Fun House (18 page)

“I made us both some coffee,”
says Mandy with a slight giggle.
“Believe me, we needed it. Well, I did. I drank more than I usually do, because I was so excited about meeting a celebrity. Anyways, Paulie, was a total gentleman. He looked at me with those big brown Bambi eyes and told me his heart was already spoken for. He said he didn’t come to the Fun House to find love but, at the Fun House, love found him.”

Soft dissolve to Soozy K and Paulie all tangled up together when they played Twister on the beach during Episode Four. Cross-dissolve to gauzy footage of the two them splashing each other in the hot tub. Another dissolve, and they’re playing Frisbee with a puppy—but that footage is shot so you can’t see “Paulie’s” face, because I think they shot it after Paulie died with a body double and a rented dog.

“Soozy K and he were hoping to take their relationship to the next level,”
says Mandy.
“I respected that. Sure, I wanted him all to myself; what woman wouldn’t? But his heart could never be mine. I could see that. I felt it. Here.”
She taps her own chest, I guess to give the camera a reason to go in tighter on her bazoombas.
“So, seeing how Paulie was sober and I was still kind of blitzed, I lent him the keys to my car so he could run home and be with Soozy. His soulmate.”

Geeze-o, man.

At least the next thing the hidden manipulators of reality cut to is a snapshot of the car we’re really looking for: Mandy’s silver Mustang coupe, the car she calls Butch. We’re treated to several cheesecake shots. Seems Mandy liked to pose next to her car in several different bikinis in several different seasons, so this segment about the missing Mustang resembles a video version of one of those pinup calendars hanging in the oil-change bay at a skuzzy gas station.

“I hope someone finds my car,”
says Mandy when they cut back to her.
“I hope it helps the police catch Skeletor.”

Up comes a black-and-white title:
WHO IS SKELETOR
?

Back comes Mandy with the answer:
“He’s the man who murdered Paulie Braciole.”

Boom! She’s wiped off the screen by the “To Catch a Killer” graphics.

“More from the funeral,”
says the breathlessly excited announcer,
“and how you can help the police catch Paulie’s killer—after the break!”

Then, believe it or not, they roll a Ford car commercial.

For their new Mustang model.

I’ve seen enough. I’m ready to head for home.

But when I turn to leave, Mr. Deep Fried Pepsi Balls is standing there, two beers in one hand. He head-bobs toward the other chair at my table.

“Anybody sitting there?”

“Nope. You can have both seats. I’m out of here.”

He holds out one of the beers.

“I bought you a beer.”

I check out the bottle gripped between his fingers, mostly so I can check out those knuckles Ceepak noticed. Yep. They’re both there. 8 and 8.

“Thanks,” I say, “but I’m not really thirsty.”

“I talked to Thomas.”

“Who?”

“Skeletor.”

22

O
KAY
.

The guy knows how to get my attention. I sit back down.

The man from the All American Snack Shack looks exhausted and sort of sick. Maybe he has a queasy stomach from inhaling coconut-oil fumes all day. He’s wearing a navy blue polo shirt, his bottle-brush white hair looks like it’s wilting and needs watering, and, when he takes off his black-rimmed glasses, I can see bright red marks the nose pads have left behind. He takes the seat across from me.

On the TV screen over his head, I can see Elton John playing the pipe organ inside Our Lady of the Seas Catholic Church. Wow. He was really there.

Now my unexpected visitor takes a long pull on his beer. It’s beechwood-aged Budweiser, of course. No fancy European import brewskis for this patriotic American. I guess as the day drags on, I’m losing my edge. I don’t bust his chops about Bud being a Belgian beer, seeing how the folks in St. Louis sold out to InBev, a company based in some place called Leuven, which I’m told is near Brussels, home of the sprouts. And their CEO is a Brazilian.

“Thomas did not kill Mr. Braciole,” the guy says when the beer has given him enough courage to talk.

“So why doesn’t he turn himself in?”

“He’s scared.”

“How come?”

“They ostracized him.”

“The Creed?”

He nods.

“So,” I say, “what exactly does that mean? Ostracization or whatever.”

“They cut him loose. No one is covering his back. Thomas is completely on his own.”

“How come?” I ask, even though I think I know the answer.

Mr. America tips his white fuzzy head toward the closest plasma-screen TV glowing with more somber footage of Paulie’s casket being carried up the center aisle of the church.

“This much publicity is bad for business,” he says. “We like to keep a low profile. That thing in the parking lot at Morgan’s? Well, that was fun. Nobody got busted. But this? This is bad. Thomas is attracting way too much heat.”

I peer at the guy. Something about this isn’t right.

“You know I’m a cop, right?”

“Yeah.” His lip can’t help but curl a little, like he just smelled sour milk.

“So, you talking to me. The Creed finds out, won’t they ostracize you, too?”

“Maybe. But it’s the chance I have to take for my brother.”

“You’d go against all your Creed brothers for the sake of one?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Cause he’s my brother.”

I must look confused, because I am.

Bushy-head helps out: “My
real
brother.”

Now my face telegraphs that I’m not buying it. I see absolutely no physical resemblance between this tubby guy and the towering Skeletor.

“Same mother. Different fathers. His was tall.
Very
tall.”

Oh. Okay.

“Why’d you think I let him sell that shit out of the back of my booth after some asshole torched his Hell Hole hideout?”

Ah, brotherly love. It knows no limits. No wonder they named a city after it.

“So, what does Thomas want?” I ask.

“The same thing you want: to turn himself in. Before something horrible happens. Before some hardass state trooper guns him down in cold blood.”

Man. This guy actually believes all the conspiracy crap on cable TV.

“How soon can Thomas surrender?” I ask.

