Tilt-a-Whirl (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

  The chief lets that one hang there. I think even he's thinking: “We sure as Hell found it now, didn't we?”

  “Are the ballistics conclusive?”

  “Yeah. Smith & Wesson semi-automatic nine-millimeter. We know that's what Gus lost four months back. You do the math.”

  “Okay. Gus? We need a complete calendaring of everywhere you went that day. Look at your log, check with dispatch, rack your brain. Don't leave anything out.”

  “Okay. Sure. I can do that. I remember most of what I did that day….”

  “Good.”

  “Pretty hard to forget.” Gus lets out another nervous chuckle bubble. “I mean, it's not every day you pull a bone-headed stunt like that, you know?”

  “Write it up for us, okay?”

  “Sure, Ceepak, sure. No problem. I can write it up. Because, like I say, I remember pretty much everything. March 9th. What a freaking shitty day. Right before my anniversary. And it rained the day before. Poured.”

  “Good,” Ceepak says, looking at his watch. I don't think he meant for Gus to give him an oral report right this minute.

  “Write it up. Chief?”

  “Yeah?”

  “New development. Virgilio Mendez?”

  “The guy in Hart's calendar?”

  “Yes, sir. Ms. Stone was being disingenuous with us last night. She is meeting with Mendez. 0-10 hundred. That same restaurant.”

  “Chesterfield's,” I say.

  “What for?”

  “Apparently,” Ceepak says, taking the folded brochure out of his pocket, “they're planning for a future without Mr. Hart. Real-estate development.”

  He hands The Palace condo flyer to the chief.

  “Goddammit,” he growls. “How'd you find out?”

  “Danny,” Ceepak says. “He was listening carefully and made some right connections.”

  “I think Mendez hired Squeegee,” I blurt out, bucked up by Ceepak's praise. “To kill Hart!”

  “What?”

  “It's one possibility,” Ceepak backs me up. “Greed is always a good motive.”

  “Shit,” the chief says, like he's the one riding the Tilt-A-Whirl, not knowing what to expect next. “I want you two there. At the meet.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Gus?”

  “Yes, chief?”

  “Go write up your goddamn diary.”

  “Sure. I can write it up. No problem. I remember everything. I remember the car was filthy, ’cause of the rain and the mud and all. Remember, chief? At Surf City? You said it looked like a ‘rolling mud pie.’ So I swung by the car wash….”

  He's got our attention again.

  “Which one?” Ceepak asks.

  “What?”

  “Which car wash did you use?”

  “Cap'n Scrubby's,” Gus says. “They give us a discount.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It's right before ten on Sunday morning.

  The chief will meet Mendez and Ms. Stone for brunch at Chesterfield's. We're on our way to the car wash. Sounds like Gus could have lost his gun at the one place everybody who recognizes Squeegee says they've seen him.

  The car wash is fast becoming one of Ceepak's more definite possibilities.

  Maybe our prime suspect did an extra-good job cleaning out Gus's car. Maybe, while wiping down the dashboard, he even tidied up the glove compartment.

  On the way to Cap'n Scrubby's, we drive past a few church parking lots. They're fuller than usual. Most people take a little vacation from the Lord while they're down here taking a vacation from everything else. But this Sunday, people seem to be out in force, undoubtedly praying for the safe return of Ashley Hart.

  When we stop at traffic lights, I can see flyers stapled to the telephone poles.

  MISSING.

  Under that big, scary headline is the face of the pretty blond girl we met yesterday. I look up Ocean Avenue. The flyers are nailed to every single pole, taped to every light post.

  Traffic seems kind of heavy for Sunday morning. I notice a lot of cars are taking the turn for the Causeway and heading home. I guess people checked out of their rentals early because they'd rather lose their deposits than their children.

  We pass the entrance to Sunnyside Playland.

  The ground is blanketed with bouquets. Bunches of tissue-wrapped roses—the kind you can buy in the refrigerator case at the A&P. A couple of teddy bears and some stuffed green turtles are stuck into the chain-link gate. The newspapers had told everybody how much young Ashley and her father liked turtles, why they were on the Turtle-Twirl Tilt-A-Whirl before it even opened. They'd worked all the human-interest angles pretty good.

