Fun House (32 page)

Oooh. Sounds like Ceepak might hire Rambowski next so he can sue Prickly Pear Productions for invasion of privacy.

“Yeah,” says Mandrake. “But we had signs posted saying by entering the Skee-Ball arcade, you waived your right to privacy.”

“I did not see those.”

Mandrake shrugs. “We post ’em every time we shoot in a public space. Cuts down the lawsuits. Anyway, that bit with Paulie where he threw the ball at your head and you arrested him? That was beautiful. We hype it all week long, it turns into must-see TV. All of a sudden, I am the Phoenix rising up from the ashes. I showed those fat bastards at the network. They said I was done. Marty The Old Farty is what they called me behind my back. I heard about it. I got ears all over the place!”

“So you decided to add more ‘crime story’ elements to your program?” says Ceepak, trying to get Mandrake back on track.

“Yeah. Actually, she doesn’t know it, but that kid I was just talking to, Layla Shapiro, she gave me the idea when she was kidding around, pitching ideas like ‘It’s
Cops
meets
The Jersey Shore
meets
Survivor.’
But you see, Layla’s just starting out, doesn’t really know how to spin a high-concept notion like that and turn it into TV gold. I do. I’m not saying anything against the kid. Give her time. She’ll learn. But this was all me.”

Geeze-o, man. Now that he has the potential of immunity from murder charges, Martin Mandrake is giving us a seminar on how to create a surefire hit on TV: hire a hit man!

Ceepak places the photographs we obtained from Axel the biker on the table.

“Is this Ms. Shapiro?”

“Yeah. I’d recognize that ass anywhere.”

Icy silence.

Mandrake clears his throat. “That’s her. Ms. Shapiro. She’s making the drop.”

“She is taking money to the Lombardo family?”

“Yeah. That’s Atlantic City. Not too far from the bus depot.”

“And you sent her down there twice?”

“Yeah. Once for Paul, once for the other guy. The druggy. Skeleton Man.”

“His name was Thomas Hess. His street name was Skeletor.”

“Skeleton, Skeletor. Same diff.”

I glance at my watch. 9:02. In homes all across America, couch potatoes and Ceepak’s mom have heard that Mike and Soozy are the finalists. Now they’re probably watching the lovely Layla Shapiro holding up one of those gigantic cardboard checks like the Publishers Clearing House people tote around town in their prize van.

“Was Ms. Shapiro aware of your true reason for sending her down to Atlantic City twice with briefcases full of cash?” asks Ceepak.

“You mean, was she an accessory to the crime? That’s what you guys call it, right?”

Ceepak just nods.

“No way. I kept her in the dark. This was just between Bobby and me. Layla thought she was just paying off my gambling debts.”

“And did Mr. Lombardo give you any information as to the hired killer’s identity?”

“Nope. The way it works, he won’t even know who the final vendor is. They have a very elaborate system. This guy calls that guy who knows these guys and so on. Nobody with a vested interest can be implicated in the hit. And, once the ball gets rolling, you can’t change your mind. Twenty-four hours before the hit, the shooters go dark. There is no way to abort the mission.”

“So you gave Mr. Lombardo the ‘go’ signal one day prior to the actual murders?”

“No. I just didn’t call him up and say ‘I’ve changed my mind.’”

“You paid Mr. Lombardo in full?”

“Yeah.”

“You repaid your gambling debts?”

“I’m free and clear. They even sent me a voucher for a suite upgrade should I want to, you know, visit one of their casino partners again, which, trust me, I’m not doing anytime soon, not after ratting Bobby out like this.”

“Do you know of any reason why Mr. Lombardo now wants you dead? Why he sent the same hired hit man after you?”

“No. And when you guys nab the bastard, I want five minutes alone with him.” He turns to his lawyer. “Can we work that into the deal, Lou?”

“You don’t really want that, Martin,” says Rambowski, crinkling up his face like his client is giving him gas.

All of a sudden, I hear a cell phone vibrating.

It’s Ceepak’s, the business line.

He checks his belt.

His eyes are glued to the caller screen.

“I need to take this,” he says as the phone keeps grunting and groaning. “Danny?”

And we head out into the hall.

45

“I
T
’
S
A
XEL
,”
SAYS
C
EEPAK
,
WHEN WE
’
RE BOTH OUT IN THE
corridor.

We duck into the chief’s empty office. Close the door.

It’s 9:07.

“This is Ceepak. Yes. I see. How firm is your intel? He’s certain? Roger that. We’re heading to the boardwalk now. Appreciate your following through like this.”

Ceepak closes up his cell. Talks fast.

“Danny, we have a situation. We need to speak with Ms. Layla Shapiro, ASAP.”

I just nod and tap the Glock at my hip to make sure it’s still there.

Ceepak shoves open the door to the Interview Room. Doesn’t actually enter. I hang behind him in the hall.

“Mr. Mandrake?”

“Yeah?”

“Where is Ms. Shapiro currently located?”

“Layla?” Mandrake checks his Rolex. “She should be back in the production trailer outside the Fun House. The bit with the big check was on the rundown for 9:02 to 9:03.”

“Chris?” he says to Special Agent Miller.

“Yeah?”

“Danny and I need to be on the boardwalk. Pier Two. Now. I’ll fill you in later.”

“Copy that.”

Ceepak turns to me. “Danny?”

We hustle up the hall, smash through that parking lot exit, run to our car.

“Siren and lights?” I ask as I crank the ignition.

“Roger that. Kill them once we initiate our final approach to boardwalk parking.”

I squeal wheels and burn rubber. Every light on our roofbar is swirling like crazy. The siren is wailing.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Axel received a phone call from his mob contact, the driver, Mr. Accardi.”

“And?”

