Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

“Oh. You're with the Baines party?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Mr. Baines made a reservation.”

“Different set of rules?” Ceepak asks.

“Whole different rule book.” She grabs a stack of menus. She's pretty and more like Ceepak's age. I think she irons her blouse, too. And-she's wearing a black skirt with black stockings. Very unbeachy. But definitely classy.

“Follow me.”

“With pleasure, ma'am,” Ceepak says.

Is he flirting? I believe he is. He's certainly smiling. His dimples kick in like crazy and his eyes most definitely twinkle.

The hostess looks at Ceepak over her shoulder, hugs that stack of menus closer to her chest. She dimples back at him.

Okay. This could get interesting.

I'm Rita,” she says after we sit down, taking the cardboard Reserved sign off our table. “I'll be your server tonight.”

“I thought you were the hostess,” Ceepak says. I'm wondering if he'll march back up front if Rita proves to be a hostess impersonator and, therefore, not properly authorized to seat us at this table.

“I am. I mean, I was. I was covering for Norma.”

She gestures toward the front where I see a little old lady in a ruffled white blouse and ankle-length black skirt, her bluish hair sculpted into a stiff bubble. She leans against the sign that says “Please Wait For Hostess To Seat You,” trying not to knock it over. When Norma's shuffling people to tables, I bet you do indeed wait a while to be seated.

“Norma had to powder her nose,” Rita whispers.

“I see. Nice of you to cover for her.”

Rita places menus in front of us.

“I do my best,” she says.

“It's all any of us ever can do,” says Ceepak.

Rita stops. Not only do we not get the whole Welcome-to-Morgan's routine, I think Ceepak just made her forget tonight's catch of the day.

“Would you like some water?” she asks, going with the part of the script easiest to memorize.

“Water would be wonderful.”

I figure Rita is thirty, maybe thirty-five. I know Ceepak is thirty-four. Rita has a big swoosh of blond hair that's too long to be in style, looks more like that Farrah Fawcett poster from the ’70s, the one they still sell on the boardwalk. Her eyes tell me she's probably somebody's mom because they look tired, maybe even sad. I figure her kid is a teenager. I remember my mom's eyes when my brother and I were teenagers-she looked like we never let her sleep. I also figure Rita is a single mom. Maybe it's the way she looks when Ceepak is polite, like maybe her first guy wasn't so nice.

“Would either of you gentlemen like a cocktail?” she asks.

“No, thank you,” I say.

“Not right now,” says Ceepak. “Maybe later?”

The way he says it? I swear it sounds like he's asking Rita out on a date.

“Sorry I'm late.” It's Chief Baines. “I had to meet with the mayor.” He yanks out his chair, sits down.

“Would you care for some water, sir?” Rita asks.

“Sure. Put it in my Scotch.” The chief winks at Rita. “You guys order drinks?”

“Just water,” I say, letting him know what a good boy I am. Our host crinkles his brow.

“You sure you don't want a beer, Danny? I was going to propose a toast.”

“A beer would be good,” Ceepak says.

Okay. Twist my arm.

“Sure. I'll have a Bud.”

We clink glasses, do our toast, and the chief offers me a full-time job starting Tuesday, the day after Labor Day.

“Of course, we'll want you to take some classes at the community college and some training seminars offered by the state police.”

I nod and act like I was already planning on signing up for Criminology 101 this fall even if I went back to busing tables or working at Wal-Mart or that telemarketing gig with the mortgage broker.

Next, Baines tells me Ceepak has requested that he and I partner up.

“You're lucky. An experienced officer like Ceepak can teach you a lot.” Baines tilts his glass in his direction.

“He already has.”

And I mean it.

Now it's time to order. Ceepak and the chief go with Morgan's world-famous cheese-covered concoction of lumpy crabmeat swimming in congealed cream sauce the consistency of wet cement, the dish Katie warned me about.

I order the prime rib. I'm sure it'll clog my arteries, too, but I'm only twenty-five, and I figure I have years to repent for such youthful cholesterol sins.

Silverware scrapes across plates. The chief happily demolishes his crab pie and tells us stories about where he used to work. Florida. He asks Ceepak about Iraq, but all Ceepak says is, “It was something.”

That's as far as he'll go tonight.

So, we move on to a new topic. Labor Day and the big beach blowout.

“I think we're ready,” the chief says. He puts away a huge slug of scotch and water. Licks his lips. “As ready as we'll ever be.”

After our main courses, Rita comes by to wonder if we'll be having dessert and coffee.

The chief can't. He has to run. He's got a meeting with some MTV folks at the Sea Spray Hotel. He's looking pretty pleased with himself.

He stands up. So does Ceepak. So do I.

“Rita?” The chief signs the credit card slip. “If these two gentlemen order anything else, just add it on. And make sure you give yourself a nice tip.”

“I'm sorry, sir-I can't do that.”

“Oh?” The chief flashes her a dazzling grin. I think he uses those Crest Whitestrips.

“I mean-I can't fill in the tip amount. That wouldn't be right.”

I think I just heard Ceepak's heart skip a beat, and it has nothing to do with cholesterol-clogged arteries. Sounds like Rita has Ethics, maybe even a Code.

“Why don't you just put what we've had up till now on your charge slip,” Ceepak suggests. “Then, if Danny and I order dessert, I'll pick up the tab. I'd like to treat my new partner this evening, as well.”

“Fair enough.” Baines scribbles some numbers in the boxes on the credit card slip and signs it. Ceepak and Rita smile at each other. I enjoy having everybody else pay for my food and booze.

“Catch you guys tomorrow,” Baines says.

“Roger that.”

We sit back down. Rita pulls out her pad.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“Danny? How about another beer?”

“Are you having one?”

“Is it possible for one to call a cab should that prove necessary?” Ceepak asks Rita.

“Of course. Another round?”

“No. I'd like a Sambucca.”

“Very good, sir.” She's impressed.

“And a slice of the Mississippi Mud Pie.”

“Excellent choice.”

“I'll try that too,” I say.

“Would you like a scoop of ice cream on the pie?”

“Of course,” Ceepak says. I think he wants to stay here all night. “Chocolate ice cream.”

“Try the caramel crunch,” Rita whispers. “It's fantastic.”

Ceepak smiles. Nods. “Caramel crunch. That'll work.”

Rita is writing up our drink and dessert order when T. J. walks into the restaurant. What's he doing here? Shouldn't he be out defacing signs and maiming people with paintball blasts? Now he's wearing a Burger King uniform like he works there, too. He heads straight to our table.

“Mom?” He's talking to Rita.

“Hey. What's wrong?”

“Nothin'. I just forgot my keys.”

Rita looks sort of embarrassed to be interrupting our dinner with her personal life. “I'm sorry …”

“No problem,” says Ceepak.

“I'll get my keys,” she says to her son.

“Thanks.”

“Did you eat dinner?”

“Half a Whaler.”

Rita nods her head toward a small table near the back of the dining room.

“Go sit down. I'll have the kitchen fix you some real food.”