“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.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I go home and try to fall asleep while thinking paranoid thoughts.
What if Mook is behind all this? What if this whole thing is just one of his stupid gags? Some big practical joke that, like all his pranks, isn't funny at all. Did he and his gang orchestrate the hit on the beach? Did they pull the stunt outside Morgan's? Did ARMY miss us with the real bullets on purpose?
Add in the jealousy angle, the fact that Mook believes he once had some romantic claim on Katie, and everything almost fits. He might've been trying to confess, telling me that I didn't need to be “skeered” anymore because he was all done punking me.
Add in the Mountain Dews from the Qwick Pick and Morgan's Mississippi Mud Pie, on top of the prime rib and the beer, plus the fact that it's nearly dawn, and I don't sleep very well.
Which isn't such a big deal since I have to get up less than four hours after crawling into bed.
Seven thirty A.M. Time to go see Katie.
I think of calling Ceepak, letting him know about Mook's ARMY friend, the sharpshooter with the white van.
I strap on my watch.
I'm meeting him in an hour. Ceepak can hear it then.
• • •
A little before eight, the public parking lot next to Schooner's Landing looks full even though the shops don't open for another hour or two. Since it's a long holiday weekend, most of the rental houses and bay-side condos are crammed with extra guests bunked down on floors, flopped on sofas. Unfortunately, cars can't sleep on couches, so the extra ones come here.
I see a lot of white minivans in the lot—at least ten. No surprise there. I see one last parking space. It's a good one. Near the sidewalk. You can see the front door of Salt Water Tammy's from that spot. I want that spot.
So does the woman in the silver Lexus. Her tires screech when she jams on the accelerator to get there a nanosecond before I do.
She smiles. You know, the “Oh, were you planning on parking here, too?” smile.
I wave. The old “No, go ahead, pull in—you beat me fair and square” wave.
I shift into reverse. The great spot was also the last one in the whole lot. Now I'll have to go park around back, near the loading docks, Dumpsters, and service entrances. Maybe I can park behind the candy shop in Salt Water Tammy's spot. After all, Tammy's not coming in to work today. That's why Katie and I are meeting so early in the first place.
I guess Katie came to the same realization. She's already taken her boss's spot.
I see her Toyota parked in the space that says “Reserved.” I admit defeat. I go park over at the condo construction site. I find a spot near a bulldozer and start walking the half mile back to where I just was.
Katie Landry is worth it. Every inch. Some people may wonder what I see in Katie—besides, of course, her flaming red hair and hot bod. Well, for one thing, she's sweeter than fifty packets of raw sugar, which is something I know because I did the sugar bit once when I was a busboy. Another guy and I had a contest. He won but we both bused our tables a whole lot faster that day.
Katie also has this playful little bounce in her step, like she can't wait to see what's up ahead, what's next. She's someone to ride the Mad Mouse with, that's for sure. I'll bet she'd just giggle every time that car jigged and jagged her around some scary new curve. I'll bet she'd smile and say let's ride it again.
She's also got that Irish Catholic sense of duty (or guilt) that turns a bunch of us into cops and firemen and teachers and nurses. Katie tells me her best days are when some kindergartner quits crying because she helped him figure out how to stack his blocks so they don't fall down. Her kids call her Miss
Katie, and if she ever gets married I'm sure she'll invite her whole class to the wedding. She'll probably serve juice boxes and cookies with the champagne and cake, too.
I reach the parking lot where I wanted to park in the first place. The early morning breeze is flapping the sails on the schooner that gives the mall its name. Manicured shrubs and flower beds glisten in the sun. It's not dappled dew or anything poetic. It's just what's left after the sprinklers spritz the plants first thing every morning. To keep green things alive in our sandy soil you need to hose them down on a regular basis. That's why most of the homes down here have lawns made out of pebbles and rock chips.
