Whack A Mole jc-3 Read online

  “Danny?” Ceepak heads for the door.

  I follow.

  “Where do you two think you're going?”

  Ceepak stops. Turns. “To catch a killer.

  We haven't much time. Less than five hours.” We walk out the door.

  Behind us I hear the chief say, “Dismissed.”

  Guess it makes him feel better.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Bagel Lagoon at 102 Ocean Avenue is closed.

  Nobody's in the mood for ethnic doughnuts at seven-thirty P.M. The sun has pretty much slipped down in the west, out over the bay. If I were at The Sand Bar, I'd be out on the deck settling in with a cold brewski and a basket of peel-and-eat shrimp, all set for another spectacular show. Sunset. Happens every night but never at the same time. Keeps things interesting.

  I'm parked on Ocean Avenue, right in front of a fire hydrant. My buddies on the volunteer fire squad tell me that's how they know where to find a hydrant: just look for where the cop cars are parked.

  Ceepak went upstairs to his apartment to talk to Rita. We didn't actually discuss it, but we both silently decided it would be better if he went up there alone.

  I was sort of surprised that we came to Ceepak's place to find Rita. I don't think they're living together but I guess they planned a whole bunch of overnight adult activities for the week her son is up in NYC.

  I wonder what's keeping Ceepak. He's been upstairs a while.

  Guess he's still explaining our situation. Rita will definitely tell him the name of the friend who looked out for her when she was pregnant and scared and all alone at Reverend Billy's. This person who is now one of our town's most prominent citizens and probably doesn't want anybody else to know she once did time at a boardwalk sanctuary for unwed mothers.

  Rita will reveal the name to Ceepak because she promised she would-if and when we really needed to know it. Rita always keeps her word. She's like Ceepak that way.

  I crank up the radio. The one with the FM dial, not the official one straddling the drive hump. That radio's powered on and squawking but I'm not really paying attention to cop chatter because WAVY is spinning a live version of Springsteen's “The Promised Land.”

  We're almost at the chorus. The part with the sha-la-la's I do so well.

  I let Bruce handle my intro, set me up:

  “Mister, I ain't a boy, no I'm a man. And I believe in a Promised Land.”

  Then he goes on about how he's done his best to live the right way, how he gets up every morning and goes to work each day. I can relate.

  Okay.

  Here we go.

  Sing-along time.

  “All units. 10–49.”

  It's the other radio. The Motorola Spectra police radio.

  “Repeat. 10–49. Shots fired. 10–50. Corner of Oak and Ocean. The Seafood Market….”

  10-49 means urgent. 10–50? Use caution.

  Oak and Ocean is where Mama Shucker's is located. I know it well. It's this huge, open-air steam bar and seafood market.

  “Request all units respond. Officer Malloy is reporting more shots fired….”

  Malloy. His partner Santucci is probably the one doing the shooting.

  We need to roll. Ceepak needs to be down here. Now.

  I lean on the horn.

  I flip on the siren.

  I hit the horn again.

  Here comes Ceepak. He's moving fast. He's taking the steps two at a time like a man running down an up escalator. He probably wishes he had installed a Batpole outside his kitchen window for emergency situations such as this.

  I see Rita with the dog, standing outside the door up on the second-story landing. Barkley is living up to his name. Barking like mad. Guess he thinks I'm making too much noise. I lay off the horn.

  I lean across the front seat and yank open the passenger side door to save Ceepak a second or two.

  “10–49,” I yell to him. “10–50! Shots fired!”

  Ceepak nods. “Got it.”

  He hops into the passenger seat, practically rips the seat belt off its pulley tugging it down.

  “Let's roll.”

  I flick on the light bar. The siren keeps screaming.

  “It's Santucci and Malloy,” I say. “Seafood Market. Mama Shucker's. Ocean and Oak.”

  Ceepak nods. I see him pull his pistol out of its holster. Pop out the magazine. Check his ammunition. Slap it back in.

  I stomp on the accelerator and jerk the Ford into the middle of Ocean Avenue. Traffic moves out of my way. The Ford is shimmying. I swerve and weave between lanes.

