Hell Hole Read online

“Hard to say, Danny. We don’t know what it is.”

  “Maybe it’s a sworn affidavit,” I suggest. “Some kind of official notarized document. Or the boot!”

  “Come again?”

  “Maybe Shareef stole the shoe Worthington wore that night knowing ballistics tests could prove the bullet trajectory was only possible if, you know, a guy was aiming down at his own toes.”

  Once again, Ceepak does me the courtesy of not laughing out loud.

  “Let’s take this one step at a time, Danny.”

  The door to the tech room squeaks open.

  “Officer Ceepak?”

  It’s Desk Sergeant Pender.

  “Yes?”

  “Just got a call from the state police. Apparently, you asked them to arrest your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Drunk driving?”

  “Yes.”

  Pender stands there with a quizzical expression on his face. I suppose he’s waiting for some kind of explanation.

  Ceepak doesn’t give him one.

  Pender glances at the pink slip of paper in his hand. “They said to tell you that they pulled him over, ran the Breathalyzer, but your father only scored a zero point zero five.”

  Made it by three one-hundredths. The legal limit in Jersey is 0.08.

  “The trooper said your dad’s driving wasn’t noticeably affected by his alcohol intake, so they had to let him go.”

  “Thank you, sergeant.”

  “No problem. Hey, will your dad be coming by the house? I’d love to meet him.”

  “No, Reggie. I don’t anticipate a visit.”

  “He here on vacation?”

  “No. Business.”

  “Really? What line of work is he in?”

  “Whatever pays for his next six-pack.”

  Pender’s cheeks sag. I think he finally gets it: There will be no father-son soap box derby at the Ceepak home tonight.

  “You want this?” He holds up the pink message slip. In his fist, it looks like a Post-it note.

  “No, thank you, Reggie.”

  “You guys on the book today?”

  “Special assignment.”

  “That drug thing for the chief?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  Pender leaves. Ceepak goes to the desk. Picks up the phone. Presses in a number. I recognize the digits: he’s calling home.

  “Rita? Fine. No. The front left tire blew out. Danny was behind the wheel, responded accordingly.”

  Guess Rita heard about our rollover.

  “He’s fine too. I’ll tell him you said so. Rita, I need you to keep an eye on Mom. As anticipated, my father has arrived. Yes. No. He has no way of knowing how to find her. I am currently without a cell phone so if anything happens, if you need to contact me, please call the dispatcher and have him radio us in the field. Right. We will. You stay safe too. Yes. Me too.”

  The guy’s married but he still can’t say, “I love you” into a telephone, not in front of any other guys. But, hey—what real man can?

  He hangs up.

  “Rita says to tell you she’s glad you’re uninjured.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ceepak nods.

  “Sorry about that,” I say. “Sorry they couldn’t take your old man off the streets.”

  “The law is the law, Danny.”

  “Has your father always been so, you know, difficult?”

  “Yes” is all Ceepak says in reply.

  “Guess it’s like that Springsteen song. You know—the one he wrote about his dad.”

  “There are several of those in the Springsteen catalog,” says Ceepak.

  True. I guess every guy has a boatload of songs to sing about his dad and Dr. Phil or Oprah could fill in any missing lyrics.

  “‘Well Papa go to bed now it’s getting late. Nothing we can say can change anything now,’” I say, quoting Bruce’s “Independence Day.” “That’s the one I was thinking about. Guess people like your dad never change.”

  “Some do. In fact, Danny, a recovering alcoholic once told me that all life is change. Growth, however, is optional.”

  Now Ceepak gets this far-off look in his eye. A lightbulb just clicked on upstairs in a distant corner of the vast warehouse that is his brain.

  “Of course,” he says. “I’m surprised we didn’t think of this sooner!”

  Yeah. Me too. And I don’t even know what it is he’s thinking about.

  “Jerry Shapiro,” he says.

  “Who?”

  “You might better remember him as ‘Squeegee.’”

  28

  A couple summers ago, Squeegee was involved in what we called the Tilt-A-Whirl case.

