Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

Ceepak stands up.

“Is this your son?” he asks.

“Yes. I'm sorry. This is T. J. Thomas James.”

Ceepak sticks out his hand. T. J. takes it. They shake.

“I'm John Ceepak. This is my partner, Danny Boyle.”

I stand up, shake the kid's hand, wonder whether he's had time to scrub that blue paint out from under his nails.

Ceepak doesn't lie about meeting T. J. earlier. But he doesn't rat him out to his mother, either. Rita beams. She's proud to see her boy being treated like such a man.

“Go grab a seat, hon.”

“Okay, mom.”

I polish off my second beer and then hit the head. While I'm gone, Rita brings dessert.

When that's done and there's nothing on our plates but Mississippi mud stains, Ceepak calls Rita back to the table so he can order coffee.

T. J.'s at the staff table inhaling a salad and some fried shrimp smothered with ketchup. I can see that his mom makes him drink a glass of milk, too.

Ceepak pays for dessert and the second round of drinks.

“Should I call that cab?” Rita asks.

“Danny?”

“I'm good to go.”

Ceepak looks at his watch. It's almost ten P.M. He's been timing my beers. Plus, I've had two cups of coffee. I can see Ceepak's internal calculator doing the math.

“No, thank you, Rita.” I guess I made it under the wire. “Everything was wonderful. Best meal I've had since moving to the island. And it was definitely a pleasure meeting you.”

Rita blushes. “I hope we'll see you in here you more often.”

I can't tell whether she's speaking on behalf of Morgan's or herself.

“I'd like that. Danny?”

“Thank you, ma'am. Everything was great.”

“Thank you. Oh-and congratulations on your new job.”

“Thanks.”

Ceepak and I head toward the front door.

“Danny?”

It's Olivia.

“Yeah?”

“Can you guys hang for a second? The kitchen made key lime pie tonight. It's Jess's favorite.”

“Then I definitely need to take him a slice.”

“Thanks.”

“Is he home?”

“No. Working.”

“No problem.”

“You want some, too?”

I never say no to cake or pie.

“Totally.”

Our buddy Jess is a painter, and in the summer he likes to work at night, while it's cool, while he's not dripping as much as his brush.

“He's at that house on Maple,” Olivia says.

“Still?”

“Yeah. Do you guys mind waiting?”

“Not at all,” says Ceepak.

“Cool. Thanks.”

“We'll hang out front,” I say, since we're kind of blocking the flow of traffic near the door.

“Great.”

Ceepak and I head outside.

Morgan's parking lot is still full. Their crab pie really is famous. I guess word about how lethal it is just hasn't gotten around.

“Good place,” Ceepak says.

“Yeah.”

“Top-notch seafood.” He fiddles with the loose fiber on the dock rope Morgan's has strung between pier pilings along the walkway to their front door. On top of each post is an antique-looking brass lantern, the kind you'd find on a ship. Some of the pier posts have nets or lobster traps tied off on them. It's all very nautical. In a bogus kind of way.

Ceepak gazes up at the starry sky and the silhouette of the huge water tower across Ocean Avenue. At night, the water tank resembles a Tootsie Pop for King Kong.

“That was nice,” I say.

“Great meal.”

“No. I mean how you didn't bust T. J. in front of his mom.”

“Here you go, guys.” Olivia comes out and hands me a white paper bag. I unroll the top to peek inside

“Did you wrap the pie up with foil and make it look like a swan?”

I hear two pops.

Olivia's white shirt explodes with green paint.

The bag flies out of my hands and smacks me in the ribs.

“Down!” Ceepak shouts. He grabs Olivia's shoulders and throws her behind a car.

I hear a third pop. My hair goes sticky.

Ceepak shoves me down behind one of the piers. I see him tuck and roll. I hear a snap and feel a rush of wind zip past my head right before some glass shatters behind me.

That wasn't a paintball.

That was a bullet.

Stay down!”

Ceepak scrambles across the parking lot, using the cars for cover.

“Olivia?” I grunt.

“Yeah.” She doesn't sound so good.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I think. Yeah.”

“Stay down.”

“My knees are bleeding.”

“Stay down, okay? Stay behind that car.” I kind of crawl forward. It's hard to breathe. My lungs ache when they push out against my ribs. I check my shirt. No blood. Just bright yellow-green paint. Pretty soon, I won't have anything left to wear.

I drag myself over to the closest car-a big Lincoln in the handicapped spot up front. There's an empty patch of asphalt with blue stripes for unloading wheelchairs. From here, leaning up against the car, I can cover Olivia and see Ceepak. He's all the way across Ocean Avenue and scaling the chain-link fence surrounding the base of that big water tower. I never thought about the water tower as a potential sniper nest before. Just that giant Tootsie Pop.

I figure Ceepak's back in Iraq. Chasing rooftop shooters, looking for bad guys with rocket-propelled grenades. I look to the left of the water tower. There's a two-story house on the corner. The first floor is a shop. A nail salon. They'll paint palm trees on your fingertips. Upstairs is somebody's house or apartment. They have a deck and a widow's walk on top of the roof. I look north. Another house where the first floor is retail space. That house has a dormer, an extra window pierced into the roofline, turning the attic into a bedroom, or somebody's shooting gallery.

Right across from Morgan's, there's nothing but a fenced-in lot for the base of the water tank. I can't remember if there are ladder rungs welded into the tower. We never climbed up to spray-paint our high school team colors on it like they do in Iowa or wherever. We were too busy drinking beer and surfing.

It's dark, but there's some moonlight. I hear the rattle of fence against pole and see Ceepak clear the curled concertina wire up top with a sideways swing of his legs like he's a gymnast doing that pommel horse deal in the Olympics. Pretty impressive. I hear him land hard on the gravel on the other side.

“That was delicious.”

A couple comes out of the restaurant. The man pops wedding mints in his mouth.

“Get back inside! Now! Move!” I scream. I think the guy choked on his mints when I yelled. “Go! Close that door!”

The guy takes a look at me. He looks horrified. I touch my moist head and figure it out: in the dim light of the pier lamps, it must look like my brain is gushing blood.

He makes a move toward me.

I hold up my hand.

“I'm fine. Go back inside, sir. Please. You could get hurt out here.”

“Do it,” Olivia moans.

The guy swings his head right.

“Ohmigod.” He sees the dark wet splotch covering the front of her blouse. Now he must think he's looking at a weeping chest wound, the kind you see in the movies when someone's been blasted with a shotgun at point-blank range.

Our friend finally gets the picture and pushes his wife back toward the door.

“We'll call the police!”

“We are the police,” I want to say, but I don't. I go with “Thanks,” instead.

I look over to the one lantern that isn't lit anymore. Its glass globe has a spider web cracked into it. The bulb is shattered. Guess that's where the bullet went after it zinged past my ear. I hold my hand up to my ear and touch it. It's wet. I check my palm. Still neon green. Still paint. Still no blood.

“You okay, ma'am?” Ceepak is back, kneeling in front of Olivia.