Rolling Thunder

36

“What did my father want with you, T.J.?”

T.J. shrugs. I’m still not used to his buzz cut. I keep expecting to see his bouncing bundle of dreadlocks bobbing up and down.

“Said he wanted to ‘get to know me.’ Talk to me about my grandmother. I know you and mom want to keep him way from Grams.”

“So T.J. told the old wino to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut,” says Tranotti.

“Yeah,” says T.J., looking down at his sneakers. “Sorry about that.”

Ceepak nods. “An understandable reaction, son.”

“Next time, I’ll be nicer.”

“Let’s hope there isn’t a next time. Did Skippy O’Malley put my father into the King Putt truck?”

“Yeah. He slapped him in cuffs and everything. Sort of shoved him into the vehicle, held down the top his head-did it just like the cops do on TV shows. When I told him to take it easy on the old fart, dude flashed me his badge. Said I shouldn’t interfere with police business unless I wanted to take a ride, too. Oh, there was a rifle in the truck. I saw it on the floor. Wicked-looking shotgun.”

“Do all auxiliary cops get to carry that much firepower?” asks Tranotti.

“Auxiliary cops?” says Ceepak.

“That’s what O’Malley said he was when I asked him how come he worked at the golf course all the time if he was a police officer.”

“T.J., David-young Mr. O’Malley is in no way affiliated with the Sea Haven Police Department. It is very important that we locate and apprehend him ASAP. Could you tell what direction he headed with my father?”

“Not the jail,” says Tranotti. “He peeled wheels out of the parking lot and headed north on Ocean.”

Cherry Street is south.

“The causeway is north,” says Ceepak.

True. And it’s the only road off the island.

My partner reaches for his radio. “Dorian, this is Officer Ceepak.”

“Go ahead, Officer Ceepak.”

“We need a roadblock.…”

“Ten-four. The Causeway. Chief Baines already ordered one.”

“We have confirmation that Mr. O’Malley left the golf course in the King Putt pickup.”

“A Dodge Ram,” T.J. tosses in.

“A Dodge Ram,” Ceepak says to the radio, even though he already knew that.

“Ten-four. You told me that already.”

“Sorry. Dorian?”

“Yes, Officer Ceepak?”

“We’ve just been informed that O’Malley has taken a hostage.”

“Copy that. Any ID on who he grabbed?”

“Yes. Joseph Ceepak. My father.”

There is a beat of dead air.

“Ten-four.” I can hear our new dispatcher straining to remain professional. She cracks. “Hang in there, hon, ya hear?”

“Yes, ma’am. Will do.”

Down comes the radio mic.

“Danny? We need to be mobile. Fortunately, the vehicle is easy to spot. We should get a hit on it soon.” Then he turns to T.J. “I need for you to go home, in case Skippy, for whatever reason, decides to come after you, your mom, or Marny.”

“Yeah,” says T.J.

“I’ll hang with you, man,” says Tranotti, who, I can tell, has put in some serious physical training during his first year at Annapolis. “We can play Battleship.”

T.J. laughs.

“Sorry about this, son,” says Ceepak. “Guess I ruined your big day even more than we had anticipated.”

“Nah,” says T.J. “I ruined it myself. Shot six over par on the back nine. Did even worse on the front of the course. Go on. Go rescue your old man.”

“Will do. Tell your mother I love her.”

“Hey, tell her yourself. Tonight. After you come home safe.”

“Roger that.”

Then they hug. Seriously. I don’t think I ever hugged my dad. Not even when I graduated high school, which, by the way, many people considered a mathematical impossibility.

“Dylan? Jeremy?” Ceepak breaks out of the father-son embrace and marches into the office where the Murrays are guarding the golfers. I’m right behind him.

“Keep this location secure. Young Mr. O’Malley might roll back this way if we corner him and he has nowhere else to run.” He turns to the kids and parents we hustled off the golf course earlier. “King Putt is officially closed for the day due to ongoing police activity. Come back tomorrow and the management will gladly offer you a free game or a full refund.”

Having seen all our weapons and heavy-duty body armor, they scurry out the door in a clump. Guess playing putt-putt tomorrow sounds like an excellent idea.

We’re crawling north on Ocean Avenue in our patrol car.

I’m in the passenger seat, scoping out every pickup truck I can spot. They’re all legit. Landscapers. Brick masons. Guys helping their buddies move a couch.

“Why’d he grab your father?” I ask.

“Perhaps he hopes we will negotiate with him if he has a hostage.”

I laugh a little. “Leave it to Skippy to grab a hostage nobody wants.”

“Danny, right now, my father is simply a citizen being held against his will in need of our assistance. It is our sworn duty to protect him.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Tomorrow, Joe Ceepak can be the sorry asshole we all wish would curl up and die. Today, we have to save his wrinkled old butt.

“All units, all units …”

Ceepak’s behind the wheel so I twist up the radio dial.

“… Joseph Thalken of the Sea Haven Sanitation Department reports seeing the King Putt pickup truck heading north on Beach Lane near Kipper Street.”

Joey T. The man deserves a medal for all he’s seen this week.

“The boardwalk,” I mumble. “It starts at Kipper. He could be heading to Pier Four. If he takes that shotgun to the roller coaster he could seriously ruin his dad’s big day.”

