Chris Grabenstein - Tilt-a-Whirl

“And,” the mayor steps up to the microphones, “tomorrow is Monday! A sunderful new week begins here in Sea Haven. We're thinking of throwing a big beach party to celebrate Ashley's homecoming! Free refreshments….”

The reporters ignore him.

“Chief? When can we see Ashley? Can we talk to her? How's her mother holding up?”

“Guys? Come on. Give the kid a break….”

“There she goes!”

One reporter points and all the cameras swing to see what he's pointing at.

Ashley, covered in the blanket, walks with her mother to their Mercedes sedan, surrounded by a crowd of state and local police. Looks like they'll be traveling home in their very own motorcade.

Ashley's in such good shape, I guess she doesn't need to go to the hospital.

She just needs to go home.

I walk over to where somebody has set up a folding table with food and drinks.

Hey, what's a successful end to a manhunt without a few snacks and cold beverages?

Unfortunately, there's no beer in the Igloo cooler, just Pepsi. I looked.

“Boyle?”

It's the chief.

“Yes, sir?”

“Good work.”

“Thanks.”

“What's wrong, son?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. You look like somebody just shot your dog.”

Nope. No dogs were harmed in this evening's activities. Just this one homeless guy. Jerry, a.k.a. Squeegee. A guy who gave his girlfriend his favorite shirt because she was cold.

“Listen, son-Ceepak did what he had to do. He did what needed to be done.”

“Do you know what he did, sir?”

“No. And I don't need to know any details. The end justifies whatever means he deemed necessary, understand?”

No. Not really.

“ Yes, sir. Of course.”

“You want to be a cop, you have to come to peace with this sort of thing. The greater good, Boyle. The greater good.” He's actually wagging his finger at me. “The Greater Good.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How's Ceepak holding up?”

“Okay, I guess. Considering.”

“Yeah,” the chief sucks in a chestful of night air. “Rough duty whenever you bring a man down. There will be an investigation. They'll want to ask you a bunch of questions. How did the fire get started? What happened to your suspect? Why didn't you apprehend him prior to the conflagration? That sort of thing. They might even recover the bullet … provided they find the body.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You think you can handle it, son?”

“I hope so.”

“You just need to give the right answers. It's actually pretty easy to do. Tell you what, when you're ready to go over your story, work up the details of what you remember, come see me, okay?”

“Thank you, sir.”

Great. I never had a Code or anything but, on the other hand, I've never intentionally lied about something this big before, either.

Now, it seems like lying is going to become part of my job.

I go looking for Ceepak.

Hey, I'm still on the company dime and it's my job to drive the guy home.

Tomorrow?

I'll probably start the sunny, funderful new week by quitting. Or at least asking for a new assignment. I've decided I don't want to be the hitman's chauffeur any longer. And I hope the department can whitewash their internal investigation without me, because if they ask me any questions, I will tell them no lies.

“You seen Ceepak?” I ask this state cop standing guard outside the baggage hut.

“Inside.”

I walk in and find him on his hands and knees studying the floorboards.

“You ready to head home?”

“In a second.”

“Still looking for evidence?”

“Roger that.”

“I thought the case was closed.”

Ceepak doesn't respond.

“Was he wearing boots?”

“Excuse me?”

“Squeegee. Was he wearing boots?”

“Of course. Timberlands.”

“Unh-hunh. Find anything interesting in here?”

Ceepak stands up and walks to a dark corner.

“Ice chest.”

He squeaks off the styrofoam lid.

“Filled with Milky Ways, water bottles, a turkey-and-brie sandwich….”

“Squeegee treated her pretty good.”

“Danny, your friend Joey T.? The guy who sweeps the beach. Do you know where we might find him?”

“Tonight?”

“Is that doable?”

“He's probably sleeping. His shift starts at like five or six in the morning.”

“I see. Did he work today?”

“No. They usually get Sundays off.”

“Come again?”

“They usually get Sundays off.”

“They don't rake the sand on Sundays?”

How many times are we both going to say the same damn thing?

“They used to. Then there were these budget cuts. Joey does a major sweep on Saturday, gets Sundays off, hits the beach again first thing Monday morning….”

“Awesome! Do you know when he empties the hopper?”

“The what?”

“The bin where the surf-rake stows its trash. When does he typically empty it? Pre-sweep or post-shift?”

“How the hell would I know that?”

“Right. I just thought….”

“Do you want to go wake up Joey T.? Ask him when he dumps his load?”

“No. I'll catch him at 0500. Does he park his gear at the municipal garage?”

“Yeah.”

“Terrific. You up for some O.T., Danny? I'd like to check in with your friend before first light … before he sweeps the beach again.”

“I'm feeling kind of bummed, you know what I mean?”

“Sure.”

“I've never actually been that close to an actual execution. Never been in the building when a man was gunned down by the firing squad. So tonight? I think I need to get shit-faced. I think I need to stay up drinking ’til three or four in the morning and get drunker than I've ever been before. Who knows? Maybe I'll even go home and slap some snot-nosed brats around in the basement or something.”

I hope it sounds as nasty as I mean it to.

Ceepak's eyes show that hurt again.

Good.

“We'll touch base tomorrow,” he says.

“Whatever. You want me to drop you at the house?”

“That'd be great. Thanks, Danny.”

We leave the baggage room, walk back across the ancient railbed, and climb into the Explorer.

“Seat belts,” Ceepak says.

I refuse to put mine on. I just start up the car.

“Chief talk to you yet?” Ceepak asks.

“He sure as shit did.”

“Good. You tell him what happened?”

“I confirmed what he already knew. How the ends justify the means. The greater good. That kind of shit….”

“Good.”

Ceepak keeps nodding, like everything is hunky-dory and peachy-keen.

If he says “It's all good,” like he says about five hundred times every day, I might have to shoot him-even if I don't have a gun. I'll borrow one of his.

“We'll regroup tomorrow. 0730? Pancake Palace?”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

He turns to look at me but I won't look at him.

“It's going to be okay, Danny,” Ceepak whispers.

“What?”

“I give you my word.”

You ever polish off a six-pack in under an hour? Me neither.

Until last night.

This morning, I'm still wearing the same clothes I had on when I fell asleep in my lumpy TV chair.

Must be why no one wants to sit near me at The Pancake Palace.

The waitress brings me a mug of coffee and a plastic carafe so I can continue to pour my own and self-medicate. I rip open a little plastic packet of Tylenol I picked up at the 7-Eleven. It's my second pack of the morning and I chew the tablets like they're Flintstones vitamins. Sure the stuff is bitter, but hell-so am I.

It's 7:40. My partner's late. Highly un-Ceepakesque behavior. There are no syrup-stained rugrats stealing tips this morning. In fact, The Palace is even emptier than it was on Saturday. I guess things will pick up tomorrow-when the world celebrates the safe return of Ashley Hart with a mad dash back to the beach. I'll bet you the Tilt-A-Whirl, the train depot, the burnt-down hotel-they'll all become brand-new tourist traps. “This is where they shot him! This is where they found her!”