Chris Grabenstein - Free Fall

“Is that your mom?” says Bob. “The one who hired a lawyer to defend that cute nurse who doesn’t have a pot to piss in? Awesome!”

“Adele’s my wife …”

Ceepak holds up his very strong right hand to signal his father to stop right there. “ Ex -wife …”

“Okay. Sure. Say, this gal, Christine Lemondrops, the one your mom bailed out, she a friend of yours, Johnny?” He asks it with just a hint of his old lechery.

“She’s our friend,” I say. “And her last name is Lemonopolous.”

“Good. That’s nice, Boyle. You need a gal pal. Johnny here is already hitched and settled down. Speaking of which, when can you and the missus swing by the motel to say hey?”

“How about never, sir?” says Ceepak. “Will never work?”

“Ouch,” says Bob, with a goofy giggle.

But Mr. Ceepak keeps on smiling like those brainwashed people in cults, right before they chug a jug of the Kool Ade.

“Careful, Johnny,” he says. “‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’ Matthew. Chapter seven. Verse one.”

“You would do well to memorize the remainder of that chapter, sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“Verse 15: ‘Beware of the false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves.”

“Oh-kay,” says Bob, laughing nervously. “We better postpone Bible study till church tomorrow morning and get back at it. We open in fifteen, Joe.”

“Right. And Bob?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“Thanks again. For giving me this opportunity.”

Bob claps old man Ceepak on the back. “Are you kidding? We’re the ones who should be thanking you. Heck, if you hadn’t answered our ad, your son here would’ve kept the StratosFEAR shut down all summer long.”

Bob chuckles. Joe chuckles.

Ceepak and me? We’re not in a chuckling kind of mood.

We grab a cold soda (what Ceepak still calls a Pop) at a pizza stand twenty feet away from the StratosFEAR.

I’m thirsty, so I gulp mine down. Ceepak, on the other hand, sips maybe two drops.

Both of us watch Mr. Ceepak hoist a couple carloads of squealing riders up the tower and drop them. At first, they scream and kick their feet. Then they laugh. It’s good old-fashioned fun.

But I’m thinking one of the nearby T-shirt shops ought to start selling clean underpants, too.

“I don’t trust him or his supposed transformation,” Ceepak finally says.

Hey, I can’t blame the guy.

Years ago, Joseph Ceepak murdered his youngest son, William Philip Ceepak-my Ceepak’s little brother. The sneaky bastard made Billy’s death look like a suicide. And he got away with it. For years. Even when Ceepak and I were able to have a prosecuting attorney up in Ohio re-open the case, the slimy worm wiggled off the hook.

So, I’m with Ceepak. I’m not buying this whole Bible-thumping, born-again Christian act. Joseph Ceepak is not a lost sheep. He’s a wolf who went to a pop-up Halloween shop and asked for the Little Bo Peep costume.

“He’s here for Mother’s money,” says Ceepak, his eyes focused on the Free Fall. Not the ride; the control booth.

“Maybe we should request a fresh Emergency Restraining Order.”

“Trust me, Danny: I have already put in the paperwork.”

We might’ve stayed there all day, nursing our Cokes, keeping an eye on Joe Ceepak, waiting for him to slip out of his sheep costume, do something stupid enough for us to arrest him, but my cell phone chirps.

It’s Christine Lemonopolous.

She’s sobbing.

“Christine?” I say. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s dead, Danny. Dr. Rosen. He died this morning.”

Ceepak and I head over to the Rosen house on Beach Lane.

“They want Christine out of the house,” I say, relaying the rest of our conversation. “Today. Like right now.”

“Sad,” Ceepak says.

“Yeah. Where’s she gonna go?”

“Actually, Danny, I was thinking about the late Arnold Rosen.”

Oh. Right. The dead guy. Guess he’s worse off than even Christine.

And then neither of us says anything else on the fifteen-minute drive down Beach Lane from the boardwalk. Death will do that to you, get you thinking. About Ceepak’s baby brother, Bill. My only real girlfriend, Katie Landry. My buddy Mook. Dominic Santucci.

And the two men I’ve personally sent to their graves.

When the Grim Reaper is riding with you, he always hogs the mental radio.

We park and climb out of my Jeep just as two gentlemen in black suits carry a rubberized body bag out the front door.

Ceepak stops walking and bows his head.

I do the same.

And then I hear Ceepak start muttering a prayer: “God full of mercy who dwells on high, grant perfect rest to the soul of Arnold Rosen.”

When Ceepak was over in Iraq, he saw a lot of guys die. Christians. Jews. Muslims. I’m guessing he memorized the right things to say for every religion when nothing you can say seems right.

We wait for the funeral home attendants to do their job and drive away in their black vehicle with the black-tinted windows. I make a sign of the cross. Sorry. It’s a nun-inflicted reflex.

Making our way toward the front porch, I notice that brand-new dune buggy wheelchair still sitting in the driveway. Guess Dr. Rosen never got to try it. Guess Monae never hid it in the garage like she was supposed to.

Inside the house, we see three mourners clustered around Dr. Rosen’s empty hospital bed: two men, one woman.

The woman has long, white-blonde hair and is dressed in a canary yellow tennis outfit that’s a little too short and hugs her body a little too tightly-especially since she has a whole lot of body to hug. I’m guessing this blonde is Shona Oppenheimer’s sister, Judith, even though Shona has jet-black hair.

Judith only has jet-black eyebrows.

And unlike super-skinny Shona, Judith has bulges and lumps swelling up in places where woman don’t usually have what Ceepak calls “protuberances.” Even her face is sort of bloated. Her cheeks and jowls crowd out her eyes, nose, and mouth so much it’s hard to tell if she and her sister have similar facial features.

Standing next to Judith is a beanpole-ish, balding man sporting a scraggly goatee. He’s wearing shorts, sandals, and a faded pink polo shirt. He also looks a little nebbishy, a Yiddish word that my buddy Joe Getzler taught me (along with schmuck, putz, and bupkes). It basically means he looks “pitifully timid.” I’m guessing he’s David Rosen because the other guy, standing across the bed from Judith, looks totally Hollywood and has to be the rich son, Michael, from LA-LA land.

Michael is wearing black jeans, black cowboy boots, and an open-collar black shirt that looks like it probably cost several hundred dollars at some black clothes boutique in Beverly Hills. His hair and beard are so neatly trimmed they appear to be the exact same length. That takes work. Or money.

“Oh, hello,” says Judith, very sweetly. When she smiles, she looks like one of those puffy marshmallow clouds on a TV weather map. “May we help you gentlemen?”

“Sorry to intrude,” says Ceepak. “I’m Detective John Ceepak with the Sea Haven Police. This is my partner Danny Boyle. Please pardon our intrusion and know that we are sorry for your loss. Dr. Rosen was good man.”

Judith blinks her piggy little eyes. Repeatedly.

“Did you know my father-in-law?” she finally asks.

“Only briefly,” says Ceepak. “But he had a very stellar reputation among the long-term residents of Sea Haven.”

“He certainly did,” says the guy with the close-cropped hair and beard. “I’m Michael. Do you know my big brother David?”