Free Fall

  They’re waiting.

  For somebody in the store, judging by the way one of the kids keeps craning his neck and going up on tippy toe.

  By kids, I mean neither Ben nor any of his crew are over twenty-one, the minimum legal drinking age.

  I know who they’re waiting for.

  The same guy me and my underage buds used to wait for outside a package store on a warm June night down the Jersey Shore: an older dude to go inside to buy us our brewskis for a small handling fee.

  I hang near my Jeep. Wait to see who Ben’s dude is. Ours was a wino we called Clint The Splint because he always seemed to have one limb or another in a plaster cast. He’d go into Fritzie’s package store and get us anything we wanted for five bucks. Cigarettes. Boone’s Farm. Malt Duck. Colt 45. Slim Jims. Hey, we had to eat something.

  I hear sleigh bells tinkle. The front door swishes open.

  And out comes Mr. Joseph “Sixpack” Ceepak.

  33

  I’M WONDERING WHAT BIBLE VERSE MR. CEEPAK’S GOING TO quote when I bust him for buying alcohol for minors.

  Whistling merrily, he strides out the sliding door and into the harsh glare of those overhead fluorescents. He’s still in his StratosFEAR uniform and wears a cocky grin on his face. One arm is wrapped around a grocery sack full of jingling glass bottles. His other is toting what looks like a filing-cabinet-sized carton of Budweiser. Maybe they’re doing 48-packs now.

  Ben and the boys over by the cart corral give off a couple “Booyahs” and swarm like a wolf pack toward Mr. Ceepak.

  “You get the Mike’s and vodka, too?” asks Ben.

  Mr. Ceepak is about to answer when he sees me step out of the shadows.

  “Good evening, Officer Boyle,” he says.

  I nudge my head toward his groceries. “That all for you, sir?”

  Now Ben and his pals try to act casual but their worried eyes betray them. They’re probably wondering if the old fart Ben hired is going to rip them off for a hundred bucks worth of booze plus whatever handling fee he charges.

  “Yeah,” says Mr. Ceepak. “This is all mine.”

  One of the kids is about to say something when Ben elbows him in the ribs.

  “Setting up housekeeping,” says Mr. Ceepak. “Excuse me. Need to load up my truck.” He gestures toward the dirt splattered workhorse parked next to my Jeep.

  “I thought you put down the bottle when you picked up the bible, sir?”

  “The two are not mutually exclusive, Officer Boyle. Ecclesiastes nine tells us to ‘Seize life! Eat bread with gusto; drink wine with a robust heart. Oh yes, God takes pleasure in your pleasure!’”

  “So, you’re just out here pleasuring God, huh?”

  “Doin’ my best, Boyle. Doin’ my best.”

  “Hey, as long as you don’t drink and drive, I have no problem with you buying enough beer, hard lemonade, and vodka for, oh, I don’t know …”

  I make a show of counting heads in Ben’s bunch.

  “… five guys. Just so long as you’re not going into liquor stores up and down the island buying booze for kids.”

  “What?” Mr. Ceepak wheezes out a laugh. Coughs up a nasty wad of sputum. Puts down his cargo so he can jab another cigarette in his mouth to keep his shriveled lungs’ mucus mines working. “Why would I do something dumb like that?”

  “I don’t know.” I turn to Ben. “Back in the day, we’d find a wino to do our shopping for like five bucks.”

  “It’s ten now,” says Ben’s dumbest friend before Ben can elbow him again.

  Mr. Ceepak laughs his chesty chuckle. Torches his smoke with a butane lighter that’s decorated with a bikini babe.

  “Not a bad idea, Boyle. Not bad at all. Ten bucks a pop, huh? Interesting idea. I could use a little extra walking-around money.”

  “I thought you were making double, triple overtime sending that chair lift up and down on the boardwalk.”

  “Oh, Ben’s daddy pays me good. I ain’t complaining.” He smacks down a wet drag on his cigarette. “But let’s be honest, here. No matter how hard I work, how many hours I put in, I’ll never make a million bucks.”

  Ben Sinclair eyeballs the paper sack and giant cardboard beer carton sitting on the ground. He can’t resist. Makes the slightest move for it.

  “Whoa,” I say. “Are you trying to steal Mr. Ceepak’s daily recommended intake of adult beverage?”

