Free Fall (10 page)

It's about 10:30
A
.
M
.

The rides usually open around eleven. Ceepak figures his father, a Sandusky Amusements certified ride operator, will already be on the job, going through his pre-flight checklist.

We walk up the pier, which resembles a carnival midway thirty minutes before they let the suckers in. Blinking signs are flickering to life. Baskets of Oreos and Snickers bars dripping pancake batter are being dunked into bubbling vats of French fryer oil. Fluffy stuffed animals are being hung on pegs—prizes not too many basketball shooters, frog bog boppers, softball-into-a-basket tossers, or balloon poppers will actually take home.

Up ahead, I see the NASA-blue StratosFEAR car rising up its bright white tower. It slips behind the electronic sign spelling out S-t-r-a-t-o-s-FEAR that rings the ride. It creeps, like an extremely slow elevator on a high-rise crane tower, toward the top. Fortunately, the seats are all empty.

When we reach the ride entrance, the car comes sliding down like a shot. The brakes slam on. Fog puffs out. The car glides to the bottom.

“Looking good, Joe!” we hear Bob the manager holler.

“Thanks, Bob.”

And there, sitting in the control booth, is none other than Joseph Ceepak.

I almost don't recognize him. His wild tangle of greasy hair is neatly trimmed, parted, and combed to one side. His face is shaved clean of the salt-and-pepper stubble I remember. Instead of a sloppy Hawaiian shirt with food stains dribbled down the front, he's wearing a clean and pressed polo shirt and crisp khaki shorts.

“Johnny?” he says when he sees us staring up at him. “Boyle? Hey, great to see you two.” He squirms around on his stool. “Hey, Bob? Is it okay if I take my five-minute break a little early?”

“Sure, Joe!” Bob calls back. Then he gives us a cheery wave, the kind suburban guys give each other when they're out mowing their lawns.

Joe Ceepak flicks some switches and hurries down to greet us.

His son's jaw joint is doing that popping in and out thing it does near his ear whenever he's trying not to explode.

“My goodness, Johnny. Good to see you, son. Been too long. You too, Boyle. I would've called you, but, well, I just got into town last night. They're putting me up in a motel till I can find an apartment. Had to punch in bright and early this morning.”

And then he stands there, hands on hips, smiling proudly at his son.

Whose eyes are narrowing into slits tighter than window blinds yanked all the way up.

“Why are you here?” Ceepak finally says.

“Didn't they tell you, Johnny? I'm a factory-trained and certified operator. See, the plant that manufactures these American steel rides is located up in Sandusky, not too far from where I was living after, you know, last summer when, well, I would've died if it wasn't for my jarhead son!”

He actually says the word “jarhead” with some affection. Usually, he sneers it at his son. Says stuff like “you effing jarhead moron.”

Not today. In fact, I have never seen Mr. Ceepak smile so much. And his teeth aren't the color of brown deli mustard anymore, either.

“You and Boyle here saved my life, Johnny. I'll never forget that. Cross my heart and hope to spit.”

“Please forgive me, sir, if I doubt your sincerity.”

“Hey, I don't blame you, Johnny. Goodness, I'd doubt it, too. The way I've behaved? Despicable. Heck, I wasn't much of a dad—to you or Billy. But trust me, Johnny, a man can change. What did Jesus say? ‘There will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.' Well, let me tell you, boys: right now Jesus and his friends are having one heck of a hosanna hollerin' hootenanny up there in heaven. Come on, son. Rejoice with Jesus. What once was lost now is found.”

“How goes the family reunion?” Manager Bob has ambled over to join us. He's doing that smile and heel-rocking thing again.

“Peachy,” I say, so Ceepak doesn't have to speak.

“Apparently,” says Ceepak, sounding extremely skeptical, “my father is a new man.”

“That I am, Johnny boy. Be sure to tell your mother. Hey, maybe the three of us can get together for dinner some night soon. You can come too, Boyle. My treat.”

“That, sir,” says Ceepak, “is never going to happen.”

His father keeps grinning like an idiot. “How's Adele doing? I bet she misses me.”

“No, sir. She does not.”

“I read about her in the newspaper this morning. They're calling her Sea Haven's newest Guardian Angel.”

