Fun House

43

We should have sold tickets to this interview.

Every chair at the long table is filled: Ceepak, me, Chris Miller, Lisa Bonner, some guy from Washington who never takes off his sunglasses, three other extremely serious scowlers. Martin Mandrake sits at the head of the table. Ceepak is on his left; attorney Louis Rambowski is on his right.

The overflow crowd is in the observation room, watching us through the one-way mirror. Marty, the producer, is beaming, basking in his newfound role as The Government’s Star Witness.

Ceepak depresses a button on our digital recorder.

“This is Officer John Ceepak. It is Friday, August 27th, 20-hundred hours.”

Mandrake looks up at the ceiling, does the math in his head.

“It’s eight?”

“Affirmative,” says Ceepak.

“Jesus. I need to make a phone call.”

“Excuse me?”

“The show. It goes live in an hour. I need to talk to my associates. Make some last-minute adjustments.”

Ceepak purses his lips. “Mr. Mandrake, we have been quite accommodating-”

“No. All you’ve done is grant me my constitutional rights. But now I really do need a favor. It’s for the good of the show, which means it’s for the good of Sea Haven. I was supposed to do this bit at the open and close tonight. Show off the fifty-thousand-dollar cardboard check when Chip does the opening; hand the money to the winner’s charity in wrap-up at the end. Now somebody else has to go on camera in my place. They’ve only got an hour for hair and makeup. Help me out here, fellas, or do I need to call Mayor Sinclair? I have his cell number.”

The lawyer touches Mandrake on the sleeve. That’s how lawyers tell clients to shut up.

“My client intends to be extremely cooperative with all of you this evening,” says Rambowski, “should we, of course, come to terms on a quid pro quo agreement for his testimony against Roberto Lombardo, including a witness protection plan that might allow him to continue his creative efforts in the entertainment industry. We, therefore, request that you extend us the courtesy of making one last phone call before initiating our deliberations and discussion.”

Ceepak glances over at Christopher Miller. Miller gives him the slow “go ahead, we’ve got all night” nod.

“Very well,” says Ceepak. “Make your call, Mr. Mandrake, and please make it quick.”

“I have to!” Mandrake says, stabbing his stubby finger into a poor defenseless cell phone button. “We go live in just over fifty minutes.…”

While he waits for somebody to answer, it hits me: Martin Mandrake could walk away from this whole deal with a free pass and a cabin in Utah. I check out the law enforcement agents seated around the table. Most of them could care less about Mandrake orchestrating the murders of Paul Braciole and Thomas Hess. They want the big walleye: mob boss Roberto Lombardo. Ceepak and me, the two local-yokel beat cops, are the only ones who care about avenging the deaths of those caught up in Mandrake’s sick scheme to boost his show’s ratings.

And maybe Chris Miller. He’s seated across from me, eyes closed so he can massage them the way Ceepak massages his when life isn’t quite as good as the T-shirts proclaim.

“Grace? Get me Layla. I don’t care. I need to talk to her. Now. Find her.” He covers up the mouthpiece on his phone. Tries to charm us with his twinkling eyes and elfin dimples. Of course, his sinister goatee and coal-black eyes sort of undercut all that. “Layla, where are you? Well, get your ass over to the makeup truck. You need to go on. The bit with the big check at the top and bottom. Work it out with Chip. After he announces the finalists, you come on with the moola boola. And don’t ham it up too much, kid. Just look dignified. Put on a business suit. Leave a couple buttons undone up top. Smile. Millions of people are going to be watching.

“You’re welcome. You earned it, hon. And, don’t worry, I’ll be back in the saddle soon. Me? I’m fine. The guy was a lousy shot. No, babe. I don’t know why he wanted to shoot me. Look, sweetheart, I gotta run. Some people want to ask me a couple questions about this thing this afternoon. Go make yourself look prettier than you already do. Ciao.”

He thumbs off the phone.

“For the record,” he says, “that was Ms. Layla Shapiro, one of my associates on the set. And, yes, I call every lady under the age of thirty who works for me ‘hon,’ ‘babe,’ and ‘sweetheart.’ Sue me.”

One of the FBI guys actually chuckles.

Half an hour later, Louis Rambowski is finally satisfied with the deal being offered to his client.

If, and only if, the information he provides leads to the “arrest and conviction” of reputed crime boss Roberto Lombardo, the county prosecutor’s office will grant Martin Mandrake a full and unconditional pardon on all charges related to the murders of Paul Braciole and Thomas Hess.

“After all,” the shyster argued, “Mr. Mandrake did not pull the trigger in either homicide.” Then he waved his sparkling cufflinked arm in Ceepak’s general direction. “These officers are the ones you should be angry with, not my client. The police, in this instance, have not done their job; they have not apprehended the actual killers!”

“Louis?” said Miller, his voice calm, cool, and scary deep.

“Yeah?”

“Save it for the courtroom.”

Rambowski held up his hands, pouted out his lips, gave us the classic tough-guy “I’m-just-saying” gesture.

Anyway, that slowed us down for like five minutes.

Now it’s 8:50 P.M. and Martin Mandrake finally has the floor.