  “It’s ours, dude!” bellows the dumb one.

  I scratch the back of my head. “It’s yours? Mr. Ceepak says it’s his. I don’t know. This is a difficult situation. Maybe I better call the cops. Have them come up here and help us figure this thing out. Oh, wait. I am a cop …”

  “Go home, boys,” snarls Mr. Ceepak. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Ben.”

  “B-b-but …”

  “Beat it. Now.”

  The dumb one puts on his tough guy act. “Yo, old man. You owe us …”

  “I don’t owe you crap, kid.” Mr. Ceepak finger-flicks the glowing butt of his cigarette at the boy. “Get lost. All of you. Unless you want Boyle here to arrest your pimply butts.”

  “Come on, Ethan,” says Ben.

  Muttering and mumbling, the young men shuffle off into the darkness.

  Mr. Ceepak pops a fresh cigarette into his lips.

  “You know, Boyle,” he says, sending the cancer stick wiggling up and down, “the last time I was in the can, my cellmate was a CPA.”

  “Huh. I guess you really do meet the most interesting people in jail.”

  “Oh, you do, Boyle. You do. This guy, Richard Michael Johnson, he was sharp. Swindled the bank he worked for out of a million bucks just by rounding down numbers on his computer. Nobody noticed. Not until he got greedy. Anyway, he told me all a man really needs is one million dollars to be beer and pretzels rich for the rest of his life.”

  “What’s ‘beer and pretzels’ rich?”

  “Less than Wine and Cheese. Nowhere near Caviar and Champagne. I get my hands on a million bucks, Boyle, I’m a happy camper. I go back to my trailer park in Ohio, drink beer and eat pretzels all day long.”

  “What about protein?”

  “What?”

  “That’s a lot of carbs, sir. Beer. Pretzels. Where’s the beef? Maybe you should go to Mickey Dee’s and order off the Dollar Menu. You could get a McChicken …”

  “Cute, Boyle,” says Mr. Ceepak, bending down to pick up his groceries, that flicking cigarette perfectly balanced in his lips. “You’re still a wise ass, huh?”

  “It’s what I do best, sir.”

  “Yeah, well, do me a favor. Tell Johnny I’m not greedy. Adele cleared two point three million when her whacky old aunt kicked the bucket. By rights, we should’ve split that payday fifty-fifty. But like I said, I’m not greedy. All I want are my beer and my pretzels. One million bucks, Boyle. That’s all it costs for you boys to never, ever see me again.”

  “I thought all we had to do was save your sorry life at the Rolling Thunder roller coaster.”

  “That was nothing special. You two are cops. It’s your job. You had to save me or they’d dock your pay.”

  “Look, sir,” I say, because it’s getting late and I’m getting tired of the same-old, same-old with Joe Sixpack. “Your ex-wife is not going to give you a dime. End of story.”

  “She should. It’s all over the bible. ‘Wives be submissive to your husbands!’”

  “Right. I’ll tell Adele you said that.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll swing by some day and tell her myself. After all, you and Johnny can’t guard her 24/7 now, can you?”

  34

  I HEAD INTO THE STORE, GRAB A SIX-PACK OF SAM ADAMS Summer Ale for me, a sixer of Coors Non-Alcoholic for Ceepak.

  Tempted as I am to pop one for the ride home, I don’t.

  It’s a little after eleven when I crunch into the gravel parking lot behind The Bagel Lagoon.

  I carry my sack of packaged goods up the outside steel staircase to Ceepak’s apartment on the top floor. Usi
ng the spare key Ceepak gave me, I let myself in.

  The small one-bedroom apartment is dark. Barkley is too old and deaf to do any kind of watchdog duties any more. He just rolls over and cuts the cheese when I come in the door. Twenty-two-hundred hours is the typical lights-out time for Ceepak and Rita. That’s 10 P.M. in the Eastern Non-Military Time Zone.

  There’s a clamshell night-light softly glowing near the fold-out sofa bed, which is made up with sheets and a wool army blanket tucked in so tight you could bounce a dime off it like they always do during inspection in Army movies.

  I take the beers to the kitchen area, tuck both six-packs into the fridge, and then pull out a frosty bottle of Sam Adams.

  “Mind if I have one of those?”

  Ceepak. The guy’s stealthy. Even in his bedroom slippers.

  “I picked up some of the Coors for you.”

