Rolling Thunder (31 page)

I nod. “Yeah. It might could work.”

“It's a good plan,” says Robocop. “A little on the Lone Ranger side of things for my taste, but it looks like our best option. I'll get my best man.”

“Sir? I already volunteered.”

“Commendable, Officer Ceepak. But my guys train for this sort of thing every day.”

“So does Ceepak,” I say. “Besides, he's my partner. We know how to communicate with each other. I don't want some total stranger shooting at me when I shout out where the hell Skippy's hiding.”

“Son,” Robocop starts in but I raise my hand to let him know he can spare his breath.

“Look, guys—I'm only going to do this if Ceepak is the one covering my back.”

40

C
EEPAK STRIPS DOWN TO HIS
T-
SHIRT AND CARGO PANTS
—he needs to be less bulky to squeeze through the ties on the roller coaster track.

Robocop packs a gym bag for him. In goes Ceepak's Glock, with an extra mag.

“We're putting in two XM84 Stun Grenades,” says the SWAT team leader. “You know their capabilities, correct?”

“Roger that. They should effectively neutralize and disorient enemy personnel. We tossed a few into insurgent strongholds when I was over in Iraq. Proved quite effective. I'll, of course, need protective eye gear.”

“Yeah,” says Robocop, stuffing a pair of goggles into the bag with the bombs. I think the guy finally gets it that Ceepak understands what they call “tactical intervention strategies,” even if he doesn't wear a helmet to work every day anymore.

“You ready, son?” Officer Parkhill asks me.

“Yeah. I'm good to go.”

I'm actually scared shitless, but Parkhill and the gang of manly men in combat gear don't need to hear that right now.

“Okay. I'm gonna contact Skippy. Let him know you're coming over.”

My mouth is so dry it feels like I licked the salty bottom of a pretzel bag.

I just nod.

Parkhill slips the headphones back on and flips the switch on his microphone.

I catch Ceepak's eye. He gives a slow nod, the kind that says, “It's all good,” even when we both know it isn't. Time to embrace the suck, as his soldier friends say.

“Skippy? This is Tom Parkhill. Skippy? You got your ears on? Skippy? This is Officer Parkhill. We're ready to talk.”

Great. No answer. Maybe Skippy went home and this was all a horribly bad dream.

“Hello, Tom.”

“Hello, Skippy.”

“Skip. I prefer Skip. Skippy sounds like a baby name.”

“Okay, Skip. Danny's good to go out here.”

“Hiya, Danny!”

I wave. Don't ask me why, but I do. A little fuck-you finger wiggle coupled with a sideways eye roll. It cracks some of the tough guys up. Ceepak, too. They don't laugh out loud or anything. But tension is momentarily eased.

“He can't bring a gun,”
Skip shouts into his microphone.

“He won't.”

“And no bullet proof vests or anything either.”

“Now, Skip, Danny's a professional. You remember what's it like on the job. He's got to wear the uniform or he'll catch flak from his bosses.”

“No! He could sneak in a Glock or a dagger or something under the body armor. No pants either.”

Parkhill, probably the most patient, unflappable man on the planet, looks flapped.

“Come again?” he says.

“No pants. No shirt. No weapons and no wire. I want him in swimming trunks and flip-flops! Like when we were kids on Oak Beach. Remember that, Danny? Oak Beach? We were the shits back then.”

I hold up my hands, looking for a little guidance.

“It's going to take a few more minutes to find Mr. Boyle a swimsuit.”

“Steal one from that shop across from the Fried Oreo Shack. There's nobody minding the store, right? You can take whatever the hell you want. Grab a couple bikinis for your girlfriends.”

Parkhill glances at me. I shrug.

What the hell. I'll do it.

“Okay, Skip. Give Danny a second to change.”

“Sure. No problem. Take your time, guys. I'm sorry to put you through the wringer like this, Danny, but shit, man, you know?”

Parkhill shoots Ceepak a knowing look. I heard it, too. Skippy sounds semihuman again.

