Fun House jc-7

by Chris Grabenstein

  The Creed is, in a way, like a mobile Rite Aid. They only sell the drugs, while other people, the kind who like to whack anybody who gets in their way, import the actual product from overseas manufacturers in places like Afghanistan, Peru, Mexico, Bolivia, and anywhere else the War On Drugs should be waving the white flag.

  Ceepak thinks that the mob may have been the instigators of the dual hits. “They were, undoubtedly, furious when The Creed pulled that publicity stunt in the parking lot of Morgan’s Surf And Turf.”

  Miller, the FBI guy, agreed. “Somebody had to pay for that. Big-time.”

  That’s the theory of the day: Paulie Braciole and Thomas Hess were sacrificial lambs.

  “Maybe,” speculated Miller, “to keep doing business with the families, The Creed had to perform an act of penance by killing the TV kid and one of their own.”

  Geeze-o, man. When I went to confession during my days at Holy Innocents Elementary School, the priests just made us say an Act of Contrition and maybe five Hail Mary’s if, you know, we were having impure thoughts or whatever. They never asked us to bump off one of our buddies on the playground.

  Anyway, tonight is a night off from all that.

  After six days of dead-ends, FBI and MCU meetings, not to mention repeated runs to the All American Snack Shack (I am officially sick of deep-fried anything, especially Tasty Kake Butterscotch Krimpets), Ceepak and I are, in his words, “recharging our batteries.”

  “Sometimes, Danny, the best way to solve a problem is to walk away from it and let your subconscious chew on it for a while,” he says.

  So, being romantically unattached, I headed over to Casa Ceepak to hang. John and Rita, plus their cat Gizmo (full name Hideous Gizmideus) and ancient dog Barkley (known to fart more than all the soy lovers at Veggin’ On The Beach combined), live in a one-bedroom walk-up apartment over a shop called the Bagel Lagoon. Their place always smells like onions and garlic.

  And, of course, dog farts.

  Earlier, we charred some burgers on the grill on the tiny patio behind the Bagel store. Rita served her world-famous potato salad. I brought over a couple pints of Cherry Garcia ice cream from the Ben amp; Jerry’s on Ocean Avenue. We pigged out. Then, after dinner, we headed upstairs to watch the second-to-last episode of Fun House.

  Hey, if the show is going to ruin our lives, we might as well watch it.

  Nursing my second beer of the night (Ceepak always asks that I allow an hour between brewskis so I never drive buzzed), I notice a stack of glossy Discover Ohio magazines with articles about “Everything Walleye,” “Lake Erie Wine Country,” and “Autumn Adventures: 8 Million Acres of Woods Would Like to Say ‘Hello.’”

  We don’t have much of an autumn down the shore. Scattered evergreens shed needles. Flowers die of frost or thirst, whichever comes first. Lawns turn browner.

  “So, you guys really gonna move?” I say.

  Ceepak sips on his non-alcoholic Coors, a beverage he learned to love while serving in Iraq.

  Rita sighs. “I don’t know, Danny. Ohio looks nice.”

  “Sure does.” I gesture at the magazine on the top of the pile. “They’ve got all those walleye.”

  “Indeed,” says Ceepak. “In fact, in Port Clinton, Ohio, the Walleye Capital of the World, they drop a twenty-foot-long, six-hundred-pound fish on New Year’s Eve. It’s much more exciting than that ball in Times Square.”

  It’s interesting to hang with Ceepak when he’s off duty, boots off, stocking feet stretched out in front of him. He’s actually pretty funny.

  Of course, I say we’re off duty because we’re off the clock, but John Ceepak, being the American cousin to Dudley Do-Right, keeps his police scanner humming softly in the background.

  From the TV, we hear the Fun House theme song. All eyes swing to the screen.

  “Welcome to Fun House,” says Chip Dale, the host, “the number one show in America!”

  Soozy K, with her death-threat immunity and guaranteed entrance into the final round, is watching the show live with us. Well, not at the Ceepaks’ place. They have her on a live remote from her heavily guarded bedroom at the house on Halibut Street.

  “I wish I could’ve taken part in this week’s competition, Chip,” she says. “It sounds like it was awesome!”

