RING TOSS
a John Ceepak mystery Short Story
by
Chris Grabenstein
Copyright, Chris Grabenstein, 2011
The short story RING TOSS first appeared in the June 2010
issue of Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine
Digital book(s) (epub and mobi) produced by: Kimberly A. Hitchens,
[email protected] Some men have a code they live by.
Other men? Not so much.
My partner, John Ceepak, has a very strict, very rigid moral code that guides every single decision he makes, all day, every day.
Me? I’m a little more loosey-goosey. Then again, I’m twenty-five, he’s pushing forty.
It’s the middle of July. We’re on the job with the Sea Haven Police Department, working the late shift on a Saturday night. In a Jersey shore resort town like ours, that usually means we’d be breaking up under-age beer blasts on the beach or making sure nobody speeds through our kid-packed ice cream zones.
This particular Saturday night, however, we’re working a tip on the Sea Haven Boardwalk. We’re there to bust the new owner/operator of The Lord Of The Rings Toss booth. Any connection to the wildly popular movie franchise is purely intentional, I’m sure, though not officially licensed or paid for. The old ring toss boss just hired some local sign painter to rip off Bilbo, Gandalf, and that Elf with the arrows and then bought a can of gold spray paint to spritz his plastic rings so they’d be the same color as Frodo’s.
But Copyright Infringement isn’t why we’re here.
Ceepak’s adopted stepson, T.J. Lapscynski-Ceepak (yeah, the kid’s name sounds like a disease with a telethon), used to work in this same boardwalk arcade a couple summers ago. Now he’s getting ready for college: the Naval Academy at Annapolis. His step-dad used to be an Army man before he became a cop -- ending his career as an M.P. over in Baghdad during Operation Iraqi Freedom. Although Ceepak never attended the Army academy at West Point, he went ahead and adopted their cadet honor code as his personal credo: He will not lie, cheat, steal or tolerate those who do.
Makes it hard for my partner to stroll past the brightly lit boardwalk amusements. Wheel Of Fortune, Basketball Hoops, Frog Bog, The Dog Pounder, Squirt-The-Clown, The Claw Crane. They’re all basically legalized cheats; a chance to spend fifty bucks to win your girlfriend a ten-dollar purple gorilla the size of a couch just so you can lug it around for her all night.
Me? I figure everybody knows the games along the boards are basically rip-offs. You play for laughs. Or to impress your date. Or because you hate clowns.
Like I said, my own code is a little less stringent than Ceepak’s.
“Six rings for one dollar,” says the scrawny guy working the ring toss booth. He’s wearing a head mic so we can all hear how bored he is with his job. Maybe his life. “Six rings for a buck, six rings to test you luck.”
“Look carefully at the bottles, Danny,” whispers Ceepak. “T.J. has advised me that the new management of this booth is engaging in what the New Jersey Legalized Games of Chance Control Commission would label deceptive, misleading, or fraudulent activity intended to reduce a customer’s chance of winning.”
Yep, here in the Garden State, we have an agency to regulate boardwalk games. The LGCCC. They also handle bingo and church raffles.
“Show your lady your stuff, win a Shrek filled with fluff.” The ring toss barker keeps droning on, unaware that he’s about to be busted. “Step right up, gents. Win a Scooby Doo for your cutie-poo. Take home a Tweetie for your sweetie.” I figure he has one of those rhyming dictionaries at home.
Behind him, I see 49 glass bottles arranged in a tight square. A few already have golden plastic rings looped around their necks.
“They do that to make it look like someone else has already won,” says Professor Ceepak.
I nod.
They also put the bottles very close to the front of the booth -- to make it look soooo easy to win. Heck, you feel like you can just reach out and drop the ring right on top of a bottle. But you can’t.
And, even if you could, the plastic bracelet might bounce back off.
