Mad Mouse

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It's two thirty in the morning when Ceepak tells me to go home.

“Get some sleep. We both need it.”

He's right. We won't be much good stumbling around town zombiefied.

“I'll meet you at Schooner's Landing,” he says. “When will you be seeing Miss Landry?”

“I guess around eight. She has to open everything up because her boss is taking the day off.”

“Then I'll see you around eight thirty. I'd like to talk to T. J. on the early side.”

“Too bad you didn't get her number.”

“Whose number?”

“His mom. Rita. You don't even know her last name, do you?”

“Lapczynski. She's never been married. Works days at a bank, nights at Morgan's. They live in Avondale.”

“On the mainland?”

“The Wilcox Court Apartment complex. Eleven-oh-five Wilcox Boulevard.”

“When did you …?”

“While you were in the men's room.”

“You old dog.”

“See you tomorrow, Danny.”

I drive south on Ocean Avenue. My apartment is pretty far from the center of Sea Haven. I guess that's why I can afford it. It's actually an old motel they converted to an apartment complex when the owners realized they wouldn't have to work so hard if their tenants paid by the month instead of the week. Of course, it's not my fantasy version of living in a motel. At the Sea Village apartment complex, we have no ice machine, no cellophane-wrapped toothpaste cups, no free HBO, no nothing. They even filled in the swimming pool and planted shrubs in the hole, most of which have already died. Too much chlorine in the soil, I guess.

There's a twenty-four-hour diner on Ocean Avenue on the way to my place. It's an old-fashioned railroad car set up in a parking lot near Tidewater Street. We're way past the streets named after trees. Down here they just sort of named them after whatever sounded watery.

Anyhow, I'm not really hungry when I reach the diner, but I see Mook's car parked out front. He drives this flashy Mazda Miata, a tight little red convertible with an intercooled turbocharger. I only know this because he tells me. All the time.

His Miata is parked next to a white minivan.

I pull into the otherwise empty parking lot. If I start freaking out every time I see a white minivan, I'll go nutzoid before noon tomorrow. But I figure I should stop because I haven't seen Mook since he flipped me off back on the boardwalk. I know I can't warn him-that would be against the chief's rules. But I can make sure he's okay. He may be an asshole now, but he was my friend first.

The Shore Liner Diner is all silver and chrome outside. Inside, it's done up in about fifty different shades of blue. The booths have blue vinyl seats, the counter stools are baby blue, and the blue walls are covered with bad art-oil paintings by some local artist, with price tags taped to driftwood frames. Still-lifes of pink seashells. Panoramic views of make-believe lighthouses on cliffs near foamy surf. Sickly pastel seaside cottages like the ones that guy Kincaid sells at the mall, only these are even worse. Sometimes, all three artistic ideas are combined and you get pink seashells near a cozy cottage with a lighthouse on the far horizon. I think the painter is related to the Shore Liner's owner. Actually, it might be his wife.

The only people in the diner are Mook and his buddies. I see them crammed into a booth near the back. Six of them. All guys. All laughing and rattling ice cubes around in their big blue Pepsi cups. Mook is the center of attention. I call them his college buddies because most of them are wearing different versions of Mook's business school T-shirt.

Except this one. He's tall and looks strong and has on a gray T-shirt with ARMY printed in block letters across the chest. Ceepak has the same shirt, and this guy is showing the same kind of muscles Ceepak shows when he wears it. I think they all buy the shirt two sizes too small on purpose.

The ARMY guy looks a little older than the rest of Mook's crew, as if he did his hitch, got out, and went to grad school. But he's kept the scary military buzz cut: shaved sides ringing a thick patch on the top of his skull.

“Hey, Mook!”

“Detective Danny!”

When he says that? The other guys get real quiet. Nobody's laughing anymore. They just rattle ice or jab french fries into ketchup pools on their plates. ARMY sizes me up with squinty eyes.

“Where'd you get that dorky shirt?” Mook asks.

I forgot. I'm still wearing the Morgan's Surf and Turf tee Rita gave me when my blue oxford got splattered.

“Morgan's,” I say.

“Morgan's? You actually eat there, dude?”

“Tonight I did.”

“Jesus, dude. How were the canned green beans?”

“Limp and salty. How you doing?”

“Bored shitless.” Mook jiggles his knee up and down like he's had way too much Pepsi. “We're blowing this piece-of-crap tourist trap. Heading south.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Hitting the big A.C.”

Atlantic City, about fifty miles south, has legalized gambling and glitzy casinos to do it in.

“I'm definitely up for a little blackjack action,” says Mook.

“And some primo pussy,” adds one of his pals. “The skanks up here are colder than shit, bro.”

“Totally.” ARMY agrees.

“A.C. is the place for me,” Mook chants, and the guys all knock knuckles, do finger-shakes, and basically run down a hand-flapping ritual I've never seen before. Not that you'd ever catch me doing one.

