Chris Grabenstein - Whack A Mole

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Get a good night's rest. First thing tomorrow morning, we need to go talk to the Reverend Billy Trumble.”

I drop Ceepak off at headquarters.

He has a little high-school chemistry lab set up on the second floor. The chief arranged for it after Ceepak saved his butt on the Mad Mouse case. It's not a huge deal, but he's got a microscope plus a computer that can do automated fingerprint searches or match tire tracks to a database of known tread patterns. He even has this program called SLIP for “Shoewear Linking and Identification Program.” He's all geared up for the first season of CSI: Sea Haven if, you know, CBS decides to do that instead of, say, CSI: Des Moines.

I head back over to Ocean Avenue. When I cruise past The Treasure Chest and The Bagel Lagoon, I check my rearview mirror and see Rita coming down the staircase from Ceepak's apartment with Barkley the dog. It's a slow go. Barkley needs to contemplate each step before taking it.

By my watch, it's nine forty-five P.M. I figure Aubrey Hamilton might still be waiting for me over at The Sand Bar. I figure this because I forgot to let her know I wasn't coming at nine-thirty as planned.

Oops.

I hang a right and head back to the bay side of the island. I know I'm supposed to head home and get a good night's sleep, but I need a beer. Something to wash the stink of Ceepak's fingerprint spray out of my nostrils. Something to wipe the image of Miriam's severed nose out of my memory bank.

She's gone.

Long gone, according to Ralph the bartender.

“She's the blonde with the long legs, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Always dresses in white, to show off her tan?”

“Yeah. That's Aubrey.”

“She's a tramp, my man.” He stares at an empty stool two down from mine at the bar. “Had most of the buttons undone on her blouse … everything all hanging out.”

“Unh-hunh….”

“Keep away from that one. Skanks like her are nothin’ but trouble. Trust me. You want a beer?”

No, I want somebody to put me out of my misery. But a beer will have to do.

“Yeah. A Bud would be great. Thanks.”

Ralph plops a cold longneck down in front of me.

“Oh, shit,” he says. “Dorkface.”

He sees somebody I don't.

“Why does this fucking asshole have to come into my bar every night?”

I turn around. It's Princeton. The fiftysomething tourist who was heading off to Smuggler's Cove last night with my sweet little hitchhiker.

He sees me. Waves like we're old pals, fraternity brothers. Acts like I have a tiger tattooed on my butt, which, I'm told, is what all the guys who go to Princeton do-even the ones who eventually grow up to become Secretary of State and whatnot.

“Good evening, gents,” he says as he straddles the stool next to mine, even though there are about a dozen empty seats up and down the long bar. This is Monday night. The bar scene in Sea Haven doesn't really start cooking until Wednesday or Thursday. Sometimes Tuesday. Tuesday is Ladies’ Night. Mondays, however, are nothing. Mondays are for drinking Busch at home.

Ralph swabs at the bar with his damp cloth. “What're you drinking?”

Princeton rubs his palms together like he's warming 'em up. “What's good tonight?”

“Beer.”

“Ah-ha. Do you have Stella?”

“Yeah.”

“On tap?”

“Yeah.”

Stella Artois is this Belgian beer all the college kids go nuts about.

Princeton holds up two fingers. “One Stella. Two fingers of foam if you please.”

“Oh, shit,” says Ralph. “I forgot. Tap just broke. You want a bottle? That way you can pour as many fucking fingers of foam as you want.”

Princeton blinks and smiles, and Ralph stomps off to fetch his beer. “Excellent suggestion.” His stool squeaks as he swivels in my direction.

“What a foul-tempered cretin,” he confides.

I shrug. Sip my Bud.

“You're with the police, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm not driving this evening.”

“Then I'm not having a problem.”

“Excellent. I'm Teddy Winston.”

“Danny Boyle.”

“Here's your beer.” Ralph delivers Teddy's bottle with a hard thump that sends some of his precious foam sloshing up the top and down the sides.

Teddy whips out a hanky and dabs at the puddle.

“Do you happen to have a coaster?”

Ralph plops a paper one down.

“And a glass?”

Ralph reaches for a mug.

“The classic chalice?” Teddy asks.

“Nope. Just mugs.”

Princeton blinks again. “Sorry. I don't mean to be intractable. I'm just something of a perfectionist. I suppose most surgeons are….”

Ralph wipes his way up the bar away from us. He wants nothing more to do with Dr. Teddy Winston.

I, however, need to ask a few questions.

A perfectionist and a surgeon? Welcome to my suspect list.

Most surgeons know how to use a scalpel, and Ceepak says serial killers are usually perfectionists. All of a sudden, I'm wondering whether Teddy Winston, MD, is an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist.

“You're a surgeon?”

“Indeed I am.”

“And you used to come down here, back in the ’80s?” I ask.

“That's right. When I was in college and med school. Sea Haven offered a welcome respite. I'd put down the books, pick up my fishing pole….”

“Right. Cool. You ever hang with a girl named Miriam?”

“Miriam?”

“Yeah. She could've been a Jewish girl.”

He thinks. Pouts out his lower lip.

“No. Not that I recall. I don't remember any chicks named Miriam….”

Chicks? This guy is totally stuck in the ’80s. Maybe the ’70s.

“How about a Ruth?” I ask.

“Another Jewish chick?”

“I don't know. I think she was from Pennsylvania. Up near Erie.”

Teddy tilts his mug and pours a perfect foamy head. He takes a sip, smacks his lips obnoxiously to show his appreciation for the Belgian brewmeister's skill.

“Ah. There's nothing quite as refreshing as a crisp, hoppy, pilsner, is there?”

“Yeah. So-did you know a Ruth back then?”

“Maybe. There were so many scrumptious young things roaming the beaches back in the day. But tell me, since we're discussing fine female flesh-do you know a young redhead who calls herself Stacey?” He looks wistful. “Enormous breasts. Quite fetching.”

“No,” I say. “I don't know any Stacey.”

Except, of course, the one I picked up hitchhiking. The same one I saw in the parking lot with this doofus last night. Sure I'm lying, but frankly, I don't care if Princeton has a Code.

He sighs. Way too dramatic. “Too bad. Amazing young woman. I need to find her.”

“How come?”

“She slipped away before I could jot down her phone number.”

“I see.”

“She also pilfered about a hundred dollars.”

“She robbed you?”

“So it would seem.”

“You want to fill out a complaint? Press charges?”

“No. No need. She earned it. Every penny. In fact, I was hoping we might hook up again later this week.”

“Is she a prostitute?”

“Heavens, no. The money she took was a gift. An honorarium, if you will.”

“Sure,” I say, because I want him to keep talking.

“However, that motel, Smuggler's Cove, it's even worse than I remembered. You're lucky you have your own pad.”

I think a pad is where you take chicks. I should watch That ’70s Show more often.

I gesture toward Ralph, who's down at the far end of the bar reading a wrinkled copy of Salt Water Sportsman.

“Ralph's even luckier,” I say. “He lives on a boat. A houseboat.”