Ben putters off on his scooter.
Ceepak and I wait for the on-duty guys to arrive. We fill them in on what went down.
“We’ll cruise up this way a little more often,” says Julie Whitaker, one of the officers in the patrol car. “Keep an eye on things.”
“Appreciate that,” says Ceepak.
He gives Julie a two-finger salute. She snaps one right back.
When Julie and her partner drive away, Ceepak and I head back to Unit Three.
It’s time to talk to Ceepak’s mom about installing a home security system.
Something other than her son.
We tell Mrs. Ceepak about her husband’s presence on the island then try to persuade her to install a burglar alarm (and maybe a machine-gun nest up on the roof).
She thinks a home security system would be a “silly waste of money. That’s why we have the nice young guards in the gatehouse.”
So Ceepak and I decide we’ll try, once more, to persuade his skeevy dad to leave the poor woman (who just happens to be filthy rich) alone.
We have to wait through ten drops of the StratosFEAR ride till Mr. Ceepak gets his 3 P.M. break.
“Roses have always been her favorite,” says Mr. Ceepak. “I used to bring her a single rose every time I took her out on a date.”
Why do I think the young Joe Ceepak used to pluck those roses off a neighbor’s bush ten seconds before knocking on Adele’s front door?
The three of us are squeezed inside a cramped, glassed-in building. The free fall ride’s control shack. Outside, the walls are painted sky blue with wispy clouds. There’s even a sign labeling this tiny booth “Mission Control.”
Inside, the walls are sheets of bare plywood and two-by-fours. Windows ring the upper third of the hexagonical hut, turning it into a hothouse reeking of vomit.
“Sorry about the stench, boys,” says Mr. Ceepak, who sits on a stool near a metal box of chunky control buttons and knobs. A mop handle leans against the wall. Its stringy head is soaking in a murky bucket near Joe Ceepak’s feet.
“Couple college kids got tanked on beer before riding the ride. Blew chunks like puke geysers when they landed. Vomit splattered everywhere. I had Ben mop it up before sending him over to Adele’s. Good kid, that Ben. Hard worker. Type of boy that would make any father proud.”
Mr. Ceepak takes a swig from a quart jug of warm orange juice. I might be the next to hurl.
“You know, Johnny, I would’ve delivered those flowers myself but, like you told Bob and the guys at Sinclair Enterprises, this ride can only stay open if there’s a factory-trained and certified operator running things in the control booth. For now, that’s me. They got me working twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week. Not that I mind. The pay is decent. The overtime is even better. And son, not that you care-I need the cash.”
“Sir,” says Ceepak, “I will only say this one more time: stay away from my mother and her money.”
“Her money? Who said anything about her money?”