Chris Grabenstein - Whack A Mole

Ceepak says the last two words with as much sarcasm as he ever musters. Then he turns to look me in the eye.

“I'm afraid the nation was too busy to show its gratitude for a young black soldier who grew up in the wrong part of town. He was considered ‘less dead.’”

Less dead.

And so, once again, Ceepak helps me understand the significance of solving the Mary Guarneri puzzle.

Dover. Private Antwoine James.

Sea Haven. Runaway Mary Guarneri.

In Ceepak's world, every life is worthy of honor and respect, no matter how shady the circumstances surrounding it. No man is less dead than any other. No child less missed.

“You hungry?” I say.

Ceepak blinks. I think I just shocked him out of his dark musings, which was exactly what I was hoping to do.

“I'm starving,” I chirp like one of those gulls tracking Gus's boat. “Maybe we should head over to Morgan's. We don't have to do the whole surf and turf deal but maybe we could grab some crab cakes or a bowl of chowder….”

I'm rambling.

I'm also not really hungry.

I just think my partner needs to be reminded of what's still good and decent in this world.

I think he needs a little Rita time.

Morgan's Surf and Turf is one of the few restaurants on the island that actually covers its tables with a tablecloth made out of cloth instead of paper.

And they don't give you a glass full of crayons to scribble on it, either.

When we got there, around eight P.M., Rita was working five tables. She looked pleased to see us, even if she was busy. Now we're sitting in a big booth at the back, right near the swinging kitchen doors where we can hear dishes clatter and bells ding and the cook yell in Spanish while we wait for our steaming bowls of Morgan's World Famous Clam Chowder to cool down. Only they spell it “Chowda.” All the restaurants down here do. Guess it makes New Jersey sound more like New England. Maybe Cape Cod.

I'm also eating crackers. They have good ones at Morgan's, not just your basic Saltines. Morgan's gives you variety: Waverly Wafers, Ritz, Melba Toast-even those Sociables with the baked-in black specks that I think are pepper, maybe poppy seeds. Each cracker couple comes sealed inside its own individually labeled cellophane wrapper and they all sit in a tidy row inside a black-and-gold wire basket.

Classy.

I have a pile of tooth-torn cellophane wrappers heaped up next to my fork. I also have a light dusting of crumbs in my lap.

Not so classy.

I slurp some soup. It's good. Thick and creamy.

Ceepak has nibbled maybe the corner off one Saltine. For him, chowda is something you stir with a spoon while you ruminate.

“Hey, Danny!” It's my friend, Olivia Chibbs, the med student. She works summers at Morgan's, which is why she is currently balancing a mammoth tray loaded down with crab-stuffed lobster tails and something that smells like overcooked broccoli. “Hey, Ceepak.”

“Good evening, Ms. Chibbs.”

“Where've you been, Danny?” Olivia asks.

I point to my cop uniform. “Working.”

“I thought you were on days.”

“I am.”

“It's night.”

“We needed to put in a little overtime,” says Ceepak. I notice he doesn't offer any additional information as to why we're working later than usual. I think it's his hint for me to do likewise, to keep our current mission under wraps as the chief requested.

“Do you guys get time-and-a-half when you pull OT?” Olivia asks Ceepak nods. “Yes, ma'am. We surely do.” He nibbles another corner off the same Saltine. For a tower of power, the guy eats like a sparrow on a low-carb diet.

“Awesome,” says Olivia. “So Danny, Becca's been trying to text you for like two hours.”

Becca Adkinson is another one of our mutual friends. She and her family run the Mussel Beach Motel over, as the name suggests, near the beach.

“What's up?”

“You and Aubrey Hamilton. She's willing to give you a second chance.”

Aubrey is the girl Olivia and my buddy Jess tried to fix me up with last night.

“Becca set it all up. Tonight. Nine-thirty. The Sand Bar. Be there. On time, this time!”

Olivia shoots me a wink and bustles away with her clattering tray.

“Have I met this girl Aubrey?” Ceepak asks.

“Maybe. Waitress. Rusty Scupper.” When I'm nervous, I tend to speak in quick, incoherent bursts.

“Nice girl?”

“Oh, yeah. Very, you know, nice. Real nice.”

“You know, Danny, I suspect your friends think it's time you moved on. Tested the romantic waters.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“When one door closes, another door opens.”

“Yeah,” I crack, “but it's hell in the hallway.”

“You still miss Katie?”

I'm about to say, “Nah,” when I remember Ceepak's Code. Not only won't he lie, cheat, or steal, he also won't tolerate anybody who does. I am, therefore, once again compelled to tell him the truth.

“Yeah. Sort of.”

He nods his head like the big brother I never had.

“Understandable. Katie is a wonderful woman.”

“Yeah. Must be why she moved all the way across the country to get away from me.”

Now Ceepak shakes his head. “Not you, Danny. The memories. Her secret sadness. I believe Springsteen says it best….”

Of course he does.

“‘Some day they just cut it loose, cut it loose or let it drag 'em down.’”

He's quoting “Darkness on the Edge of Town” again.

“Danny, Katie had to cut herself free from Sea Haven and what happened here or it would have dragged her down for the rest of her life.”

As usual, The Boss and Ceepak are correct, but it doesn't really make me feel any better. So, I tear open another cracker wrapper.

Ceepak tilts his wrist, checks his watch.

“You should definitely meet up with this young lady. Aubrey. It's only twenty-fifteen. Finish your soup and we'll swing by the house so you can pick up your Jeep.”

“Don't you want to go talk to Trumble like Gus suggested? He's right, you know. A lot of the teenage runaways eventually end up there.”

“10-4. However, I feel it might be best if we pay the Reverend a visit first thing tomorrow morning while he's serving breakfast. I find people are often most forthcoming when they're too busy to play games or plot deceptions. Who knows-maybe our redheaded friend will be there as well.”

The thief from the beach. I had forgotten all about her.

Ceepak leans back in the booth and stares off into space, his face softening. I swivel in my seat to see what he sees, what he's smiling at.

Of course. It's Rita. She's over by the bar with her soft blonde hair backlit by the golden glow of a neon Corona Beer sign. She beams back at him and waves something in our general direction.

“Wonder what that might be….” As if she heard him, Rita does a quick scan of her crowded tables to make sure everybody has everything they need for the next two seconds, and then darts across the dining room to join us.

“Look you guys-T. J. went to the top of the Empire State Building!”

She puts a postcard down on our table.

“That's wonderful,” says Ceepak.

“John, he's having such a great time….”

Ceepak sort of blushes. He doesn't want the whole world knowing he paid for Rita's sixteen-year-old kid to go see King Kong's perch. Not that he's embarrassed about doing it. It's praise that usually makes Ceepak feel all squirmy. I think it's why he never talks about the ton of medals he earned in the Army.

“Neither one of us can ever thank you enough,” says Rita. “He went to Greenwich Village and this free rock concert in Central Park….”

Ceepak allows a slight smile to cross his lips.