“Setting up housekeeping,” says Mr. Ceepak. “Excuse me. Need to load up my truck.” He gestures toward the dirt splattered workhorse parked next to my Jeep.
“I thought you put down the bottle when you picked up the bible, sir?”
“The two are not mutually exclusive, Officer Boyle. Ecclesiastes nine tells us to ‘Seize life! Eat bread with gusto; drink wine with a robust heart. Oh yes, God takes pleasure in your pleasure!’”
“So, you’re just out here pleasuring God, huh?”
“Doin’ my best, Boyle. Doin’ my best.”
“Hey, as long as you don’t drink and drive, I have no problem with you buying enough beer, hard lemonade, and vodka for, oh, I don’t know …”
I make a show of counting heads in Ben’s bunch.
“… five guys. Just so long as you’re not going into liquor stores up and down the island buying booze for kids.”
“What?” Mr. Ceepak wheezes out a laugh. Coughs up a nasty wad of sputum. Puts down his cargo so he can jab another cigarette in his mouth to keep his shriveled lungs’ mucus mines working. “Why would I do something dumb like that?”
“I don’t know.” I turn to Ben. “Back in the day, we’d find a wino to do our shopping for like five bucks.”
“It’s ten now,” says Ben’s dumbest friend before Ben can elbow him again.
Mr. Ceepak laughs his chesty chuckle. Torches his smoke with a butane lighter that’s decorated with a bikini babe.
“Not a bad idea, Boyle. Not bad at all. Ten bucks a pop, huh? Interesting idea. I could use a little extra walking-around money.”
“I thought you were making double, triple overtime sending that chair lift up and down on the boardwalk.”
“Oh, Ben’s daddy pays me good. I ain’t complaining.” He smacks down a wet drag on his cigarette. “But let’s be honest, here. No matter how hard I work, how many hours I put in, I’ll never make a million bucks.”
Ben Sinclair eyeballs the paper sack and giant cardboard beer carton sitting on the ground. He can’t resist. Makes the slightest move for it.
“Whoa,” I say. “Are you trying to steal Mr. Ceepak’s daily recommended intake of adult beverage?”
“It’s ours, dude!” bellows the dumb one.
I scratch the back of my head. “It’s yours? Mr. Ceepak says it’s his. I don’t know. This is a difficult situation. Maybe I better call the cops. Have them come up here and help us figure this thing out. Oh, wait. I am a cop …”
“Go home, boys,” snarls Mr. Ceepak. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Ben.”
“B-b-but …”
“Beat it. Now.”