The only people in the diner are Mook and his buddies. I see them crammed into a booth near the back. Six of them. All guys. All laughing and rattling ice cubes around in their big blue Pepsi cups. Mook is the center of attention. I call them his college buddies because most of them are wearing different versions of Mook's business school T-shirt.
Except this one. He's tall and looks strong and has on a gray T-shirt with ARMY printed in block letters across the chest. Ceepak has the same shirt, and this guy is showing the same kind of muscles Ceepak shows when he wears it. I think they all buy the shirt two sizes too small on purpose.
The ARMY guy looks a little older than the rest of Mook's crew, as if he did his hitch, got out, and went to grad school. But he's kept the scary military buzz cut: shaved sides ringing a thick patch on the top of his skull.
“Hey, Mook!”
“Detective Danny!”
When he says that? The other guys get real quiet. Nobody's laughing anymore. They just rattle ice or jab french fries into ketchup pools on their plates. ARMY sizes me up with squinty eyes.
“Where'd you get that dorky shirt?” Mook asks.
I forgot. I'm still wearing the Morgan's Surf and Turf tee Rita gave me when my blue oxford got splattered.
“Morgan's,” I say.
“Morgan's? You actually eat there, dude?”
“Tonight I did.”
“Jesus, dude. How were the canned green beans?”
“Limp and salty. How you doing?”
“Bored shitless.” Mook jiggles his knee up and down like he's had way too much Pepsi. “We're blowing this piece-of-crap tourist trap. Heading south.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Hitting the big A.C.”
Atlantic City, about fifty miles south, has legalized gambling and glitzy casinos to do it in.
“I'm definitely up for a little blackjack action,” says Mook.
“And some primo pussy,” adds one of his pals. “The skanks up here are colder than shit, bro.”
“Totally.” ARMY agrees.
“A.C. is the place for me,” Mook chants, and the guys all knock knuckles, do finger-shakes, and basically run down a hand-flapping ritual I've never seen before. Not that you'd ever catch me doing one.
I'm happy to hear Mook plans to head out of town. That way I won't have to worry about him.
“Well, have fun,” I say. “It was cool hanging with you again.” Oh, if Ceepak could hear me lying like that, he'd wash my mouth out with Scrubby Bubbles toilet bowl cleanser. “See you next summer.”
“What you doin’ up so late?” Mook asks.
“Working.”
“Fuck, Danny Boy. Here we are, coming up on the real deal. Labor Day weekend. An official, government-approved holiday. Means you don't work.”
“Yeah. Well, I gotta run.”
“Hey, hang with us. Have a Pepsi.”
Mook's knee shakes so much under the table, it rattles the dirty plates and silverware. I wonder how many he's already had tonight, and, in fact, if Pepsi's all he's on. It would be no big news if he and his crew had scored some other stimulants. My guess would be speed-methamphetamine. It's cheaper than Ecstasy, and Mook has always been a little on the tight side.
“No, thanks,” I say. “Gotta head home, grab some z's.”
“Hey, I saw your boy shoot.”
“My boy?”
“Cedric. Sixpack. What the fuck is his name?”
“Ceepak?”
“Yeah. I was tailing you guys. Saw him line up those paintball shots and nail Saddam on the nose. Boom! Boom! Boom!”
“Yeah. He's awesome.”
“He's okay. But, my boy?” He nods toward ARMY. “He's better. Hey, tell you what-we can set up a little competition. They could do paintballs or those BB guns where you shoot out the star-hell, we could even do water pistols in clown mouths and pop balloons. Whatever. I'll give you two-to-one odds.”
“Maybe next time you guys are in town.”
“No. Shit. We should do this thing. It would be better than Atlantic City. This, after all, is a sure thing. I win all your money!”
“I don't think Ceepak-”
“What? Is he like afraid of some serious competition?”
“No. He just doesn't like to show off.”
“Oh.” Mook leans back in the booth. “Oh. You're saying he's better than my man Rick?”
“Bring it on, dickweed,” Rick says, the naked scalp surrounding his little hair carpet burning purple. “Bring it on.”
He doesn't know it, but the last thing I want is for Mook to hang around town.
“I'll see you guys later.”
I turn to leave.
“Hey, Danny.” Mook slides out of the booth to follow me. He drapes his arm around my shoulder like we're still fifteen, still best buddies, which I don't think we ever really were, even back then.
“Walk this way.” Mook does that crouching, loping Igor-the-hunchback bit from Young Frankenstein like he always does. I let him lead me to this empty table near the front door.
“Why are you so fucking uptight, man? That paintball deal on the beach? That shook you up bad, huh?”
“Some.” I hope it's what he wants to hear and that once he hears it he'll leave me alone.
“Look, Detective Danny, maybe somebody was just yanking your crank. Having a little fun.”
“Is that right?”
“Sure. If they really wanted to nail you? They would have nailed you, bro. I think they were just, you know-helping you celebrate your new career choice, welcoming you to the wacky world of weaponry or whatever.”
“You've got to be kidding.”
“Nah, bro. I know a lot of guys who'd think it was pretty funny. Plastering you like that.”
“You didn't think it was so funny.”
“Hell, they ruined my hat! But, I got over it. Took a chill pill.” He mimes popping a tiny tablet in his mouth. “Don't be so skeered, okay, bro?”
“Thanks for the tip, Mook.”
“It's all maple syrup.”
“What?”
“It's all good. Hey, I've got a line on some awesome shit that'll totally mellow you out, mon.” Now he's doing his Jamaican reggae act. “Primo ganga weed.”
“I gotta go.”
Mook looks insulted.
“So you and Katie?” Mook leans back in his chair, rocks it back on its legs. “Never thought you'd jack my girl, bro.”
“Katie Landry?”
“We used to date.”
“When?”
“That summer we all met? Katie was with me.”
“No, she wasn't.”
“Oh yes she was.”
“Bullshit.”
“Word. Katie is my woman. Always has been. Always will be. She's my forever girl.”
“I see. And does Katie know any of this?”
“Oh man, Boyle. That's cold. That's nipply cold.”
“Have fun down in Atlantic City.” I turn and walk away.
I want to punch Mook. I want to drag him outside and kick him in the ribs. Instead, I take a deep breath. I figure it's what Ceepak would do.
I head out to the parking lot. I swing around the back of the other white van to check out the bumper stickers, to see if I can, indeed, cool down by doing a little impromptu profiling.
The van has to belong to one of Mook's college buddies, since they're the only people in the diner other than the staff, who park out back.
The guy's got a few choice slogans pasted here.
“Screw the Planet, Save Yourself.”
“Pave the Rain Forest.”
And this other one. Black on gray. All it says is “ARMY.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I go home and try to fall asleep while thinking paranoid thoughts.
What if Mook is behind all this? What if this whole thing is just one of his stupid gags? Some big practical joke that, like all his pranks, isn't funny at all. Did he and his gang orchestrate the hit on the beach? Did they pull the stunt outside Morgan's? Did ARMY miss us with the real bullets on purpose?