Through windows, I see a shopkeeper folding T-shirts, another dusting off his wall of sand-dollar clocks. One lady comes out to hang a banner in front of her shop, those flags people in suburbia fly in front of their McMansions. You know, the leprechaun for St. Patrick's Day, the scarecrow for Halloween, the martini glass for any general-purpose party. The lady finishes unfurling a brown bear banner and sips coffee from a cardboard cup with one of those too-hot-to-handle wrapper things around it. The Sun Coast Coffee Company. Upstairs. Top floor. Coffee is my friend. And Sun Coast is obviously open.
I'll go up there, grab a couple of cups, maybe even a soy latte for Katie, then hustle down to Candyland.
I have a plan.
I must be waking up.
The hike has done me and my foggy brain good.
Now if I can only pull off telling Katie to get the hell out of town without letting her know why.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Halfway up the first ramp, my cell phone rings. It's Jess.
“How's Olivia?” I ask.
“Holding her own. But the bruises won't be going away for a while.”
“Great.” I have one, too. It changed colors this morning.
“The doctors say she can go home.”
“Awesome.”
“You guys catch him?”
“The paintballer?”
“The total jerk who did this.”
“We're working on it.”
“What does that mean?”
“Our investigation is ongoing.”
“What?”
Yeah. I didn't like the way it sounded either. I try again.
“We're still, you know, following up on some leads and stuff.”
“So the answer is no?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it just another paintball?”
“What?”
“Olivia thought she heard glass shatter. She told me there might have been a bullet or something.”
“Like I said, our investigation—”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Danny. How long have we known each other?”
“Long time.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, man.”
Jess has never talked to me like this before. Then again, one of our friends—the one I think he's falling in love with—was never shot at before either. And, back in the good old days, like last week, I could tell Jess just about anything. Now it's different. The chief says I have to be professional.
“I'm sorry, Jess.”
“Tell you what, Danny. If you find whoever did this, call my cell. We're staying on the mainland.”
Great! I want to scream. Stay there! Stay until it's safe.
“That might be best.”
“Yeah.”
“I'll call you when we catch him, Jess. I promise. As soon as I know anything definite.”
Jess doesn't say anything. I think he hung up before I even said his name.
The phone call carried me up to the top deck. I clip my cell back onto my belt and round the corner.
I freeze.
Harley Mook is sitting at a table downing a tiny cup of espresso under a green umbrella.
“Hey, Detective Danny!”
He's holding his cell phone with one hand and yammering away to someone. With the other hand he's waving like a lunatic to me. Like I won't see him even though he's the only person sitting outside sipping coffee.
“Love the uniform, dude!” Mook's conversation is over just as I reach his table. I'm wearing my summer cop getup: khaki cargo shorts, blue polo shirt, and baseball cap with POLICE stitched across the crown. “Where's your weapon?”
“I'm not authorized to carry a sidearm.”
Mook leans back. Surprised to hear me talk like such a cop. I'm only doing it to help me remember I'm in uniform and, therefore, can't punch him in his big fat face for insinuating he and Katie were ever a hot item.
I look at his eyes. They're red-rimmed, bloodshot. It's still last night to him, but I think his meth has worn off. He must hope a double espresso can jumpstart his heart.
“Why aren't you on your way to Atlantic City?” I ask.
“Where?”
“You guys said you were going down to A.C. The casinos?”
“Did we?” He yawns. “Oh, you mean at the diner? Yeah. We thought about it. But, the motel already has my credit card, and they'll charge me for the whole weekend if I check out.”
Mook. Cheap as always.
“So, we decided to stick around. Thought I'd hang with some of my old school buds.”
“I'm busy today.”
“Not you, pal. Nothing personal, but you're not that much fun anymore. You've been hanging out with Seedpack too much.”
I know he mispronounced Ceepak's name on purpose. I let him.
“Enjoy your coffee,” I say and start for the door into Sun Coast.
“You here to see Katie?”
I stop.
“Maybe.”
“She works downstairs, right?”
