using the firm, deep voice he sometimes uses with me. “You did not kill Dr. Rosen. Old age did.”

  “I don’t know …”

  That’s when Ceepak’s phone blares an obscure Springsteen song called “The Wish,” a tribute the Boss wrote about his mom. That means the caller is Ceepak’s mother.

  I know this because I showed him how to program in different ringtones to ID callers once his family on the island grew beyond just Rita. If he wants me to put in a ringtone for his dad, I think I’ll go with Meatloaf’s “Bat Out Of Hell.”

  Ceepak jabs the speakerphone button.

  Probably so Christine can say “thank you” to his mom in person.

  “Hello, Mom. I have you on speakerphone. I’m here with Danny and Christine, the young nurse you helped so much.”

  Mrs. Ceepak doesn’t say anything.

  “Mom?”

  “Are you at Arnold Rosen’s house?”

  “Yes, Mom. He passed away this morning.”

  “I know. One of my bingo friends just called …”

  “He was ninety-four, Mother. He lived a good long life.”

  Again silence.

  “Mom?”

  “Arnie called me late last night, John. He was worried. Told me he was ‘surrounded by assassins’! John?”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “Do something. Please? I feel it in my bones: One of those assassins murdered Arnold Rosen.”

  23

  CHRISTINE AND I ARE STANDING THERE, STUNNED, STARING AT Ceepak, who is staring at his silent cell phone.