Fun House

37

By 1 P.M., we’re all set up. No one can get on or off the boardwalk without passing through a metal detector and I.D. check, and then they have to be on the magic ticket list if they want to gain access to Pier Two.

Prickly Pear Productions has provided us with the names of pre-screened studio audience members and charity representatives who will start shuffling through security around four-five hours before the live show starts. We have a battery-powered TV set up in our command tent and keep it tuned to the Fun House network, just so we can keep up with any late-breaking developments.

Instead, all I hear is hype about the show: “Will the gang-bangers make good on their death threat and take Soozy K out of the competition for good? Tune in tonight at nine, eight Central, for television’s most exciting, death-defying season finale ever!”

“Danny?” This from Ceepak as he comes up the ramp from where Joey T parked the last of the sand-filled dump trucks.

“Yeah?”

“It appears Mr. Gabe Hess has arrived.” He head gestures toward the All American Snack Shack, which is directly across from the Fun House, on the other side of the Pier Two boardwalk, which, in this section, is about the width of a four-lane highway.

“Why is he insisting on not shutting down for the day?” I ask. “He won’t have any customers, except maybe a couple crew members who get tired of all the free food at the craft services table.”

“I assume,” says Ceepak, “that, for Mr. Hess, who is something of a libertarian, it is the principle of the thing. He refuses to shut down his business simply because someone in authority told him he had to. In fact, given his recent loss, due in no small part to the presence of the TV show here in Sea Haven, he is probably even more defiant than usual.”

I nod. It sort of makes sense. He’s mad as hell and he’s not going to close down his fried Oreo stand anymore.

“I’m going to ask him if he has heard anything from The Creed,” says Ceepak.

“Are they still suspects?”

“We need to cover all bases.”

I nod, even though I still think Ceepak’s hunch about Mandrake is correct but it seems that part of my partner’s penance for tipping our hand to the primary suspect will be to doggedly pursue a few dead ends.

“What would you like me to do?” I ask.

Another head bob from Ceepak. This time it’s something behind me.

“Talk to Rebecca.”

I turn around. Here comes Becca Adkinson, in high heels, a bright orange bikini, and a gauzy floral cover-up that barely does. If I’m not mistaken, Becca has been basting herself in coconut oil and lying out on the Mussel Beach Motel sun deck something fierce. Either that, or she dipped herself in a chocolate swimming pool-like the peanut M amp;M guy used to do. Her tan is darker than that orange-faced congressman from Ohio; the one who looks like he’s related to The Great Pumpkin.

“Hey,” I say to Becca as Ceepak hikes across the boards to the candy-bar booth.

“Geeze-o, man, Danny-am I gonna get shot?”

“What?”

“All this security. Metal detectors? What’s with those trucks blocking the steps? I had to walk around them and almost snapped off a heel. Is this because of the death threat?”

“Yeah.”

Now I notice that Becca has a green All Access Pass dangling on a chain around her neck, nestling right where her cover-up plunges down to show the world that Becca Adkinson could model swimsuits for Victoria’s Secret without an assist from any of their underwire architecture.

Becca sees me staring at her chest, something I’ve been known to do ever since sixth grade. She was an early bloomer. I was an early gawker.

“My eyes are up here, Danny.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Then she kind of adjusts her chest to fluff everything up. “I look hot, though, right?”

“Yeah. So, why are you here?”

“I’m Soozy’s charity.”

“What?”

She shoulder-slugs me. The way my sister would if, you know, I had one.

“Pay attention, Danny Boy. I told you: I’m president of the local SPF chapter. The Skin Cancer Prevention Fund? Soozy’s playing for us tonight. I’m supposed to be like her partner in the mad dash through the Fun House. I’m gonna be on TV!”

“Oh. Cool.”

“So?”

“What?”

“Is it safe?”

“What? Oh, you mean all this?” I casually wave at the battalion of cops and barricades and metal detectors and trucks filled with sand.

“Uh, yeah,” says Becca, adding a look that says “duh, Danny.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s all for show.”

“You’re kidding. What about the death threat?”

“The TV people did it themselves. To boost ratings.”

“Get! Out!”

I shrug. “It’s TV.”

“Oh. Okay. You’re sure I’m safe?”

“Totally.”

Becca beams. “Excellent. I have to go check in. Catch you later, Danny boy.” She bops off to enjoy her fifteen minutes of fame.

“Hey, kid?”

I turn around. Marty Mandrake. It looks like he wants to exit the boardwalk but Vic Daniel, one of the SHPD cops Ceepak has stationed at the metal detectors, won’t let him out. It also looks like Mr. Mandrake isn’t used to people telling him what he can’t do.

I amble over.

“I don’t have all day,” snaps Mandrake. I grin because, basically, thanks to him, I do.

“What’s up?”

“This meathead won’t let me leave my own set.”

“First of all,” I say, “this is Officer Vic Daniel. And, trust me, he wouldn’t be allowed on the force if his head was made out of meat. We have to take this physical-”

“Cute, kid. Cute. Look, I know your partner Cheepak has some cockamamie theory about me,” he flaps his hand toward the Fried Oreo Stand where Ceepak and Gabe Hess are locked in some kind of intense conversation. “But I only gave the crew one hour for lunch and the catering company decides they’re gonna grill everybody a burger.”

I sniff the air. The scents of sizzling beef and charcoal do, indeed, waft on the breeze.

“Smells good,” I say.

“I don’t eat red meat, kid. I need to head over to this veggie place I found. Eat something that won’t clog my arteries and kill me.”

Ah, yes. Marty Mandrake-Veggin’ On The Beach’s best customer.

“We’re trying to keep this area secure,” I explain. “Limit access in and out.”

“I told you, kid: there’s nothing to worry about. The threat is bogus.”

“You seem so sure about that.”

“What? You think I’m running out to check in with my hired killers? This is the finale. Even if I did what your partner claims, why would I need to keep on doing it? After tonight, the show’s over.”

“Maybe you’re cooking up a cliff-hanger. Like they did on Lost. Suck everybody back for another season of fun in the sun.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Ms. Shapiro.”

No, I want to say, I haven’t. Not for a couple weeks, anyway.

“Come on, kid. Now I only have fifty-five minutes till we’re back.”

I relent.

“Let him out, Vic,” I say. “But screen him again when he comes back. And, Mr. Mandrake, you need to check in before six. That’s when the boardwalk becomes a frozen zone.”

“What?”

“Hey, we’re taking this death threat seriously.”

“See me when you get back,” adds Vic.

“Yeah, yeah.” Mandrake starts muttering as he scoots through the metal detector and hustles across the parking lot to his Mercedes convertible. “Just like fucking Nixon.…”

Vic Daniel turns to me. “Who’s Nixon?”

I shrug. “I think he was president. Before Ford.”

“The car company?”

“Yeah,” I say because it’s easier.

Mandrake climbs into his sporty little ragtop, which is somewhat difficult, given his paunch and general lack of elasticity. He’s powering down the German-engineered roof when Ceepak joins us at the metal detectors.

“Where is Mr. Mandrake headed?” he asks.

“Veggin’ On The Beach. Catering’s serving burgers for lunch today. He’s having a cow about it.”

“Very well. You and I need to leave as well.”

“What’s up?”

“A gentleman by the name of Axel would like to talk to us over on Pier One.”

“Axel?”

“He is one of Mr. Hess’s other brothers.”

“The Creed?”

Ceepak nods. “He’s waiting for us at Pasquale’s Pizza.”