Chris Grabenstein - Free Fall

To my right, Ceepak takes off his sport coat, folds it neatly in half, and tucks it into the cleanest tomato-sauce-can shelf he can find.

He moves to the pass-through section of the counter, flips it up, and strides out of the shadows into the soft glow of what’s probably another spectacular Sea Haven sunset.

While he walks away from the pizza place, I watch his Glock sway back and forth in that small-of-the-back crossdraw holster.

“Johnny boy!” cries his father. “There you are. What took you so long?”

Ceepak ignores the question. “What do you want?”

“What, you’re not even going to thank me?”

“Come again?”

Mr. Ceepak nudges his head skyward. “David Rosen. He confessed. Isn’t that right, David?”

Mr. Ceepak places a cell phone on the windowsill of his booth.

“David?” he shouts at the phone. “Tell my son what you did. David? Don’t be an idiot. Spill your guts. Unless you want me to spill ’em for you.”

“I killed my father!” I hear David’s voice leak out of Mr. Ceepak’s speakerphone.

“Little louder,” coaches Mr. Ceepak.

“I killed my father. I put the poison in his pillbox. I had to do it …”

Mr. Ceepak smirks and points mockingly at the phone as if to say, “ Can you believe this guy? ”

“Michael was blackmailing us. My wife said we couldn’t let him ruin Little Arnie’s future. My dad should’ve died when he had that fall. He was ninety-four. I probably did him a favor. Kept him out of the old folks home …”

“Okay, David,” says Mr. Ceepak. “That’s enough.” He taps the mute button on his phone.

“A coerced confession won’t stand up in court,” says Ceepak.

“Sure it will. Isn’t that what you boys did over in Iraq all the time? Jammed the muzzle of your rifle right up against some sand monkey’s skull and hollered, ‘Talk!’ Am I right?”

“No, sir. You are wrong.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re such a namby-pamby pansy. You probably just asked nice. Me? I know how to get results. That boy sitting up there on top of the tower? He reminds me of you, Johnny. He broke God’s holy edict. He defied the fifth commandment …”

Oh, boy. Here we go again. Preacher Joe is back.

“‘Honor thy father and mother, that thy days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving thee.’”

“If David Rosen murdered his father, he will be punished,” says Ceepak.

“No, he won’t. They’ll say, well, his father was ninety-four, he was going to die soon anyway. I guarantee you they won’t give him the death penalty like I sure as hell will.”

Mr. Ceepak glances at his watch.

“Hey, Johnny, remember that thing last summer at the Rolling Thunder roller coaster? How that crazy kid held us all hostage?”

“Of course.”

“Well, did you know that during that whole deal, I was paying very close attention to everything that went down? It took the New Jersey State Police S.W.A.T. team a full hour to show up. Sixty freaking minutes.”

“I was not clocking them. I was busy, attempting to save lives, including yours.”

“Yeah, well, I clocked ’em. But hell, maybe they’ve been training in the off-season. Working on their speed drills. So, you and me? We’ve got thirty minutes.”

“For what?”

“Hey, I gave you your killer and his confession. But if you want him alive enough to stand trial, you have to give me something, too.”

“And what is that?”

“My one million dollars. Call your mother, tell her to grab her checkbook, and drag her wrinkled ass on over here. Now. The clock is ticking. You have twenty-nine minutes.”

Yes, Joe Ceepak really has a serious thing about being a millionaire.

He’s like a dog with a knotted sock filled with bacon. He just won’t let it go.

He leans out of the window a little.

Shouts past his son.

“You know where to find Adele, right, Boyle? That old folks condo complex. The Oceanaire with the pissant guard shack. Have one your buddies pick her up and hot-rod her over here, pronto, Tonto.”

I don’t take my eyes off Mr. Ceepak.

But I hear the two uniforms relaying the information about Mrs. Ceepak to Chief Rossi.

“You on it, Boyle?”

“Yeah,” I shout back because, face it-he knows I’m over here, hiding in the shadows of the pizza place, covering my partner’s back.

“Good. Because we’re down to twenty-eight minutes till Dr. Rosen up there becomes just another greasy stain on the boardwalk. And while Adele and I work out the details on the wire transfer, you boys need to find me a helicopter. Or a boat. A speed boat. Something that’ll take me and David out to international waters fast.”

“You and David?” says Ceepak, taking a step toward his crazy dad.

“Yeah. He’s my hostage.”

Mr. Ceepak raises that brown bag to his lips again. Takes a long gulp.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let David go once we reach the Bahamas or the Cayman Islands.”

He’s starting to slur his words.

“Maybe Cuba. Hijackers used to go to Cuba all the time. Do they have banks in Cuba, Johnny?”

“Don’t know. I’ve never been.”

“You want to come with me? We could do a father-son fishing trip along the way.”

“Fine. I’d much rather you take me as your hostage than David Rosen.”

“Yeah, yeah. Because you’re a big dumb hero. Always risking your life for schmucks like David up there, even though he deserves to die. But I’m not stupid, Johnny. The minute we boarded the boat, you’d try to jump me. Karate kick me in the nuts. Not gonna happen. Get me my speedboat. And put some food in it. Sandwiches and stuff. I like those salt and vinegar potato chips …”

Okay, this is why they say you shouldn’t drink and try to think.

No way is any of Mr. Ceepak’s fantasy escape plan going to play out the way he sees it in his booze-fogged brain. The guy probably doesn’t even have a bank account. And how’s he going to pilot a speedboat to Cuba? Demand that it be equipped with a GPS that’ll give him turn-by-turn directions for the Atlantic Ocean?

This situation is not going to end any way but badly. The man’s plans are preposterous. The scrambled brain farts of a pickled old drunk.

“Can you safely lower Dr. Rosen if mother gives you your one million dollars?” asks Ceepak.

“Yeah, yeah. The factory trained me real good. I’m pretty sure I can work him down nice and slow. But you better have a fresh pair of underpants handy because, I guarantee you, he’s going to piss his pants on the slide down if he didn’t already do it on the ride up.”

Mr. Ceepak breaks into one of his phlegm-filled laughing jags.

As he hacks up the chuckles, Ceepak reaches behind his back for his Glock.

“Don’t even think about it, Johnny,” snaps his dad.

He sensed Ceepak shifting his weight, going for his gun.

Ceepak freezes. Raises both his hands to show his father that he remains unarmed.

“Good. You’ve got twenty-six minutes. Go find your mommy.”

“Danny’s on it,” says Ceepak. “I think I’ll stay out here. Keep my eye on you.”

“What? You don’t trust me to uphold my end of the deal?”

“No, sir. I do not. And if you make any sudden move toward that launch button, let me remind you that I am a very quick draw.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just get me my money and my boat. Or a helicopter that’ll take me to a private jet with enough fuel to fly me down to Mexico. Or like I said, Cuba. Cuba would be good. Forget the boat. I want a helicopter.”

He belches.

“Any word on the SWAT team?” I whisper to the uniforms without looking over at them. I’m keeping my eye on my target. That bit Ceepak said about being a quick draw? Nobody’s that quick. That was his way of telling me to take the shot if his dad makes a move for the big green button I see blinking near his gut in the center of the control panel.