Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

I channel my inner John Ceepak and refuse to rise to his bait.

Well, not completely.

“Fuck you, asswipe.”

Mr. Ceepak finishes hoisting his fifty-pound sack of rancid garbage off the asphalt. Slings it sideways to heave it into the Dumpster.

The bag drizzles on me and Sam on its way up.

Mr. Ceepak lets rip with a rib-rattling laugh. “Guess she don’t smell so sweet now, does she, Boyle? But, hell, I’d still fuck her. How about you?”

I step forward to deck him.

Sam grabs me by the back of my belt.

“He’s not worth it,” she whispers.

Yeah. That’s what Ceepak would say, too. The real Ceepak. The one who’s my friend.

“See you ’round, Danny Boy. Tell Johnny I’ll be callin’ on him. Can’t wait to meet my goddamn daughter-in-law and her bastard son. See what kind of ass Johnny’s old lady has on her.”

I run Sam back to her place.

Date night is officially over.

“Thanks, Danny,” Sam says when I walk her to her door.

“No problem.”

“I’m sorry we’re not …”

“Don’t worry about it, okay?”

She touches her hair. It’s sticky. “I smell like sour milk mixed with rancid vinegar and moldy cabbage.”

“Yeah. It’s the recipe for Big Kahuna’s secret sauce.”

She smiles.

“Good night, Danny. I really do love you.”

There she goes again with the “L” word. I hear it but don’t knee-jerk it back.

Then she kisses me. Big mistake. Our slimed lips taste worse than they smell.

First thing Sunday morning, I’m at beach bods gym, because I know that’s where Ceepak will be.

Since becoming a full-time cop, I’ve actually joined Beach Bods and hit the gym whenever I can. At least once or twice a month. Sometimes. If, you know, there’s nothing good on TV. Or it’s raining.

Beach Bods is tucked into a strip mall on Ocean Avenue at Yellowtail Street, where its neighbors are Teeny’s Bikini’s, the Paradise Nail Spa (where nails go to get a facial or take a sauna, I guess), Chunky’s Cheese Steaks, Beachcomber Hair Salon, and The Octopus’s Garden florist shop.

I usually hit Chunky’s after the gym. Figure I’ve earned it. I’ve yet to sign up for the gym’s “Holistic Health and Nutrition Class.” I’m not a big bok choy boy.

I pull into the parking lot. I can see people in gym clothes jumping up and down on the other side of the plate glass windows. Must be an aerobics class. I wouldn’t know. Never took one. Ceepak comes out the front doors, toting his gym bag. His muscles look more pumped than usual because I guess they are.

“Hey!” I say.

“Good morning, Danny. Didn’t expect to see you here so bright and early on a Sunday.”

“Yeah. Me neither. Something’s come up.”

Ceepak cocks an eyebrow. He’s all ears.

“It’s your dad. He’s back in town. I don’t know how he got out of jail so early.”

“Time off for good behavior, no doubt,” Ceepak says as sarcastically as he can. “I understand the State of Ohio recently passed a Prison Reform Bill. Something to do with budget problems.”

“He’s working at Big Kahuna’s.”

“The nightclub?”

“Yeah. Sam and I saw him last night. Then we went out back to check out his car. Well, his truck. His red Ford pickup truck.”

Ceepak whips the cell phone out of his civilian cargo shorts, which look a lot like his uniform cargo shorts only they’re khaki instead of dark blue. He thumbs a speed dial number.

“Rita? John. As anticipated, my father has resurfaced. Here. In Sea Haven. Right. Danny did the leg work on this one.” He covers the mouthpiece. “Rita says, ‘Way to go, Danny Boy.’”

I blush.

“Honey?” Ceepak says this to the phone, not me. “Stay alert. It seems it was my father’s truck that slammed into our Toyota yesterday. Danny and Samantha figured that out last night as well.”

He covers the mouthpiece again.

I quickly say, “Tell her thanks.”

He nods. “Danny says, ‘Thanks.’ Right. Indeed. He is rapidly growing into an excellent young detective.”

I work my toe into the asphalt in the classic aw-shucks-’tweren’t-nothin’ move.

“I’m on my way home,” says Ceepak. I notice his bicycle chained to a rack on the sidewalk in front of the gym. “No. We should stick to our plans. I refuse to give my father the satisfaction of thinking he can upset us or our routine. Roger that. Will do. Don’t worry. It’s all good.”

Well, not really.

His father is an asshole. No way can that be considered remotely good.

“Love you, too.”

Wow. Ceepak’s saying it in public. Then again, he’s married.

He closes the phone.

“Rita would like to invite you and Samantha to join us this afternoon for a round of miniature golf.”

“I think Sam has to study.”

“Commendable. T.J. as well.”

“You guys sure you want me tagging along?”

“Certainly.”

“Cool.”

“For the golf. Not dinner afterwards.”

I smile. “Where you taking her?”

“Stefano’s.”

“Really? Very romantic.”

“So I have been told.”

“By Rita?”

He nods. “Repeatedly.”

“So, where do you guys want to play? Congo Falls? Dinosaur Gulch?”

“We thought we’d hit King Putt. That way, we could express our condolences to any members of the O’Malley family who might be working and share the news from the medical examiner.”

“We got the preliminary report?”

“Roger that. As we initially suspected, Mrs. O’Malley died from a heart attack.”

“Did the M.E. find anything, you know, hinky?”

“Negative. Dr. Kurth hypothesizes that Mrs. O’Malley had some sort of undiagnosed heart disease, perhaps an abnormal rhythm or a blockage in her coronary arteries, and her rising heart rate, brought on by the stress of the roller coaster ride, and its coincident inducement of a fight-or-flight rush of adrenaline, caused her myocardial infarction.”

In other words, she scared herself to death because she had a bum ticker to begin with.

“It’d be good to see Skippy,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll be there. His dad makes him work Sunday to Sunday during the summer. Won’t give him a day off. I hope he can go to his mom’s funeral on Friday.”

“I feel certain Mr. O’Malley will want all his children there.”

And that’s when another one of the O’Malley boys walks up the sidewalk.

He’s with a friend.

A guy friend.

It’s Peter O’Malley. The gay sheep of the family.

“Hey, Peter? Peter O’Malley?”

He stops. Sighs. Gives me this look. “Yes?”

“I’m Danny Boyle, friend of your brother.”

“Which one? I am blessed with so many.”

“Skip.”

“Congratulations.”

His friend-this macho, macho man with a shaved head, handlebar mustache, wearing a sleeveless leather vest-smirks at me. I peg Peter to be a year or two younger than Skippy. His mustachioed friend? Hard to tell. He has that ageless bad boy biker look.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” says Peter, “we want to take a body sculpt class.”

“You have our condolences on your loss,” says Ceepak, tucking his bike helmet under his arm.

“Yes,” says Peter, “it’s a very unfortunate turn of events. So many people wanted to wring my mother’s neck. Now they’ll never get the chance.”

Biker Boy snickers. Jostles his hip to the left, which sends the chain attached to his wallet swinging.

“I take it you had issues with your mother?” Ceepak says to Peter.

“No, officer-she had issues with me.”

“Come on, Peter,” says his leather-loving friend. “Class is starting. You want to look buff in your funeral suit, don’t you?”