  He was a junkie who used to shoot up heroin near the amusement park ride late at night, after Sunnyside Playland closed. I remember finding all sorts of hypodermic needles in the bushes, more than used to wash up on the beach back in the nineties.

  Anyway, Squeegee and his girlfriend Gladys (if you can call any woman over sixty a girlfriend) have totally cleaned up their acts and now operate this small health food deli: Veggin’ on the Beach. It’s very vegan, very earthy. They serve food alive with wellness—says so right on the menu, which, by the way, is printed with biodegradable ink. They bake their bread with nine kinds of grain, flaxseeds, omega-3 fish oil, and maybe dirt. It has a certain crunch.

  “We can assume,” says Ceepak, “that, given his history of rampant drug usage, Jerry might know who the Hot Stuff heroin dealer is. We’ve kept in touch. Rita and I frequent their establishment quite often. They make an awesome tofustrami sandwich.”

  I don’t want to know from tofustrami.

  “It was Jerry who told me that all life is change when I complimented him on how well he had turned his around. I should’ve spoken to him about Hot Stuff heroin ages ago!”

  “Hey, don’t should on yourself,” I say because Ceepak said it to me once. I’m not exactly sure what it means.

  “You’re right, Danny. We are where we are.”

  Where we currently are is driving down Ocean Avenue. I take a left at Hickory Street. Veggin’ on the Beach is set up in this cottage at the corner of Hickory Street and Beach Lane so it’s right across from the dunes and sea grass.

  We pull into the parking lot and are immediately greeted by Stan the Vegetable Man—a ten-foot-tall painted plywood portrait of this guy with a smiling pumpkin for a head, a tomato torso, two carrot legs, and corncob feet. There are about a dozen newspaper vending machines lined up in front of the porch because Gladys thinks all newspapers lie but, if you read enough of them every day, you might be able to glean a few nuggets of the actual truth. Jerry and Gladys’s dog Henry, a geriatric German shepherd, is snoozing under the porch as we climb the steps. How do I know this? Some dogs are barkers, others are farters.

  We push open the screen door and I’m immediately reminded that even though green moss mixed with Napa cabbage might be good for your pancreas, they’re not so great on the nose.

  “Good afternoon, Gladys,” says Ceepak.

  “Give me a minute!” she says as she balances a stinky vegan pizza on a wooden paddle and slowly maneuvers it toward the counter.

  Gladys is a small woman—less than five feet tall. The first time I met her, in the lobby of the old Palace Hotel on the north end of the island, she was wearing three different skirts and a tie-dyed shirt on top of a goose-down vest. She also had brown paper bags for socks and pushed a shopping cart loaded down with all her earthly possessions. Today she has on Birkenstocks and the official Veggin’ on the Beach sleeveless tie-dyed T. They sell them behind the counter along with Stan the Vegetable man baseball caps and buttons that say I’m Already Against the Next War.

  “Officer Ceepak! Jesus. How the fuck are you?”

  Gladys has what my mom might call a potty mouth.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s all good Gladys.”
>
  “Jesus. How do you manage that? Do you ever read the fucking papers ? Do you realize that the United States government is currently watching every move you make? They have your phone records, Ceepak! They know who you’re talking to. They know if you’re downloading porn in the privacy of your own home!”

  “Well, I’m not currently engaged in any such activity.”

  “You miss my fucking point. It doesn’t matter if you’re actually doing anything wrong. They’re in the wires watching you anyway!”

  “I see. Is Jerry here?”

  “Nah. He’s over at the farmer’s market. We needed more galanga root for the yin yang fortifier drinks. Beets too.”

  “We wanted to ask him a few questions.”

  “What about?”

  “Local drug dealers.”

  “Shit, Ceepak. Jerry’s clean. Me too. Eighteen months in August.”

  “I know. But, I was wondering if, in your past, you might have come across a particular brand of heroin.”

  “Hey—I never chased the dragon. And Jerry just liked to dip and dab.”

  Ceepak nods. “He had what one might call a ‘baby habit.’”

  Gladys grimaces. “You been reading those fucking DEA pamphlets again? Learning druggie slang?”

  “Sorry.”

  She waves her arm and I notice: she still doesn’t worry about shaving her pits.