“Is that your mom?” says Bob. “The one who hired a lawyer to defend that cute nurse who doesn't have a pot to piss in? Awesome!”

“Adele's my wife …”

Ceepak holds up his very strong right hand to signal his father to stop right there. “
Ex
-wife …”

“Okay. Sure. Say, this gal, Christine Lemondrops, the one your mom bailed out, she a friend of yours, Johnny?” He asks it with just a hint of his old lechery.

“She's
our
friend,” I say. “And her last name is Lemonopolous.”

“Good. That's nice, Boyle. You need a gal pal. Johnny here is already hitched and settled down. Speaking of which, when can you and the missus swing by the motel to say hey?”

“How about never, sir?” says Ceepak. “Will never work?”

“Ouch,” says Bob, with a goofy giggle.

But Mr. Ceepak keeps on smiling like those brainwashed people in cults, right before they chug a jug of the Kool Ade.

“Careful, Johnny,” he says. “‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.' Matthew. Chapter seven. Verse one.”

“You would do well to memorize the remainder of that chapter, sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“Verse 15: ‘Beware of the false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves.”

“Oh-kay,” says Bob, laughing nervously. “We better postpone Bible study till church tomorrow morning and get back at it. We open in fifteen, Joe.”

“Right. And Bob?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“Thanks again. For giving me this opportunity.”

Bob claps old man Ceepak on the back. “Are you kidding? We're the ones who should be thanking you. Heck, if you hadn't answered our ad, your son here would've kept the StratosFEAR shut down all summer long.”

Bob chuckles. Joe chuckles.

Ceepak and me? We're not in a chuckling kind of mood.

20

W
E GRAB A COLD SODA
(
WHAT
C
EEPAK STILL CALLS A POP
)
AT
a pizza stand twenty feet away from the StratosFEAR.

I'm thirsty, so I gulp mine down. Ceepak, on the other hand, sips maybe two drops.

Both of us watch Mr. Ceepak hoist a couple carloads of squealing riders up the tower and drop them. At first, they scream and kick their feet. Then they laugh. It's good old-fashioned fun.

But I'm thinking one of the nearby T-shirt shops ought to start selling clean underpants, too.

“I don't trust him or his supposed transformation,” Ceepak finally says.

Hey, I can't blame the guy.

Years ago, Joseph Ceepak murdered his youngest son, William Philip Ceepak—my Ceepak's little brother. The sneaky bastard made Billy's death look like a suicide. And he got away with it. For years. Even when Ceepak and I were able to have a prosecuting attorney up in Ohio re-open the case, the slimy worm wiggled off the hook.

So, I'm with Ceepak. I'm not buying this whole Bible-thumping, born-again Christian act. Joseph Ceepak is not a lost sheep. He's a wolf who went to a pop-up Halloween shop and asked for the Little Bo Peep costume.

“He's here for Mother's money,” says Ceepak, his eyes focused on the Free Fall. Not the ride; the control booth.

“Maybe we should request a fresh Emergency Restraining Order.”

“Trust me, Danny: I have already put in the paperwork.”

We might've stayed there all day, nursing our Cokes, keeping an eye on Joe Ceepak, waiting for him to slip out of his sheep costume, do something stupid enough for us to arrest him, but my cell phone chirps.

It's Christine Lemonopolous.

She's sobbing.

“Christine?” I say. “What's wrong?”

“He's dead, Danny. Dr. Rosen. He died this morning.”

21

C
EEPAK AND
I
HEAD OVER TO THE
R
OSEN HOUSE ON
B
EACH
L
ANE
.

“They want Christine out of the house,” I say, relaying the rest of our conversation. “Today. Like right now.”

“Sad,” Ceepak says.

“Yeah. Where's she gonna go?”

“Actually, Danny, I was thinking about the late Arnold Rosen.”

Oh. Right. The dead guy. Guess he's worse off than even Christine.

And then neither of us says anything else on the fifteen-minute drive down Beach Lane from the boardwalk. Death will do that to you, get you thinking. About Ceepak's baby brother, Bill. My only real girlfriend, Katie Landry. My buddy Mook. Dominic Santucci.

And the two men I've personally sent to their graves.

When the Grim Reaper is riding with you, he always hogs the mental radio.

