Chris Grabenstein: Fun House

“Tossing Skee-Balls at cops’ heads.”

“An interesting hypothesis, Danny. As you know, many bodybuilders often turn to the synthetic version of the male hormone testosterone as a shortcut to boost their muscle mass.”

Yeah, steroids may make your muscles swell but, from what I hear, they also make other things, such as the family jewels, shrivel down to the size of wrinkled peas. They pump you up, but let you (and your lady friend) down.

“We’ll talk to Paul Braciole first,” says Ceepak. “Good work, Danny.”

“Thanks.”

When we hit the lobby, Dorian Rence, our dispatcher, waves Ceepak over to her cubicle.

“Your mother called. From Ohio.” Mrs. Rence hands him a pink message slip. “She saw you on TV last night.”

“Really? I did not know that she was a fan of the show.”

“Her church friends told her you were going to be on.”

Ceepak grins. Tucks the message slip into his pocket.

“Oh, and an Officer Vic Daniels from the Elyria Police Department called.” She hands Ceepak another piece of pink paper.

“Thank you.”

“That’s up there in Ohio?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Officer Daniels, he’s the same one who called last week. He need help on a case?”

“Something like that. Anything else?”

“No, you’re all clear.”

“Anything for me, Mrs. Rence?” I ask. We all call her Mrs. Rence because she looks like your best friend’s mom.

“No, Danny, sorry. Oh, that Layla Shapiro who signed in earlier, that’s the girl who helped you at the Rolling Thunder, am I right?”

“Yeah. She’s with the TV show. Fun House .”

“She’s cute.”

“Thanks.”

Mrs. Rence gives me a quizzical look.

“Danny and Ms. Shapiro have been dating,” says Ceepak to clear up any confusion as to why I would say thank you for a compliment directed at someone else.

“Oh!” says Mrs. Rence. “You’re not with Samantha Starky anymore?”

“No.”

“Well, what about that other one?”

“No,” I say, even though I have no idea what “other one” she’s talking about. To be honest, there’ve been a few.

“Oh,” she says. “Well, be careful out there.”

“Will do,” says Ceepak. “Danny?” He bobs his head toward the door.

We head out the exit, go down the porch steps, and swing around back to the parking lot to pick up our Crown Vic police cruiser.

“You want to drive?” I ask, fishing the keys out of my pocket.

“Negative.”

I can tell: Ceepak wants to use the ride over to the rental house on Halibut Street to ruminate some more. Formulate his line of questioning for Paul Braciole.

“So,” I say after we slide into the car. “That Officer Daniels up in Ohio-he offering you a job or something?”

I add a “heh-heh-heh” to let him know I’m joking.

Ceepak turns. Looks at me.

“Yes, Danny. Officer Daniels, a high school classmate of mine, is reaching out on behalf of the Lorain County Sheriff’s Department. They’re interested in me becoming their new chief of detectives.”

I nod. Swallow. “Good salary?”

“Yes. With an excellent benefits package. Plus, my mother, as you might recall, lives in Lorain County, Ohio. I’d be moving home.”

Ceepak.

The guy will not tell a lie-even when you wish he just would.

We’re cruising north on Ocean Avenue.

I’m behind the wheel; Ceepak’s working the radio. By the time we hit Cap’n Scrubby’s Car Wash at Swordfish Street, Ceepak and the desk sergeant have just about worked out a duty roster for Fun House ’s enhanced security detail.

“We offer shifts to off-duty personnel only,” Ceepak reiterates.

“And retirees,” Sergeant Pettus crackles back through the radio.

“Roger that. Reach out to Gus Davis. He can help you put together a list of names.”

“On it.”

“Tell everybody it’s an eyes-and-ears assignment only. They see something, sense trouble, they radio it in. On-duty SHPD personnel respond in an appropriate manner.”

“It’ll take me about an hour to make the calls.”

“Appreciate it, Reggie.”

“No problem. Hey, this gig will sure beat my side job unloading ice cream pallets at the Acme.”

“10-4,” says Ceepak.

It’s true. Most cops have to work a second job-carpenter, plumber, supermarket loading dock schlub-on their days off to make ends meet. At least half of the SHPD’s eighty-some cops will jump at the chance for a ton of easy overtime pay babysitting the TV show. And Prickly Pear Productions is picking up the tab. It’s what they call a win-win situation. Unless, of course, The Thing starts chucking Skee-Balls at you or, worse, wiggling his nips in your face.

Ceepak reracks the radio mic.

“Take Kipper,” he says when we pass King Putt miniature golf.

I flick on my turn signal.

Even though the Fun House is up on Halibut Street, the production offices are in trailers and Winnebagos lining Kipper and John Dory streets. The streets in this part of the island are all named after fish; farther south, you get trees. After that, the Sea Haven Street Naming Commission just sort of gave up and started going with the alphabet and numbers. There’s even a “Street Street” way down near the southern tip. I think the Commission was meeting over at the Frosty Mug during happy hour when they made that particular decision.

A young Class I SHPD officer in a glo-stick green fluorescent vest waves at us. He’s a summer cop, like I used to be back when I first met Ceepak. The department already has four “seasonal hires” working traffic control in the blocks surrounding 102 Halibut Street, the rundown rental where the TV kids are spending the summer.

The house on Halibut is one of the butt-uglier ones on the island: a one-story house that looks like a three-story bungalow because it’s propped up on top of a two-car garage and has a triangle-roofed bedroom up where the attic used to be. To get to the main floor, you have to hike up a set of rickety wooden steps lined with PVC railings.

First stop is the main party deck, with its hot tub, picnic table, and gas grill (that’s where the guy named Vinnie taught the girls how to toast cream-filled cannoli pastries on a stick-like sober people do with marshmallows).

A sliding glass patio door leads you into the living room/ kitchen/pigsty. The sides of the house are covered with tobacco-brown shingles, but the garage doors below are painted green, white, and red so they look like two aluminum Italian flags.

Paulie, Mike, and Vinnie, the three guys left in the house (Tony DePalma got the boot in Episode One; Salvatore “Salami” Amelio lost the Skee-Ball competition), are always calling themselves Guidos. Soozy K, Jenny, and Nicole, the three remaining girls, call themselves Guidettes.

Meanwhile, Italian-Americans everywhere call them “ faccia di culos ,” which means “faces of a buttocks,” or, you know, jerks.

“Parking could prove problematic,” says Ceepak as we crawl up the street crowded with trucks, campers, step vans, a diesel-guzzling generator-all sorts of major vehicles corralled behind bright orange parking cones. There’s even a pop-up pavilion serving chips and salsa and Oreos and pretzel sticks and M amp;Ms to any crew members who waddle by. The crew guys all have radios jangling off their belts and multi-colored tape rolls bouncing against their thighs.

“Maybe we should swing up Shore Drive, park there,” I suggest.

“That’ll work.”

As we inch along, seashells crunching beneath our tires, I see more crew members, all of them dressed in cargo shorts and sloppy tees. They’re rolling carts loaded down with video gear, lighting equipment, electrical cables. They’re pushing lights on rolling tripods, carrying stanchions rigged with flags of black cloth, hauling props. They shove dollies, trolleys, and laundry carts with wheels gone wobbly. These are the grips and gaffers and best boys and electricians and all those technicians listed at the end of a movie when they roll the credits. Not that I stick around to watch them-except in movies that give you funny bloopers, too.