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necessary?” asks Layla.
    “Yes, ma’am. The last time Officer Boyle and I were close to Skeletor, we were almost cremated while still alive.”
    Layla nods. I think she gets it. She may work in reality TV. But Ceepak and I have to work in the real world, where really bad people have all sorts of real weapons.
    Before leaving the Fun House, Ceepak radios the desk sergeant to finalize the “enhanced security” detail schedule. Mrs. Rence will fax it over to Layla in the production office.
    Everybody’s happy, including Gus Davis, who’ll be working the first shift with Alex Smitten, covering the kids while they’re inside Morgan’s Surf & Turf, one of the classiest restaurants on the island. Gus loves Morgan’s World Famous Crab Pie—a melted cheese-covered concoction of lumpy crabmeat congealed in a cream sauce the consistency of half-melted butter. I figure, at age 66, Gus still has one artery left to clog.
    Ceepak has also arranged additional armed backup for when the Skeletor deal goes down at twenty-thirty hours (that’s 8:30, outside the military time zone). Unmarked SHPD patrol cars, two of them, will be parked on the side streets near the restaurant. Ceepak and I, wearing our best beach-bum gear, will be stationed in my Jeep, a few feet away from the spot in the parking lot that Paulie set up as the rendezvous point for his drug transaction/T-shirt signing.
    Ceepak and I will both be packing Glock 31.357’s, our brand new, official SHPD service weapons. According to the catalog, these semi-automatics are “characterized by extremely high muzzle velocity and superior precision even at medium range.” I like the Glock because it’s light and because I’ve already won a few ribbons (not to mention a couple friendly wagers) with it down at the firing range.
    We can only assume that Skeletor will be packing whatever lethal sidearms have made the New Jersey Skeevy Drug Dealer Association’s approved weapons list this year.
    To kill time between 5:30 and 8, Layla and I go on our third date.
    Given the tight time parameters, I don’t think it’s going to be, you know, real “third date” material. I’m not sure where the rule about sex being a semi-given on date number three came from, but no way are Layla Shapiro and I going to get intimate during the two and half hours between the Fun House and the crab pie—not that I typically need that much time to, you know, express my intimacy.
    Besides, at the risk of sounding girly, I’m not really ready. I like to know someone before I know them in the biblical sense. (Learning that “know” was code for “have sex with” may have been the highpoint of my Catholic education.)
    Instead, we head over to the boardwalk.
    Turns out Ms. Shapiro has always wanted to see a real Fun House, and we have one on Pier Two. In fact, it’s one of the oldest attractions in Sea Haven. The Fun House isn’t a thrill ride, because you don’t ride: you have to walk through it on foot to experience it. It’s what they call a participatory amusement. It’s also why nobody’s building the rickety things any more. People today, they like to sit in cars after they’ve driven their cars to where they’re going.
    We stroll up the boardwalk. Soak in the blinking lights, gaudy sights, and greasy smells. Layla is nibbling on a cyclone of cotton candy. I’m not. I’m still in uniform and nobody wants to see an armed cop looking like a two-year-old with a gob of pink gunk stuck to his nose.
    “Thanks for hanging with me, Danny,” says Layla. “I just needed to get away from the Nut House. Take a break.”
    “No problem.”
    “Marty’s been driving me crazy.”
    “How so?”
    “The ratings.”
    “They’re good, right?”
    “Yeah. This week. Next week, who knows? It’s like they say on Project Runway: ‘One day you’re in, the next day you’re out.’”
    I’ll take her word for it. I’ve never watched Project Runway . Don’t think it’s about airplanes.
    “So