That’s because, according to our informant T.J., the joker running the ring toss enterprise this summer has slipped nearly invisible glass lips over 80 percent of the bottles, making it virtually impossible for the small rings to catch hold of the necks. Yep, young T.J. has been in the Ceepak household long enough to make his stepdad’s code his own. The young dude (who cut off all his dreadlocks, by the way, the night before his Annapolis interview) will not tolerate cheating. Or losing. I think he figured out the game was rigged when, last weekend, this booth broke his world-record winning streak (the kid can nail the nipple on a squeeze bottle of ketchup with an onion ring).
Ceepak pulls a summons out of the thigh pocket of his cargo shorts. There’s a three thousand dollar fine attached to rigging a boardwalk game of chance. I reflexively check my holster to make sure my Glock is still there. Three thousand dollar fines are never easily swallowed by carnies who, by law, can only charge one dollar per player per game.
We’re all set to step up and slap down our papers on the counter when both our radios start squawking.
“Unit A-12, 10-41. Mussel Beach Motel. See the man. Mr. Sean Ryan. Room 114.”
In Sea Haven, 10-41 means, “neighbor trouble.” In a motel, it usually means one room is making way too much noise and the “neighbors” are complaining.
Ceepak unclips the mic from his shoulder. “This is A-12. We’re on our way.”
He jams the summons back into his pants pocket.
A radio call trumps writing up a corrupt ring toss game every time.
The Mussel Beach Motel over on Beach Lane is owned and operated by the parents of one of my best friends since forever, Becca Adkinson. In fact, this week, Becca is running the place by herself: Her parents left our vacation paradise so they could go on a summer vacation of their own. Up to Canada. When you sell fun-in-the-sun, your idea of a break is a fireworks festival in Montreal.
We’re not flashing lights or wailing sirens but we have scooted over to Ocean Avenue so we can zip south a little faster. Along the way, we pass The Ice Cream Scoop Sloop, Cap’n Scrubby’s Car Wash, The Bagel Lagoon, and The Treasure Chest Gift Shoppe. What can I say? We’re a tourist town on an eighteen-mile long strip of sand and surf. I think the Chamber of Commerce only recognizes businesses with semi-nautical names.
The Mussel Beach Motel is a two-story, horseshoe-shaped stucco box with a sign out front advertising a Newly Refurbished Pool.
“They should change that sign,” says Ceepak as we pull into the parking lot.
He’s right. Becca’s dad fixed the cracks in the swimming pool a couple years ago so the sign is, basically, lying and Ceepak’s honor code extends to all aspects of life, billboards included.
“Officers!”
A bald man with horn-rimmed round glasses comes out of Room 114 windmilling his scrawny arms up over his head.
“Mr. Ryan?” says Ceepak.
“Yes. What took you so long? These people are ruining my vacation.”
In the distance, I can hear animated voices.
“Get outta my face!”
“No. You get outta this room!”
“Calm down, Connie.”
“Get out. Seriously.”
Sounds like an Italian family dinner after some Irish kid dating one of the daughters says Sinatra never really sang, he just sort of talked and snapped his fingers.
Hey, when I said it, I didn’t realize Barbara Baccia’s p
arents and brother and sisters were such freakish fans. Miss Baccia and I never dated again. Too bad. Her mom made great gravy. Gravy is what you and I would call spaghetti sauce.
“They’re on the second floor,” says Mr. Ryan, his voice shaky. I don’t think he’s used to dealing with confrontation. At his height (short) and weight (puny), I don’t blame him.
“Have you registered a complaint with the management?” asks Ceepak.
“Who? That blond bimbo in the office?”
Ceepak narrows his eyes. That “bimbo” is our mutual pal Becca who has been known to wear her bathing suit on the job because, well, she looks extremely good in it.
“Ohmigod. Did he call you guys?” It’s Becca. She comes out of the motel office wearing the terry cloth wrap she usually puts on after sunset. “Mr. Ryan, I told you I’d take care of it!”
“But you didn’t, did you? You should evict them.”
“Mr. Ryan?” This from Ceepak.
“Yes, sir?”
“Perhaps it would be best if you went back into your own room.”