  “Jerry’s days of firing up speedballs are long gone. Ancient history.”

  “Yet those who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it.”

  “Are you attempting to quote Santayana, Officer Ceepak?”

  “Yes, ma’ am.”

  “Santayana also said, ‘The world is not respectable; it is mortal, tormented, confused, deluded forever; but it is shot through with beauty, with love, with glints of courage and laughter; and in these, the spirit blooms timidly, and struggles to the light amid the thorns.’ But it doesn’t fit on a goddamn T-shirt so nobody fucking remembers it, do they?”

  “No, ma’ am.”

  Now she wipes her cornmeal-caked hands on her blue jean skirt and gestures for Ceepak to come closer. “Show me what you got.”

  He hands her a photocopy of the small paper pouch.

  “That’s Hot Stuff. I didn’t know Skeletor was still in business.”

  “Skeletor?”

  “That’s his street name. Been working the beach and the boardwalk since Nixon was fucking president. Changed his handle to Skeletor when the corporate running dogs at Mattel warped America’s mind with that Masters of the Universe crap in the early eighties.”

  Ceepak arches an eyebrow. He’s intrigued.

  “Skeletor was He-Man’s arch enemy,” I say. “Two-Bad was one of his minions.”

  “See? They warped Boyle. Fucking Mattel. Masters of mind control.”

  Ceepak tries to get us back on track. “Why the cartoon devil?”

  “Skeletor loves comic books. Always has. You ask me, comics are the true opiate of the masses, offering up simplistic and unambiguous moral truths.”

  “Does the cartoon devil mean anything?”

  “Jesus, Ceepak—if it didn’t, would he waste his time printing it on tiny little paper envelopes?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “So pay attention. Over the years, Skeletor has operated what you might call a floating drug emporium. He sets up shop in a certain location until he thinks the fuzz are moving in. Guess he hasn’t had to move for a couple years. Still operating in the same spot.”

  “I take it you and Jerry used to purchase Mr. Skeletor’s wares?”

  “Yeah. Back in the day. Weed. Crystal meth. Coke. Jerry’s heroin. Skeletor is a fucking rip-off artist capitalist pig. Charging tourist prices, even to locals. Even in the winter. Long time ago, he was the ticket taker at the Hell Hole. You remember that ride?”

  “On the boardwalk?” Ceepak guesses. He came here from Ohio. His local thrill-ride knowledge base only goes back so far.

  “Close. Pier Four. It sort of sticks out from the boardwalk. Hey, you’re in municipal government. Why the fuck did the pigs close it down? Why’d they fucking fence it off?”

  “I’m afraid that was done before my time.”

  Not mine. The Hell Hole used to be one of the coolest rides on Pier Four, which, like the other three piers, juts off the main boardwalk and runs about three hundred yards out over the beach into ocean—every inch filled with exciting attractions and the thrills of a lifetime. At least that’s what the radio ads used to say.

  Pier Four had the Sky Coaster, Whacky Wheel, and the Chair-O-Planes. Oh—and Dante’s Inferno. That was right next to the Hell Hole and the Devil Dive. Lot of satanic imagery on Pier Four, which made it that much easier for Bruno Mazzilli to convince the town fathers to shut it down. Mazzili, the undisputed baron of the Boardwalk, also happens to own Piers One, Two, and Three. He led the campaign five years back to have Pier Four declared a fire hazard. Today, it’s blocked off by a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence with slats of green vinyl slipped through all the slots so nobody can see the dilapidated rides. The Chamber of Commerce hung a sign on the fence: Pardon Our Dust But Remodel We Must.

  It’s been closed for five years. No remodeling. No dust—unless you count the occasional sandstorm when winds whip up the beach in the winter.

  “How did this Skeletor become a pusher?” Ceepak asks.

  “You rushing me?”

  “Sorry. It’s just that we’re up against a deadline.”

  “Well slow down and smell the fucking coffee. Jesus, Ceepak. You getting enough B-twelve? I’ve got gel caps.”

  “So tell us about Skeletor,” I say so Ceepak doesn’t have to.

