Fun House (2 page)

Ceepak turns to Mike Tomasino, who is moaning and groaning, pressing the patch of gauze to the back of his head, trying not to ruin his up-do.

“Keep applying pressure to the wound, sir,” says Ceepak. “Paramedics are on the way.”

More bells ding and dong. Somebody has hit a jackpot.

Ceepak and the camera swing back to Paulie’s lane. He is, once again, jamming his arm in and out of the fifty hole.

“Sir?”

“What?”

“Cease and desist.”

Paulie spins around.

“BEEP you, jarhead!”

And he chucks that wooden ball straight at Ceepak’s head.

2

R
EFLEXES
?

Ceepak’s got ’em.

He makes this incredible Mr. Miyagi,
Karate Kid
move. Up flips his left arm. Fingers splay out. Palm springs open.

Boom!

Without flinching, he snags the hard wooden ball in midair, two inches away from his eye.

Clutching it with a very firm grip, he addresses Paulie Braciole: “Now we need to add assaulting a police officer to your list of infractions.”

“BLEEP you, you BLEEPING BLEEP,” says Paulie, reciting what I like to call the New Jersey state motto, even though he’s from Staten Island, which is in New York even if it wishes it could be in Jersey.

“You’re not a police officer!” screams Soozy K, rallying to her muscleman’s defense. She plucks at Ceepak’s polo shirt. “This isn’t a police uniform. My dad’s a cop.” Only when she says it, it comes out “My dashahop” because she’s been mixing her vodka and beer again. She did it on Episode Two, too. Fell face-first into some kid’s sand castle. Took out two towers, crushed the moat. Ended up with a bright yellow plastic sand shovel stuck between her boobs.

This is when the cops working the Tuesday night shift show up. Dylan and Jeremy, the Murray brothers, storm into the Coin Castle. Jen Forbus and Nikki Bonanni are right behind them. They all got their pictures in the
New York Post
Wednesday, slapping on the cuffs, stuffing The Thing and Soozy K into the back of police cars.

“Leave me the BLEEP alone, your BLEEPING po-po!” Paulie screamed as he thrashed between the two Murrays. It took both of them to haul his chiseled butt out of the arcade. Dylan told me later that the guy was in such a rage, it felt like they were wrestling with Dr. Bruce Banner in the middle of morphing into the Incredible Hulk.

Jen and Nikki dealt with Suzy K, who went ballistic when one of the female cops dared touch the top of her bullet-shaped hair to help her scrunch down into the back of their cop car. Apparently, her Conehead hair bubble is her trademark.

“You guys make good TV,” says Marty Mandrake, head of Prickly Pear Productions and the brains (I use that term loosely) behind
Fun House
.

It’s Friday afternoon, August 6. We’re in the chief’s office at police headquarters, watching the raw footage of The Thing and Soozy K being taken into custody on a TV monitor built into the chief’s manly mahogany bookcase.

“We’re gonna open next week’s episode with this next shot,” says Mandrake. “Wait for it.”

We see the two Murray brothers hauling a very wiggly, very wired Paulie Braciole out of the Coin Castle. His head looks ready to explode. “Fuck you, you fucking fucks!” he screams at the camera.

They haven’t had time to edit in the bleeps.

“Boom!” says Mandrake. “I love that shot. This one, too. This one is gold.” Soozy K’s official SHPD mug shot fills the screen. “You see that mascara running down her cheeks? The tracks of her tears. We’ll slug in the old Motown tune!”

“All right,” says Chief Baines. “That’s enough.”

Mandrake presses a button on a remote. The video stops.

The chief, who looks like a handsome TV anchorman back in the days when they all wore mustaches, plucks at his lip hair. He is not happy to be having this meeting.

“Just wanted to give you a preview of coming attractions,” says Mandrake. He’s a big, burly bear with a beer gut who wears a baseball cap with a prickly pear cactus stitched where the team logo should be. Sporting a white goatee, a purple velour tracksuit, high-end Nikes, and sproingy black-and-white eyebrows, I’m guessing he’s pushing sixty even if he dresses like he’s barely twenty.