My partner is a six-two tower of power who could probably bench press two Mr. Ryans with one arm so, when he makes the suggestion, Mr. Ryan quickly agrees and scurries back into his motel mole hole.
“It’s the DePinna family,” Becca says with a sigh, leading us over to the outdoor staircase leading up to the second floor. “There’s like twenty of them. Family reunion. Eight rooms. Checked in this afternoon. I think Mr. Ryan is ticked off because, well, he was supposed to check out today and then decided he wanted to stay but I couldn’t let him keep the room he’d been in because the DePinnas wanted a block all in a row, you know?”
“Sure,” I say. “Makes the family fights easier to organize.”
Becca shrugs. “What can I say? They’re Italian. They’re passionate.”
She’s probably right. It’s why operas are so loud.
“This is also like an engagement party,” says Becca.
“Come again?” says Ceepak.
“The youngest daughter, Connie, is getting married in September, so, you know, they’re all here, to show their love and support….”
“Get outta here, Donna!”
“Make me.”
“Shut up, tramp.”
Oh, yeah. You can just feel the love in the air tonight.
We reach the second floor, head up the balcony.
“Connie’s always been your freaking favorite!” I hear a woman holler as we pass Room 202.
“I think they’re in the parents’ room,” says Becca. “Room 210.”
Great. We have to listen to this family feud all the way down to the far end of the second floor balcony.
We pass a couple pudgy dark-haired boys sitting in lawn chairs outside their rooms, totally enjoying listening to their mothers scream at each other, shaking Doritos bags over their faces so they don’t miss a crumb.
“Donna’s right! Connie’s your baby so you spoil her! She always gets anything she wants.”
“Oh…my…gawd! I did not ask for it, Jackie. Seriously.”
“That’s enough!” says an angry older man. “You girls -- apologize to your mother!”
“For what?”
“Saying those things you just said.”
“What, dad? Oh, you mean telling the truth?”
“Knock it off, Jackie!” shouts a woman who, it seems, has enough clout to get everybody else in the room to shut up. “Sit down Donna! Leave Connie alone. The youngest daughter gets the ring. That’s the way it’s always been and always will be. I was the youngest. My mother gave it to me when I got married. Connie’s my youngest. She’s getting married, she gets the ring. When the time comes, she’ll pass it on to her youngest daughter.”
“But, it’s a Tiffany diamond, mom!”
“So?”
And that’s when we knock on the door.
It swings open.
“What?” The woman on the other side’s hands go to her hips as she tilts her head sideways to let us know how annoyed she already is with us. She’s probably 30-something. Bronzed skin. Her upper arms look like they have their own personal trainers. Her face has that tough wife-of-the-Roman-emperor look. Her raven hair is thicker than a Troll Doll’s. “What?” She says it even more annoyed this time.
“Uh, well,” Becca stammers.
“We received a noise complaint,” says Ceepak.
The Roman empress gives my man the once over with her dark, angry eyes.
“You’re freaking kidding me.”
“No, ma’am. We would not be here otherwise. I’m officer Ceepak. This is my partner, officer Boyle.”
The woman spins around in a huff. “Can you freaking believe this? Someone called the freaking cops.”
“For what?” whines the other 30-something woman in the room. This one has a vague family resemblance to the woman at the door, except most of her facial features have been professionally smoothed out, her cheeks tightened up into bongo drum heads.
“For making too much noise,” I say.
“Noise?” says a white-haired woman in a white pants suit as she strides across the suite. She reminds me of Barbara Baccia’s mom, right after I made my Sinatra crack.
“The shouting and stuff.”
“Shouting?” Now she puts her hands on her hips and I figure that’s where her daughter, the one who looks like Caesar’s wife, learned how to do it. “We were having a family discussion.”
“Rather loudly,” says Ceepak. “We heard you down on the first floor.”
