Fun House by Chris Grabenstein Read Free Book Online Page A

audience demographics. You live around here?”
    Okay. That was rather random.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Your apartment. Is it close?”
    “Not really. I’m about thirty minutes south.”
    Down where the rents are cheaper.
    Layla whips out her iPhone. Swipes her fingers across the face. “It’s six-fifteen. Maybe we should skip the Fun House.”
    “Huh?”
    “You need to change into your undercover clothes, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “And get to the restaurant to meet Ceepak by eight.”
    “Right. Twenty hundred hours.”
    “Six-fifteen to six-forty-five, six-forty-five to seven-fifteen. That’s just the travel time.”
    She’s right. I need to boogie.
    Layla gulps down the foamy dregs at the bottom of her plastic beer glass. Slams it on the counter. “How long will it take you to change?”
    I shrug. “Not long.”
    “Five, ten minutes?”
    “Yeah. I guess.”
    “Seven-fifteen to seven twenty-five. We’ve still got thirty-five minutes.”
    “Oh. Okay. You want to grab a slice or something?”
    Layla smiles at me.
    “What?”
    “Danny, how long do you need to take a shower before you change clothes?”
    “Don’t worry about it. I took one this morning.”
    “How long?”
    “Another five minutes.”
    “Good. That gives us thirty minutes.”
    Now I’m confused.
    Layla reaches over, puts one hand on each of my thighs.
    “Danny? It’s our third date.”
    Oh.
    I think I know how she wants to spend those thirty minutes.
    And it’s not eating pizza.

7
     
    M Y HAIR ’ S STILL DAMP WHEN I WHIP MY JEEP INTO THE PARKING lot of Morgan’s Surf & Turf.
    Yes, I grabbed a shower.
    No, Layla and I did not hook up, get busy, or “know” each other.
    She offered. I turned her down.
    Fine. Go ahead. Kick me out of the red-blooded-American-male club.
    “Drop me off at the front door, okay?” she says. “Pull into the handicap parking slot.”
    It’s empty. I’m not parking. Technically. I pull in.
    In the rearview mirror, I can see Ceepak standing with a short woman in the only other empty parking spot in Morgan’s gigantic lot.
    The woman is leaning on the handle of a rolling case of some sort. Ceepak, on the other hand, is glaring at me. He would never, ever pull in to a designated handicapped-drivers-only spot. To do so would be considered cheating.
    “Good luck,” says Layla as she blows me one of those Hollywood style “m’waw” air kisses and hops out of the Jeep. “I need to check inside. See if the watermelons arrived. Catch you later, Danny.”
    She bops up the walkway to the restaurant’s front doors.
    Tons of people are streaming in and out of the restaurant. The Early Bird specials leaving; the 8 o’clock reservations arriving.
    Layla shoves open the front door.
    “Hey, Danny!”
    Before the front door glides shut, I see Ceepak’s wife, Rita. She’s right where we first met her a couple summers ago: near the hostess stand.
    She waves. I wave. The door whooshes shut.
    I’m figuring Rita, who used to waitress at Morgan’s, came down to see some of her friends become TV stars, serving dinner to the famous kids in what Morgan’s calls their Party Room. It’s a couple long tables that can be sealed off from the rest of the dining room with an accordion wall. It’s where the Kiwanis and Rotary clubs hold their monthly meetings. Tonight, Fun House has it closed off for their etiquette contest. Layla tells me that the winner of the competition gets “immunity,” which is a very good thing to have in reality TV shows because that means you can’t be booted out of the house that week.
    “Danny?”
    This from the other Ceepak.
    The one waiting—somewhat impatiently—for me to drive our surveillance vehicle (my Jeep) into position for the sting, which is, geeze-o, man, supposed to take place in like twenty minutes!
    I slam my ride into reverse, peel wheels backward, cut a fishhook swerve to the right, jam the transmission into drive, and blast-off for Ceepak and the empty parking spot,