The dumb one puts on his tough guy act. “Yo, old man. You owe us …”
“I don’t owe you crap, kid.” Mr. Ceepak finger-flicks the glowing butt of his cigarette at the boy. “Get lost. All of you. Unless you want Boyle here to arrest your pimply butts.”
“Come on, Ethan,” says Ben.
Muttering and mumbling, the young men shuffle off into the darkness.
Mr. Ceepak pops a fresh cigarette into his lips.
“You know, Boyle,” he says, sending the cancer stick wiggling up and down, “the last time I was in the can, my cellmate was a CPA.”
“Huh. I guess you really do meet the most interesting people in jail.”
“Oh, you do, Boyle. You do. This guy, Richard Michael Johnson, he was sharp. Swindled the bank he worked for out of a million bucks just by rounding down numbers on his computer. Nobody noticed. Not until he got greedy. Anyway, he told me all a man really needs is one million dollars to be beer and pretzels rich for the rest of his life.”
“What’s ‘beer and pretzels’ rich?”
“Less than Wine and Cheese. Nowhere near Caviar and Champagne. I get my hands on a million bucks, Boyle, I’m a happy camper. I go back to my trailer park in Ohio, drink beer and eat pretzels all day long.”
“What about protein?”
“What?”
“That’s a lot of carbs, sir. Beer. Pretzels. Where’s the beef? Maybe you should go to Mickey Dee’s and order off the Dollar Menu. You could get a McChicken …”
“Cute, Boyle,” says Mr. Ceepak, bending down to pick up his groceries, that flicking cigarette perfectly balanced in his lips. “You’re still a wise ass, huh?”
“It’s what I do best, sir.”
“Yeah, well, do me a favor. Tell Johnny I’m not greedy. Adele cleared two point three million when her whacky old aunt kicked the bucket. By rights, we should’ve split that payday fifty-fifty. But like I said, I’m not greedy. All I want are my beer and my pretzels. One million bucks, Boyle. That’s all it costs for you boys to never, ever see me again.”
“I thought all we had to do was save your sorry life at the Rolling Thunder roller coaster.”
“That was nothing special. You two are cops. It’s your job. You had to save me or they’d dock your pay.”
“Look, sir,” I say, because it’s getting late and I’m getting tired of the same-old, same-old with Joe Sixpack. “Your ex-wife is not going to give you a dime. End of story.”
“She should. It’s all over the bible. ‘Wives be submissive to your husbands!’”
“Right. I’ll tell Adele you said that.”
“That’s okay. I’ll swing by some day and tell her myself. After all, you and Johnny can’t guard her 24/7 now, can you?”