Chris Grabenstein - Free Fall

“Come on Christopher.” The dad grabs the kid’s wrist.

“But …”

“We’ll pick up frozen waffles at the store.”

“I wanted pancakes …”

“There’s no need for you two to leave, sir,” says Ceepak, picking up a napkin to dab at his lips.

“Well, I sure don’t want to sit here eating breakfast with Big Brother’s nose up my butt.”

He means Ceepak and me. We are the police state. The big, bad butt-sniffers.

“Then you are in luck,” says Ceepak. “My partner and I were just leaving. Danny?”

“I’ve got this one.” I lay some bills on the table, enough to pay for everything we would’ve eaten if, you know, we had ever ordered anything besides coffee.

“Have a good day.” Ceepak gives the father and son a crisp two-finger salute off his right brow.

Little Christopher salutes right back.

Super Man and I leave the building.

Yes. When you work with John Ceepak, sometimes you miss a meal.

“Sorry about that,” says Ceepak as we head toward the Boardwalk.

“No biggee. That poor kid needed somebody to stand up for him.”

“Indeed he did.”

It’s not even noon yet, but I can already smell the Italian sausages, green peppers, and onions sizzling on a greasy grill somewhere up ahead. My stomach gurgles so loudly, it sounds like I swallowed a demonic alien.

“Perhaps we can grab a quick bite at one of the boardwalk eateries,” suggests Ceepak.

“That’ll work,” I say. Curly fries, cheesesteaks, and funnel cakes-all part of a complete, nutritional breakfast.

We climb up the steep steps to Pier Two.

“There’s a Jumbo Jimmy’s cheesesteak place on the other side of Ye Olde Mill,” I say.

Ye Olde Mill is probably the oldest ride in all of Sea Haven. Not even a hurricane could knock it out business. A water wheel churns up turquoise blue water to make a gently flowing current that sends small boats drifting slooooowly down a lazy stream that’s maybe six inches deep.

Since the scenery is pretty lame-like department-store window displays done by lazy gnomes-and the lighting is extremely dim, guys and girls in their tiny two-seater boats don’t really have much choice but to start cuddling and canoodling in what has been unofficially called The Tunnel Of Love since 1949.

“Does Jumbo Jimmy’s serve fruit?” asks Ceepak when we pass the water wheel.

“I think so. They have those bananas dipped in chocolate. And candy apples.”

“John? Daniel?”

It’s Ceepak’s mother. She’s with a group of about a dozen other senior citizens, all of them dressed in plaids and sherbet colors. Some are wearing those visors with the see-through green windowpane in the brim. Each of them holds a string of three tickets, enough to ride Ye Olde Mill.

Looking at Adele Ceepak, you’d never know she’s a multimillionaire. She’s extremely short, maybe five feet tall, and likes to dress in polyester red, white, and blue outfits with big, brassy belt buckles. Her hair is cut pixie short and is dyed the same golden color as her glasses frames. Mrs. Ceepak also has the brightest, happiest smile of any sixty-something senior citizen I’ve ever met, especially considering all the dark crap she had to live through before she threw her bum of a husband out the back door with the rest of the trash.

That last bit? That’s how Mrs. Ceepak describes her divorce after she’s had a glass or two of Chianti, her favorite.

“Hello, Mom,” says Ceepak. He leans way down and gives her a kiss on her cheek. The tall genes? Ceepak definitely didn’t get them from his mom.

“What are you two boys doing on the boardwalk? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“We are,” I say.

“Those are your work clothes? Daniel, you look like a beach bum.”

“We’re undercover,” I whisper.

“Oh.” Mrs. Ceepak does that locking your lips with a key thing my grandmother used to do.

“We’re here to inspect a few of the rides up and down the boardwalk,” explains her son.

“Are they unsafe?”

“We hope not. But if they are, rest assured, we will pull their papers.”

“Good for you. How about this Ye Olde Mill? Hank says that’s the ride we should all ride first. He even asked me to share a boat with him.”

Ceepak arches an eyebrow. “Hank?”

Mrs. Ceepak gestures toward a tall guy with thick white hair and skinny, sinewy legs. He looks healthy, like he plays tennis or rides a bike.

“Hank’s a very good dancer,” says Mrs. Ceepak. “He calls the Bingo numbers at the Senior Center on Tuesday nights, too. He’s something of a celebrity in certain circles.”

Ceepak looks like he wants to go over to Hank and say, “ What are your intentions, young man? ” but he doesn’t get the chance.

There’s a scream. Maybe fifty feet up the pier. A young dude in an Abercrombie amp; Fitch top, baggy shorts, and high-top sneakers comes tearing up the boards, a jungle print purse flapping by his side.

“He stole my bag! Stop him! Help!”

The kid, who looks vaguely familiar, has his arms pumping and keeps chugging straight at us.

“Halt!” Ceepak shouts, raising his hand like a traffic cop.

When he was an MP over in Iraq, Ceepak used to stop entire tank convoys in downtown Baghdad with his booming voice and a single flick of the wrist.

Too bad the purse-snatcher isn’t a tank.

He keeps coming.

“Police!” I holler.

Now the kid stops. Looks left, right, over his shoulder.

“Where, man?” he shouts like I’m on his side.

Ceepak sweeps open his sport coat, plucks that gold shield off his belt, and holds it out at arms length so the sun can flare off its bright and shiny face.

“Stay where you are, young man.”

“You heard him,” shouts Ceepak’s mom. “Stay put.”

The kid squints when the badge’s reflection pings him in the eye.

He looks around again.

And makes an extremely dumb move.

He dashes toward the back end of the Ye Olde Mill ride. I see him grab hold of the picket fence bordering the unloading dock and hop over it. Two seconds after he disappears, we hear a series of thrashing splashes.

Yes, he is running up the lazy river into The Tunnel of Love.

“I’ll follow after him,” says Ceepak, because he goes running six days a week, even when he doesn’t have to. “Lock down the ride, Danny. Go in the front. Block his means of egress.”

“On it.”

Ceepak takes off.

“Go, Johnny, go!” This from Mrs. Ceepak. “That’s my son.”

“He’s a good runner,” says Hank.

Adele gives that a flick of her wrist. “Aw, he’s not even trying.”

I loop back to the front of the ride.

I flash my badge necklace to the kid sitting up in the operator platform near the bright yellow water wheel. It’s churning up frothy waves the color of the cheap blue aftershave they sell at Drinnen’s Drug Store.

“Shut down the water wheel,” I shout. “Don’t send in any boats.”

“Dude,” he says, sounding like I just woke him up. “There’s already a boat in the tunnel …”

I think fast.

“Then keep the wheel churning.”

Maybe the current will slow the thief down. Maybe the love boat will bumper-car him down the line to Ceepak.

Or maybe our bad guy has a gun.

“No,” I say to the operator. “Shut it off.”

“Dude?” says the kid, holding up both hands. “On or off?”

“Off!”

The kid shakes his head.

I think he’s disappointed in my rapid-fire decision-making abilities.

“Whatever,” he mumbles as he bops the red button that freezes the water wheel.

I jump off the loading dock into the shin-deep riverbed.