  There's a sheet draped over a section of the Playland fence, covering up some of the “Fun In The Sun” slogan. It's the kind of banner we used to paint for high-school homecoming games. Only this one says, “Please Come Home Safe Ashley!” and has a smiley face in the dot under the exclamation point.

  We're on our way to Cap'n Scrubby's to see if we can help make that wish come true.

  “Gosh, I was just thinking about calling you guys.”

  The manager of Cap'n Scrubby's Car Wash looks like he took the job right after a quick stint managing the local Blockbuster because he's wearing the same basic uniform: pleated khaki pants and an oxford blue button-down shirt. He also has on, I kid you not, a tie with foaming soap bubbles printed all over it. His name is Steve. Says so right on his nametag. I figure the guy's a little older than me. Maybe even thirty. He was just opening his doors when we marched in.

  “You recognized the sketch?” Ceepak says.

  “No, I'm not a hundred percent certain, or I would have called. The towel boys are a very transient labor force.”

  “And this man?” Ceepak pushes the Squeegee sketch across the desk.

  “Like I said, he kind of sort of looks familiar. But frankly, a lot of the vagrants out back look like this. Unkempt. He might've worked here. Maybe.”

  “Do you keep employment records?”

  “Sure.”

  He pulls out the metal file drawer on the right side of his little desk. It squeaks.

  We're sitting in the lobby. The manager's desk is in the far corner, near big plate-glass windows, tucked behind a low cubicle wall to give him a little privacy, to make him think he actually has an office. There are a pair of tiny American flags stuck into a wooden holder on his desk, part of the Proud American Deskset they sell at Office Max.

  A cashier is stationed up front, near the lobby door. She's dressed in khakis and a blue polo shirt with Cap'n Scrubby's face embroidered where the alligator or polo player usually sits. The Cap'n's head is a big soap bubble under a Jolly Roger pirate hat. His moustache? It's a scrub brush.

  The lobby is also where you buy air fresheners to hang on your rearview mirror. They've got the classic pine trees in all ten colors, Yosemite Sams, Garfields, Playboy Bunnies—they hang alongside other car crap like fuzzy dice and leatherette steering-wheel wraps, stuff you might just purchase while you're waiting for your car to finish its automated bath.

  “Hmmm,” Steve says after flipping through a few file folders.

  “Problem?”

  Ceepak is not interested in “hmmms” this morning.

  “Well, as I say—some of our labor force is transitory in nature. Migrant workers, if you will….”

  “You don't have records?”

  “Not anything, you know, official. Not for the drifters and homeless folks.”

  “Pay stubs?”

  “Well, we don't really, you know, ‘pay’ the towel boys per se. They're not actually employees.”

  “They work for the tips? That's it?”

  “That's right. But we provide them with the treasure chest.”

  “The tip box?”

  “Yes. We had it made up to look like a pirate chest. Adds to our whole nautical ambience … maintains Cap'n Scrubby's imaging system….”

  The guy must've taken a marketing class back at community col
lege.

  I've had my car cleaned at Scrubby's a couple times. (They charge extra for minivans.) Once the mechanized track drags your vehicle through the scrubbers and sprayers and drying curtains, you meet it out back where a gang of seven or eight guys goes at it with tattered towels.

  These guys have a padlocked box with a slit on top for tips. I usually stuff a buck or two into it when they finish rubbing wet towels around my windows and smearing them up worse than they were before they started. It's like you're paying them to stop. Please.

  My guess is Steve has the keys to the tip box and he's the one who divvies up the dough. I wouldn't even be surprised if ol’ Cap'n Scrubby takes a cut of the tips meant for his hardworking mateys out back.

  “Have you ever heard of the minimum wage law?” Ceepak says to Steve.

  “Oh, sure. You bet. But technically, the boys out back? As I said, they aren't employees. So technically, they are not wage earners, nor are we in violation of any labor laws.”

  “What about the spirit of those same laws?”

