Whack A Mole

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Mama Shucker's usually has a message scribbled on the white marker board where they post the daily specials. Today it's BE NICE. WE’RE NOT ON VACATION.

Sergeant Santucci must not have read it.

When we arrive on the scene, though it's gotten dark, we can see in our headlights Santucci crouched behind his cruiser. He's using the car's hood to steady his grip on his weapon. I pull in alongside his vehicle. Without bothering to even bob up and aim, Santucci squeezes off another blind round at the Seafood Market.

I hear glass shatter. Water splash. Gallons of it. It sounds like the tail end of a good log-flume ride. I think Santucci just took out a lobster tank.

Another shot is fired. I flinch. Almost duck down. I figure it's the bad guy returning fire.

It isn't.

It's Santucci again. I see him poking up his pistol with both hands and firing wildly.

My eyes flick back and forth trying to trace the random burst of bullets, try to see what the hell it is that Santucci's shooting at.

But all I can see are impacts and ricochets.

One bullet nails an igloo of chipped ice and sends up a cloud of pink shrimp shrapnel.

Another hits a column of breadcrumb canisters.

One takes out a light fixture.

Three shots shatter assorted bottles of Louisiana hot sauce lined up like clay pigeons on top of the deli case.

Santucci is a lousy shot.

“Cease fire!” Ceepak yells as he jumps out of our car and attempts to assess the scene. I pull open my door, hit the ground, scramble over to Santucci and Malloy's Chevy Caprice. I take cover behind the trunk and flip up the Velcro flap locking down my own sidearm.

“Cease fire!” I hear Ceepak scream again when he reaches Santucci up near the front tire.

“Fuck you, Ceepak!” Santucci sticks his gun up over the hood again, waves it around back and forth, and lets fly another couple rounds.

This time he takes out the glass case displaying Mama Shucker's famous clams casino. They're good. Better without the tiny shards Santucci just added to the recipe.

“Lower your weapon, Sergeant!” Ceepak orders.

Santucci squeezes the trigger one more time.

Fortunately, all I hear is a click. He's empty. Apparently, he unloaded a full magazine into the seafood shop. Sixteen bullets. Enough to make fish and lead chips for the whole family.

Ceepak looks ready to rip the pistol out of this idiot's hand. I hunker up against the rear wheel well. Behind me, from inside the cruiser, I hear Deadeye Dom's partner.

“We're taking fire! Suspect is armed and dangerous. Repeat, armed and dangerous!”

Malloy must be lying on the floor, working the radio.

“Are you hit, sergeant?” Ceepak asks Santucci. “Sergeant? Have you taken fire?” He sounds like he's trying to shake Santucci awake.

I look over at the two of them.

Santucci is having trouble finding a fresh magazine of ammo on his utility belt because his hand is too jumpy. The fingers fumble, can't work open any pouch snaps.

Now his knee starts thumping up and down. The heel of his heavy shoe is twitching, spiking a ditch into the gravel underneath it. A drop more adrenaline and I guarantee Santucci will officially be having a heart attack.

“Dom-who is your target? Dom? Talk to me. Who's in there?”

“Your suspect.”

“Come again?”

“Your suspect. Ralph Connor. The bartender. From The Sand Bar.”

“Who said this bartender is a suspect in our investigation?”

Santucci takes a breath. Fills his chest with enough oxygen to make him an asshole again.

“Cut the shit, Ceepak. Jane Bright told me. Said some bartender named Ralph was on your list with Gus and the doctor. Only you guys couldn't even nail this Ralph character's last name so Malloy and me had to step up to the plate, do your job for you. We nosed around. Asked the right people the right questions. Got the name. Then we spotted him down on Oak Beach.”

“Was he with the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The one in the photograph. The one we're looking for.”

“Hell, no. He was alone like these psycho killers always are. We tailed him up here. When I pulled out my sidearm, he grabbed a hostage. Hustled her into the back.”

“Who?”

“Some old broad.”

Great. Ralph the angry bartender has taken a senior citizen hostage. I hope Medicare covers it.

“What happened to your pursuit of the girl?” Ceepak asks. He's worried about the dwindling hours in the killer's schedule. Especially since we're wasting time here watching Santucci shoot at oyster-cracker boxes when he was supposed to be apprehending the girl and putting her into protective custody.

“Don't worry,” Santucci says. “She's long gone. She skipped town.”

“Are you certain? Did you witness her departure?”

“No, Ceepak. I just used my head, okay? Applied some fucking common sense to the situation.” Yelling at Ceepak seems to have calmed Santucci down some. His hand has stopped trying to jump off his arm. He resumes his search for ammunition. “After you two bozos chased her up and down the boardwalk, you gotta figure she's moved on to greener pastures. Probably halfway down the Parkway to Cape May by now.”

“Who's the hostage? Inside?”

“Like I said-this old lady. She works behind the fish counter.”

“Where are they?” Ceepak asks.

“Inside.”

“Where? Which sector of the market?”

“Back there!” Santucci points backward over his head, to the general vicinity of the other side of his cop car, so our situational intel at this point basically blows. No problem. Ceepak is used to being sent into battle with faulty intelligence. It's the only kind they had back in Iraq.

“Give me some ammo,” Santucci says. “I'm out. Need to reload.”

“Stay where you are.”

“Gimme a clip!”

Ceepak ignores Santucci, turns to me. “Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm going in.”

“Okay,” I say. “Me, too.”

“Negative. You will remain stationed here with Sergeant Santucci.”

“Give me your bullets, Boyle!”

“Forget it,” I say. “Come on, Ceepak. I know this guy. Ralph and I talk all the time. You need me in there with you. I can help.”

Ceepak gives me a doubtful look. It may not be the time for talking. This isn't Happy Hour.

“Hey,” I say, “the state of New Jersey gave me a gun, remember?”

As a visual aid I pull out my Glock, wiggle it around some.

“Give that to me, Boyle!” Santucci tries one more time.

“No way. You've done enough damage for one day, okay? You already knocked down all the Tabasco bottles, so you win any stuffed animal you want-but you don't get to shoot again, okay?”

Santucci sulks. Ceepak, I see, is holding back a grin.

“I'm a pretty decent shot,” I remind him.

“Roger that,” he says with the hint of a proud-poppa smile creeping across his face. “If memory serves, you scored a 96 on the range.”

“Yes, sir. Tops in my class. Master of disaster.”

Ceepak nods, turns to Santucci.

“Secure the perimeter, Sergeant. Officer Boyle and I are going in.”