Chris Grabenstein - Fun House

Mandrake grinds out the tip of his cigar in a cut-crystal bowl and turns to face Ceepak again-oblivious to how darkly my partner is glaring at him. “Champagne, boys? Cigar?”

“No, thank you,” says Ceepak. “Mr. Mandrake, we’d like to talk to you-”

“About tomorrow? Sure, sure. Whose genius idea was it to go live with a one-day turnaround?”

“Yours!” says Layla with a hearty suck-up artist laugh.

Mandrake beams. “You bet, baby. Gonna be the biggest hit of the year. Ratings will be through the roof. Here’s what you do, guys,” he says to Ceepak and me. “Put your whole department on double overtime. Make it look good. Prickly Pear Productions will pick up the tab. Have your team seal off the boardwalk area around the Fun House, maybe put up a couple of those metal detector things, limit access to spectators with golden tickets courtesy of America’s Golden Tan Spray-On Salons.…”

“It’s a promotional consideration,” Layla says to Ceepak and me, like we care.

“We’re buying out the vendors and merchants up and down Pier Two,” says Mandrake, using both hands to frame up every point he makes. “Shutting them down for the night.”

“Except that fried-candy-bar asshole,” says Layla. “He won’t cooperate.”

“Here’s how we play this thing,” Mandrake says to Ceepak and me. “We all act as if we’re terrified that the crazed killer could make good on his threat to ice Soozy at any minute, even though, between you, me, and the bedpost, that kicker at the end? We texted it to her ourselves.”

“It was my idea,” says Layla. “Of course, Soozy thought the text was legit.”

“Only way to get that honest of a reaction out of her,” adds Reinhertz, the director. “Poor kid couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag if you drew a map on the inside flap.”

“It was our final booster shot,” says Mandrake. “I guarantee we’re gonna see Super Bowl-size ratings tomorrow night. So, we set up all the security, make sure all the news crews see it, build the buzz. But like I said, there’s no real need for alarm; no new threat except the one Layla whipped up. Soozy’s safe.”

Now Ceepak gets an uncharacteristically devilish glint in his eye. “How can you be so certain of that, Mr. Mandrake?”

Mandrake looks a little flummoxed. “Because, like I just told you: we texted the threat ourselves. There’s no real danger.”

“That’s one theory,” says Ceepak. “Here’s another.”

Oh, man, Ceepak is pissed. I have never seen him jump this ugly in a suspect’s face. Of course, this is the first killer we’ve confronted while he was popping champagne to celebrate his diabolical plot to cash in on a double homicide.

“What if,” says Ceepak, “you, through your known Atlantic City connections in the Lombardo crime family, hired a team of professional hit men to murder Peter Paul Braciole?”

All of a sudden, the room goes silent.

“What if,” Ceepak continues, “upon seeing the ratings success of that first murder, you requested another act of violence from your known crime associates to ensure your ongoing income stream?”

Now Marty Mandrake’s nose twitches. “So, Acting Chief Ceepak, what the hell have you been drinking tonight?”

“Iced tea and non-alcoholic Coors beer, a taste I acquired while on combat duty in Iraq, dealing with individuals nearly as duplicitous as you.”

Okay, as much as I’ve enjoyed seeing Ceepak get steamed, I’m realizing-it may not have been our smartest move. Mandrake is puffing up his chest. Tugging up on his belt.

“Grace?” he snaps.

“Yes, sir?” says the script lady.

“Call Rambowski. Tell him I want to sue this pissant cop for libel, slander, and whatever the hell they call it when a jarhead asshole says unsubstantiated crap he’s gonna regret when I drag the sorry son of a bitch into court.”

“You should also ask your lawyer to accompany you to police headquarters this evening,” says Ceepak.

“What?”

“We need to ask you a few questions about your dealings in Atlantic City.”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

“No, sir. I am in no way kidding.”

Mandrake squinches up his eyes. “You know, Ceepak, this isn’t the first time jackbooted Gestapo thugs like you have kicked in my door and tried to frame me. I dealt with Tricky Dicky and his CIA goons back in seventy-one. I can sure as shit handle you.”

“Be that as it may,” says Ceepak, “I suggest you-”

Mandrake cuts him off. “Officer, am I free to go?”

“Excuse me?”

“Am I free to go?”

“We’d like you to come to police headquarters.”

“Officer,” says Mandrake, using the terse but polite tone some ACLU lawyer probably coached him to use back in the seventies when his anti-Vietnam movie came out, “you did not answer my question: Am I free to go?”

Ceepak’s jaw joint starts popping in and out.

Mine too.

Do we have “reasonable suspicion,” which would give us the right to detain Mr. Mandrake for investigatory purposes?

We have no hard evidence of Mr. Mandrake making contact with members of the Lombardo crime family.

We have no sales receipts from Murder, Inc. for the rental of two contract killers.

We have no confession from even one of the hired hit men, identifying Mr. Martin Mandrake as the person who paid for his or her services.

Basically, we have a hunch.

One Ceepak probably shouldn’t have played so publicly so soon.

“Officer,” says Mandrake, “I will repeat my question one last time: Am I free to go?”

Ceepak swallows hard. “Yes.”

And, without saying another word, Marty Mandrake walks out the production trailer door.

We sit outside the production trailer in Ceepak’s banged-up Toyota for a few very long, extremely quiet minutes.

I can hear the ocean, and it’s a block and a half away.

“Danny?” Ceepak finally says.

“Yeah?”

“I must apologize. I fear I let my personal feelings interfere with my judgment.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, I guess.”

Ceepak shakes his head. “There shouldn’t be. Not for that sort of unprofessional behavior.”

The thing about Ceepak and his rigid honor code is this: he mostly imposes it on himself. My partner holds himself accountable to a higher standard than he’d ever hold, say, me. I think this comes from being in the military, where all your decisions could be life-and-death ones-for other people, not just for yourself. So when Officer John Ceepak occasionally blows it, it totally bums him out.

“Well,” I say, digging through the treasure trove of sage Springsteen snippets, “tomorrow there’ll be sunshine and all this darkness past.” I go with “Land Of Hope and Dreams” because I know it’s Ceepak’s favorite.

Ceepak looks over at me. “I take it you have seen tomorrow’s weather forecast?”

And then he finally cracks half a smile.

At least Marty Mandrake didn’t skip town after he heard that we suspect him of masterminding two murders.

First thing Friday morning, when Acting Chief Ceepak and I show up on Pier Two to supervise the security detail (which is mostly for show, since we now suspect the death threat is a phony one), we see Mandrake working with his crew, organizing things up at the Fun House. I’m dressed in khaki shorts and a navy blue Engine 23 FDNY T-shirt that this guy who helped us out at the Hell Hole last summer, Captain Dave Morkal, sent me for Christmas. Even though I have my badge clipped to a belt loop, I look sloppy enough to work on Mandrake’s crew.

Ceepak, in his golf shorts and white polo shirt, looks more like a Boy Scout working on his country club merit badge.