“By the way,” says Mandrake, “have you boys seen the overnights?” He snaps open his sleek Italian leather briefcase to retrieve a sheaf of papers. I know it’s Italian leather because he told everybody it was, the last time we had one of these “Production Meetings.” I also know it cost eleven hundred bucks because it’s a Salvatore Ferragamo, which, I think, is a very rare breed of Italian cow.

“The overnights?” says Ceepak. “What are those?”

“The ratings! From last night’s show!” This from our mayor, Hugh Sinclair, who is a big booster of
Fun House
because, according to him and his crack team of economists (three kids from the high school math club interning at Borough Hall for advance placement college credits), having the TV show filming in Sea Haven is pumping bajillions of dollars into the local economy. I know the local liquor distributors are happy. The kids crammed into the rental house on Halibut Street have single-handedly doubled beer sales.

“Our numbers are through the roof!” says Mandrake.

Layla Shapiro, who is an associate producer on
Fun House
, rounds out the meeting. She’s sharp, funny, and smart. Back in June, she also helped me take down a nutjob toting a tactical shotgun, so I like her a lot more than anybody else associated with
Fun House
, which even straight-arrow Ceepak calls
Dumb House
when the chief’s not around.

“Boys,” says Mandrake, “‘Skee-Ball’ pulled in five point three million viewers last night. That’s two hundred percent higher than where we were for Episode Five last Thursday. After
ET, TMZ
, and
Access Hollywood
hyped the episode, everybody in America just had to tune in to see the local cop making his Miyagi moves.”

He does a quick “whoosh-whoosh” impersonation of Ceepak catching the flying wooden orb barehanded, adding in a sideways leg kick, because he works in reality TV, so that means he likes to take what really happened and punch it up a bit.

“Hey, Chief,” says Mayor Sinclair, “have you seen this?”

He pulls a T-shirt out of a shopping bag.
“Step down from the Skee-Ball machine, sir,”
is printed in neon green letters across the chest.

“It’s going to be huge!” says Mandrake. “We have a tie-in with Kmart. Going national this weekend and—you’re gonna love this—we’re going to donate two percent of the net profits to your Widows and Children Fund. You guys have one of those, right?”

“Sure, we do,” says the mayor. “Right, chief? We’ve got Widows and Children?”

Baines nods grimly. “Yeah.” He doesn’t add that Ceepak has just started a scholarship fund to help take care of the late Dominic Santucci’s family. Santucci died working security at that Rolling Thunder roller coaster. It’s a long story. Remind me, I’ll tell you sometime.

“Your offer is very generous,” says Ceepak, “but, Mr. Mandrake, I am most concerned about making certain that Mr. Braciole and Ms. Kemppainen appear in court to face the charges pending against them.”

Soozy K? Her real name is Susan Kemppainen. Figures she’d take the rapper route and go with the initial-for-a-last-name.

“Assault with a deadly weapon is a very serious offense,” Ceepak continues.

“It wasn’t a weapon, John,” says Mayor Sinclair sarcastically. “It was a Skee-Ball.”

“Made out of solid wood,” I toss in.

“And,” adds Chief Baines, “it was thrown at an off-duty police officer who had clearly identified himself.”

The chief tugs a few more hairs out of his lip caterpillar. The man is conflicted. His boss, the mayor, wants the SHPD to roll over and play nice with the TV people. But people can’t chuck projectiles at police officers and not suffer the consequences, which, in New Jersey, would be a maximum sentence of five years. And our state prisons don’t have tanning beds. I think the new governor cut them out of the budget, along with everything else.

“Look,” says Layla, calming the whole room with her sparkling brown eyes.

Okay. Maybe I’m exaggerating. We’ve dated a couple times. I’m biased. Let’s just say she’s a refreshing change of pace from Mandrake and his Italian leather briefcase.

“Everyone at Prickly Pear Productions wants to see justice done,” she continues. When Layla speaks, you can tell she went to college—the real deal with ivy on the walls, not Junior College, like me. “Paul and Susan must answer for their actions.”

Heads start nodding around the room.