We park and climb out of my Jeep just as two gentlemen in black suits carry a rubberized body bag out the front door.

Ceepak stops walking and bows his head.

I do the same.

And then I hear Ceepak start muttering a prayer: “God full of mercy who dwells on high, grant perfect rest to the soul of Arnold Rosen.”

When Ceepak was over in Iraq, he saw a lot of guys die. Christians. Jews. Muslims. I'm guessing he memorized the right things to say for every religion when nothing you can say seems right.

We wait for the funeral home attendants to do their job and drive away in their black vehicle with the black-tinted windows. I make a sign of the cross. Sorry. It's a nun-inflicted reflex.

Making our way toward the front porch, I notice that brand-new dune buggy wheelchair still sitting in the driveway. Guess Dr. Rosen never got to try it. Guess Monae never hid it in the garage like she was supposed to.

Inside the house, we see three mourners clustered around Dr. Rosen's empty hospital bed: two men, one woman.

The woman has long, white-blonde hair and is dressed in a canary yellow tennis outfit that's a little too short and hugs her body a little too tightly—especially since she has a whole lot of body to hug. I'm guessing this blonde is Shona Oppenheimer's sister, Judith, even though Shona has jet-black hair.

Judith only has jet-black eyebrows.

And unlike super-skinny Shona, Judith has bulges and lumps swelling up in places where woman don't usually have what Ceepak calls “protuberances.” Even her face is sort of bloated. Her cheeks and jowls crowd out her eyes, nose, and mouth so much it's hard to tell if she and her sister have similar facial features.

Standing next to Judith is a beanpole-ish, balding man sporting a scraggly goatee. He's wearing shorts, sandals, and a faded pink polo shirt. He also looks a little nebbishy, a Yiddish word that my buddy Joe Getzler taught me (along with schmuck, putz, and bupkes). It basically means he looks “pitifully timid.” I'm guessing he's David Rosen because the other guy, standing across the bed from Judith, looks totally Hollywood and has to be the rich son, Michael, from LA-LA land.

Michael is wearing black jeans, black cowboy boots, and an open-collar black shirt that looks like it probably cost several hundred dollars at some black clothes boutique in Beverly Hills. His hair and beard are so neatly trimmed they appear to be the exact same length. That takes work. Or money.

“Oh, hello,” says Judith, very sweetly. When she smiles, she looks like one of those puffy marshmallow clouds on a TV weather map. “May we help you gentlemen?”

“Sorry to intrude,” says Ceepak. “I'm Detective John Ceepak with the Sea Haven Police. This is my partner Danny Boyle. Please pardon our intrusion and know that we are sorry for your loss. Dr. Rosen was good man.”

Judith blinks her piggy little eyes. Repeatedly.

“Did you know my father-in-law?” she finally asks.

“Only briefly,” says Ceepak. “But he had a very stellar reputation among the long-term residents of Sea Haven.”

“He certainly did,” says the guy with the close-cropped hair and beard. “I'm Michael. Do you know my big brother David?”

“No,” says Ceepak, stepping forward and extending his hand. “I don't believe I've had the pleasure.” He shakes David's hand and then turns to Michael to shake his, too.

Like always, I follow along and do what Ceepak just did.

“Again,” says Ceepak, “our condolences on your loss.”

“Gosh, detectives,” says Judith, “I don't mean to be rude but, may I ask: Why are you gentlemen here?”

“My dad was ninety-four years old,” says David with a goofy grin. “Surely you don't suspect foul play in his death.”

“Of course not,” says Ceepak.

“Of course not,” echoes Judith, with a soft smile. She has a very sweet and gentle presence. Reminds me a little of this movie from the 1960s they used to show us at Holy Innocents Elementary. Debbie Reynolds in
The Singing Nun
. I half expect her to break into song: “
Dominique, nique, nique
.”

Then I remember the Rosens are Jewish.

“We're here,” says Ceepak, “to assist Ms. Lemonopolous.”

“Christine?” says Michael.

“Yes. We understand she needs to vacate the premises.”

“We'd appreciate it,” says David, kind of brusquely. “Her services, as you might imagine, are no longer required now that Dad has passed. Monae has already moved out of her room.”

Yeah
, I think,
because Monae can probably move in with her brother or sister
. Christine cannot.