  We pass The Pancake Palace. Pudgy's Fudgery. We reach Jacaranda Street. The roads in this part of town are named after trees and go in alphabetical order. Kumquat will come next. Oak is four after that. We pass Santa's Sea Shanty.

  “That's her store,” says Ceepak.

  “Who?”

  “Sarah Byrne. The woman who took care of Rita. The one from Life Under the Son.”

  But we can't stop now. Sarah Byrne will have to wait. As much as we'd like to talk to her, we can't go see Santa until after we see Santucci.

  And Santucci has a gun.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Mama Shucker's usually has a message scribbled on the white marker board where they post the daily specials. Today it's BE NICE. WE’RE NOT ON VACATION.

  Sergeant Santucci must not have read it.

  When we arrive on the scene, though it's gotten dark, we can see in our headlights Santucci crouched behind his cruiser. He's using the car's hood to steady his grip on his weapon. I pull in alongside his vehicle. Without bothering to even bob up and aim, Santucci squeezes off another blind round at the Seafood Market.

  I hear glass shatter. Water splash. Gallons of it. It sounds like the tail end of a good log-flume ride. I think Santucci just took out a lobster tank.

  Another shot is fired. I flinch. Almost duck down. I figure it's the bad guy returning fire.

  It isn't.

  It's Santucci again. I see him poking up his pistol with both hands and firing wildly.

  My eyes flick back and forth trying to trace the random burst of bullets, try to see what the hell it is that Santucci's shooting at.

  But all I can see are impacts and ricochets.

  One bullet nails an igloo of chipped ice and sends up a cloud of pink shrimp shrapnel.

  Another hits a column of breadcrumb canisters.

  One takes out a light fixture.

  Three shots shatter assorted bottles of Louisiana hot sauce lined up like clay pigeons on top of the deli case.

  Santucci is a lousy shot.

  “Cease fire!” Ceepak yells as he jumps out of our car and attempts to assess the scene. I pull open my door, hit the ground, scramble over to Santucci and Malloy's Chevy Caprice. I take cover behind the trunk and flip up the Velcro flap locking down my own sidearm.

  “Cease fire!” I hear Ceepak scream again when he reaches Santucci up near the front tire.

  “Fuck you, Ceepak!” Santucci sticks his gun up over the hood again, waves it around back and forth, and lets fly another couple rounds.

  This time he takes out the glass case displaying Mama Shucker's famous clams casino. They're good. Better without the tiny shards Santucci just added to the recipe.

  “Lower your weapon, Sergeant!” Ceepak orders.

  Santucci squeezes the trigger one more time.

  Fortunately, all I hear is a click. He's empty. Apparently, he unloaded a full magazine into the seafood shop. Sixteen bullets. Enough to make fish and lead chips for the whole family.

  Ceepak looks ready to rip the pistol out of this idiot's hand. I hunker up against the rear wheel well. Behind me, from inside the cruiser, I hear Deadeye Dom's partner.

  “We're taking fire! Suspect is armed and dangerous. Repeat, armed and dangerous!”

  Malloy must be lying on the floor, working the radio.

  “Are you hit, sergeant?” Ceepak asks Santucci. “Sergeant? Have you taken fire?” He sounds like he'
s trying to shake Santucci awake.

  I look over at the two of them.

  Santucci is having trouble finding a fresh magazine of ammo on his utility belt because his hand is too jumpy. The fingers fumble, can't work open any pouch snaps.

  Now his knee starts thumping up and down. The heel of his heavy shoe is twitching, spiking a ditch into the gravel underneath it. A drop more adrenaline and I guarantee Santucci will officially be having a heart attack.

  “Dom-who is your target? Dom? Talk to me. Who's in there?”

  “Your suspect.”

  “Come again?”

  “Your suspect. Ralph Connor. The bartender. From The Sand Bar.”

  “Who said this bartender is a suspect in our investigation?”

  Santucci takes a breath. Fills his chest with enough oxygen to make him an asshole again.