  “Think I’ll go with the real deal tonight. If you have one to spare.”

  “Definitely.”

  I hand him a bottle. We grab seats at the linoleum topped kitchen table.

  “How’s Christine?”

  Realizing that “hot as hell and ready to get busy” isn’t the kind of information Ceepak is typically interested in, I say, “Hanging in.”

  He nods. “Good.”

  “I ran into your dad,” I say. “At the liquor store. Neptune’s Nog, down on Ocean.”

  “And?”

  “The born-again act is just that—an act. He hasn’t changed a bit. He just has a new price.”

  “Which is?”

  “One million dollars. Your mother gives him a cut of her inheritance, he promises to leave town.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. He even has bible verses to back up his claims.”

  “I’m sure he does. But Danny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s never going to happen.”

  “Roger that,” I say.

  We clink bottles, something guys usually only do in beer commercials.

  Then we drink and think in silence.

  Until it’s time for our second beer.

  Then we drink and think some more.

  35

  ARNOLD ROSEN’S FUNERAL TAKES PLACE EARLY SUNDAY MORNING at the Grossman & Mehringer funeral home’s memorial chapel.

  Ceepak, Rita, Ceepak’s mom, and I go to pay our last respects.

  Grossman & Mehringer’s is located on Sea Breeze Drive, just about a block from the Salty Dog Deli, which, I’m told, caters a lot of the post-funeral receptions for those utilizing the services of the funeral home. Probably because the owner, Saul, makes the best Reuben sandwiches in the state, even though Saul once told me they’re not kosher.

  “It’s corned beef, Swiss cheese, and sauerkraut on toasted rye bread,” he said. “The combination of Swiss cheese, a milk product, with corned beef, a meat product, violates the rules for kosher food.”

  “So if you eat one, you’re going to hell?”

  “No. Because Jews don’t believe in hell.”

  And then he told me that a forgiving and compassionate God would never create such a thing as Hell to punish souls for all eternity.

  “Except maybe Hitler.”

  Saul’s a very interesting guy. Makes good sandwiches, too.

  Ceepak and I pick up our disposable yarmulkes in the lobby and head into the funeral chapel. Stained-glass windows filled with jagged geometric shapes filter and color the beams of morning sunshine streaming into the room.

  I notice Christine sitting all alone in the last row of chairs. I think about going over to sit with her, but she warns me off with a subtle shake of her head.

  “Oops. It’s Sunday,” I hear Mrs. Ceepak whisper to her son. “Does this count as going to church?”

  “I don’t believe so, mother. However, I am not that conversant with all the rules and regulations of the modern day Roman Catholic church.”

  “Well, Jesus was Jewish before he became Catholic, so I say it counts.”

  Monae Dunn is sitting on the left-hand side of the chapel with Michael and another African-American woman who looks like she might be Monae’s sister, Revae. They’re both in very nice, very black church dresses. Michael is wearing a nicely tailored black suit. I’m sort of curious as to how he knew to pack it for his weekend trip home.

  Judith, David, and Little Arnie Rosen are seated on the right. Shona Oppenheimer and her son, Samuel, are right behind Judith, Arnie, and David. Shona leans forward to give her sister a gentle shoulder massage and all I can think of are those same hands throttling Christine Lemonopolous’ neck.

  Guess that’s why Christine picked a seat six rows away.

  Mrs. Ceepak leaves our row to go sit with that handsome gent Hank (the good dancer) and a few of Dr. Rosen’s other “bingo buddies” from the senior center.

  Other than that, the golden, padded chairs are pretty much empty. Not exactly a sold-out crowd.

  I guess when you live to be 94 you lose a lot of friends and family along the way.

  I’m glad Dr. Rosen’s coffin lid is closed.

  Whenever you can see the body in an open casket at a funeral it looks, to me anyway, like the guy who the show is all about got so bored with the whole thing he had to lie down and grab a quick nap. I have to figure that a casket, lined with those soft silken pillows, is the most comfortable seat anybody ever gets in church. Too bad you can’t really enjoy it.

  Rabbi Bronstein leads the service.