  “Indeed it was, our best challenge yet,” teases Chip, because they like to do that a lot on these shows: hint that something good is coming. In fact, they do more hinting and teasing than actual entertaining.

  Officers Dylan and Jeremy Murray are in the background of Soozy’s secluded bedroom, looking tough, their arms akimbo, which is one of those words that doesn’t sound like what it is. “Akimbo” should be a type of Latin dance, not a way of standing “with hand on hip and elbow bent outward,” unless that is, of course, a Latin dance.

  Chip Dale is back, promising us the fun will get started “right after the break.”

  When they cut to commercial, we tune out the sales pitches and pick up our conversation-the way it’s done in living rooms all across the country.

  “I’m not all that eager to move,” says Rita.

  “I thought everybody born in New Jersey was eager to escape from it,” teases Ceepak.

  “You listen to too much Springsteen,” I say.

  “Or not enough,” adds Rita.

  She’s right. You listen to enough Bruce songs, you eventually hear a heartfelt love of his home state. Guess that’s why he still lives over in Rumson when he’s rich enough to live on Mars.

  “I, too, like New Jersey,” says Ceepak. “In fact, there are certain aspects of the Garden State I absolutely adore.”

  Over on the couch, he reaches out his hand to Rita. Here in my cushy chair, I gulp beer because a frothy adult beverage always helps when you think you might gag.

  “So why do you want to take a job in Ohio?” I ask.

  “Most of my adult life, Danny,” says Ceepak, suddenly sounding serious, the way he does on the job, “I have lived and worked wherever my duty took me. Korea. Germany. Iraq. I only came here, as you recall, as an interim step, a waystation between my military life, which was ending, and my civilian life, which had not yet begun.”

  And then Ceepak stayed in Sea Haven because duty, once again, called and people needed him. Not too long after that, he met Rita. I think he needed her.

  “This opportunity,” he says, “presents a chance to work in the state, which, for better or worse, is my true home.”

  I nod. I know the “worse”: his father, John “Sixpack” Ceepak, the drunk who had driven a young Ceepak to find a home in the Army.

  I guess the “better” must be all those walleye.

  “They’d also double John’s salary,” says Rita. “That would be nice.” When she says it, she kind of looks around their dinky apartment. Okay, living in a one-bedroom box over a bagel shop may not be the American dream, but, hey, breakfast is always hot and fresh.

  “And I’d be closer to my mother,” says Ceepak, who doesn’t trust his alcoholic old man to keep his promise to quit harassing his ex-wife.

  “She could move here,” I say.

  “That’s what I suggested,” says Rita.

  Ceepak is about to comment when his cell phone chirrups.

  The work phone.

  “This is Ceepak. Go.”

  Rita and I stare at him, both of us with a “What happened at the Fun House now?” look in our eyes.

  He covers the phone. Mouths “Chief Baines.”

  Rita and I relax a little. Watch a cell-phone commercial.

  Geeze-o, man. Fun House runs a ton of commercials. Like five minutes of ads for every three minutes of show.

  “I see,” Ceepak says. “Understood. Will do. Roger that. Safe travels.”

  And then he hangs up.

  “Well?” I say.

  “Chief Baines will be detained in Florida over the weekend.”

  “So he’s missing all this?” I gesture at the TV.

  “Apparently so.”

/>   I’m reminded of that old saying: when the going gets tough, the tough go to Disney World.

  “He’s asked me to fill in in his absence.”

  “You’re Acting Chief?”

  “Roger that.”

  “So, can we have a casual Friday tomorrow?”

  “Come again?”

  “If you’re Acting Chief, you can suspend the dress code for a day. It’s supposed to be in the hundreds.”

  “Be that as it may.…”

  “Hey, if we’re going to do the jobs of homicide detectives, we need to dress like ’em.”

  Ceepak smiles. “You make a good point. Very well. Tomorrow is plain clothes Friday.”

  “Uh-oh, John,” says Rita. “You didn’t tell me you guys were going to be on the show again this week.”

  On TV, the show is back. Chip Dale has just introduced a film clip. Me and Ceepak. In the front lawn of the Fun House, Ceepak aiming his Glock at Eric Hunley’s thigh, the big guy dropping to his knees and, finally, going facedown on the ground.

