Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

My turn to smile. “Duty calls.”

Mr. Ceepak grinds his cigarette butt out under his boot toe.

“Tell soldier boy he hasn’t heard the last from me.”

“Right. But if he sees you, you’re going straight to jail. That restraining order stuff-it really works. Especially if the person you’re supposed to stay away from is a cop.”

“Fuck you, Boyle.” Mr. Ceepak strolls back to the club.

I grab the cell phone off my belt. I could call the house; organize police protection for Marny while I drive Sam home.

But then Santucci might find out where she is from one of his friends. He has a few. Well, Officer Mark Malloy. That’s one. There might be another. One of the guys still bitter about John Ceepak cracking so many big cases while they write speeding tickets in school zones.

So I call a friend of mine’s taxi company to haul Sam home.

When she’s safely inside the cab, I climb into my Jeep.

“Is everything okay?” Marny asks.

“Yeah.”

“Who was that girl?”

“That’s Samantha Starky. My ex-girlfriend.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.”

“My boobs aren’t fake.”

“Okay.” Good to know.

Marny relaxes slightly. I think because my jacket got all bollixed up when I buckled my seat belt and she saw the pistol strapped to my chest.

“So, how you doin’, Marny?”

“Terrible. I haven’t slept since they killed Gail.”

“They?”

She nods. Her kinky hair bounces like a golden Slinky convention.

“The guys who rent the house on Tangerine Street?” I ask.

“You know about that?”

“Yeah. I’m a cop now, remember?”

“That’s why I followed you here. I waited in the parking lot at the police station until you came out. I was afraid to go in on account of Dominic.”

“Officer Santucci?”

“He runs security for Mr. Mazzilli and Mr. O’Malley at the house.”

“Did you drive over here?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She gestures toward the sporty red Miata parked in the space to next to me.

“Does Santucci know your car?”

She puts two dainty fingers over her “uh-oh-SpaghettiOs” expression.

“He might,” she says in a frightened whisper.

“Okay,” I say. “We need to get you out of here.”

I crank the ignition.

“Can we go to your place?” she asks. “I think they’re watching mine.”

Again with the “they.”

“Yeah,” I say. “No problem.”

I pilot my vehicle through the parking lot, head around the side of the building.

Santucci comes out a side door.

I reach over, put my hand on top of Marny’s coiled hair, shove her down below the dashboard.

“Stay down for a second, okay?”

“Okay. And Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

I don’t say anything because Santucci is staring straight at me now.

I put on a big smile.

Santucci looks hyped up. Maybe Mr. Ceepak caught a glimpse of Marny and went inside to tell the guy who had offered to buy him a beer if he spotted the curly-haired girl in the photograph he was shoving under everybody’s nose.

“Boyle?” Santucci shouts. “Pull over!”

I give Santucci a two-finger salute off the brim of my invisible cop cap and keep on driving. He angrily signals for me to “pull over to the side of the road, sir.” I ignore him. Right now, I’m the cop. Santucci’s just the douche bag making more money than me.

I don’t think he saw Marny.

As I pull out of the parking lot, I glance up to my rearview mirror and see him stomping toward the Dumpster and Marny’s red-hot Miata.

Time for Ms. Minsky to be put in protective custody.

My apartment building used to be a motel until the owners realized they wouldn’t have to clean the toilets if they turned it into rental units.

They filled in the swimming pool in the central courtyard, unplugged the vacancy sign, got rid of the ice maker, and sold all their sheets and towels in a yard sale.

Inside my unit, it still looks like a motel. You open the door, you see the bed. You also see ugly maple paneling. Beyond the bed, I have a tiny kitchenette with a mini fridge and one of those two-cup coffee makers. They sold it to me at that yard sale. I do have a brand-new plasma-screen TV that takes up most of one wall (HBO is no longer free). I set up a lumpy recliner against the wall on the opposite side of the room. It’s where I watch football and where I’ll be sleeping tonight.

“You need the bathroom or anything?” I say to Marny.

“Thanks, Danny. Do I look awful?”

That would be impossible. Marny is built like the proverbial brick house. However, I note goosebumps on her thighs just below her cutoffs and, not that I’m looking, two Purdue pop-up indicators signaling extreme chilliness.

“You look cold,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“There’s a robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I washed it two days ago.” I raise my right arm. “Scout’s honor.”

She smiles. “Thanks, Danny.”

“Go grab it. I’m going to call my partner.”

“Is he a cop?”

“Yes, but he’s one of the good guys.”

Actually, he’s the goodiest guy of all.

“I think you made the right call, Danny,” says Ceepak.

I’m on my cell phone. Marny’s still in the bathroom. I hear the shower running.

“Thanks,” I say. “She’s extremely creeped out by Santucci and, well, other cops.”

“To be expected.”

“But, we knew each other in high school … so she …”

“As I stated Danny, you made a very prudent decision. FYI, Chief Baines will soon request that Officer Santucci resign his position with the force. If he refuses, the chief will file the necessary paperwork to initiate the termination process.”

“Cool. So, what should I do with Marny?”

“Talk to her if she feels like talking tonight. Let her sleep. Then transport her to the Bagel Lagoon at six hundred hours.”

Ceepak lives in an apartment above the bagel restaurant.

“Rita and T.J. will look after her until you and I bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.”

Great. I wonder when that might happen.

“How go the warrants?” I ask.

“Officer Diego and I are going through Mr. O’Malley’s phone records now …”

I glance at the Sony Dream Machine on my bedside table, a holdover from the apartment’s days as a motel room, and only fifty cents at the yard sale. It’s after midnight.

“… Judge Rasmussen assures us we’ll have what we need to search inside the Tangerine Street home by nine thirty A.M.”

“You might tell Rita that Marny needs clothes.”

There is a moment of silence. “Come again?”

Great. Now Ceepak thinks I have a naked female witness in my bedroom.

“I mean, she has clothes, but, well, they’re kind of grungy and, uh, not enough.”

“I see. Any idea as to size?”

“Petite. Except … you know … up top.”

“Roger that,” says Ceepak without a hint of adolescent mammary fascination. That’s my department. “Rita will know how to handle it.”

“Thanks. Oh-I saw your dad again tonight. At the club.”

“Did he ask after me?”

“Yeah.”

“How thoughtful.” And that, my friends, is Ceepak being sarcastic.

The bathroom door pops open with a push and a warble. It always does that after a shower; the steam warps the wood. Marny comes out in my bathrobe, which goes down to her toes; her hair is wrapped up in my Mussel Beach Motel towel, which I borrowed from my friend Becca’s place and mean to take back. Tomorrow.

She’s carrying her shorts and shirt, not to mention her bra and panties.

All she has on under my robe are her flip-flops.