“Is your friend still broadcasting from the Rolling Thunder, Danny?”

I snap on the dashboard radio while Ceepak hits the lights and sirens and jams the accelerator down to the floor.

“Hang on.”

We slalom our way north through heavy traffic, occasionally borrowing a lane from the terrified cars trying to head south.

“… and what’s your name, young lady?” Cliff Skeete chatters out of the car radio.

“Layla.”

“Like the song?”

“Hey, that’s the first time anybody ever said that.”

“Well, Layla, you ready to climb aboard a lightning bolt and roll like thunder?”

“Not really. I came here for the roller coaster.”

I like this Layla. She’s got sass. ’Tude.

Cliff moves on down the line. “And you are, mi’lady?”

“Samantha Starky. My friends call me, Sam.”

Jeez-o, man. Sam’s still there.

“How long you been waitin’ on line, Sam?”

“Three whole hours, Skeeter! I listen to you all the time. You used to hang out with my old boyfriend, Danny Boyle.”

So. The breakup is official. I heard it on the radio.

“You know Danny, right?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Well he makes me listen to you and WAVY all the time!”

Impossible as it seems, she sounds even perkier on the radio.

“Well, you’re almost to the front of the line,” says Cliff. “Hang in there.”

“Hey, we wouldn’t miss this for the world!” says some guy. “We’ll tell our grandkids about this someday!”

“And your name, sir?”

“Richard Heimsack.”

Dead air while Cliff soaks in the name and I realize Richard and Sam are already contemplating grandbabies.

“Well, Richie-”

“Richard.”

“It is one awesome ride, brutha.”

Now the police radio crackles.

“This is unit six. We have suspect’s vehicle in sight. Approaching parking lot to Pier Four on the boardwalk.”

“The Roller Coaster,” says Ceepak. “Hang on.”

I grab the handle you’re supposed to use to climb out of the vehicle, because when Ceepak stomps on the gas our Crown Vic Interceptor flies faster than the runaway mine train at Disney World.

I grab our radio mic.

“This is A-twelve. We are en route to Pier Four. Anticipate suspect will be headed toward the Rolling Thunder.”

“Roger that” and “Ten-four” come in from all over the place.

Every cop in Sea Haven is on their way to the roller coaster to try and stop Skippy O’Malley from being free enough to ride that ride.

“This is Unit Six. Suspect is exiting vehicle with hostage … we will follow.”

“Do not aggravate the situation.” It’s the chief. I guess everybody’s in on this thing. “Wait for backup, Unit Six. Wait for backup. Tail the suspect but do not engage him. He is armed and dangerous. State Police are on the way. They’re calling in a hostage negotiator.”

“Give me the ears on the ground,” says Ceepak.

He means I should turn up WAVY. Right now, Skeeter is our best source of potential intel on Skippy’s movements.

“Comin’ up, ‘Love Rollercoaster’ from the Ohio Players … but first … hey, have you tried Big Bruno Mazzilli’s brand-new Stromboller Cruster Italian Sandwich? Available exclusively at Big Bruno’s Stromboli Stand right here on Pier Four. Thick layers of …”

“Yo! Douchebag!” somebody yells close enough to Cliff’s microphone for us to hear it. “There’s a freaking line here.”

Dominic Santucci. I’d recognize that obnoxious voice anywhere.

Ceepak presses even harder on the gas while yanking the steering wheel hard to the right. Tires squeal, and we tilt through a careering turn into the parking lot for Pier Four.

“… provolone, salami, prosciutto and melted mozzarella …”

“I said get back. You, too, old man.”

“Back off, Dom.” Skippy. “This is Ceepak’s father. He’s my fucking prisoner.”

Jeez-o, man.

“… rolled in a flaky crust and baked to golden perfection …”

“Skippy?” Santucci again. “Jesus-why you wearing a fucking raincoat, dipshit?”

Oh, man. He’s doing it Columbine style. Weapons hidden under the flaps of his long coat. Santucci needs to back off. Big time.

But he doesn’t.

“You can’t come up here, you stupid wuss. These people have been waiting all morning to ride the ride.”

“My father owns this fucking piece of shit. I can do whatever the hell I feel like doing.”

We hear Cliff’s hand muffle the microphone with a thump. “Hey, you guys?” He’s still audible. “We’re goin’ out live.”

The hand comes away from the mic.

“Elyssa? Listen, girl-we need more security down here on the loading platform … there’s this dude in a trenchcoat.…”

Then there’s this big explosion.

“Ohmigod!” Cliff yells. It sounds like he dropped his microphone.

“Get down, motherfuckers!” we hear Skippy yell. “All of you. Down!”

Our car speakers rattle with high-pitched wails. Shrieks. Squeals of terror.

“Get down, people,” says Cliff, staying incredibly calm. “Do like the man says. Be cool, man. We’re cool.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Yes, sir. Oh, man … that dude’s bleeding …”

“No, dipshit. He’s dying.”

“We need an ambulance.”

“I said shut the fuck up!”

We hear nothing more from Sergeant Santucci.

Ceepak slams on the brakes.

We yank open our doors and hit the asphalt on the run.

This time, we’re close enough to hear the shotgun blast in person.