  My man Ceepak doesn't like folks who skirt around a law by scoping out its loopholes.

  “As I said, Cap'n Scrubby's is in full compliance with all state and federal labor laws.”

  Sounds like another seminar Steve took.

  Either that, or Mr. Sinclair, our mayor, who also happens to own this fine car-washing establishment, told him what to say if anybody ever asked. It's why Steve gets to wear the tie and call men twice his age “boys.”

  “Mr. Sinclair feels he is providing a charitable public service by allowing the towel boys to work here for tips. Better than having them beg on the beach, he says.”

  “Steve?” Ceepak stands up. He has that subtle cop way of leaning on his holster so the leather creaks and you remember that he has a gun, you don't, and that maybe you ought to listen very carefully to what he's about to say.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Ceepak slides the sketch back across the tiny desktop.

  “One more time. Do you recognize this man?”

  “As I stated earlier….”

  “I know. He wasn't an employee. But was he part of your social outreach program?”

  Steve picks up the sketch. Studies it.

  “Yes. He was a troublemaker.”

  “How so?”

  “Patrons accused him of theft. Coffee mugs. Cell phones. Loose change. Anything that wasn't nailed down inside their cars. The police were called here on several different occasions.” Steve pushes the sketch back at Ceepak. “Eventually, we asked him not to come back.”

  “His name?”

  “Don't know. As I said, many of these boys—”

  Ceepak's suddenly not listening any more. He sees something outside. A guy who looks like an old hippie carrying a dirty bath towel.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It isn't Squeegee.

  The guy outside doesn't have a beard and his hair is red and curly, like a Bozo wig, not white and scraggly.

  But he sure looks like he could be one of Squeegee's best buddies, like they might hang out together on beanbag chairs and pass the bong around. The way the guy is weaving? I'd say today was a bong-for-breakfast kind of day.

  He looks to be about fifty-something and has on these green corduroy shorts with stringy threads where he cut off the pants. His legs are so filthy, they're caked with dirt, as if he took a mud bath a month ago and forgot to rinse. He's also wearing a rainbow-colored tie-dye shirt like we know Squeegee likes to wear. Who knows—it might be their fraternity uniform.

  “Excuse me,” Ceepak says and starts for the door.

  He's thinking what I'm thinking—the hippie burnout in the parking lot probably knows Squeegee.

  “Danny?”

  I'm right behind him.

  “Is there going to be some trouble?” Steve sinks a little lower in his swivel chair, nervous. The flags cover his face.

  “No,” Ceepak says. “We intend to remain in total compliance with all state and federal laws.”

  He unsnaps his holster.

  I can hear Steve whimpering, “Wait!” in the background as we head out his front door.

  The old hippie looks like he's lost. Like he can't remember how he usually walks around to the back of the building. Does he go left, or right, or maybe left-then-right?

  “Sir?”

  Our quarry turns to face us. His eyes are like blurry slits underneath his giant red Afro.

  “Yeah?” he says with an effort.

  “I wonder if we might have a word with you?”

  “Me?” Again, he answers as if it's extremely hard work.

  “Yes, sir. You.” Ceepak steps toward him. I stand ready to radio for backup.

  “We need to talk to you—”

  “Fuck!”

  He starts running. He's old and fat and wearing worn-out Birken-stocks, but he can waddle pretty fast.

  However, he makes a real stupid move.

  He heads into the car wash.

  Looks like he's finally going to get those legs washed, maybe even waxed: he tries to lose us by running alongside somebody's sudsy Pontiac.

  Ceepak shakes his head and tries not to laugh. No way are we running into the car wash after this freak.

  “Go left,” he says calmly. “I'll swing around the right.”

  I race back into the lobby, past the cashier, and up to the windowed walkway where you can watch your car moving down the line.

  I see our friend inside. He's not running any more.

  He's soaked and sort of squeezing through these big fluffy spinning roller-buffers.

  When he gets past those, he's sprayed by high-pressure water jets that pin-needle him so hard he has to close his eyes and that means he can't see what's coming next: big flapping straps of cloth that swish back and forth and scrub him down good. While he's slapping against the flaps, he also gets some undercarriage rust protectant shot up his shorts.