“It's okay, Skip,” says Parkhill. “We're getting the beach gear for Danny right now. Thanks for the tip on the shop. We sent someone over there.…”

“Stay away from the T-shirts, man. They'll rip you off on the tees. Of course, I guess you guys don't have to pay.”

“Not today, anyway,” says Parkhill, sounding like the jolly uncle he probably actually is when he isn't on the job dealing with wingnuts like Skipper Doodle. “Okay. We've got the gear. Give us a couple of minutes.”

I turn around and a guy in more padding than a middle linebacker for the New York Jets is standing in front of me holding a stack of Hawaiian print swim trunks.

“I figured you were a medium, sir,” she says.

Okay. The guy is a girl. In their SWAT getups, it's hard to tell.

“Yeah. Medium. Thanks.”

About six guys in black body armor form a circle around me. They face out so I can change in private. While I slip out of my shoes, lose my Tyvek vest, my shirt, my pants, my socks, and my underwear, I hear Parkhill bargaining with Skippy.

“Skip, Danny's getting changed.”

“Cool.”

“He's going to a lot of trouble to give you what you want.”

“I know. Tell him thanks. I'm just a little freaked out in here, okay?”

“Sure. Understandable. Hey, why don't you give Danny something?”

“Like what.”

“Let a couple of hostages go when he gets there. Seems like a fair trade.”

“Fine. I'll let one of the girls go.”

“Great. You want that sandwich, Skip?”

“Nah. I'm not really hungry. Besides, you guys would drug it. Put crushed sleeping pills between the fucking meat and cheese. And no fucking water, either!”

And crazy Skippy is back.

“You must think I'm a fucking moron, Asshill. I know all the fucking tricks. I went to the police academy, remember?”

I tug on a baggy pair of swim trunks: Tommy Bahamas that hit me mid-thigh. White tropical flowers and green ferns on washed-out black fabric. It could be worse. The SWAT team lady could've brought me a Speedo.

“I'm good to go,” I say.

My dressing circle parts.

“Okay, Skip. Danny's dressed. He's coming over.”

“Put Ceepak on the line.”

“I'm not sure if Officer Ceepak is here right now.”

“Put him on the goddamn line or I'll send one of the fucking girls out the door dead.”

“Hang on.”

Ceepak steps forward. Parkhill unclips his tiny microphone, hands it to him.

“This is Ceepak.”

“That motherfucker tried to lie to me. Said you weren't there.”

“How can I help you, Skip?”

“You have to promise me something.”

“What?”

“That you will not follow Danny! That you won't sneak up behind him so you can bust in here and ream me out again like you did that time in the middle of goddamn Ocean Avenue where everybody and their brother could see what a dipshit you thought I was.”

“I will not follow Danny.”

“You still live by that stupid code? The one Santucci used to rag you about?”

“Affirmative.”

“So you can't lie to me, right?”

“Correct.”

“So when you say you won't follow, Danny.…”

“You have my word. I will not follow Danny.”

“Okay. Good. You're a good cop, Mr. Ceepak. I could've become a good cop, too. Right?”

“Yes, Skip. You could have.”

“Could” being the operative word in that sentence. Hell, anybody
can
. Skippy, however, didn't.

Parkhill gives us a “let's move on” hand signal.

“Danny is on his way,” says Ceepak. “Here is Officer Parkhill.” He hands the microphone back to the negotiator.

“Okay, Skip. Danny's coming over.”

I make my way out of the food booth, hit the boardwalk, pause, and take in a deep breath. I've got twenty yards of open planking to cross before I enter the Rolling Thunder. I've also got goose-bumps—and not because it's 65 degrees and I'm half naked.

What if Skippy's still jealous about me getting the cop job he always wanted? What if this swim trunks deal is just his twisted way of making me an easy, unarmed target?

I'm about to start walking again when somebody taps me on the shoulder.

Ceepak.

“Which way are you going?” he asks.

I point at the entryway to the Rolling Thunder roller coaster. The jagged thunderbolt neons are dead ahead.

“Good. I'll go out the back way, crawl underneath the boardwalk, find that access panel. I just wanted to make sure you and I weren't taking the same route.”

