Chris Grabenstein: Free Fall

I head down to the Pancake Palace a little after nine.

When I was a teenager, I used to break dishes and glasses there on a regular basis.

I was a bus boy.

The restaurant is pretty crowded, especially for the first week of June. I see mostly locals and a few scattered families. Kids, whose school years ended earlier than everybody else’s, are chowing down on stacks of chocolate chip flapjacks, which are, more or less, ginormous chocolate chip cookies swimming in mapley syrup. (By the way, mapley means it’s not real maple syrup; if you want that, it costs extra.)

Some grownups go for the “eggs-traordinary omelets,” but most of them seem to be gobbling up Belgian waffles topped with Whipped Cream and strawberries, the New York Cheese Cake Pancake, or the Heart Attack Stack: six pancakes with butter, bacon bits, and sausage crumbles sandwiched in between every layer. It’s like the T-shirt says, “My Diet Gets Two Weeks Off Every Summer, Too.”

Ceepak is seated in his favorite sunny booth near the front windows. He’ll probably order Bran Flakes topped with whatever fruit is in season this week. I’ll have black coffee and a toasted bran muffin. Yes, Ceepak has even influenced my morning food choices. No more Hostess Sno-Balls or Honey Buns for me.

There’s a father and son in the booth behind Ceepak. The dad is diddling with his Droid phone. The boy is fiddling with the paper from his milk straw. They look like they haven’t made much eye contact since maybe Christmas morning.

“I need to go outside to make a very important call, Christopher,” the dad says to the boy. “Stay here.”

“Yes, Dad.”

And the father abandons his son.

Man, the kid looks bored. And sad. Some vacation he’s having.

Fortunately, Diana Santossio, who’s been waitressing at the Pancake Palace since forever (she used to lead the applause, high-school cafeteria style, whenever I dropped my bus tray), comes over to the table and gives Christopher a small box of crayons.

“Here you go, hon,” she says. “You can draw right on the table cloth.”

“Really?”

“Yep. It’s paper. You can even take it home when you’re done eating.”

“Cool.”

“Have fun, hon.”

Donna sashays away while Christopher happily scribbles on the white paper table topper. I slide into the booth across from Ceepak.

“Good morning, Danny. I ordered your coffee. Black, per usual.”

“Thanks,” I say, noticing that Ceepak has already organized the sweetener packets in their little filing rack: White, Brown, Blue, Pink, Yellow. I’m also pretty certain the salt and pepper shakers have been inspected, their screw tops found to be properly secured.

“You have a good weekend?” I ask.

“Roger that. We took my mother over to the mainland. She needed a new toilet bowl brush. Target has an interesting and wide selection.”

I nod. I’m used to Ceepak’s wild and crazy weekend adventures, especially since his mom moved to town. Of all the good sons in the world, John Ceepak might just be the best. Probably because he has to be. His father, Mr. Joseph Ceepak, is the worst excuse for a dad I have ever met. Mr. and Mrs. Ceepak are divorced even though Mr. Ceepak refuses to believe it. Especially after Mrs. Ceepak unexpectedly inherited two point three million dollars from her spinster aunt. When Joe “Sixpack” Ceepak heard about that, he came sniffing around Sea Haven looking for his ex-wife, who, at the time, was living in a “secure location” somewhere in Ohio.

You might wonder why Ceepak still lives in his dumpy one-bedroom apartment since his mom has all that money. I did. Until Ceepak told me, “I have not received financial assistance from either of my parents since I was sixteen, Danny. I do not intend to start now. It is her money. She should spend it as she sees fit.”

Ceepak’s dad, who never met a pile of money he didn’t want to mooch, has, so far, kept the promise he made to us when I saved his sorry life at the same roller coaster where Dominic Santucci lost his. He has stayed out of Sea Haven. But his son tells me we need to be “extra vigilant” and “stand guard” since neither of us would be surprised if Joe Sixpack returned to Sea Haven to harass his ex-wife.

“We hope for the best, Danny,” Ceepak likes to say. “But we prepare for the worst.”

Like making sure his mom lives in a condo complex with 24-hour security guards and has an armed escort (her son) whenever she goes toilet brush shopping at Target.

“So, how many rides do we need to check out?” I ask.

“All of them,” says Ceepak with a grin. “Might take all week.”

“Roger that,” I say, because, okay, I’ve been hanging around Ceepak for way too long. Plus, I’m happy to hear we’re going to be working together for a solid chunk of time.

My partner is dressed in his standard detective uniform. Khaki cargo pants, L.L. Bean Oxford cloth shirt, striped tie, and lightweight navy blue sport coat. He keeps his gold shield clipped to the front of his belt, his Glock in a small-of-the-back crossdraw holster hidden under the vent flaps of his jacket. His shoes? Sturdy black cop shoes except on the rainy days when he slips on his waterproof Army boots.

I don’t get to play detective every day, so I wear my shield on a lanyard around my neck. I keep my Glock at my hip, cowboy style. But since I don’t tuck in my blousy Hawaiian shirt, nobody sees it.

“What are you doing, Christopher?”

Phone call finished, Daddy Droid has returned to the booth next to ours. He looks furious.

“Drawing,” mumbles his son.

“On the tablecloth?”

“It’s paper.”

“I don’t care. You’re making a mess.”

“She said I could.”

“Who?”

“The lady.”

“What lady?” fumes the dad, grabbing up the kid’s crayons as quickly as he can. “I don’t see any ‘lady.’”

The boy looks around the room. Can’t find Donna. I’m guessing she’s in the kitchen, loading up another tray with twenty plates of food.

“She’s not here …”

“Because you made her up.”

“No, she …”

“Don’t lie to me, Christopher!”

Ceepak has heard enough. He slides out of the booth. Stands. He towers over Mr. Droid by at least a foot.

This should be fun.

“Your son is telling you the truth, sir.”

“What? Who are you?”

“John Ceepak. Chief of Detectives. Sea Haven Police Department.”

“Excuse me,” says the dad, “but this is a private, family matter.”

I’m standing now, too. “Donna gave him the crayons.”

The dad shakes his head like he’s clearing out his ears. “What?”

“The waitress,” says Ceepak. “Her name is Donna. She told your son that it would be perfectly fine for him to draw on the paper tablecloth. All the children do it.”

“Some adults, too,” I toss in because I know one who does. Me.

The boy is looking at Ceepak like Superman just dropped in to the Pancake Palace to protect him from the evil fiend known as Dad, The Crayon Snatcher.

“Well, who exactly gave some minimum wage waitress permission to tell my son what he can and cannot do in my absence?”

“You raise an interesting if somewhat moot point,” says Ceepak. “Be that as it may, it does not mitigate the fact that you accused your son of a very serious offense: Lying.”

“Is this what you cops do down here? Butt into private, family affairs?”

“We try not to,” I say. “But sometimes, well, we just can’t seem to avoid it.”

See, I know something Poppa Bear doesn’t: John Ceepak lives his life in strict compliance with the West Point honor code. He will not lie, cheat, or steal nor tolerate those who do. So, to accuse someone of lying, especially your own son, well, geeze-o, man, that is an accusation that should never be made lightly.