  It’s actually very moving. The rabbi tears black ribbons and hands them to family members to pin on their clothes to symbolize their loss. Psalms are recited, including some that Mr. Ceepak hasn’t quoted at us yet. Rabbi Bronstein gives an eloquent eulogy for “this good and honorable man” Arnold Rosen. He even tells a small joke. “Arnold once told me he was named Dentist of the Year, back in the late 1970s. When I asked him what the award was, he said, ‘Nothing much. Just a little plaque.’”

  Everybody smiled. Well, everybody I could see.

  Later, the whole congregation (except me) recites a memorial prayer. In Hebrew. Fortunately, there is a translation in the slender programs printed up for the event. Everybody’s asking God to shelter the soul of the deceased “under the wings of His Divine presence.”

  The casket is then wheeled out of the funeral chapel while all the mourners, me included, recite the 23rd Psalm and follow the coffin up the center aisle.

  I don’t see Christine. She must’ve slipped out early.

  We don’t go with the family to the cemetery. Instead, we all head down the block to the Salty Dog Deli and order Reuben sandwiches or corned beefs on rye.

  “It’s what Arnie would’ve wanted,” says Adele, deconstructing her towering six-inch-thick sandwich and rebuilding it into something that might actually fit in her mouth.

  All of our sandwiches are stacked so high with sliced meat, vegetarians everywhere are weeping.

  Neither Ceepak nor I mention a thing about her ex-husband’s recent million-dollar request to Mrs. Ceepak. However, Ceepak does, once again, lobby hard for his mother to reconsider the installation of a home security system.

  “I don’t need a burglar alarm, John,” she says. “Joe doesn’t scare me. Not anymore.”

  “I’m worried, mother,” says Ceepak.

  “Me, too,” adds Rita. “Your ex is a mess.”

  I raise my hand to add my vote. I can’t speak because my mouth is full of ten pounds of pastrami.

  “Well, you’re all very sweet. But like I said, we have the security guards at the front gate.”

  “He could grow desperate, mother,” says Ceepak. “Purchase a weapon.”

  “Can he do that?” says Rita. “I know he didn’t serve much time in prison, but he is a convicted felon.”

  “Under federal law,” says Ceepak, “those with felony convictions do, indeed, forfeit their right to bear arms. However, due in part to an overhaul of federal gun laws orchestrated by the National Rifle Association, every year, thousands of felons
across the country have those rights reinstated, often with little or no review.”

  “Well, don’t tell your father,” jokes Mrs. Ceepak. “He might try the same thing.”

  The waitress brings Styrofoam cartons to our table so we can all box up the second half of our sandwiches and take them home. I’ll probably be eating pastrami till Wednesday.

  “Where are they sitting shiva?” asks Rita, probably to steer the conversation away from scary stories about Old Man Ceepak getting a gun.

  According to my buddy Joe Getzler, “shiva” means seven in Hebrew. Traditionally, the mourning family receives guests and accepts condolences for a week. “Reform families only do it for three days,” Joe told me. “Sometimes, if people have to travel, it only lasts a day.”

  I have a hunch that Arnie Rosen will be given short-shrift-shiva.

  “The family will be accepting calls at David and Judith’s house,” says Ceepak.

  “Should we go?” asks his mother. “Arnie was such a good man.”

  That’s when Ceepak’s cell phone chirrups.

  “Work?” says his mother who, I guess, has memorized her son’s different ringtones. “On a Sunday?”

  “Apparently so,” says Ceepak, squinting so he can read the caller ID window. “Dr. Kurth,” he mumbles.

  The medical examiner.

  I’m glad the lid is down on my Styrofoam box. There’s something slightly sickening about hearing gory medical details while staring at a juicy mound of meat.

  “This is Ceepak. Yes, ma’am. I see. Well, be sure to thank them for the quick turnaround. We weren’t expecting your answer until much later in the week. Any indication as to where it came from? Very well. Yes, ma’am. I will, indeed, tell her.”

  Ceepak closes up his phone.

  “Danny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ll be with me again this week.”

  “More rides to inspect?”

  He shakes his head. “Mom?

  “Yes?”

  “The county medical examiner said to tell you that you were correct. Arnold Rosen was murdered. Potassium cyanide.”

  Adele brings her hand to her lips. “Oh, my. Poor man.”

  “Dr. Kurth hypothesizes that the poison was given to Dr. Rosen with his morning medications. That someone poured a lethal dose of cyanide into a gel cap and slipped the tainted capsule into Dr. Rosen’s pillbox.”