Fun House

44

“Sorry that took so long,” he says. “I was hoping we could wrap this up and watch the show when it goes out live.”

Everybody glares at him. Nobody responds.

So I pipe up: “My cable box has a DVR. I’ll catch it later.”

“Okay,” says Christopher Miller in his role as big daddy mediator, “the Sea Haven P.D. gets first crack at the witness because, as Mr. Rambowski indicated earlier, they’re still trying to track down a killer.”

“Killers,” says Ceepak.

Mandrake and Rambowski arch up surprised eyebrows.

“The evidence we have gathered so far in our investigation leads us to believe that at least two hitmen were involved in both killings.”

“I didn’t ask for two,” says Mandrake. “I swear. Bobby didn’t charge for two, either. At least he didn’t tell me I was paying double-”

“So you freely admit that you, Martin Mandrake, did contact the Lombardo crime family and knowingly engage their services for the murders of Paul Braciole and Thomas Hess?”

“Yeah, but, well-that’s not how it works. Let me begin at the beginning, okay? I like to shoot craps. Is that a sin? Maybe. I’ll ask a priest next time I go to confession. Anyway, the Lombardos lent me some money so I could keep playing down in A.C. Unfortunately, I kept losing and they kept wanting their money back-plus interest at a rate even Goldman Sachs couldn’t get away with. But I had this bonus clause in my contract on Fun House. If I hit a certain ratings number, there’d be this unbelievably huge payday. Of course the target was set sky-high, so no way was I ever gonna cash in on it.” He smiles at Ceepak. “Then you showed up.”

“You’re referring to my inadvertent entrance into your reality television program when you were videotaping me without my permission during my off-duty hours at the Skee-Ball arcade?”

Oooh. Sounds like Ceepak might hire Rambowski next so he can sue Prickly Pear Productions for invasion of privacy.

“Yeah,” says Mandrake. “But we had signs posted saying by entering the Skee-Ball arcade, you waived your right to privacy.”

“I did not see those.”

Mandrake shrugs. “We post ’em every time we shoot in a public space. Cuts down the lawsuits. Anyway, that bit with Paulie where he threw the ball at your head and you arrested him? That was beautiful. We hype it all week long, it turns into must-see TV. All of a sudden, I am the Phoenix rising up from the ashes. I showed those fat bastards at the network. They said I was done. Marty The Old Farty is what they called me behind my back. I heard about it. I got ears all over the place!”

“So you decided to add more ‘crime story’ elements to your program?” says Ceepak, trying to get Mandrake back on track.

“Yeah. Actually, she doesn’t know it, but that kid I was just talking to, Layla Shapiro, she gave me the idea when she was kidding around, pitching ideas like ‘It’s Cops meets The Jersey Shore meets Survivor.’ But you see, Layla’s just starting out, doesn’t really know how to spin a high-concept notion like that and turn it into TV gold. I do. I’m not saying anything against the kid. Give her time. She’ll learn. But this was all me.”

Geeze-o, man. Now that he has the potential of immunity from murder charges, Martin Mandrake is giving us a seminar on how to create a surefire hit on TV: hire a hit man!

Ceepak places the photographs we obtained from Axel the biker on the table.

“Is this Ms. Shapiro?”

“Yeah. I’d recognize that ass anywhere.”

Icy silence.

Mandrake clears his throat. “That’s her. Ms. Shapiro. She’s making the drop.”

“She is taking money to the Lombardo family?”

“Yeah. That’s Atlantic City. Not too far from the bus depot.”

“And you sent her down there twice?”

“Yeah. Once for Paul, once for the other guy. The druggy. Skeleton Man.”

“His name was Thomas Hess. His street name was Skeletor.”

“Skeleton, Skeletor. Same diff.”

I glance at my watch. 9:02. In homes all across America, couch potatoes and Ceepak’s mom have heard that Mike and Soozy are the finalists. Now they’re probably watching the lovely Layla Shapiro holding up one of those gigantic cardboard checks like the Publishers Clearing House people tote around town in their prize van.

“Was Ms. Shapiro aware of your true reason for sending her down to Atlantic City twice with briefcases full of cash?” asks Ceepak.

“You mean, was she an accessory to the crime? That’s what you guys call it, right?”

Ceepak just nods.

“No way. I kept her in the dark. This was just between Bobby and me. Layla thought she was just paying off my gambling debts.”

“And did Mr. Lombardo give you any information as to the hired killer’s identity?”

“Nope. The way it works, he won’t even know who the final vendor is. They have a very elaborate system. This guy calls that guy who knows these guys and so on. Nobody with a vested interest can be implicated in the hit. And, once the ball gets rolling, you can’t change your mind. Twenty-four hours before the hit, the shooters go dark. There is no way to abort the mission.”

“So you gave Mr. Lombardo the ‘go’ signal one day prior to the actual murders?”

“No. I just didn’t call him up and say ‘I’ve changed my mind.’”

“You paid Mr. Lombardo in full?”

“Yeah.”

“You repaid your gambling debts?”

“I’m free and clear. They even sent me a voucher for a suite upgrade should I want to, you know, visit one of their casino partners again, which, trust me, I’m not doing anytime soon, not after ratting Bobby out like this.”

“Do you know of any reason why Mr. Lombardo now wants you dead? Why he sent the same hired hit man after you?”

“No. And when you guys nab the bastard, I want five minutes alone with him.” He turns to his lawyer. “Can we work that into the deal, Lou?”

“You don’t really want that, Martin,” says Rambowski, crinkling up his face like his client is giving him gas.

All of a sudden, I hear a cell phone vibrating.

It’s Ceepak’s, the business line.

He checks his belt.

His eyes are glued to the caller screen.

“I need to take this,” he says as the phone keeps grunting and groaning. “Danny?”

And we head out into the hall.