“We only ask that you hold off a few weeks; delay their indictments until after Labor Day.”

Which would be after
Fun House
finishes filming in Sea Haven.

“This show is very good for us,” says Mayor Sinclair, using his public-servant-looking-out-for-the-little-people voice. “I don’t have to remind anyone in this room that these are tough economic times. Our local merchants are suffering—especially after you two scared away so many potential tourists with your shootout at the O.K. Corral.”

He flips a hand toward Ceepak and me. I think the honorable Hugh Sinclair is referring to us saving a bunch of lives when things turned ugly at the grand opening of the Rolling Thunder.

“Heck,” he continues, shifting into his Ronald Reagan aw-shucks mode, “five point three million Americans seeing these fun-loving college kids having a sunny, funderful day every Thursday night?” Now the mayor is biting his lip like he’s choking himself up. “Chief, it’s summer in America again.”

“Ceepak?” Chief Baines peers at my partner.

Ceepak sighs. “If the county prosecutor agrees to delay processing formal charges until—”

“Excellent!” says Mandrake. “And I agree with Officer Ceepak. We need to keep our cast on a shorter leash.”

Um, Ceepak never mentioned leashes, long, short, or in-between.

“Chief Baines, I want to work closer with you guys moving forward. These two officers, Ceepak and Boyle, are already linked to the show.…”

Layla shoots me a wink. I think she’s the only thing linking me to
Fun House
, even though, for the record, we have not actually “linked up.” Not yet, anyway. Our third date is slated for later tonight. After she wraps. That’s a movie term. Has nothing to do with sandwiches or flour tortillas.

“How about they head up an SHPD
Fun House
security detail? You have people with us 24/7.”

“That’s a major manpower commitment,” says Chief Baines.

“It’s in our budget,” says Layla. “We’ll pay overtime rates. Officers Ceepak and Boyle set up the security team. Assign officers. The LAPD does this all the time. In fact, they even have a special Film Unit.”

“Interesting idea,” says Chief Baines, smoothing what’s left of his mustache back into place. “We could reach out to some of our retirees. Guys like Gus Davis and Alex Smitten who could use a little extra income.”

Mandrake claps his hands. “Bingo. I like it. What size T-shirt do Davis and Smitten wear?”

“I’d, of course, work closely with you guys,” says Layla, sweetening the deal for me, if not the happily married Ceepak.

“The show needs you, men,” says Mandrake, pacing around the room with his hands clasped behind his back. He’d look like a general in his tent the night before a big battle if he weren’t wearing the goofy baseball cap and neon-colored shoestrings on his Nikes. “We’re on an extremely tight, almost live, production schedule. Most reality shows shoot for months, edit for months, go on air half a year after they finish filming. Us? We shoot Friday through Tuesday, edit all day Wednesday into Thursday morning, satellite the finished show up to the network on Thursday afternoon, go on air Thursday night at nine. Keeps us fresh. If we can keep the cast out of trouble.…”

“And out of jail,” jokes Mayor Sinclair, even though, as always, nobody’s paying attention to him.

“If we can avoid any future speed bumps, it’ll help me guarantee an on-time product.”

“I’m not sure,” says Ceepak. “As you stated, Chief, this ‘security detail’ would put quite a strain on the department. It might adversely impact our ability to provide police services during the peak of the township’s summer season.”

“Not if we deal with it on an overtime-only basis with everybody but you two,” suggests the chief.

“But we’d still pay you two the overtime rates,” adds Mandrake. “That’s part of the deal. Definitely.”

“This isn’t about the money,” says Ceepak.

Mandrake laughs—derisively, I think they call it. “Officer? It’s always about the money. Am I right?”

The mayor laughs. Layla chuckles. Hey, the guy’s her boss. She has to.

Me, the chief, and Ceepak? Statues on Easter Island smile more.

Ceepak repeats himself. “It is not about the money, Mr. Mandrake.”

“Okay. Forget the money,” says Mandrake, reaching into his briefcase yet again. “You guys should do it to protect my kids.”

Ceepak arches an eyebrow. “Protect them? From what?”