(Ever since I became a cop, I’ve always wanted to say that.)
“Hands over your head,” adds Ceepak, splashing up behind the kid with a Maglite locked in one fist, his other hand clasping his wrist to steady the light.
The kid squints. Stares at me hard.
He swings around to check out Ceepak then turns back to me.
“Wassup, braw?”
Of course he looked familiar. It’s Ben Sinclair. Our honorable mayor’s dishonorable son. We’ve dealt with him before. Several times, actually.
“Why you two always be harassing me?” he whines. “I didn’t do nothing wrong, dawg.”
Ben Sinclair is not a gangsta rapper. He’s a rich white kid who once tried to strap a big subwoofer to the back of his scooter so he could cruise around Sea Haven pretending to be ghetto.
“You were resisting arrest,” says Ceepak.
“Cuffs?” I ask.
“That’ll work,” says Ceepak, sliding the purse off Ben’s shoulder while I work the kid’s hands behind his back.
“Yo! That be police brutality, po-po.”
“No, Benjamin,” says Ceepak. “Those be handcuffs.”
I can’t help but crack up. Ceepak made a funny.
The three of us wade down Ye Olde Mill stream.
Ceepak even starts whistling.
It’s a Springsteen tune, of course. “Tunnel Of Love.”
Mrs. Ceepak is waiting with the lady whose purse ben snatched when we come out of Ye Olde Mill.
“See, dear?” she says. “I told you my son and his friend would get you your bag back. I’m so proud of you, Johnny. You, too, Daniel.”
“Thanks,” we both say. For an instant, I feel like Ceepak and I are two years old and we both just made a good boom-boom on our potty training seats.
The Murray brothers, Dylan and Jeremy, swing by the boardwalk in their patrol car to process Ben Sinclair.
“He’ll be out in under an hour,” mutters Jeremy.