In other words, he's keeping his word.

He's not following me.

He's just covering my ass.

41

I
HAVE TO STEP OVER
D
OMINIC
S
ANTUCCI
'
S
BODY
.

I also have to not puke.

Skippy blew open the poor guy's guts. I'm reminded of how Santucci was there the day I saw my first dead body ever, on the Tilt A Whirl in Sunnyside Playland. Now, I'm looking down at his. There's a swarm of flies flitting over his black and bloody intestines.

I have to keep moving.

I climb up the short ramp to the covered waiting shed and I see Skippy's second victim. This time I want to cry. The guy was just a kid in a black heavy metal T-shirt who watched too many movies and, to mangle some Springsteen lyrics, tried to walk like the heroes he thought he had to be.

Guess you could say the same about me.

I keep walking. Toward the stranded roller coaster.

Toward the control room.

The door creaks open. There's nothing but blackness on the other side.

“Danny?” It's Skippy.

“Yeah.”

“You look ridiculous, man.”

“Thanks.”

“I'm just yanking your chain, pal. Try wearing a skirt to work everyday.”

Right. Mr. O'Malley never missed an opportunity to humiliate his son on a daily basis.

“I'm like Ceepak,” says Skippy. “I never lie. So, as promised, I'm sending out one of the girls.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

“Go,” he yells. “Now!

Richard Heimsack stumbles out of the dark doorway. I think Skippy shoved him. He shields his eyes with a hand. Guess Skippy doused the lights inside the control hut so the snipers couldn't see him, even though they probably could with night vision scopes. Anyway, the darkness in the metal box means the flashbooms will be more effective than the sunshine blinding Richard Heimsack right now.

“Keep moving,” I say to the college kid through clenched teeth.

“I …”

“Keep moving, man. Don't look back. Take good care of Sam, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

He rushes past me.

“Look at him run. Biggest pussy in the bunch. Heimsack. What a name. I called him Ballsack even though he doesn't have any. Come on, Danny. Come on in.”

He gives me a big smile and a happy hand gesture like we're both ten again and he's inviting me to climb into the giant sand castle he just built on the beach.

I make my way across the parked roller coaster. I chance a glance under the tracks. I don't see Ceepak. Then again, he had a much longer distance to travel, most of it on his belly.

I go through the open door in the middle of the twenty-foot-long, ten-foot-deep aluminum-sided rectangle.

Ceepak's gonna need good aim to toss a grenade from the front end of the first roller coaster car into this three-foot-wide door.

“Close it.”

I shut the door behind me. Jeez-o man. We didn't think about that. The grenade's just going to bounce off the door.

But then I notice two tinted windows over the control console. They look out at the loading dock. Okay. We're still good to go. Ceepak's just going to have to have to use his hook shot and smash out some glass.

“Grab a seat, Danny.”

My eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness, but from the sound of his voice, I think Skippy just hunkered down in a corner.

“Where are you, Skip?” I say as I knee into a rolling chair.

“Over here.” He flicks on a small flashlight.

Yep. He's crouched in the corner at the south end of the room. Mr. Ceepak is right beside him. I have never seen so much fear and hate colliding in one man's eyes before. Of course, Skippy has his Beretta 92FS pointed at the side of the old man's skull, which might have something to do with his sour mood.

There's a girl huddled against the wall, maybe two feet down from Skippy and Mr. Ceepak. I can see better now. In fact, I can tell that Skippy has his seven remaining “guests” lined up along the wall, their knees tight to their chests. I see Cliff Skeete in his bright red doo rag. Ken Erb. People I don't know. Mostly young. They all look scared to death.

Except that one girl. The one closest to Skippy.

She's short, maybe five-one, 100 pounds. Cute librarian glasses.

And now I see the shotguns. Skippy just laid them down. On the floor. Right in front of his feet, their barrels pointing in my direction. He could pick one back up and blow my brains out whenever he feels like it.

“Sorry about the swimsuit,” says Skippy.

“You like it? I think it's last year's model.”

“I think it's cute,” says the girl.

Skippy snaps around to face her. “Shut up!”