Free Fall

9

I loop back to the front of the ride.

I flash my badge necklace to the kid sitting up in the operator platform near the bright yellow water wheel. It’s churning up frothy waves the color of the cheap blue aftershave they sell at Drinnen’s Drug Store.

“Shut down the water wheel,” I shout. “Don’t send in any boats.”

“Dude,” he says, sounding like I just woke him up. “There’s already a boat in the tunnel …”

I think fast.

“Then keep the wheel churning.”

Maybe the current will slow the thief down. Maybe the love boat will bumper-car him down the line to Ceepak.

Or maybe our bad guy has a gun.

“No,” I say to the operator. “Shut it off.”

“Dude?” says the kid, holding up both hands. “On or off?”

“Off!”

The kid shakes his head.

I think he’s disappointed in my rapid-fire decision-making abilities.

“Whatever,” he mumbles as he bops the red button that freezes the water wheel.

I jump off the loading dock into the shin-deep riverbed.

“Yo, dude!” The kid shouts. “You gotta be in a boat. Insurance rules. No walking in the river. Yo? Dude?”

I slosh forward and duck my head under the arched opening cut into the plywood scene of Bavaria or wherever.

The tunnel is pitch-dark. Nice if you’re on a romantic ride with your girlfriend. Not so much when you’re on foot.

If I were Ceepak, I’d whip out my pocket flashlight.

But I’m not.

So I use my iPhone. Flick on the flashlight app that uses the tiny camera light to approximate a ten-watt bulb. It’s better than nothing.

I pass a scene of cutout elves in pointy caps painting toadstools. Girls probably think it’s cute. Guys don’t care. At this point, early in the ride, they’re just nervous, wondering when they should make their first move.

Up ahead is another dark stretch.

And a gently rocking boat.

I slog up the shallow trough, glad I wore cargo shorts to work today. Until the water splashing up my legs soaks through the thigh pockets and turns them into drooping water balloons.

With the current switched off, I’m moving faster than the boat in front of me. As I get closer, I hear smooching. And moans. And a playful “Slow down, Kevin,” giggled by a girl.

Whose voice I recognize. Heidi Noroozy. We dated. Once.

“Excuse me, guys,” I say, when I reach the stern.

The startled lovers spring apart. Nearly capsize their boat.

“Danny?”

“Hey, Heidi.”

“Uh, hi.” She starts buttoning stuff.

“Hey, Kevin.” I recognize her new man. Kevin Tipple. He works at Boardwalk Books. Guess he’s on his morning break.

I find that, if I squeeze along the starboard side of the little red dinghy, I can actually creep my way downstream. When I reach the boat’s bow, I turn around. “Stay here, you two. There could be trouble up ahead.”

“Is this a new part of the ride?” asks Kevin. “Like when the robbers stop the train in Wild West World?”

I think Kevin spends a little too much time in the fiction section of his store.

“Just stay here.”

Kevin and Heidi nod. Their eyes go so wide they could both play Bambi in one of the ride’s cheesy scenes.

“Halt!” I hear Ceepak’s voice ringing off the walls in the tunnel up ahead of me.

“Forget it, po-po,” shouts the purse-snatcher, who sounds like he could definitely use an attitude adjustment.

I hurry down the river. Make my way up to the next painted display. Geese. Talking to Little Red Riding Hood, a wart-nosed witch, and Pepe Lepew. What the diorama’s story is supposed to be, I haven’t a clue. I guess the plywood jigsaw cutouts were on sale, maybe in one of those yards where they sell bent-over-gardeners-flashing-their-bloomers as lawn decorations.

I round a bend.

And here comes the kid in the A amp;F jersey, a lady’s purse slung over his shoulder. The bag does not match his shiny basketball shorts.

“Stop,” I say, flashing my iPhone light in his face. “We’ve got you surrounded.”

(Ever since I became a cop, I’ve always wanted to say that.)

“Hands over your head,” adds Ceepak, splashing up behind the kid with a Maglite locked in one fist, his other hand clasping his wrist to steady the light.

The kid squints. Stares at me hard.

He swings around to check out Ceepak then turns back to me.

“Wassup, braw?”

Of course he looked familiar. It’s Ben Sinclair. Our honorable mayor’s dishonorable son. We’ve dealt with him before. Several times, actually.

“Why you two always be harassing me?” he whines. “I didn’t do nothing wrong, dawg.”

Ben Sinclair is not a gangsta rapper. He’s a rich white kid who once tried to strap a big subwoofer to the back of his scooter so he could cruise around Sea Haven pretending to be ghetto.

“You were resisting arrest,” says Ceepak.

“Cuffs?” I ask.

“That’ll work,” says Ceepak, sliding the purse off Ben’s shoulder while I work the kid’s hands behind his back.

“Yo! That be police brutality, po-po.”

“No, Benjamin,” says Ceepak. “Those be handcuffs.”

I can’t help but crack up. Ceepak made a funny.

The three of us wade down Ye Olde Mill stream.

Ceepak even starts whistling.

It’s a Springsteen tune, of course. “Tunnel Of Love.”