Rolling Thunder

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.