“Certain members of the Lombardo crime family had gathered at their social club this evening to watch the
Fun House
finale.”

Figures. They were, more or less, technical advisers for the show.

“Apparently, Mr. Accardi does not drive Mr. Lombardo on Mondays or Tuesdays. Another driver fills in for him. That driver was also at the social club tonight. When he saw Ms. Shapiro holding the charity check, he said it was ‘the same chick who made the money drop’ on Monday. Made the big deal with Bobby.”

“So she went down there three times?”

“Right. Apparently, the third visit was as an independent agent.”

“To take out a hit on her boss?”

“Such is my supposition.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps to ensure that, in Mr. Mandrake’s absence, she would take over as executive producer of the program when it is renewed for another year. I suspect Ms. Shapiro knew full well why Mr. Mandrake was sending her to Atlantic City. By terminating Mr. Mandrake, she assumed she would also terminate our investigation, ending our potential threat to the
Fun House
brand image and its viability as a network money-maker.”

Geeze-o, man. I always heard that television was a cutthroat business, but this is ridiculous. Layla isn’t clawing her way to the top; she’s hiring mobsters to whack her way up the corporate ladder.

We make pretty good time to Pier Two. It’s 9:22. We hop out of our cruiser and sprint through our own security blockade.

“Lock down this access point, Gus,” Ceepak barks as we dash past security.

Up ahead, I can see lights illuminating the bright red clown lips at the Fun House entrance. They have the TV show sound pumping through speakers so the live audience gathered on the boardwalk can hear everything as they watch the show on six giant-screen TVs set up for their viewing pleasure.

I can hear the final guitar chords of “The ’59 Sound,” this rocking song by an amazing Jersey group that sounds a lot like the new Bruce Springsteen.

“All right, let’s give it up for The Gaslight Anthem,”
booms Chip Dale, the show’s host.

Great choice of bands, I think. “The ’59 Sound” is all about “which song they’re gonna play” when you die.

We’re jogging toward a trailer parked right in front of Gabe Hess’s All American Snack Shack, where all the chaser lights are still blinking. We head for the attached staircase at the back. One of those generic young crew guys in shorts, tool belt, and headset holds up a hand.

“Sorry. This is a restricted area—”

“Sea Haven P.D.,” says Ceepak, flashing his badge and flipping up the holster strap over his Glock. I do the same. “Step aside, son.”

The young dude does as he is told.

We charge up the steel steps.

Slam open another door.

The trailer is dark except where it’s illuminated by red and green buttons or the jittery glow of TV monitors—the feeds from all the remote camera crews. Guys wearing headsets are sliding knobs, toggling switches, saying stuff like “Go to two” and “Three, tighten up” into their headsets. In the middle of the chaos, I see the director, Rutger Reinhertz. He’s waving his hands like he’s an orchestra conductor.

“And take three. Cue Chip.”

On the screens I see Chip Dale with Mike Tomasino. Mike’s going into the Fun House first with a representative from his charity, a guy holding on to a dog leash attached to a very noble-looking German shepherd.

“Can we take Rex the rescue dog with us?”
asks Mike as the puppy cradled in his arms licks his face. The crowd on the boardwalk oohs and aaahs.

“Sorry, Mike. The dog stays out here. It’s just you and Dave against the clock. Soozy and Becca will tackle the obstacle course immediately after you. Now, the team with the best time.…”

While Chip explains the rules of the mad dash through the Fun House, I hear Layla before I see her.

“Unit three? Unit three? Where’s my fucking smoke, Jimbo?”

Jimbo’s voice leaks out of a tinny speaker set into the slanted panel in front of Layla. She’s dressed in a tight-fitting suit that hugs all her curves and still has the three top buttons open on her blouse so everybody can get a peek at Victoria’s secret.

“Jimbo? Where the fuck is my smoke?”

“Where’s my fucking grip?”
Jimbo slams back.
“I got lights, sound, no special effects.”

“I gave you a fucking grip!”

“You gave me a fucking P. A. and he’s fucking A.W.O.L.!”

I nudge Ceepak. Point out Layla.

“We need smoke in the black-light mirror maze or it just looks like a bad Jimi Hendrix poster,” she screams. “Someone find that fucking grip. Which one is it, Jimbo?”

“That doofus Sean. Wears a fucking ski cap in the middle of summer, doesn’t know his ass from a half-apple.…”

“Sharon?” This from Layla.

“Yeah?” says Layla’s underling/producer-wannabe.

“Find Sean. Send him in the back door with his smoke box. And remind me to fire his union ass after we wrap.”

“On it,” shouts Sharon as she bolts out the trailer door.

Ceepak and I are standing right behind Layla now. Ceepak taps her on the shoulder.

Layla spins around. “What?” Now she sees who we are. “What the … how the hell … this is a closed set.…”

“Outside,” says Ceepak. “Now.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. Now.” He takes hold of her arm.

She pulls back. “Don’t you fucking touch me!”

People are staring now. I glance up at the main monitor.

They’re running commercials. Of course they wouldn’t send Mike into the Fun House without teasing it first and saying he’s going in—
right after the break
. Everybody in the control room has two or three free minutes to rubberneck the excitement in the back of the trailer.

“Fine,” says Ceepak, “we’ll do this here.” He spies a gooseneck lamp attached to the top of the slanted console in front of Layla. He snaps it on. Aims it at Layla, who recoils under the harsh light.

Before she has a chance to speak, Ceepak unloads on her.

“We know you went to Atlantic City on Monday and made your own side deal with the Lombardo family.”

Layla should never play poker. She has a tell—a little facial tic that gives away her whole hand. It’s small, but it’s there: a nervous twitch in her left cheek.

“That’s bullshit.”