Whack A Mole

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

I check my pistol.

Ceepak gives Santucci further instructions. “Keep those civilians back and out of harm's way.” He points across the street to the crowd of curious and terrified spectators. Of course, Santucci's fireworks display has drawn quite an audience. “When backup arrives, have a team lock down traffic on Ocean Avenue. Both directions. We don't want anybody caught in the potential line of fire. Understood, Sergeant?”

“Yeah. Fine. Whatever.”

“Understood?”

“10-4,” Santucci snaps. “Okay? I fucking got it, GI Joe. Back off.”

Ceepak hesitates a second. I figure he's contemplating avenging the lobsters by knocking Santucci unconscious with a quick jab to the jaw. Would make our lives easier, too.

Instead he sidles up along the car and raps against the driver side door.

“Officer Malloy?”

“Yeah?” comes the muffled reply from inside. I figure Malloy is face down, kissing carpet.

“Please remain on radio and advise all units that officer Boyle and I are going inside to talk to Mr. Connor. Ask all responding officers to hold their fire. We no longer consider our person of interest to be armed or dangerous. Please further advise all units to withhold any and all ammunition from Sergeant Santucci.”

“Who the hell are you to….”

Ceepak ignores Santucci, plows ahead with his orders for Malloy.

“We hope to negotiate Mr. Connor's immediate surrender. Meanwhile, keep all citizens safe and all officers out of the building until we complete said mission. Okay, Mark?”

“Yes, sir,” says Malloy. “Sorry about … you know … this … situation.”

Situation? Cluster-fuck is more like it. But Ceepak takes the high road.

“Don't worry, Mark,” he says. “It's all good.”

We work our way into the building using the picnic tables at the south entrance as cover.

Judging from where Santucci was shooting-more or less where he pointed his pistol-Ralph the bartender is most likely holed up somewhere in the northeast corner of the fish market. Probably splayed out on the floor. Probably down there hiding from Santucci's blizzard of bullets.

But what if he's been shot? What about the hostage?

Ceepak takes the lead and, hunkered down, we move through the market. It's slow going. My thighs throb. I need to add squat thrusts to my physical training routine if, you know, I ever actually start exercising.

We creep along, using the fish cases for cover. Several of them are leaking, spewing out oily water. It splashes on the floor. Slick puddles are everywhere. My socks and the hem of my pants are soaked. Every now and then, we crunch across shrimp shells or slip on melting ice.

Ceepak holds up his hand.

He taps his eyes, does a two-finger point to the front.

I assume he sees Ralph.

I touch my lips. I don't know the official Army hand signals-they didn't teach us those at the Academy-so I hope Ceepak gets what I'm trying to communicate.

He nods.

Giving me permission to speak.

“Ralph?” I call out. “Ralph? It's me. Danny. Danny Boyle. From The Sand Bar? Ralph? Are you okay, man? Sorry about….”

“What the fuck is going on? This is insane! Why is that moron shooting at us? Do you see what the fuck he's done?”

The silence, at long last, is broken.

“Listen. He had a reason. He says you have a hostage. A woman.”

“What?”

“Sergeant Santucci says you grabbed a hostage when you saw he was a cop.”

“Fuck that shit!” says this other voice. Female. Old. Angry. Angrier than Ralph, which I would've thought to be impossible. “Fucking cop came into the store, pointed his fucking gun at us. Scared off my fucking customers!”

“Danny?” Ralph cuts in. “This is my mother.”

I'm still more or less crouched down, my back pressed up against a refrigerator case, but I remember my manners.

“Oh. Hey, there, Mrs. Connor. Nice to meet you. Ralph and I have known each other for what? Six, seven years?

“Yeah,” says Ralph. “Something like that. Six, seven years….”

Ceepak slouches. Shakes his head. Tries not to laugh.

“So why the hell is that goddamn idiot shooting up my shop?” Mrs. Connor screams.

“Easy, mom.”

“Don't you ‘easy, mom’ me! That asshole out there must've given every single lobster a fucking conniption fit!”

“You got insurance.”

“Not against asshole cops!”

I don't blame her but I need to break this up.

“Ralph?” I call out. “I'm going to stand up now, you guys okay with that?”

“Sure. No problem.”

“How about you, Mrs. Connor?”

“You got a goddamn gun?”

I lay my Glock on the floor.

“No, ma'am.”

“Good.”

I stand up. I can see Ralph and his mom. She's short and looks like she's tired of getting up at four every morning to haul heavy slabs of fresh fish off the docks.

I try a smile. She gives me a toothy snarl. Like a Rottweiler.

“Mrs. Connor, this is my partner. John Ceepak.” I point. Ceepak stands. His gun is snug in its holster. “Ralph, you met Ceepak on the beach this morning. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. How's it going?”

“Fine. Thank you for inquiring.”

Ceepak now takes his radio mike off his shoulder, calls in our status.

“Situation is secure,” he says. “All units stand down.”

“We're coming in!” I hear Santucci say back over the radio.

“Not necessary, Sergeant. As I stated, situation is secure. The woman with Mr. Connor is his mother. I believe this is her establishment.”

“That's right, pal!” she yells loud enough for Santucci to hear without needing his radio. “My lawyers are gonna sue your ass six ways to Sunday, you fucking putz!”

Ceepak grins. Puts the radio to his mouth.

“At some point, Dom, I'm certain Mrs. Connor would indeed like to talk to you and the chief about the damages done to her perishable goods and store fixtures.”

“Tell her to wait,” says Santucci. “We're busy out here. Traffic. Crowd control.”

“Roger that.”

Ceepak clips the mike back to his shoulder and we move forward. Ralph and his mom were hiding in the prep area where they gut the catch of the day.

The floor is covered with those honeycombed rubber tiles that are easy to hose down. Behind Mrs. Connor, I see a big cutting board sitting atop a stainless-steel counter. The chopping block looks like it used to be white but now it's stained a permanent pink with decades of fish blood. On the cinderblock wall near to the slop sink, I see a rack full of knives. About six, all different lengths, shapes, and sizes. Filleting knives, curved boning knives. There's a sharpening rod hanging up there, too-so I know the blades are wicked sharp. A rusty hacksaw hangs off a hook near the knife rack.

Hmmm.

Every serious fisherman probably has the same sort of tools stowed on his boat-especially a guy like Gus Davis who loves to catch and clean his dinner every day. You don't think of this gear as dangerous when you think of a guy heading out to fish the day away. Fishing's a peaceful sport.

But now, when I close my eyes, all I can see is one those hacksaws working its way through a neck bone.