“You would do well to memorize the remainder of that chapter, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“Verse 15: ‘Beware of the false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves.”
“Oh-kay,” says Bob, laughing nervously. “We better postpone Bible study till church tomorrow morning and get back at it. We open in fifteen, Joe.”
“Right. And Bob?”
“Yes, Joe?”
“Thanks again. For giving me this opportunity.”
Bob claps old man Ceepak on the back. “Are you kidding? We’re the ones who should be thanking you. Heck, if you hadn’t answered our ad, your son here would’ve kept the StratosFEAR shut down all summer long.”
Bob chuckles. Joe chuckles.
Ceepak and me? We’re not in a chuckling kind of mood.
We grab a cold soda (what Ceepak still calls a Pop) at a pizza stand twenty feet away from the StratosFEAR.
I’m thirsty, so I gulp mine down. Ceepak, on the other hand, sips maybe two drops.
Both of us watch Mr. Ceepak hoist a couple carloads of squealing riders up the tower and drop them. At first, they scream and kick their feet. Then they laugh. It’s good old-fashioned fun.
But I’m thinking one of the nearby T-shirt shops ought to start selling clean underpants, too.
“I don’t trust him or his supposed transformation,” Ceepak finally says.
Hey, I can’t blame the guy.
Years ago, Joseph Ceepak murdered his youngest son, William Philip Ceepak-my Ceepak’s little brother. The sneaky bastard made Billy’s death look like a suicide. And he got away with it. For years. Even when Ceepak and I were able to have a prosecuting attorney up in Ohio re-open the case, the slimy worm wiggled off the hook.
So, I’m with Ceepak. I’m not buying this whole Bible-thumping, born-again Christian act. Joseph Ceepak is not a lost sheep. He’s a wolf who went to a pop-up Halloween shop and asked for the Little Bo Peep costume.
“He’s here for Mother’s money,” says Ceepak, his eyes focused on the Free Fall. Not the ride; the control booth.
“Maybe we should request a fresh Emergency Restraining Order.”
“Trust me, Danny: I have already put in the paperwork.”
We might’ve stayed there all day, nursing our Cokes, keeping an eye on Joe Ceepak, waiting for him to slip out of his sheep costume, do something stupid enough for us to arrest him, but my cell phone chirps.