Chris Grabenstein - Tilt-a-Whirl

“Mr. Hart became impatient?”

“He wanted a clean slate. An empty patch of ground where he could build something new and flashy. Maybe even a casino. He was confident he could push an ‘urban renewal’ gambling referendum through the local legislature. So he hired Mendez to bring the old building down. But when Mr. Hart died….”

“You went to work on Mendez?”

“Yes. Mendez could pull the plug, stop the demolition.”

“Until we locked him up in jail.”

“Yes. By then, I was afraid to tell you what I knew….”

“Understandable.”

“I wish now I had behaved differently. My silence destroyed my great-grandfather's legacy. I will always regret my inaction….”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Hart alive?” Ceepak asks.

“Saturday morning. I drove him and Ashley into town.”

Ah-hah. So that's how they got all the way from Beach Crest Heights to Sunnyside Playland.

“What time?”

“We left the house before 6:30.”

“Mr. Hart was an early riser?”

“No. He said Ashley ‘dragged him out of bed.’ He was very sleepy when we climbed into the car.”

“Why did you want Mr. Hart to change his will?”

“It made no sense. How is a thirteen-year-old child going to run a multinational corporation? I suggested we set up a trust fund for Ashley but cede corporate control to the board….”

“And?”

“He told me, in no uncertain terms, to ‘mind my own business.’”

“Why?”

“He never said.”

“Any theories?”

“None I wish to discuss. It would only be conjecture on my part, and I refuse to engage in idle speculation.”

Wow. Guess Ms. Stone has a Code, too.

Wonder if she's ever broken it.

“Why didn't Hart just drive himself into town Saturday morning?”

“I'm not sure. I think Ashley had him flustered. He told me to hurry and fetch the car. I felt like a chauffeur. I was up front, driving. They were in the back seat. Giggling. In truth, I was rather embarrassed to see this man I've always admired acting so childishly. I dropped them off and went looking for a cup of coffee.”

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Depends.”

“Your perfume. Do you purchase it at Victoria's Secret?”

“No.”

“It's not a Victoria's Secret fragrance?”

“That wasn't your question.”

Oh, boy. She's being a lawyer. Only answering the exact question asked.

“You asked me if I purchased it at Victoria’s Secret. I did not. It was gift. From Mr. Hart. I don't particularly like the scent. He, however, does. I'm no fool, nor am I averse to a little brown-nosing to advance my cause, so I wore it this weekend.”

“Clever.”

“Didn't work. He still wanted to knock down the hotel.”

“One last thing,” Ceepak says. “How did Mr. Hart and his ex-wife get along?”

“ Which ex-wife?”

He smiles. I think he kind of likes her today.

“Number three. Ashley's mother.”

“Well,” she pauses to think how to best phrase what's coming next, “she was the mother of his only child….”

“But?”

“I don't think he trusted her.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He asked me to make inquiries regarding a private investigator.”

“Why?”

“The usual. He suspected she had a new lover. Someone who might prove a bad influence on Ashley. Someone who could cause trouble.”

Ms. Stone pauses again, like she heard what she just said.

“Perhaps,” she says, “Mr. Hart was correct.”

“Let's take a walk.”

We're on the sandy concrete sidewalk outside Chesterfield's. The sun is already so hot and bright that the pavement sizzles and any gum you step on is going to be gooey and stretchy like pizza cheese.

Ceepak heads toward the end of the street where pressure-treated planks lead up to the boardwalk paralleling the beach.

“Where we going?” I ask, trying to catch up. The man does not walk at a leisurely pace

“Tilt-A-Whirl.”

“Are you planning on telling me what the hell is going on sometime today?”

“I did. We're walking over to the Tilt-A-Whirl.”

Ceepak is acting like the asshole big brother I never actually had. The one who thinks he's so clever, doing some kind of Three Stooges “nyuck-nyuck-nyuck” hand wave in your face. Some seagulls caw and chitter. They think Ceepak is fucking hilarious.

“That's not what I mean,” I say as we hustle down the boardwalk. All sorts of interesting walkers and joggers come at us, pass us, move up and down the wonderfully level span overlooking the sand and surf. I feel totally out of shape. First, Ceepak walks too damn fast. Second, all these other people look healthy and fit as they speed-walk or run past in their color-coordinated exercise outfits. Third, I drank six beers in sixty minutes flat only about seven hours ago and, like I said, the sun is bright and hot and my armpits bring to mind a cheap brewery.

Ceepak dashes down a short set of stairs and onto the sand. He takes the steps two at a time, swinging from the handrails like a giddy kid. I follow him, trying not to trip, stumble, or fall.

“‘This train?’” Ceepak shouts over his shoulder. “‘Faith will be rewarded!’”

He's quoting another Springsteen song. “Land of Hope and Dreams.” It's not really on any studio album, but Bruce sings it live all the time.

I still have no idea where the hell any of this is leading except, of course, to the chain-link fence surrounding the Tilt-A-Whirl.

Ceepak points to the bushes where I first found the needles and other drug paraphernalia.

“Maybe Squeegee was here. Maybe he came here all the time, especially when it was raining, to shoot up his drugs. Heroin, mostly. He could have been in those bushes, sleeping it off. Then, all of a sudden, he hears a gun go off. Seven, eight, nine shots. Lot of noise. Only Squeegee doesn't pop up right away. He's groggy. Did some heavy-duty smack the night before. He's half-awake, half-asleep when he hears the fence rattling.”

Ceepak kicks the bottom of the fence. It shimmies and rattles and pings against its poles. It'd get me out of bed.

“Maybe he finally sits up. He looks toward the beach, expecting to see the cop who gives him his wake-up call most mornings. Only this particular morning, he sees a lady wearing sunglasses and a scarf and smoking a cigarette. A sweet-smelling cigarette. The sea breeze? It blows that fragrant smoke right up at him and he thinks it smells like something he made for his mother once, for her to hang in the closet. A clove pomander.”

What do you know-Squeegee and I have at least one thing in common-we both made stinky gifts for our moms.

Ceepak points to people and things that aren't there, but I start to see them. He walks over to the trapdoor buried in the sand.

“Maybe he sees this same lady bend down and pull a pistol out of this hole. A pistol just like this one.”

Ceepak pulls out his Smith amp; Wesson.

“Maybe the next time Mr. Jerry Shapiro, a.k.a. Squeegee, is shown such a weapon he says, ‘Yeah, that's like what she had.’ And, he says the lady was wearing white gloves.”

Ceepak snaps open his pants pocket and pulls out a pair of those lint-free evidence gloves.

“‘Like these?’ I ask. ‘Yeah. Like those,’ he says.”

No wonder he was up in Room 215 so long last night. He and Squeegee had quite the conversation.

“The lady's smart. She's not leaving any fingerprints on the murder weapon. Then our witness? He hears the lady whisper something. ‘We need to talk!’”

“Is the lady whispering this to Squeegee?”

“No. He thought so at first. Apparently, some of his recreational drugs increase his sense of paranoia. However, he soon realizes-the lady tucking the gun into her beach bag is talking to somebody else. Somebody up in the Tilt-A-Whirl.”