Now the young girl, the one who’s probably my age, gets up from the edge of the bed. Her eyes are a deep rich, brown -- the color of chocolate chips after they melt. She’s wearing a two-piece tomato red bathing suit that hides only what the law requires it to hide, because like Becca, she has the taut, tan body to walk around in drip dry underwear 24-7. When she flashes me her dazzlingly white smile, I am hit with the same lightning bolt that knocked Michael Corleone for a loop in the original Godfather movie when he first set eyes on Apollonia while hiding out in Sicily.
“Danny?” whispers Becca.
Like I said, Becca and I have been friends since forever. When I fall in love at first sight -- something that happens on a semi-regular basis with scantily clad, olive-skinned beach babes -- she can usually tell.
“I’m sorry, officers,” the young girl gushes in a husky voice that fits her impossibly well-proportioned body even better than the bathing suit. “I guess our celebration went a little overboard. I’m Connie DePinna. I’m getting married!”
She wiggles her right hand. It sparkles.
“My mother like totally surprised us all and gave me the Galuppi family diamond.”
I hear Becca gulp. “That’s a Tiffany.”
“Yunh-hunh. Two carats.”
“Two point five,” says the mother.
“Uhm, would you like me to lock that up downstairs in the office safe?” Becca asks.
The bride-to-be giggles. “Of course not. I’m never going to take it off my finger.”
If only she’d kept her word.
All the DePinnas promise not to yell so loud the next time they have a family discussion. We send everybody back to their rooms.
The older ladies, Jackie and Donna, go all icy on their baby sister once we’re outside their parents’ motel suite.
“What time you guys want to hit the beach tomorrow?” Connie asks.
They don’t even answer, just clack away on their stiletto high heels.
“We’re still family, you guys!” Connie pouts at their backs.
Both sisters give her an over-the-shoulder, one-digit Jersey salute. It’s how we greet each other on the Turnpike and Parkway during our fits of road rage.
Abandoned by her seething siblings, Connie is left with Ceepak, Becca, and me. We escort her and “the Galuppi Family Diamond” all the way down the balcony to room 202.
“Oh…my…gawd. I can’t wait to show Billy!” Connie gushes, recoveri
ng nicely from being blackballed by her sisters. “The diamond is cut into a heart shape because a heart is like the universal symbol of love and junk.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to lock that in the safe?” asks Becca.
“Positive. It’s too amazingly beautiful to hide, don’t you think, Officer Boyle?” She wiggles her hand in front of her chest. I try to stay focused on the sparkly diamond instead of the perfectly tanned mountains in the background.
“You need to take extra precautions when vacationing with precious jewelry,” says Ceepak, always the overgrown Eagle Boy Scout. “Keep your door locked at all times. If you leave the room, take the ring with you. I’m certain the hotel maids here are honest, however professional jewel thieves familiarize themselves with cleaning crew schedules and procedures and….”
“Don’t worry, officer. Like I said -- I’m never taking this freaking thing off my finger.”
“Then,” says Ceepak, “be aware that sand and concrete can easily scratch the precious metals in the band. Chlorine in the swimming pool can, likewise, weaken and discolor the gold….”
We reach room 202.
Connie opens the door.
“Yo,” says the young guy jiggling air conditioner controls inside the room, over near the thick drapes. “This thing is like still making noises. This hotel sucks.” He’s dressed in flip-flops, baggy shorts and no shirt so he can show off his chiseled chest and gold chain collection. He kicks the thru-wall a-c unit. Sheet metal shakes. The condenser thrums awake. “Hey, Connie -- what was all the hollerin’ about?”
“Mom gave me the freaking diamond! The Galuppi!”
“For real?”
She struts over, jiggles her hand in front of his face.
“Whoa. Awesome.”
“Totally.”
Now the droopy-eyed dude spies the two cops and one hotel manager clustered in the doorway.
“Wazzup, dudes?”
“Oh,” says Connie. “Somebody called the cops. Said we were making too much noise.”
“For real?”
Ceepak steps forward. “Sir?”
“Yo?”
“Are you Miss DePinna’s fiancée?”