“So?”
Man, we even sound like we're fifteen again. At least I don't add a “What's it to ya?”
Mook smiles. He knows he's annoying me and he's loving every second of it.
“Say ‘hey’ for me.” He looks at his watch. “I'm meeting up with this guy from back in the day. Tell you the truth, I never really liked him, but hey …”
Maybe the feeling was mutual.
“Sort of a doofus, you know? But he called out of the blue yesterday, said he had that weed I was telling you about. Primo ganga. Jamaican. You ever do Jamaican?”
“Just Red Stripe.”
“The beer?”
“Yeah.”
“Beer just gives you a gut,” says Mook. “Weed? Completely non-fattening. Except for the munchies, of course.”
Marijuana. Like the T-shirt says, it's a special kind of stupid.
“Never pictured this dude for a dealer,” Mook says. “Wheezer was always more like a loser.”
“Enjoy.” I head for the door. “See you next summer.”
I go inside to order some coffee. For sure I'll see Mook sooner than next August. I'll be seeing him when “Seedpack” and I go ask him a few questions about his ARMY buddy's minivan.
“For me?” Katie unlocks the door and sees the tray with three cups of coffee jammed into the cardboard circles.
“One for you, two for me.”
“Great. Let me lock the door.” She leans in to twist the key.
“Something smells good.” I sniff her hair.
“That's chocolate, Danny. The store is full of it.”
“No. Your hair. Smells great.”
She laughs and her green eyes sparkle. I take another deep whiff of her hair.
“Rosemary and chamomile organic conditioning,” she says. “Enjoy it while you can. In another hour, it'll reek of candy apples.”
“Yum.”
“Help yourself.” She points to a tray where shiny red apples are lined up on a sheet of wax paper. It looks like some kind of Apple Day parade and the flat-bottomed balls are carrying sticks for flags they forgot to sew.
“Maybe later,” I say.
“So? How was the big dinner?”
“Did you talk to Olivia?”
“Nope. Was she working last night?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you guys get one of her
tables?”
“No. Katie …”
“What?”
I'm not ready. So, I change the subject. “Hey—were you and Mook ever a couple?”
“Uh, no.” She does this funny little puff of air out one side of her lips that sends her bangs floating up above her face like wisps of cotton candy. “I think we played spin the bottle once. In fifth grade or something. I think I had to kiss him.”
“You lost, huh?”
“Exactly.”
“So you two never …”
“Never what?”
“You weren't ever a couple?”
“Me and Mook?”
“What about that summer we all met?”
“Nope. I was hanging with Becca and I think she knew Mook. Maybe they were dating. I forget. Becca dated a lot of guys.”
“Still does.”
“And then we met Olivia in the dressing room at—”
“Teeny's Bikinis!” I know this because it's one of my favorite stories—probably because it involves three topless girls giggling at each other when one of them forgot to slip the little hook in the eye on the half door and the three of them ended up sharing a changing booth. I always figured they became friends because they had nothing left to hide from each other.
“And you knew Jess, who I knew already because he was a lifeguard.” Katie giggles. “Remember how all the girls used to hang out around Jess's chair?”
“Yep. It's why I hung out there, too.”
She smiles and goes behind the counter to empty a bag of jelly beans into their Plexiglas bin.
“You want some help?”
“Sure. Thanks”
I move behind the counter and get the gist of it pretty quick. You open a cardboard box, pull out the five-pound plastic bag of whatever, find its bin, pour it in. If the cop thing doesn't work out, here's a possibility.
“Hey, Katie …”
“Yeah?”
“Last night …”
“It's okay you didn't call.”
“Hmmm?”
“I figured you'd call and tell me all about your big night. What happened? Did you and Ceepak hang afterwards, celebrate some more? Is that why you need two cups of coffee this morning?”
“No.” Moment of truth. “The thing is, we were shot at again last night.”
“WHAT?”
Remember—keep it simple.