Read Online Rolling Thunder by Chris Grabenstein - Free Book Online Page A

it.
    â€œSo long,” I say to the girl behind the front desk, who’s on her cell phone.
    She waves so she doesn’t have to interrupt her phone call.
    â€œI know,” she says to whoever she’s chatting with, “the guy is, like, such a total jerk. No way would I ever let him drill me.”
    I smile.
    A dirty mind is an eternal picnic.
    A little before three, having taken Samantha a Chunky’s Cheese Steak to help her plow through her law books, I head up Ocean Avenue to King Putt Mini Golf.
    You can see the T-shaped pylon sign topped with a bright orange ball from half a mile away. At the base of the pole stands the Bob’s Big Boy of Ancient Egyptian Golf: a six-foot-tall resin cartoon of the chubby Boy King himself. Instead of the classic staff of Ra, Tut totes a putting iron.
    The miniature golf course itself is actually pretty awesome. Mr. O’Malley spent about a million bucks landscaping its curving hills, water hazards, “Sahara Desert” sand traps, fake palm trees, and carpeted putting greens. You can arc your ball over a sleeping camel’s humps, try to shoot it through the Sphinx’s legs, or see if you can jump it all the way across the bright blue (like Sno-Cone syrup) River Nile, which, in some spots, is two feet wide.
    I pull into the parking lot. It’s decorated with hieroglyphics on lampposts to help you remember where you parked. I see Ceepak’s silver Toyota over in the Owl section, so I look for a spot close by.
    There are none.
    They’re all taken.
    Including the slot right next to ol’ dinged-up Silverado.
    That’s where Mr. Joseph “Sixpack” Ceepak has parked his red pickup truck.

11
    I RACE ACROSS THE ASPHALT TO THE K ING P UTT OFFICE —this pink stucco building shaped like one of the pyramids: you get your balls and putters in the base; the O’Malleys keep the books and computers up in the peak.
    A couple of kids, tears streaking down their cheeks, come running out of the office, screaming, “Mommy! Daddy! Mommy! Daddy!”
    I see parents near a minivan.
    â€œSea Haven Police,” I say, even though I’m wearing baggy shorts, sandals, and a Hawaiian shirt. “Please stay in the parking lot. We have a situation inside.”
    Hey, if Mr. Ceepak is in there, we probably do.
    When I enter the office, the first thing I see is Skippy O’Malley behind the counter, panic in his pie-wide eyes, a terrified cat in his arms. Skippy’s in his official King Putt costume: a fake bronze breastplate, striped skirt, and a Pharaoh hat.
    The cat he’s clutching to his chest—a tabby with pointy ears very similar to those on the carved Pharaoh cats propping up the brochure racks—is hissing angrily at Ceepak’s dad, who is standing in front of the cash register, swinging a putter back and forth like he might shatter a display case on his next shot.
    Ceepak and Rita have putters, too. They’re standing to the right, in front of a Coke machine.
    â€œYou want me to call for backup?” I shout.
    Ceepak—the good one—shakes his head. “No need, Danny.”
    Mr. Ceepak swivels around. Stares at me with glassy eyes. I have a feeling that this morning he swilled what he could out of all of Big Kahuna’s empty beer bottles before he tossed them in the Dumpster.
    â€œBoyle,” he slurs. “Good name for you, kid, because you’re a goddamn boil on my butt I can’t get rid of no matter how much puss I squeeze out of it!”
    Great. Not exactly the kind of description you want to hear so soon after wolfing down a Chunky’s Cheese Steak with extra cheese.
    Mr. Ceepak staggers back around and lurches toward his son, gripping his putter under the head so he can hold it like a ball-peen hammer.
    Rita retreats half a step.
    Ceepak does not. In fact, he nonchalantly hands Rita his putter. He doesn’t need a weapon to face his sorry excuse for a father.
    â€œWhere