  “Like I said, he used to sit on his bony butt on a stool outside the Hell Hole, tearing tickets all day long, leering at the hot chicks in bikinis who wouldn’t give him the time of day because he was this skinny-assed bag of bones whose corporate job title was ‘stool sitter.’ One day, he has a brainstorm. Half the kids in line are toasted. Stoned out of their fucking gourds and they want to go into that big spinning room and see the colored lights streak by and hear weird Meat Loaf music so they can get even dizzier, slide up the wall, feel the floor fall away, and fly like a bat out of hell!”

  “I take it this fellow Skeletor soon realized he could make more money selling drugs than tearing tickets?” says Ceepak.

  “Exactly. Especially the way he marks up his merchandise. Unbelievable profit margin and return on investment.”

  I think Gladys and Jerry had to take a couple small business courses before the bank would lend them enough money to open their vegeteria.

  “Is he hooked up with the Feenyville Pirates?” I ask.

  “You mean Nicky Nichols and that little guy?”

  “Mr. Shrimp.”

  She shakes her head. “No way. Skeletor’s been in business since forever. He’s got major out-of-town muscle covering his ass.”

  “The Mob?” asks Ceepak.

  “Maybe.”

  “So the cartoon devil on the drug packet is a nostalgic reminder of his entree to the drug business?”

  “It also tells you where he’s currently set up shop.”

  “Inside the Hell Hole?”

  “That crappy fence the city fathers put up? You can do all sorts of dirty deeds behind it. Skeletor’s been holed up in there for five fucking years.”

  29

  “Murderers! Death merchants!”

  We’re walking up the boardwalk with Gladys and just passed this gigantic, blinking food stand where they sell deep-fried Twinkies, Snickers, and Oreos.

  “Why don’t they just rip out people’s hearts? Jam lard up their arteries?”

  As you might imagine, tofustrami and ying yang shakes have never been first choice on the boardwalk stroller’s menu, not when there are still more prepackaged snack cakes and candy bars to be dipped in batter and plunged into bubbling oil. I’m thinking a deep-fried Baby Ruth would be delicious, once you got past a name tha
t sounds like a gruesome form of child abuse.

  “I’m only narcing on Skeletor because he’s a greedy rip-off artist,” says Gladys. “Five hundred percent markup …”

  Ceepak does a hand chop toward the chain-link fence blocking off access to Pier Four.

  “How does one gain entrance to the Hell Hole? Scale the fence?”

  “Jesus, Ceepak, did somebody deep-fry your brain today? You think a bunch of junkies are going to climb over a twelve-foot-tall fence? Half of them are flying so high they can’t even see their own fucking feet, so how they gonna pull a Spider-Man and scale the wall?”

  “I see.” Ceepak. The guy never loses his patience, even when dealing with reformed crazy people like Gladys.

  “Follow me.” She leads us over to one of the concrete ramps that take you from the boardwalk down to the beach.

  “There’s a secret trapdoor underneath. I think it’s where some of the gears that made the room spin used to be.” She crouches in the sand and points to the dark shadows between pilings. “It’s back in there.”

  I remember that the Hell Hole was the first attraction on the left when you entered Pier Four, right across from the Chair-O-Planes. I take a step backward and look up. There’s a stockade fence decorated with faded clown-face cutouts, but I can see the chipped paint on what used to be the carousel top of that flying-chair ride. Rusty chains dangle down to what are basically swing-set seats with pull-down safety bars you slide across your lap so you could hang on for dear life when that rotor up top sent the chairs flying.

  “Unfortunately,” says Ceepak, “we really can’t investigate Skeletor’s lair without a search warrant.”

  “What?” says Gladys. “You actually pay attention to the Constitution?”

  “Particularly the Fourth Amendment. As I’m sure you’re aware, all searches are, by definition, an invasion of privacy.”

  “Even if it’s a drug den?” I ask. Maybe I watch Fox news too much.

  “Even then, Danny. However, we can, I feel confident, go take a closer look.” Ceepak hunkers down and moves into the darkness. I follow.

  “Have fun,” yells Gladys. “I need to be back at the restaurant. We’re doing six-bean chili tonight!”

  Beans, beans. The musical fruit.