Chris Grabenstein - Fun House

And we head out into the hall.

“It’s Axel,” says Ceepak, when we’re both out in the corridor.

We duck into the chief’s empty office. Close the door.

It’s 9:07.

“This is Ceepak. Yes. I see. How firm is your intel? He’s certain? Roger that. We’re heading to the boardwalk now. Appreciate your following through like this.”

Ceepak closes up his cell. Talks fast.

“Danny, we have a situation. We need to speak with Ms. Layla Shapiro, ASAP.”

I just nod and tap the Glock at my hip to make sure it’s still there.

Ceepak shoves open the door to the Interview Room. Doesn’t actually enter. I hang behind him in the hall.

“Mr. Mandrake?”

“Yeah?”

“Where is Ms. Shapiro currently located?”

“Layla?” Mandrake checks his Rolex. “She should be back in the production trailer outside the Fun House. The bit with the big check was on the rundown for 9:02 to 9:03.”

“Chris?” he says to Special Agent Miller.

“Yeah?”

“Danny and I need to be on the boardwalk. Pier Two. Now. I’ll fill you in later.”

“Copy that.”

Ceepak turns to me. “Danny?”

We hustle up the hall, smash through that parking lot exit, run to our car.

“Siren and lights?” I ask as I crank the ignition.

“Roger that. Kill them once we initiate our final approach to boardwalk parking.”

I squeal wheels and burn rubber. Every light on our roofbar is swirling like crazy. The siren is wailing.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Axel received a phone call from his mob contact, the driver, Mr. Accardi.”

“And?”

“Certain members of the Lombardo crime family had gathered at their social club this evening to watch the Fun House finale.”

Figures. They were, more or less, technical advisers for the show.

“Apparently, Mr. Accardi does not drive Mr. Lombardo on Mondays or Tuesdays. Another driver fills in for him. That driver was also at the social club tonight. When he saw Ms. Shapiro holding the charity check, he said it was ‘the same chick who made the money drop’ on Monday. Made the big deal with Bobby.”

“So she went down there three times?”

“Right. Apparently, the third visit was as an independent agent.”

“To take out a hit on her boss?”

“Such is my supposition.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps to ensure that, in Mr. Mandrake’s absence, she would take over as executive producer of the program when it is renewed for another year. I suspect Ms. Shapiro knew full well why Mr. Mandrake was sending her to Atlantic City. By terminating Mr. Mandrake, she assumed she would also terminate our investigation, ending our potential threat to the Fun House brand image and its viability as a network money-maker.”

Geeze-o, man. I always heard that television was a cutthroat business, but this is ridiculous. Layla isn’t clawing her way to the top; she’s hiring mobsters to whack her way up the corporate ladder.

We make pretty good time to Pier Two. It’s 9:22. We hop out of our cruiser and sprint through our own security blockade.

“Lock down this access point, Gus,” Ceepak barks as we dash past security.

Up ahead, I can see lights illuminating the bright red clown lips at the Fun House entrance. They have the TV show sound pumping through speakers so the live audience gathered on the boardwalk can hear everything as they watch the show on six giant-screen TVs set up for their viewing pleasure.

I can hear the final guitar chords of “The ’59 Sound,” this rocking song by an amazing Jersey group that sounds a lot like the new Bruce Springsteen.

“All right, let’s give it up for The Gaslight Anthem,” booms Chip Dale, the show’s host.

Great choice of bands, I think. “The ’59 Sound” is all about “which song they’re gonna play” when you die.

We’re jogging toward a trailer parked right in front of Gabe Hess’s All American Snack Shack, where all the chaser lights are still blinking. We head for the attached staircase at the back. One of those generic young crew guys in shorts, tool belt, and headset holds up a hand.

“Sorry. This is a restricted area-”

“Sea Haven P.D.,” says Ceepak, flashing his badge and flipping up the holster strap over his Glock. I do the same. “Step aside, son.”

The young dude does as he is told.

We charge up the steel steps.

Slam open another door.

The trailer is dark except where it’s illuminated by red and green buttons or the jittery glow of TV monitors-the feeds from all the remote camera crews. Guys wearing headsets are sliding knobs, toggling switches, saying stuff like “Go to two” and “Three, tighten up” into their headsets. In the middle of the chaos, I see the director, Rutger Reinhertz. He’s waving his hands like he’s an orchestra conductor.

“And take three. Cue Chip.”

On the screens I see Chip Dale with Mike Tomasino. Mike’s going into the Fun House first with a representative from his charity, a guy holding on to a dog leash attached to a very noble-looking German shepherd.

“Can we take Rex the rescue dog with us?” asks Mike as the puppy cradled in his arms licks his face. The crowd on the boardwalk oohs and aaahs.

“Sorry, Mike. The dog stays out here. It’s just you and Dave against the clock. Soozy and Becca will tackle the obstacle course immediately after you. Now, the team with the best time.…”

While Chip explains the rules of the mad dash through the Fun House, I hear Layla before I see her.

“Unit three? Unit three? Where’s my fucking smoke, Jimbo?”

Jimbo’s voice leaks out of a tinny speaker set into the slanted panel in front of Layla. She’s dressed in a tight-fitting suit that hugs all her curves and still has the three top buttons open on her blouse so everybody can get a peek at Victoria’s secret.

“Jimbo? Where the fuck is my smoke?”

“Where’s my fucking grip?” Jimbo slams back. “I got lights, sound, no special effects.”

“I gave you a fucking grip!”

“You gave me a fucking P. A. and he’s fucking A.W.O.L.!”

I nudge Ceepak. Point out Layla.

“We need smoke in the black-light mirror maze or it just looks like a bad Jimi Hendrix poster,” she screams. “Someone find that fucking grip. Which one is it, Jimbo?”

“That doofus Sean. Wears a fucking ski cap in the middle of summer, doesn’t know his ass from a half-apple.…”

“Sharon?” This from Layla.

“Yeah?” says Layla’s underling/producer-wannabe.

“Find Sean. Send him in the back door with his smoke box. And remind me to fire his union ass after we wrap.”

“On it,” shouts Sharon as she bolts out the trailer door.

Ceepak and I are standing right behind Layla now. Ceepak taps her on the shoulder.

Layla spins around. “What?” Now she sees who we are. “What the … how the hell … this is a closed set.…”

“Outside,” says Ceepak. “Now.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. Now.” He takes hold of her arm.

She pulls back. “Don’t you fucking touch me!”

People are staring now. I glance up at the main monitor.

They’re running commercials. Of course they wouldn’t send Mike into the Fun House without teasing it first and saying he’s going in- right after the break . Everybody in the control room has two or three free minutes to rubberneck the excitement in the back of the trailer.

“Fine,” says Ceepak, “we’ll do this here.” He spies a gooseneck lamp attached to the top of the slanted console in front of Layla. He snaps it on. Aims it at Layla, who recoils under the harsh light.