I'm happy to hear Mook plans to head out of town. That way I won't have to worry about him.

“Well, have fun,” I say. “It was cool hanging with you again.” Oh, if Ceepak could hear me lying like that, he'd wash my mouth out with Scrubby Bubbles toilet bowl cleanser. “See you next summer.”

“What you doin’ up so late?” Mook asks.

“Working.”

“Fuck, Danny Boy. Here we are, coming up on the real deal. Labor Day weekend. An official, government-approved holiday. Means you don't work.”

“Yeah. Well, I gotta run.”

“Hey, hang with us. Have a Pepsi.”

Mook's knee shakes so much under the table, it rattles the dirty plates and silverware. I wonder how many he's already had tonight, and, in fact, if Pepsi's all he's on. It would be no big news if he and his crew had scored some other stimulants. My guess would be speed-methamphetamine. It's cheaper than Ecstasy, and Mook has always been a little on the tight side.

“No, thanks,” I say. “Gotta head home, grab some z's.”

“Hey, I saw your boy shoot.”

“My boy?”

“Cedric. Sixpack. What the fuck is his name?”

“Ceepak?”

“Yeah. I was tailing you guys. Saw him line up those paintball shots and nail Saddam on the nose. Boom! Boom! Boom!”

“Yeah. He's awesome.”

“He's okay. But, my boy?” He nods toward ARMY. “He's better. Hey, tell you what-we can set up a little competition. They could do paintballs or those BB guns where you shoot out the star-hell, we could even do water pistols in clown mouths and pop balloons. Whatever. I'll give you two-to-one odds.”

“Maybe next time you guys are in town.”

“No. Shit. We should do this thing. It would be better than Atlantic City. This, after all, is a sure thing. I win all your money!”

“I don't think Ceepak-”

“What? Is he like afraid of some serious competition?”

“No. He just doesn't like to show off.”

“Oh.” Mook leans back in the booth. “Oh. You're saying he's better than my man Rick?”

“Bring it on, dickweed,” Rick says, the naked scalp surrounding his little hair carpet burning purple. “Bring it on.”

He doesn't know it, but the last thing I want is for Mook to hang around town.

“I'll see you guys later.”

I turn to leave.

“Hey, Danny.” Mook slides out of the booth to follow me. He drapes his arm around my shoulder like we're still fifteen, still best buddies, which I don't think we ever really were, even back then.

“Walk this way.” Mook does that crouching, loping Igor-the-hunchback bit from Young Frankenstein like he always does. I let him lead me to this empty table near the front door.

“Why are you so fucking uptight, man? That paintball deal on the beach? That shook you up bad, huh?”

“Some.” I hope it's what he wants to hear and that once he hears it he'll leave me alone.

“Look, Detective Danny, maybe somebody was just yanking your crank. Having a little fun.”

“Is that right?”

“Sure. If they really wanted to nail you? They would have nailed you, bro. I think they were just, you know-helping you celebrate your new career choice, welcoming you to the wacky world of weaponry or whatever.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

“Nah, bro. I know a lot of guys who'd think it was pretty funny. Plastering you like that.”

“You didn't think it was so funny.”

“Hell, they ruined my hat! But, I got over it. Took a chill pill.” He mimes popping a tiny tablet in his mouth. “Don't be so skeered, okay, bro?”

“Thanks for the tip, Mook.”

“It's all maple syrup.”

“What?”

“It's all good. Hey, I've got a line on some awesome shit that'll totally mellow you out, mon.” Now he's doing his Jamaican reggae act. “Primo ganga weed.”

“I gotta go.”

Mook looks insulted.

“So you and Katie?” Mook leans back in his chair, rocks it back on its legs. “Never thought you'd jack my girl, bro.”

“Katie Landry?”

“We used to date.”

“When?”

“That summer we all met? Katie was with me.”

“No, she wasn't.”

“Oh yes she was.”

“Bullshit.”

“Word. Katie is my woman. Always has been. Always will be. She's my forever girl.”

“I see. And does Katie know any of this?”

“Oh man, Boyle. That's cold. That's nipply cold.”

“Have fun down in Atlantic City.” I turn and walk away.

I want to punch Mook. I want to drag him outside and kick him in the ribs. Instead, I take a deep breath. I figure it's what Ceepak would do.

I head out to the parking lot. I swing around the back of the other white van to check out the bumper stickers, to see if I can, indeed, cool down by doing a little impromptu profiling.

The van has to belong to one of Mook's college buddies, since they're the only people in the diner other than the staff, who park out back.

The guy's got a few choice slogans pasted here.

“Screw the Planet, Save Yourself.”

“Pave the Rain Forest.”

And this other one. Black on gray. All it says is “ARMY.”