  “Cut the shit, Ceepak. Jane Bright told me. Said some bartender named Ralph was on your list with Gus and the doctor. Only you guys couldn't even nail this Ralph character's last name so Malloy and me had to step up to the plate, do your job for you. We nosed around. Asked the right people the right questions. Got the name. Then we spotted him down on Oak Beach.”

  “Was he with the girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “The one in the photograph. The one we're looking for.”

  “Hell, no. He was alone like these psycho killers always are. We tailed him up here. When I pulled out my sidearm, he grabbed a hostage. Hustled her into the back.”

  “Who?”

  “Some old broad.”

  Great. Ralph the angry bartender has taken a senior citizen hostage. I hope Medicare covers it.

  “What happened to your pursuit of the girl?” Ceepak asks. He's worried about the dwindling hours in the killer's schedule. Especially since we're wasting time here watching Santucci shoot at oyster-cracker boxes when he was supposed to be apprehending the girl and putting her into protective custody.

  “Don't worry,” Santucci says. “She's long gone. She skipped town.”

  “Are you certain? Did you witness her departure?”

  “No, Ceepak. I just used my head, okay? Applied some fucking common sense to the situation.” Yelling at Ceepak seems to have calmed Santucci down some. His hand has stopped trying to jump off his arm. He resumes his search for ammunition. “After you two bozos chased her up and down the boardwalk, you gotta figure she's moved on to greener pastures. Probably halfway down the Parkway to Cape May by now.”

  “Who's the hostage? Inside?”

  “Like I said-this old lady. She works behind the fish counter.”

  “Where are they?” Ceepak asks.

  “Inside.”

  “Where? Which sector of the market?”

  “Back there!” Santucci points backward over his head, to the general vicinity of the other side of his cop car, so our situational intel at this point basically blows. No problem. Ceepak is used to being sent into battle with faulty intelligence. It's the only kind they had back in Iraq.

  “Give me some ammo,” Santucci says. “I'm out. Need to reload.”

  “Stay where you are.”

  “Gimme a clip!”

  Ceepak ignores Santucci, turns to me. “Danny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I'm going in.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Me, too.”

  “Negative. You will remain stationed here with Sergeant Santucci.”

  “Give me your bullets, Boyle!”

  “Forget it,” I say. “Come on, Ceepak. I know this guy. Ralph and I talk all the time. You need me in there with you. I can help.”

  Ceepak gives me a doubtful look. It may not be the time for talking. This isn't Happy Hour.

  “Hey,” I say, “the state of New Jersey gave me a gun, remember?”

  As a visual aid I pull out my Glock, wiggle it around some.

  “Give that to me, Boyle!” Santucci tries one more time.

  “No way. You've done enough damage for one day, okay? You already knocked down all the Tabasco bottles, so you win any stuffed animal you want-but you don't get to shoot again, okay?”

  Santucci sulks. Ceepak, I see, is holding back a grin.

  “I'm a pretty decent shot,” I remind him.

  “Roger that,” he says with the hint of a proud-poppa smile creeping across his face. “If memory serves, you scored a 96 on the range.”

  “Yes, sir. Tops in my class. Master of disaster.”

  Ceepak nods, turns to Santucci.

  “Secure the perimeter, Sergeant. Officer Boyle and I are going in.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  I check my pistol.

  Ceepak gives Santucci further instructions. “Keep those civilians back and out of harm's way.” He points across the street to the crowd of curious and terrified spectators. Of course, Santucci's fireworks display has drawn quite an audience. “When backup arrives, have a team lock down traffic on Ocean Avenue. Both directions. We don't want anybody caught in the potential line of fire. Understood, Sergeant?”

  “Yeah. Fine. Whatever.”

  “Understood?”

  “10-4,” Santucci snaps. “Okay? I fucking got it, GI Joe. Back off.”

  Ceepak hesitates a second. I figure he's contemplating avenging the lobsters by knocking Santucci unconscious with a quick jab to the jaw. Would make our lives easier, too.

  Instead he sidles up along the car and raps against the driver side door.

  “Officer Malloy?”

  “Yeah?” comes the muffled reply from inside. I figure Malloy is face down, kissing carpet.

