Free Fall

66

Yes, Joe Ceepak really has a serious thing about being a millionaire.

He’s like a dog with a knotted sock filled with bacon. He just won’t let it go.

He leans out of the window a little.

Shouts past his son.

“You know where to find Adele, right, Boyle? That old folks condo complex. The Oceanaire with the pissant guard shack. Have one your buddies pick her up and hot-rod her over here, pronto, Tonto.”

I don’t take my eyes off Mr. Ceepak.

But I hear the two uniforms relaying the information about Mrs. Ceepak to Chief Rossi.

“You on it, Boyle?”

“Yeah,” I shout back because, face it-he knows I’m over here, hiding in the shadows of the pizza place, covering my partner’s back.

“Good. Because we’re down to twenty-eight minutes till Dr. Rosen up there becomes just another greasy stain on the boardwalk. And while Adele and I work out the details on the wire transfer, you boys need to find me a helicopter. Or a boat. A speed boat. Something that’ll take me and David out to international waters fast.”

“You and David?” says Ceepak, taking a step toward his crazy dad.

“Yeah. He’s my hostage.”

Mr. Ceepak raises that brown bag to his lips again. Takes a long gulp.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let David go once we reach the Bahamas or the Cayman Islands.”

He’s starting to slur his words.

“Maybe Cuba. Hijackers used to go to Cuba all the time. Do they have banks in Cuba, Johnny?”

“Don’t know. I’ve never been.”

“You want to come with me? We could do a father-son fishing trip along the way.”

“Fine. I’d much rather you take me as your hostage than David Rosen.”

“Yeah, yeah. Because you’re a big dumb hero. Always risking your life for schmucks like David up there, even though he deserves to die. But I’m not stupid, Johnny. The minute we boarded the boat, you’d try to jump me. Karate kick me in the nuts. Not gonna happen. Get me my speedboat. And put some food in it. Sandwiches and stuff. I like those salt and vinegar potato chips …”

Okay, this is why they say you shouldn’t drink and try to think.

No way is any of Mr. Ceepak’s fantasy escape plan going to play out the way he sees it in his booze-fogged brain. The guy probably doesn’t even have a bank account. And how’s he going to pilot a speedboat to Cuba? Demand that it be equipped with a GPS that’ll give him turn-by-turn directions for the Atlantic Ocean?

This situation is not going to end any way but badly. The man’s plans are preposterous. The scrambled brain farts of a pickled old drunk.

“Can you safely lower Dr. Rosen if mother gives you your one million dollars?” asks Ceepak.

“Yeah, yeah. The factory trained me real good. I’m pretty sure I can work him down nice and slow. But you better have a fresh pair of underpants handy because, I guarantee you, he’s going to piss his pants on the slide down if he didn’t already do it on the ride up.”

Mr. Ceepak breaks into one of his phlegm-filled laughing jags.

As he hacks up the chuckles, Ceepak reaches behind his back for his Glock.

“Don’t even think about it, Johnny,” snaps his dad.

He sensed Ceepak shifting his weight, going for his gun.

Ceepak freezes. Raises both his hands to show his father that he remains unarmed.

“Good. You’ve got twenty-six minutes. Go find your mommy.”

“Danny’s on it,” says Ceepak. “I think I’ll stay out here. Keep my eye on you.”

“What? You don’t trust me to uphold my end of the deal?”

“No, sir. I do not. And if you make any sudden move toward that launch button, let me remind you that I am a very quick draw.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just get me my money and my boat. Or a helicopter that’ll take me to a private jet with enough fuel to fly me down to Mexico. Or like I said, Cuba. Cuba would be good. Forget the boat. I want a helicopter.”

He belches.

“Any word on the SWAT team?” I whisper to the uniforms without looking over at them. I’m keeping my eye on my target. That bit Ceepak said about being a quick draw? Nobody’s that quick. That was his way of telling me to take the shot if his dad makes a move for the big green button I see blinking near his gut in the center of the control panel.

“They’re scrambling out of their barracks, getting their tactical gear together,” says Jack Getze, who’s in radio contact with the Staties. “E.T.A. thirty-five minutes.”

Geeze-o, man.

“The Chief and the mayor are also on their way,” Getze reports. “Officer Jen Forbus has Mrs. Ceepak and a friend. Young woman named Christine Lemonopolous.”

Guess we interrupted Christine’s Buckeye candy delivery plans.

“The ladies should be here in under five. By the way, the Chief says he’s bringing that sniper weapon Ceepak requested. Can you handle it, Danny?”

“I don’t know. Never tried. It’s a military weapon with a scope. You have to set it up on a tripod. I’m better off with my Glock.”

“You dudes gonna shoot Joe?” asks Shaun McKinnon.

“I hope not.”

“Me, too. Dude’s totally toasted. Doesn’t know what he’s saying or doing. That crap about flying to Cuba in a helicopter? Chopper would run out of gas, man. I think he and his son just have, you know, major issues.”

Yeah. Tell me about it.

“Was Joe Ceepak telling the truth?” I ask McKinnon, keeping my focus on the control booth. “Can you bring the ride down safely and slowly?”

“Theoretically,” says McKinnon. “I mean it’s in the manual. But, dude, it’s like you and that sniper rifle. I’ve never actually tried to do it.”

So now I’m feeling sorry for David Rosen even though I know he murdered his father. Sitting up there at 140 feet, watching the sun go down, maybe picking up a snatch or two of the drunken crazy talk down below. He’s probably wishing he had another cyanide pill.

I hear several sirens whining their way closer.

“That’s them,” reports Jack Getze, our radioman. “The Chief, the mayor, paramedics, dozen more uniforms …”

The sirens cut out.

I hear an army of booted feet charging up the boardwalk.

I take half a second to wipe the sweat off my brow.

It’s almost time for the first-ever Ceepak family reunion, right here in sunny, funderful Sea Haven. Should be special.

There might even be fireworks.