lugging a camera. Has one of those hippy hairdos. He and two other yahoos went chasing after Paulie and Miss Hot Hiney. Some guy with a freaking bright light; another one holding out something fuzzy on a flagpole. Looked like a giant squirrel tail.”
The squirrel tail on the pole would be a boom microphone. Layla taught me that. Back before she met whoever she’d hooked up with last night.
“Thank you, Gus,” says Ceepak.
“You need anything else?”
“Not right now.”
“Good. I’ve got fish to gut. Catch you later.”
Ceepak thumbs the off button. Presses a speed dial.
“Who you calling next?” I ask.
“Prickly Pear Productions. Ms. Shapiro.”
“She’s probably still in the trailer.” Which, I don’t add, is only about fifty feet behind us.
“Danny, to be honest, I’d rather not go back in there again until we absolutely have to.”
I nod. The feeling is mutual.
“Ms. Shapiro? John Ceepak. Quick question. Does one of your cameramen wear his hair in a ponytail?”
He nods so I can see that he has been answered in the affirmative.
“Where might Jimbo and Unit Three be now? Thank you. What? I understand. However, this is extremely urgent.”
Now Ceepak does something I’ve never seen him do before: he makes a duckbill out of his left hand and flaps the thumb and fingers open and shut—giving me the universal “blah-blah-blah” sign.
“Right. Roger that. Okay. Thank you. We have to run.”
Finally, he snaps shut the phone.
“Danny, do you know the Starfish Boutique?”
“It’s on Ocean Avenue. Most expensive clothes on the island.”
“Apparently the cameraman with the ponytail is named Jimbo Green. He is currently filming Jenny Mortadella at the dress shop because she ‘doesn’t have anything decent to wear.’”
Funny. I thought that was the whole point of the Fun House wardrobe: the more indecent, the better.
And then Ceepak adds the kicker: “She needs a black outfit for Mr. Braciole’s funeral. They’re filming it first thing Monday morning.”
15
W E HEAD DOWN TO O CEAN A VENUE .
I’m behind the wheel, wondering what the “weekly competition” will be on Fun House: The Funeral Edition .
Casket-tossing?
Competitive pall-bearing?
Maybe they can do a “rose ceremony” with all the funeral flowers. They could form teams and run a gravesite floral-arrangement contest.
We park at the curb outside the Starfish Boutique. Their motto: “Why just be another fish in the sea when you can be the star?” It’s painted on both display windows flanking the front door. The mannequins wear gowns worked over by someone with a BeDazzler.
The glow of a blindingly bright spotlight swings by the window on the left. Jenny Mortadella, led by a sales associate in what they call “glamorous resort wear,” is being trailed by a full camera crew as she heads over to a rack of black garments. Judging by his ponytail, the man operating the camera aimed at Jenny’s badonkadonk is Jimbo Green.
Ceepak pauses at the front door. He’s polite enough to let Jimbo finish his shot.
“What the fuck is this shit?” Jenny brays, slapping her way through the hanging black dresses.
“These represent the finest in funereal fashion,” says the helpful assistant. “Remember, no matter how somber, funerals are, at their heart, social outings. And, just like weddings, there will be a lot of single, emotional people there. A long black dress with a steep neckline can be respectful and provocative.”
“I’ll fucking melt. You can’t wear fucking black in the fucking sun!”
“Cut!” shouts Jimbo.
“We’re cutting,” echoes his stopwatch-clipboard guy. Off goes the floodlight. Down comes the squirrel-tail boom microphone. Ceepak pushes open the door.
“Mr. Green?”
Jimbo whirls around, camera mounted on his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“I’m Officer John Ceepak with the Sea Haven Police Department. This is my partner, Danny Boyle.”
“Yeah, sure! From the parking lot.
The squirrel tail on the pole would be a boom microphone. Layla taught me that. Back before she met whoever she’d hooked up with last night.
“Thank you, Gus,” says Ceepak.
“You need anything else?”
“Not right now.”
“Good. I’ve got fish to gut. Catch you later.”
Ceepak thumbs the off button. Presses a speed dial.
“Who you calling next?” I ask.
“Prickly Pear Productions. Ms. Shapiro.”
“She’s probably still in the trailer.” Which, I don’t add, is only about fifty feet behind us.
“Danny, to be honest, I’d rather not go back in there again until we absolutely have to.”
I nod. The feeling is mutual.
“Ms. Shapiro? John Ceepak. Quick question. Does one of your cameramen wear his hair in a ponytail?”
He nods so I can see that he has been answered in the affirmative.
“Where might Jimbo and Unit Three be now? Thank you. What? I understand. However, this is extremely urgent.”
Now Ceepak does something I’ve never seen him do before: he makes a duckbill out of his left hand and flaps the thumb and fingers open and shut—giving me the universal “blah-blah-blah” sign.
“Right. Roger that. Okay. Thank you. We have to run.”
Finally, he snaps shut the phone.
“Danny, do you know the Starfish Boutique?”
“It’s on Ocean Avenue. Most expensive clothes on the island.”
“Apparently the cameraman with the ponytail is named Jimbo Green. He is currently filming Jenny Mortadella at the dress shop because she ‘doesn’t have anything decent to wear.’”
Funny. I thought that was the whole point of the Fun House wardrobe: the more indecent, the better.
And then Ceepak adds the kicker: “She needs a black outfit for Mr. Braciole’s funeral. They’re filming it first thing Monday morning.”
15
W E HEAD DOWN TO O CEAN A VENUE .
I’m behind the wheel, wondering what the “weekly competition” will be on Fun House: The Funeral Edition .
Casket-tossing?
Competitive pall-bearing?
Maybe they can do a “rose ceremony” with all the funeral flowers. They could form teams and run a gravesite floral-arrangement contest.
We park at the curb outside the Starfish Boutique. Their motto: “Why just be another fish in the sea when you can be the star?” It’s painted on both display windows flanking the front door. The mannequins wear gowns worked over by someone with a BeDazzler.
The glow of a blindingly bright spotlight swings by the window on the left. Jenny Mortadella, led by a sales associate in what they call “glamorous resort wear,” is being trailed by a full camera crew as she heads over to a rack of black garments. Judging by his ponytail, the man operating the camera aimed at Jenny’s badonkadonk is Jimbo Green.
Ceepak pauses at the front door. He’s polite enough to let Jimbo finish his shot.
“What the fuck is this shit?” Jenny brays, slapping her way through the hanging black dresses.
“These represent the finest in funereal fashion,” says the helpful assistant. “Remember, no matter how somber, funerals are, at their heart, social outings. And, just like weddings, there will be a lot of single, emotional people there. A long black dress with a steep neckline can be respectful and provocative.”
“I’ll fucking melt. You can’t wear fucking black in the fucking sun!”
“Cut!” shouts Jimbo.
“We’re cutting,” echoes his stopwatch-clipboard guy. Off goes the floodlight. Down comes the squirrel-tail boom microphone. Ceepak pushes open the door.
“Mr. Green?”
Jimbo whirls around, camera mounted on his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“I’m Officer John Ceepak with the Sea Haven Police Department. This is my partner, Danny Boyle.”
“Yeah, sure! From the parking lot.
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