  Ceepak sighs. And then, believe it or not, he lets out a mournful, “Geeze-o, man.”

  “To ensure the safety of our house guests,” says the always-cheery Chip Dale, “local authorities have thrown up a wall of steel. So, as Soozy bravely defies her death threat.…”

  They cut to Soozy up in her room. She waves at the camera. Behind her, Dylan and Jeremy Murray still have their arms akimbo.

  I yawn. Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s because “second-to-last” shows are never that exciting. Think about the first three Star Wars. The one in the middle was just a setup for the big finish.

  To make matters worse, tonight’s competition is the hokeyest yet. It’s Jersey Shore meets American Idol meets I Want To Vomit.

  The three contestants have to sing “Under The Boardwalk” with three very special guest stars. America-at least those Americans who love to repeatedly thumb text messages to TV shows-will vote on who they think did the best job.

  Of course, all this junk is pre-recorded.

  Unfortunately, the contestants aren’t lip-syncing. They might sound better if they did.

  Mike Tomasino goes first and, believe it or not, the kid can actually sing. Plus, he gets to do the number with the Broadway cast of Jersey Boys. He nails it.

  Vinnie Martin goes next and has the dubious pleasure of doing a duet with Barry Manilow. Mandy Keenan is there, too-sitting on the piano bench, mooning at Barry, flipping sheet music pages for him.

  Vinnie doesn’t stand a chance.

  Before Jenny Mortadella sings, they cut to more commercials, what Chip Dale always calls “the break.” The interruptions grow longer and longer.

  “How come there are so many commercials?” I grouse out loud.

  “The higher the rating for a show,” says Rita, “the more money the network can charge for commercials.”

  When Fun House returns, it’s obvious that the producers have stacked the deck against Jenny Mortadella. She gets to sing with a lounge act from Atlantic City, the kind nobody listens to because they’re too busy bopping slot-machine buttons or whooping it up at the bar.

  When Jenny and her wrecking-ball partner are done destroying the song, Chip Dale promises that we’ll hear who Soozy thinks totally nailed the song-right after the break.

  More commercials.

  “Geeze-o, man,” I say, popping open my third beer because it’s almost ten, “they’re raking in the dough tonight.”

  “You guys should ask for a cut of the profits,” jokes Rita. “After all, John arresting Paulie, the two of you chasing those motorcycle hoods around Morgan’s parking lot, not to mention the two murders and, now, Soozy K’s death threat-that’s what made Fun House the biggest hit of the summer.”

  Ceepak bolts upright on the sofa. His eyes go wide. I’m thinking he is having a stroke or something when he finally speaks:

  “Of course!” He kisses Rita full on the lips. “Thank you!”

  I’m about to say “What?” when, on the TV, live, Soozy K is screaming “Omigod, omigod!”

  Ceepak, Rita, and I turn to the screen, where Soozy is blubbering and staring at her cell phone.

  “What is it?” someone-maybe Layla-asks from behind the camera.

  “A text message,” says Soozy. “From the killer!”

  She shoves her phone toward the camera. The lens zooms in. We read what is written on the phone screen in pixellated type:

  “TOMORROW NIGHT. THE SHOW WILL BE LIVE..

  YOU WILL BE DEAD.”

  34

  We’re in Ceepak’s Toyota.

  He’s behind the wheel because he, unlike me, has not been imbibing beer.

  He’s also remarkably calm.

  “It’s all part of his play,” he says.

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Martin Mandrake.” He reaches down to his belt, unclips his cell phone, and hands it to me. “Danny, could you please press speed-dial fourteen?”

  “Sure,” I say. Since New Jersey has a handheld-cell-phone law, no way is Ceepak dialing while driving. “Who is it?”

  “Christopher Miller.”

  The FBI guy.

  “You want me to put it on speakerphone?” I ask after pressing the speed-dial digits.

  “Roger that.”

  And that, my friends, is how you make a hands-free cell-phone call without tearing apart the interior of your car and doing a bunch of fancy wiring.

  “Hello?” A little girl answers the phone.