  “Please remain on radio and advise all units that officer Boyle and I are going inside to talk to Mr. Connor. Ask all responding officers to hold their fire. We no longer consider our person of interest to be armed or dangerous. Please further advise all units to withhold any and all ammunition from Sergeant Santucci.”

  “Who the hell are you to….”

  Ceepak ignores Santucci, plows ahead with his orders for Malloy.

  “We hope to negotiate Mr. Connor's immediate surrender. Meanwhile, keep all citizens safe and all officers out of the building until we complete said mission. Okay, Mark?”

  “Yes, sir,” says Malloy. “Sorry about … you know … this … situation.”

  Situation? Cluster-fuck is more like it. But Ceepak takes the high road.

  “Don't worry, Mark,” he says. “It's all good.”

  We work our way into the building using the picnic tables at the south entrance as cover.

  Judging from where Santucci was shooting-more or less where he pointed his pistol-Ralph the bartender is most likely holed up somewhere in the northeast corner of the fish market. Probably splayed out on the floor. Probably down there hiding from Santucci's blizzard of bullets.

  But what if he's been shot? What about the hostage?

  Ceepak takes the lead and, hunkered down, we move through the market. It's slow going. My thighs throb. I need to add squat thrusts to my physical training routine if, you know, I ever actually start exercising.

  We creep along, using the fish cases for cover. Several of them are leaking, spewing out oily water. It splashes on the floor. Slick puddles are everywhere. My socks and the hem of my pants are soaked. Every now and then, we crunch across shrimp shells or slip on melting ice.

  Ceepak holds up his hand.

  He taps his eyes, does a two-finger point to the front.

  I assume he sees Ralph.

  I touch my lips. I don't know the official Army hand signals-they didn't teach us those at the Academy-so I hope Ceepak gets what I'm trying to communicate.

  He nods.

  Giving me permission to speak.

  “Ralph?” I call out. “Ralph? It's me. Danny. Danny Boyle. From The Sand Bar? Ralph? Are you okay, man? Sorry about….”

  “What the fuck is going on? This is insane! Why is that moron shooting at us? Do you see what the fuck he's done?”

  The silence, at long last, is broken.


  “Listen. He had a reason. He says you have a hostage. A woman.”

  “What?”

  “Sergeant Santucci says you grabbed a hostage when you saw he was a cop.”

  “Fuck that shit!” says this other voice. Female. Old. Angry. Angrier than Ralph, which I would've thought to be impossible. “Fucking cop came into the store, pointed his fucking gun at us. Scared off my fucking customers!”

  “Danny?” Ralph cuts in. “This is my mother.”

  I'm still more or less crouched down, my back pressed up against a refrigerator case, but I remember my manners.

  “Oh. Hey, there, Mrs. Connor. Nice to meet you. Ralph and I have known each other for what? Six, seven years?

  “Yeah,” says Ralph. “Something like that. Six, seven years….”

  Ceepak slouches. Shakes his head. Tries not to laugh.

  “So why the hell is that goddamn idiot shooting up my shop?” Mrs. Connor screams.

  “Easy, mom.”

  “Don't you ‘easy, mom’ me! That asshole out there must've given every single lobster a fucking conniption fit!”

  “You got insurance.”

  “Not against asshole cops!”

  I don't blame her but I need to break this up.

  “Ralph?” I call out. “I'm going to stand up now, you guys okay with that?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “How about you, Mrs. Connor?”

  “You got a goddamn gun?”

  I lay my Glock on the floor.

  “No, ma'am.”

  “Good.”

  I stand up. I can see Ralph and his mom. She's short and looks like she's tired of getting up at four every morning to haul heavy slabs of fresh fish off the docks.

  I try a smile. She gives me a toothy snarl. Like a Rottweiler.

  “Mrs. Connor, this is my partner. John Ceepak.” I point. Ceepak stands. His gun is snug in its holster. “Ralph, you met Ceepak on the beach this morning. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. How's it going?”

  “Fine. Thank you for inquiring.”

  Ceepak now takes his radio mike off his shoulder, calls in our status.

  “Situation is secure,” he says. “All units stand down.”

  “We're coming in!” I hear Santucci say back over the radio.