Fun House

32

Ceepak isn’t certain Gabe will be at his fried-food stand.

“After all,” he says as we bound up the boardwalk, “he may be at the funeral home, making arrangements for his brother’s burial.”

I nod, just as someone behind us shouts out “Good afternoon, officers. Where you guys going in such a rush?”

We turn around.

It’s Layla Shapiro and a couple of her production-crew flunkies.

“Hey, Danny,” she says. “I thought I recognized your butt.”

“Officer Boyle,” says Ceepak, sternly.

“Oh. Right.” She taps her heart like she’s a Dominican baseball player. “Respect. Let me try again: I thought I recognized your butt, Officer Boyle.”

I’m about to say something about how I recognized her smart-ass mouth when my inner Ceepak kicks in. “What brings you out to the boardwalk, this afternoon, Ms. Shapiro?” I ask calmly.

She head-nods toward the horizon. “The Fun House. We’re scouting it for the live finale. It’ll be awesome.”

“Totally,” chimes in one of the flunkies, a dark-haired vixen with shiny red lips who’s maybe a year or three younger than Layla and probably already scheming about how she can shove Layla aside and take over her job as Mandrake’s right-hand gal, the way Layla, obviously, bumped out whoever stood in her way. Working in TV is a lot like Roller Derby-only without helmets or shin guards.

“Whoever makes it through to the final round, will have to make it through the Fun House with their charity partner to claim the grand prize,” Layla continues excitedly. “We’ll stagger the contestants. Time them-”

Ceepak, apparently, has heard enough. “Good luck with that,” he says. “Danny?”

“Have fun,” I say.

Layla and her posse head off to the Fun House and its big clown mouth entrance. Ceepak and I, following the scent of sputtering oil, head over to the All American Snack Shack.

There’s a line. I guess mid-afternoon is when everybody hits the candy-bar machine when they’re at work. When they’re on vacation, they just hit the deep-fried candy-bar booth, instead.

I see Gabe, sitting on a thirty-gallon tin canister of cooking oil, back near the double deep-fat fryers. Misty grease fogs his glasses. His wrinkled flag shirt looks like it is flying at half-mast.

“Mr. Hess?” says Ceepak.

The sad-eyed man looks up.

“We need your help.”

Hess nods. Motions for us to come around to the rear of the booth.

We do.

“I’ve made a few calls,” says Hess.

Ceepak nods.

“The Creed did not do it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. We don’t lie to a brother, cheat a brother, or steal from a brother. That’s the only way you can trust that your brother is your brother, you know what I’m saying?”

“Yes, sir,” says Ceepak, choosing not to use this moment to discuss his own code of honor and ethics, which, of course, is way stricter than “screw the world but don’t lie to, cheat, or steal from your biker buddies.”

“So now this has become an honor issue for The Creed as well,” says Gabe. “We will find out who did this thing.”

“How?”

“Don’t worry. We, like you, have our ways.”

Geeze-o, man.

Why do I think The Creed’s ways don’t involve reading suspects their Miranda Warning or, for that matter, letting them live?

Of course, Gabe Hess and The Creed talk tough, but that doesn’t mean they can deliver.

At least, not for seven long, frustrating days.