  “Angela, this is your father’s friend, John Ceepak.”

  “Hello.”

  “Is your daddy home?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I speak with him?”

  “Okay.”

  And we wait. We hear the Miller family phone clomping to the floor or a very hard kitchen counter, and Angela, who’s probably ten, screaming “Daddy? It’s Mr. Pea Pack.”

  Kids. I guess they’re cute when you’re not in a hurry to find out why your partner said “Of course!” and kissed his wife after she said we should have a profit-sharing deal with Prickly Pear Productions.

  “You have your badge?” Ceepak asks while we wait.

  “Yeah.” It’s in the back pocket of my jeans.

  “Put it on.”

  We hit a stoplight. Ceepak slips his shield into this nifty badge-holder he pulls out of the storage bin near the gearshift. He hangs the necklace around his neck. I pin my badge to a belt loop on my shorts. Ceepak and I are now, officially, plainclothes cops!

  “John?” Christopher Miller comes on the phone. He’s a big, hulking African American guy, a little over fifty, who still works out every day. He and Ceepak could be cousins if, you know, one of Ceepak’s uncles had been black. “What’s up?”

  “My partner and I are on our way over to see Martin Mandrake.”

  “The producer on your TV show?”

  “Roger that. We need anything and everything you might have on him.”

  “John, as I’m sure you’re aware, we don’t normally keep files on innocent citizens.…”

  “We suspect that Mr. Mandrake may be implicated in the murders of Peter Paul Braciole as well as Thomas Hess, a.k.a. Skeletor, the drug dealer.”

  Miller hesitates. “Care to elaborate?”

  “Certainly. But not right now. We are currently en route to the Prickly Pear production office.”

  “Okay. I’ll see if we have anything on him. Maybe, if we’re lucky, he cheated on his taxes.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “You on your cell?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Let me make a few calls. Get back to you.”

  “10-4. Thanks.”

  “Yeah.”

  And the phone call ends because, I can tell by the tone of his voice, Miller is already thinking about who he should call first.

  I thumb the OFF button on Ceepak’s phone.

  “So,” I say, “we think Marty did it?”

  “The possibility looms large.�
��

  Okay. Usually he just says “It’s a possibility” when considering a suspect for whom we haven’t nailed down the means, opportunity, and motive.

  “I think I get the motive,” I say. “He used the killings to bump up the ratings for his show.”

  “Correct. And, as you recall, his career was in serious jeopardy prior to the success of Fun House.”

  True. Layla called him a “washed-up old hack” and “Marty The Old Farty” on numerous occasions.

  “What about the means and opportunity?” I ask.

  Ceepak sighs slightly as he makes the turn that will take us to the production trailer. “Admittedly, Danny, I am playing a hunch here. However, remember that Mr. Mandrake is a producer. He knows how to put together the people he needs to get a job done.”

  “So, what, he hired a team of professional hit men to take out one of his stars to guarantee that Fun House would be a ratings hit and save his career?”

  As we pull to the curb, Ceepak purses his lips and nods grimly. “Such is my supposition, Danny.”

  Wow. I think about this as Ceepak yanks on the emergency brake and I undo my seat belt.

  Would Marty Mandrake really murder people to make sure his show was a hit? Maybe. The network bigwigs are already signing him up for more shows next year. He’s gone from being a washed-up has-been to the next big thing, making millions because, all of a sudden, he has refound his Midas touch, the ability to turn crap into gold.

  And all it took was a pair of dead bodies.

  As soon as we’re up and out of the car, Ceepak’s cell phone chirps.

  “This is Ceepak. Go.” He listens. “That was fast. I see.” Now he gets an earful. “Thanks, Chris. I owe you one.”

  He folds up the phone.

  “Well?”

  “Chris Miller knew exactly who to call.”

  35

  “And?”

  I hate when he keeps me hanging like that.

  “As I suspected,” says Ceepak, “the FBI has quite an extensive file on Mr. Mandrake. It was first opened in 1971, the year he made his award-winning antiwar documentary about the Vietnam conflict. Apparently, the president at the time was not a fan of Mr. Mandrake’s Nixon Lies, Who Dies?”