Mind Scrambler Read Free Page A

Georgette Washington’s whoo-hoo-hooing when her lines hit a magical configuration and Cleopatra made with the
clink-plink-clink
sound effects.
    â€œLet it go!” Ceepak demanded. Usually, when he demands like that, people listen: Ceepak’s six-two, a mountain of muscle. And the military-issue haircut makes him look even stronger.
    The guy on the floor, however, did not listen.
    â€œYo, Tony!” he yelled.
    His buddy with the gym bag went for an empty stool, grabbed hold of two legs, and swung it sideways at Ceepak’s head.
    â€œCeepak!” I shouted—half a second after Ceepak had already sensed the incoming furniture and ducked. Stool man missed by a mile. Looked like one of the Mets chasing after a clever curveball.
    Now the guy on the floor popped up, ready to make a run for it.
    A run right through me.
    â€œDon’t even think about it!” I yelled at him, assuming this kung fu pose I remembered seeing in
The Karate Kid.
    He didn’t listen.
    He thought.
    He ran.
    I closed my eyes, lunged forward, and crashed headfirst into his rib cage. We hit the deck and rolled around on the rug, which smelled a lot like spilled beer mixed with crushed popcorn and old shoes.
    â€œHey! Watch it!” yelled one of the blue-haired ladies perched on a stool above us trying to gamble in peace.
    â€œSorry,” I said right before I flipped my guy off, rolled him over, and pinned him facedown to the floor so he could contemplate the carpet while I slapped on the cuffs—which, I remembered, I also did not pack for this trip.
    In one final attempt to arch me off his back, my prisoner grunted, rocked up, and kicked out both legs. One of those legs collided with a cocktail waitress who had picked the absolutely wrong time to swing around the corner with a trayful of cocktails and beers. We got a booze bath. He finally stopped struggling.
    The ladies of Cleopatra Lane were furious. I was soaked in chardonnay, Coors Light, and cosmopolitans. They, on the other hand, were thirsty.
    â€œPolice,” I said so they’d stop staring at me like I was the idiot grandson they knew they should’ve kept locked up down in the cellar.
    â€œWell done, Danny,” I heard Ceepak say.
    I had my knee in the small of the purse snatcher’s back, both my hands pinning down his shoulders. I glanced over at Ceepak, who had his guy on the carpet, too. He only needed one hand to keep his suspect subdued. He was using the other one to help the cocktail waitress collect stray maraschino cherries.
    â€œAll right,” boomed a big voice behind us. “We’ll take it from here.”
    I looked up. Six security guards. A couple had Glocks strapped to their hips. One guy, a big black dude in gray slacks and a blue blazer, looked familiar, but I couldn’t see his face, just a head silhouette, because he was standing right in front of a glowing purple panel at the top of a slot machine.
    â€œThese individuals were attempting to perpetrate a theft,” said Ceepak.
    â€œWe know,” said the big guy, who had an even bigger voice. “The eyes in the sky caught the whole show. It’s all good, Ceepak.”
    Ceepak squinted. “Cyrus?”
    â€œRoger that,” said the big man. And then he started rumbling up a laugh. “Man, Ceepak. You and Boyle. You two always make a mess, don’t you?”

 
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    â€œSo what brings you boys down to sin city?” Cyrus asked as we strolled through the crowded casino.
    â€œDeposition,” said Ceepak. “Case up in Ohio.”
    â€œYour old man?”
    â€œRoger that.”
    â€œYou gonna lock him up and throw away the key?”
    â€œSuch is the plan.”
    â€œSounds like a good one.”
    Cyrus is Cyrus Parker, a former Green Beret and fellow adherent to Ceepak’s West Point honor code, who helped us “extricate” our way out of a hell hole back in Sea Haven last summer.