Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

Someone taps me on my shoulder. Mr. Weese. I guess he circled back.

“Give me a call after Labor Day.” He flicks a business card on the table. He's not a banker but a mortgage broker, whatever that is. “If interest rates hold steady, I might have some telemarketing slots opening up.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

He tugs on his belt. It's white. He's wearing monogrammed tan knee socks that blend in with his skin.

I want him to go away, but he just stands there, sucking on a toothpick.

“Good morning, Danny.”

Thank God. Behind Weese I see Ceepak.

“Enjoy your breakfast.” Mr. Weese gives his belt a final hike and walks away. He jingles change in his pocket and studies the bill from breakfast. “Grace?” he calls up to the register. “I think you overcharged us on George's milk. He ordered a small. I know the girl brought him a large, but we ordered a small.”

Ceepak sits down. “You okay, Danny?”

“Yeah. Now. Thanks.”

“Sorry I'm late.”

I check my watch. Nine-oh-one. Wow. I let it slide.

“I swung by the Mussel Beach Motel,” he says. “Checked in with Becca's folks. They say she's fine. She has a contusion coupled with ecchymosis.”

I think that means she has a shiner.

“But no permanent damage.”

“Yeah. Jess told me. Last night.”

“Excellent.”

Ceepak is always bright and chipper first thing in the morning. Me? I'm more your nocturnal type.

He opens a pants-pocket flap and pulls out that plastic-sealed trading card of the Phantom we found last night. He's tucked the clear sleeve inside another plastic protector. I wonder if he's checked the first pouch for fingerprints yet? Probably.

“Mr. Ceepak?”

It's Grace.

“Yes, ma'am?”

“I'm Grace Porter. Welcome to my establishment.”

Ceepak stands to shake her hand. The guy's classy that way.

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Grace has brought some clean silverware to the table and places the rolled-up paper napkin in its proper position on the left. I know. I used to be a busboy.

“What would you like for breakfast, Mr. Ceepak? My treat.”

“You don't have to-”

“If I had to, I probably wouldn't.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Ceepak says with a grin. I can tell he digs Grace because she's totally his type: a no-bullshit straight shooter. He glances down at the laminated menu. “May I please have corn flakes and fresh fruit?”

Grace glares at him for a second.

“No, you may not. This is not ‘The Corn Flake's Commitment.’ ”

“Right. How about bacon?”

“Certainly.”

“And some sausage? Maybe the ham. And let's see … scrapple. That sounds awesome.”

“Very good. How do you like your eggs?”

“You tell me.”

“Scrambled. With onions, green peppers, and jack cheese.”

“That'll work.”

She pours Ceepak coffee from a fresh pot I know she brewed especially for him. She sees the sealed photograph of the guy in the purple diving suit.

“Is that the Phantom?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“He operated in Africa, if I'm not mistaken.”

“That's right.”

“Tell me-why did he wear that mask?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why'd he wear that Lone Ranger mask over his eyes? Everybody had to know who he was.”

“How so?”

“He was the only white man for hundreds of miles in any direction. I'm certain even the elephants knew his secret identity.”

Ceepak grins like crazy. His dimples wiggle up and down.

“Yes, ma'am. I suppose you're right.”

“Tell me, Officer Ceepak, are you on duty today?”

“Is there some problem?”

“Nothing of earth-shattering significance.”

“I'd like to help if I can.”

“It's nothing really. A young man, who thinks he's funny, vandalized my property last night.”

“Where?”

“Out back.”

“Let's take a look.”

“But your coffee will go cold.”

“You can bring me a warm-up. Let's go see what we can see. Danny?”

I gulp one last swig of java.

“Let's roll,” I say.

Grace escorts us to the kitchen. There's all sorts of sizzling going on and the rich, greasy smell of bacon dripping off the walls. I'm drooling.

“Out this way.” She leads us past the sputtering skillets. “I know it's that one boy. The one with the spiky blond hair and tattoos up and down his forearm. I've seen him out back here before. Probably sizing up his opportunity, casing the joint, as you gentlemen might say.”

She pushes open the screen door and we're out behind the building in a small parking lot big enough for two cars and one Dumpster. She walks past the cars, turns around, and points at the brick wall.

For years, the whole back wall of her two-story building has been a local landmark. That's because it's covered with this billboard-size cartoon of a pink pig, with chubby cheeks and a big smile holding a knife and fork, licking his chops in anticipation of eating, well, a friend, I guess.

“See what he did? I wonder, Mr. Ceepak. Could you visit this child? Teach him what is considered unacceptable behavior in civilized society.”

I look down at the pink pig's crotch. Somebody has given him balls. Two splotchy blue balls. Somebody shot Grace's big pig with a paintball gun.

Excuse me,” Ceepak says after he burps.

When he ordered it, he didn't know scrapple was chopped pork and cornmeal mush, seasoned then fried. He'll probably remember all day long. Scrapple has a tendency to repeat on you, and we totally wolfed down our breakfast so we could hustle over to the boardwalk and nab our paintball Picasso. Seems the alleged artiste was busy last night. First The Pig's Commitment, then my annual beach party. Or maybe vice-versa.

Anyway, we figure our perp must strut his stuff at the paintball booth on the boardwalk. People there might be able to ID him for us.

In Sea Haven, the boardwalk runs along the beach for about a mile or two, all the way from Oyster Street north past Anchovy. It's one of the town's top attractions, especially for the under-twenty-one crowd. One side is mostly open to the sand and ocean; the other is cluttered with booths and arcades. There are food and souvenir shacks and games of chance like Whack-A-Mole and The Frog Bog, where you hammer these tiny green seesaws to see if you can flip a rubber frog onto a lily pad. I never can.

The boardwalk is also where the big Labor Day blowout will take place on Monday-the day before I either become a full-time cop or start training for an exciting career in mortgage brokering with Mr. Weese.

“Excuse me.”

If Ceepak keeps saying that every time he burps, he'll wear himself out. Mr. Cereal-and-Fruit isn't used to scarfing down so much early-morning grease. Me? I'm an old pro at digesting partially hydrogenated oil of all types. Most of my meals involve some sort of deep-frying or lard.

As we climb the steps up to the boardwalk, I can see the distant silhouette of the little roller coaster at the end of a pier jutting out into the ocean. It's what they call a Mad Mouse-a tight track with wicked sharp turns. Instead of a train of connected cars like a bigger roller coaster, it has tiny, individual cars shaped like mice. The undercarriage of each one is designed to make you feel like you hit the turns before the wheels do and every time you fly into a curve, you think you're going to rocket off the edge and die. Just when you recover, the little mouse car whips into another turn, throws you another curve, and you think you're about to die all over again.

It's a blast.

Near the north end of the boardwalk is another wicked ride: the Tower of Terror. You can see it no matter where you are because it's twenty stories tall. Basically, it's an open-air elevator that hauls you up, then drops you like somebody snipped the cable. The one time I took the plunge my stomach ended up somewhere behind my eyeballs.