“For real, dawg? Dag. My pops only be sending my moms flowers after she catches him bangin’ some skanky beach babe.”
“Mrs. Ceepak does not want flowers from her ex-husband,” I say.
“Aw, come on. Let me in. I promised Joe Cool I’d make the drop, dawg.”
“The grounds of The Oceanaire are considered private property,” says guardhouse Bruce. “Access to the area beyond this gate is only granted to our residents and their invited guests.”
I’m impressed. The kid’s good.
In the distance, I hear the wail of police sirens.
He also knows how to dial 911.
Ben hears the approaching cop car, too. He tugs down on the strap of his motorcycle helmet. If he wasn’t wearing one, I’d arrest him on the spot for violating the State of New Jersey’s Mandatory Helmet Law.
“Go home, Ben,” I say as the sirens move closer.
“Can’t, Holmes. I’m OTJ. On the job.”
“Then go back to the boardwalk.”
“A’ight, a’ight.”
“Ben?”
“Yo?”
“Why do you talk like that? You go to Pine Barrens. It’s a prep school.”
Ben doesn’t answer, but he does drop his fake ghetto gangsta act.
“What am I supposed to do with these stupid flowers? Give ’em to the other cops when they get here?”
Ceepak steps forward. Snatches the bouquet out of Ben’s hand. I feel sorry for the roses. From the sound of crinkling plastic, I think Ceepak is strangling their stems.
“My mother,” he says, quite calmly, “is an avid gardener. She keeps a compost bin. These will make a excellent contribution to her pile of vegetable peelings and kitchen scraps.”
“She still in Unit Three?” asks Ben with an ugly little smirk.
Ceepak glares at him, hard.
“Yeah,” says Ben. “Mr. Joe Cool knows exactly where his old lady lives, dude. Deal with it.”