“Does Jumbo Jimmy’s serve fruit?” asks Ceepak when we pass the water wheel.
“I think so. They have those bananas dipped in chocolate. And candy apples.”
“John? Daniel?”
It’s Ceepak’s mother. She’s with a group of about a dozen other senior citizens, all of them dressed in plaids and sherbet colors. Some are wearing those visors with the see-through green windowpane in the brim. Each of them holds a string of three tickets, enough to ride Ye Olde Mill.
Looking at Adele Ceepak, you’d never know she’s a multimillionaire. She’s extremely short, maybe five feet tall, and likes to dress in polyester red, white, and blue outfits with big, brassy belt buckles. Her hair is cut pixie short and is dyed the same golden color as her glasses frames. Mrs. Ceepak also has the brightest, happiest smile of any sixty-something senior citizen I’ve ever met, especially considering all the dark crap she had to live through before she threw her bum of a husband out the back door with the rest of the trash.
That last bit? That’s how Mrs. Ceepak describes her divorce after she’s had a glass or two of Chianti, her favorite.
“Hello, Mom,” says Ceepak. He leans way down and gives her a kiss on her cheek. The tall genes? Ceepak definitely didn’t get them from his mom.
“What are you two boys doing on the boardwalk? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“We are,” I say.
“Those are your work clothes? Daniel, you look like a beach bum.”
“We’re undercover,” I whisper.
“Oh.” Mrs. Ceepak does that locking your lips with a key thing my grandmother used to do.
“We’re here to inspect a few of the rides up and down the boardwalk,” explains her son.
“Are they unsafe?”
“We hope not. But if they are, rest assured, we will pull their papers.”
“Good for you. How about this Ye Olde Mill? Hank says that’s the ride we should all ride first. He even asked me to share a boat with him.”
Ceepak arches an eyebrow. “Hank?”
Mrs. Ceepak gestures toward a tall guy with thick white hair and skinny, sinewy legs. He looks healthy, like he plays tennis or rides a bike.
“Hank’s a very good dancer,” says Mrs. Ceepak. “He calls the Bingo numbers at the Senior Center on Tuesday nights, too. He’s something of a celebrity in certain circles.”
Ceepak looks like he wants to go over to Hank and say, “What are your intentions, young man?” but he doesn’t get the chance.
There’s a scream. Maybe fifty feet up the pier. A young dude in an Abercrombie amp; Fitch top, baggy shorts, and high-top sneakers comes tearing up the boards, a jungle print purse flapping by his side.
“He stole my bag! Stop him! Help!”