“You and your partner free Saturday?”

“Why Saturday? Why not tomorrow? Why not tonight?”

“He’s got some shit to take care of.”

“What kind of ‘shit’?”

“There’s this lady friend. Maybe a baby. I’m not sure.”

Geeze-o, man.

“Look,” I say, “the sooner Thomas turns himself in, the sooner we can start protecting him.”

“I know, but my baby brother has an extremely thick skull.”

I take a sip of the beer the guy brought me and think about the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski, and his brother, David, the guy who, basically, turned the nutjob in. It can’t be an easy thing to do.

“Is Thomas in immediate danger?” I ask.

“No. If the Creed wanted him dead, he’d already be dead. They’re just cutting him loose. Letting you guys do their dirty work for them.”

I glance up at the TV screen.

Bill Botzong, head of the New Jersey State Police Major Crimes Unit, is on. He looks very professional in his starched dress uniform, golden shoulderboards, and admiral-style hat. He asks the public for any and all assistance they can offer as to the whereabouts of the drug dealer known to state and federal law enforcement authorities only as Skeletor, a prime suspect in the murder of Peter Paul Braciole.

And, it turns out, to make things even more interesting, the producers of
Fun House
are offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of
“this man.”

When Botzong says that, the screen fills with a very scary sketch of our gaunt-faced friend in his floppy-billed Boonie hat.

“Did Thomas serve in Vietnam?” I ask his half-brother, who’s swigging from his beer bottle, not even glancing at any of the dozen TV screens surrounding us. “Is that why he likes the hat?”

“No. The Army wouldn’t take him.” He taps the side of his head. “He has issues, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah.” I push my beer bottle away. “Look, I need to talk to my partner. Organize things.”

“Sure.” Mr. America stands up. Extends his hand. “I’ll bring Thomas to the police station first thing Saturday morning. How’s eight? Too early?”

“No. Eight is cool.”

I guess we’re making a deal here, so I go ahead and take his hand. Shake it. “You want us to arrange for a lawyer?” I ask.

“You know a good one?”

“Couple. Yeah.”

“He can’t afford to pay much.”

“I know somebody good in the public defender’s office.”

“Thanks. Appreciate it. I’m Gabe.”

“Danny.” Then I remember my official position and how this isn’t just some dude I’m meeting over a cold one. “Officer Boyle.”

“Okay. Officer Boyle.”

We break out of the handshake.

“You know where to find me if your partner has a problem,” he says.

“Yeah. We’ll probably swing by your stand tomorrow. Iron out any logistics.”

Gabe nods. “Thanks. Enjoy the rest of the show.”

He slips out of the bar as Chip Dale strides onto the sundeck of the house on Halibut Street.

“And so we say farewell to Paulie. The Thing. The young man who lived his life with such joy, such gusto, such … liveliness. Sad to think that, only a few short weeks ago, Paulie was right here, on this sundeck, doing what he liked best: playing beer pong with his buddies, making them smile.”
Chip gives a sincere shuck of his head.
“Let’s hope they have a pong table for him up in heaven. Next week?”
Man, this guy can shift gears faster than a drag racer stoked on methamphetamines.
“It’s double elimination time! The four remaining contestants all had immunity tonight. But next week? Two contestants will be seven days closer to a quarter-million dollars while two of their housemates will be packing their bags and heading home. We hope you’ll be watching. We know Paulie will. Until then, this is Chip Dale for
Fun House.
Be safe, be who you are, and be sure to have some fun at your house! Good night, America.”

As they roll the credits, they put up Skeletor’s image again and superimpose a title done up in Wild West type: “
WANTED
.
REWARD
: $50,000.”

I don’t call Ceepak right away to tell him about Skeletor’s brother. Hey, they gave the show two full hours tonight, pushed back the local news. It’s eleven o’clock. The Ceepaks have lights-out at twenty-two hundred hours. I don’t think he actually blows Taps on a bugle, but they’re pretty rigid about it.

On the drive home, I start wondering about the $50,000 reward. Maybe Gabe will get it for turning in his brother. He could do a lot of good with the money. Donate it to a Clogged Artery Charity.

I stop thinking about the reward money when my phone rings at 6
A.M. F
riday morning.

It’s Ceepak.

The TV show worked.

Somebody found Skeletor.

There’s only one problem: he’s dead.

23

C
EEPAK TELLS ME TO MEET HIM AT
O
AK
B
EACH
.

In Sea Haven, we name our beaches after the streets they dead-end into. I have a lot of history on this particular plot of sand: it’s where my friends and I used to hang out when we were teenagers, born to run, like Springsteen says, from everything we knew in New Jersey.

Of course, I never did run. I’m still here.

But Oak Beach was where we plotted our escape and talked big about what we’d do and who we’d become. I think I was going to become a rock star. More specifically, I was going to play trombone with the E Street Band, even though, as my late girlfriend Katie pointed out, “they only have a saxophone player.”

“That’s why they need me!” I told her.

But I quit blowing the bone before the end of my freshman year in high school. There was an unfortunate marching band incident. My slide took out the tuba player. Spit valve to the neck.

We laughed about that all summer long.

Every day in June, July, and August, after working our various crummy jobs catering to tourists, we’d all march down to Oak Beach and hang out together. We’d plant our umbrella in whatever patch of bare sand we could find, hide the cooler of beer we were too young to legally drink under a beach towel, and spend the end of the day shooting the breeze, smelling the salt air, dashing up to the dunes every time the guy with the ice cream truck tinkled his bell, honestly thinking we would live that Dylan song Springsteen sings sometimes and stay “forever young.” Our glory days would be like the waves crashing against the shore. Endless.