“So-you got the hots for my mom?”
Before Ceepak can say anything, T. J. plunges ahead. “My mom. Rita? Are you, you know, interested or just stringing her along?”
“Well, I'm … we only just met … the other night.
“You ought to ask her out, man. She's cool, not so totally uptight like you might think when you first meet her. You should take her on a date or whatever. She's cool.”
Ceepak's ears? Redder than red. I think they call it crimson.
I step in to give him a breather.
“So,” I ask, “have you noticed any unusual characters at the paintball place? Anybody stick out?”
“No. Just your usual weirdos. Sandman. He's this skinny dude who always wears desert camo and one of those boony hats like they had in Vietnam. Then there's these two goth chicks. They dress all in black, even in the middle of summer. Black lipstick, too. Gemmy and Jackelyn. Gemmy's the one with the dog collar. They both like to shoot at the Britney Spears target. Take turns. Oh, then there's this dork I call Asswipe. He's the main reason I haven't shot much lately.”
“Who is he?” Ceepak asks.
“Asswipe? Older guy. Twentysomething. About his age.” T. J. points at me. “All last week, he hogged number three.”
“What's number three?”
“My favorite gun. I know how to sight it, you know what I mean?”
“Sure.”
“Anyway, Asswipe likes number three, too. I tell him it's my favorite and like I only have a couple minutes, and he tells me to go fuck myself. He won't budge. Keeps hogging the rifle even when there's four or five other guns nobody's using. Even when the dude behind the counter, Larry, tells Asswipe to cut me some slack, Asswipe just smiles and says shit like, ‘I paid, didn't I? I can use any gun I choose, can't I?’ Total asswipe.”
“Is there anything special about weapon number three?” Ceepak has his pad out.
“I dunno. It's just the best gun. I think the barrel is a little straighter or something. Maybe the rifle's a little newer. I know it's the one Larry uses whenever he challenges anybody to a shootout.”
Ceepak smiles.
“Roger that. I was on number four.”
“And he was next to you on three, am I right?”
“Right.”
“Larry is so lame. And you still beat him?”
“Tell me more about this guy.”
“Asswipe?”
Ceepak nods. Too bad. I wanted to hear him say “Yes, Mr. Asswipe,” like that was the guy's name.
“Let's see, he's kind of tall. Has this wavy, weird hair and a bushy little beard. Wore a pair of nerd glasses.”
“Nerd glasses?”
“Yeah. Old ones. Like he's had the same pair since high school or whatever. I got real tired of him pretty fast.”
“How do you mean?”
“You know-him acting like he was smarter than anybody on the beach, and being all happy ruining my day, taking my favorite gun away from me and everything.”
“Any distinguishing marks? A tattoo perhaps?”
“This guy? No way. He looked way too straight. Wore these color-coordinated pants and windbreaker, like his mom picked them out at Sears or wherever. I remember one day he had on this totally brown outfit. Brown pants. Brown zippered jacket. Who wears brown on the boardwalk, man?”
“Only asswipes,” I say, thinking I'm being cute.
Ceepak shoots me a look. So does T. J. I guess they both think I should stick to my grown-up words.
“Have you seen this fellow lately, T. J.?”
“No, sir. Not since, like, last Wednesday.”
“Was he a local?”
“No. At least I don't think so. His skin was pasty white. Like he lived under a rock someplace cold.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Ceepak checks his watch. “We know you have to get back to work.”
“Yeah.”
“You want the rest of my fries?”
“Nah. Thanks. I'm cool.”
“Can I ask one last question, T. J.?”
“Shoot.”
“If you don't own a paintball gun, how did you attack The Pig's Commitment?”
It's a classic Ceepak move: slip in the big question when the witness thinks you're all done.
T. J. looks embarrassed. He also looks like he's tired of telling lies, like he figures he'll do better with Ceepak if he tells the truth. He's right.
“Slingshot.”
“I see.”
“I borrowed paint balls from Larry.”
“Borrowed?”
“I didn't steal them. Larry gave them to me. It was his idea, kind of. Thought the blue balls on the sign would be funny. Larry basically hates black people. Hates Grace. Said somebody needed to knock her down a few notches, put her in her place.”
“What about you?”
“I just wanted to, you know, do it for a goof. Show him I could.”
“You don't dislike Ms. Porter?”
“Nah. She's pretty cool. We talked the other day.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I went by her place to tell her I was sorry. Told my mom, too.”
“Good for you. What did Ms. Porter say?”
“Said she was too damn busy to deal with me on account of the holiday weekend and I should come back Tuesday if I wanted to apologize so damn much.”
Yep. That sounds like Grace Porter.
“Then she made me breakfast.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Eggs, bacon, and biscuits with gravy.”
“Did you try the scrapple?” Ceepak asks.
“No way, dude. That stuff will kill you.”
T. J. crumples up his fry cup.
Ceepak smiles.
“Thanks for your help, T. J. If you run into this fellow again, please give me a call.” Ceepak hands T. J. one of his cards.
“No problem.” T. J. stands up from the table, his eyes drift to the side. He remembers something. “This guy Asswipe?”
“Yes?”
“This one time, he gave me a card. Like a bubblegum card, you know?”
“Do you still have it?”
“Nah. I tossed it in the trash. But he gave it to me once when he wouldn't let me have gun number three. ‘Here you go, kid,’ he said. ‘Go home and whack off to this instead.’ ”
“What was on the card?”
“This blond superhero chick in blue tights.”
“The Invisible Woman?” I ask.
“Yeah. Maybe. It was like a comic-book cover only it was on a trading card. That was the same day he wore the gloves.”
“While he was shooting?”
“Yeah. Surfer gloves. You know-black neoprene. Totally weird. Nobody wears surfer gloves around here except maybe in the winter.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
You ever race through traffic with a siren screaming and roof lights spinning?
Cars pull off to the side of the road to get out of your way. You fly across the causeway bridge. It's pretty cool. Until you remember why you're doing it: you're a cop on your way to Mainland Medical where one of your best friends lies unconscious after doctors dug a bullet out of her chest, a bullet that might've been meant for you.
You remember that, and it's not so cool.
My three other Marshmallow Crew friends are meeting us at the hospital. Ceepak thinks if we brainstorm about the summer of Nineteen ninety-six maybe one of us will remember who the hell Wheezer is and why the hell he might want to kill us.
Meanwhile, back on the island, surf shops have been added to the list of places to go ask questions. T. J. is right. Nobody wears rubber surf gloves in the middle of August except maybe some rifleman who thinks the neoprene will hide his fingerprints. And to make sure he can still squeeze a trigger? He goes and checks himself out at the paintball arcade.
Dr. McDaniels has called some folks over at the state Major Crimes Unit and requested a sketch artist to sit with T. J. A town the size of Sea Haven doesn't have a police sketch artist, so we need to borrow one from the state, unless, of course, we go grab one of those guys who draw caricatures down on the boardwalk. But if we do that, our suspect will have a big bubblehead, gigantic buck teeth, and wear some kind of dopey clown hat.
Our guys have already tracked down a couple of minivans with flat tires, but none with that green beach-pass bumper sticker. The search continues.