Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

Mrs. Ceepak is in her early thirties, a little younger than her husband. Her hair is blond and slightly old-fashioned in the styling department because, I think, if she ever had fifty bucks, she’d rather give it to one of her favorite charities instead of the Shore to Please Hair Salon. Her face is Jersey fresh with gentle eyes-though the crow’s-foot corners hint at the wear and tear from the fourteen years she spent working two jobs to raise her only son on her own.

Their playful grins quickly fade as they go back to surveying the new damage to their seriously dented car.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Ceepak asks.

“Fine,” Rita sighs. “Just a little, you know, shaken up. Who would want to kamikaze into Silverado?”

I’m guessing the Ceepak’s give their vehicles names. People do that, I’m told. I, on the other hand, call my Jeep “my Jeep.”

“Perhaps a tourist from Ohio who wanted your parking spot?”

“I don’t think so. The spot next to me, the one closer to the store, was wide open. I think this was somebody who wanted to hurt us.”

Ceepak nods.

Unfortunately, sticking to his code, not tolerating lying, cheating, and/or stealing has earned my partner a few enemies. Locals and Bennies-Benny being a derogatory Jersey shore term for tourists. Why? I don’t know. Some say it stands for Bayonne, Elizabeth, Newark, and West New York, all towns north of here.

We take some digital photographs of the damage and write up the incident as a “leaving the scene of an accident.”

“That’s a violation of N.J.S.A. 39:4-129,” says Sam Starky when I pick her up around nine for our date at Big Kahuna’s Dance Club.

“If you’re convicted, your driver’s license will be suspended-that’s mandatory for the first offense. Of course, the state has to show that the driver was knowingly involved in the accident. ‘Knowingly’ means that the driver was actually aware that he was involved in an accident, or that, given the circumstances, he reasonably should have been aware that an accident had occurred.”

Sam, my future D.A., finally takes a second to breathe, so I jump in edgewise: “Wow. I’m impressed.”

“Well, I want to practice law in the State of New Jersey. Stick close to home and the people I love.”

“Yeah,” I say as we pull into Big Kahuna’s parking lot, avoiding saying the “L” word myself. Sam seems to toss it out with reckless abandon. Me? Well, let’s just say I’m not completely over the whole Katie deal.

Multicolored light ropes outline the nightclub’s long roof. The parking lot is edged by fake palm trees and old surfboards stuck in the sand where other places might have flowerbeds.

We head up the ramp and join the line of tanned beach babes and their lucky dates. I feel like I’m at a cleavage convention.

“Danny?”

I turn around.

It’s Gail, a drop-dead gorgeous girl who works at The Rusty Scupper, this grease pit over near the public marina where the waitress in her bathing suit is much more appealing than anything that crawls out of the kitchen on a plate.

I remember that Gail was the girl Skippy O’Malley was dating back when he was a part-time cop. Tonight, however, she’s flying solo, traveling with her girl posse-six other incredibly beautiful women, none over the age of twenty-seven, all in party dresses that show off their cocoa butter tans, belly button jewelry, and what I’d either call their large, prominently supported breasts or their double lattes.

“Are you alone?” Gail asks, even though I’m standing next to Sam. Gail Baker has always been a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

“This is my friend, Sam. Samantha Starky.”

“Hi!” says Sam.

We all shuffle a few feet closer to the doormen checking IDs. The smell of Axe body spray and Calvin Klein’s Obsession wafts through the air. “So, how about you? Seeing anybody?”

“Not tonight. Tonight is girls’ night! My treat!”

Her six friends give up a wild chorus of whoo-hoos.

“You’re treating?”

“Yunh-huh!”

“Tips must’ve been amazing at the Scupper this week!”

“Something like that! Catch you later, Danny Boy!”

We all fish out our entrance fees, get hand-stamped and wristbanded by the thick-necked bouncer, Phil Lee (an old friend of mine from when I worked at the Pancake Palace). Some of the girls in Gail’s crew have to show Phil their driver’s licenses, and he takes his time studying them, matching photos with faces. He uses a little flashlight that lingers at the halfway point on the way down from the face to the ID, if you catch my drift.

The band, Steamed Broccoli, is extremely loud.

“You want a drink?” I shout at Sam when it’s our turn to move beyond the bouncer station and wade through the mob flooding the barn-size dance floor. The joint is jumping, as they say. Some of the dancers, too.

“Sure!”

We head over to the main bar, which is set up like a horseshoe with maybe twenty stools, even though very few horseshoes have stools. I can see Gail and her girlfriends wiggle-walking across the dance floor, stealing glances from guys contemplating how to dump their current dates so they can head over to Gail Country. The seven hottest beach babes God ever created (well, that’s what their bouncing booties say as they strut across the crowded room) find a cluster of round tables close to the bandstand.

“Goo bam,” Sam says. I think.

“Huh?” I say just to be sure.

“Good band.”

I nod. In here, speech, like resistance when dealing with the Borg on Star Trek , is futile.

Sam and I each order a bottle of Bud from the bartender, who happens to be another bud of mine, named, well, Bud.

“What’s the maximum capacity of this room?” asks Sam, who, much like Ceepak, memorizes fire codes in her spare time.

I shrug. “Probably however many people are jammed in here right now.”

Purple and pink lights flash on dancers waving their hands high above their heads. You can’t really tell who’s dancing with whom. It’s one big wiggly, sweaty, writhing mass of barely clothed humanity. The guy in the light booth is switching colored lights in time to the beat, shooting spotlights at the disco balls left over from twenty summers ago.

And in waltzes Bruno Mazzilli, the baron of the boardwalk, looking like the cheesy fifty-year-old uncle crashing his niece’s Sweet Sixteen party down in the rumpus room so he can scope out all the hot young bods. On his arm, if I’m not mistaken, is another friend of mine from high school-Marny Minsky. She’s hard to miss. Has a head of sproingy blonde curls. Looks like she’s smuggling rugby balls under her blouse.

The last time I saw Marny, she was crawling out of a wreck wearing some kind of Victoria’s Secret swimsuit and stiletto-heel sandals. The minivan she’d been riding in had crashed into a rack full of rental bikes because the married guy who’d been plying her with champagne didn’t want Ceepak and me to catch him cheating on his wife in the family soccermobile.

Marny looks young enough to be Bruno Mazzilli’s daughter. I say this because Toni, one of Bruno’s daughters, went to high school with Marny and me.

“Hey, Gail!” I can hear Marny shout-only because Steamed Broccoli just announced they’re going to take a short break.

“Hey!” Gail shouts back.

“You go, girl!” Marny raises a plastic cup of something pink.

Gail and her gaggle of girlfriends all raise their plastic cups and give Marny another chorus of “whoo-hoos” (all the cups in our seaside bars are made out of plastic because you really don’t want any of these inebriated people handling glass).

Mr. Mazzilli and Marny go over to Gail’s table. The two bend and hug and air kiss. Mazzilli smiles. He admires the view. Both girls are in dive-suit-tight skirts that barely cover their butts.