  Now he's in the rinse cycle where the water's mistier, less like bee stingers.

  By the time he reaches the end of the line, his curly red hair is shooting straight back, plastered in place by the turbine-powered blow dryers.

  He tries to run past the towel guys and negotiate a sharp turn into the street, but his sandals are so slick he slides sideways, loses his feet, and plows into the rolling table with the pirate chest on top. The tip box goes flying while our fugitive sleds across the tarmac on his butt.

  “Freeze!” Ceepak booms.

  I can tell he's trying very hard not to laugh, but it's not working.

  The redheaded guy sits in a soapy, oily puddle and raises both arms to surrender.

  Ceepak walks forward shaking his head. His pistol is still in its holster.

  “Why'd you run away, sir?”

  “I dunno, man.” He rubs his knee where it got roughed up in the tumble. “Seemed like a good idea at the time….”

  Ceepak turns to the towel guys standing in a circle, having the best laugh they've probably had in weeks.

  “Can I borrow some of your towels? We need a couple.”

  A few of the guys oblige.

  “Thanks,” Ceepak says. “Gracias.” He hands the towels to the man on the ground.

  Then Ceepak stuffs a ten-dollar bill into the pirate chest. Doing better than me—just like he always does.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, we're sitting with our captive at Do Me A Flavor, the ice-cream shop next door to Cap'n Scrubby's. I think Mayor Sinclair owns this place too.

  Ceepak buys our new pal a jumbo mug of black coffee and a gigantic hot-fudge sundae with two scoops of mint chocolate chip, two scoops of moose tracks, marshmallow sauce, nuts, sprinkles, Oreo crumbs, whipped cream, and maraschino cherries.

  We're the only ones in the ice-cream parlor this early in the morning. The girl in pink scooping up the sundae? Jenny. A friend of mine for years.

  The guy is shoveling the ice-cream concoction into his face, smearing sauce down his chin.

  ?
??You might want to slow down, sir,” Ceepak suggests. Bozo digs faster. The man loves his sugar. Probably because he also loves booze or heroin or both.

  He has to slow down when he belches.

  “Sorry I ran, man,” he says during the quick break between bites.

  “No hard feelings,” Ceepak says. “What's your name?”

  “Red.” He digs into the ice cream again.

  “That your real name?”

  The guy stares blankly at Ceepak.

  “It's the name I choose to use, man.”

  “Okay, Red.”

  Ceepak lets him eat some more.

  “So, why'd you run?”

  “You're the fuzz, man.” Red is licking as much of his face as his tongue can reach, trying to lap up all the sticky stuff available.

  I haven't heard police called the fuzz since my father made me watch a re-run of The Mod Squad.

  “I always run from the fuzz. Ever since 1968. Chicago. They'll stone you if you're a stoner who likes to get stoned, man.”

  Ceepak nods. “Bob Dylan once expressed a very similar sentiment.”

  “You dig Dylan?”

  “Certainly. Bob Dylan was quite an influence on the young Bruce Springsteen, my favorite recording artist.”

  “Springsteen? Springsteen ripped Dylan off! Just rhymed words to hear them rhyme.” Red chomps a cherry and licks whipped cream off his spoon. “‘Some go-kart Mozart checking out the weather chart?’ What the fuck's that supposed to mean? Where's the poetry, man? Springsteen sucks.”

  “Thank you for sharing your opinion,” Ceepak says. “Now—talk to me about Squeegee.”

  “No can do.”

  “Why not?”

  “Hey. If Squeegee hears through the grapevine that I squealed, turned ratfink on him? He'd hurt me, man. Hurt me bad. Dude is the devil. I'd be buying the stairway to heaven.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You seen that sketch? In the newspapers?”

  “Yes.”

  “That dragon crawling up his neck? Squeegee told me it could fly off his flesh to devour his enemies with hellfire and brimstone, if he so exhorted the beast! Like a funeral pyre, he'd set the night on fire!”

  Oh-kay. I'm wondering exactly how many spliffs Red had for breakfast this morning.