NYC Flash Fiction Challenge 2016
Challenge #3 Group 2
Genre: action-adventure / Location: a golf course / Object: an ice cream sundae
Challenge #3 Group 2
Genre: action-adventure / Location: a golf course / Object: an ice cream sundae
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| Image # 31665089 by castort. Purchased from stock.adobe.com |
Meltdown at Matchitehew
by Shannon Chapel
I sprinted to Mr. Abbott’s ride idling near the driving range. “Please step out or scoot over, Sir. As a Matchitehew Resort employee, I’m authorized to appropriate this vehicle in cases of extreme emergency.”
“What the hell are you on about, boy?”
“The restaurant’s been robbed.” I slid behind the wheel and gunned it.
The thief hurled golf balls at us from his stolen buggy. We ducked, the missiles bouncing off the windshield. Goddamn it, he’s getting away, I thought, but the cart wouldn’t go any faster.
“Slow down, son!” We topped out at thirteen miles per hour, and Mr. Abbott’s crepey hand clutched the grab bar for dear life. “A few bucks ain’t worth losing our lives over.”
“It’s the principle of the thing, Sir.” I cranked a hard left, rounding the pond adjacent the third hole. “The rat bastard waited for me to open the register. Elsa was there. Watching her eat that ice cream sundae was mesmerizing, and when she popped the cherry in her mouth….” I shook my head, rattling the memory loose. “My guard was down. I was mustering the courage to ask her out when he plucked the cash.”
“Elsa. She the Swede?”
I nodded. The engine whined in protest as we crested the knoll separating us from the back nine. Cutting across the fairway to fourteen I spotted the thief edging the rough that flanked the water hazard.
“There!” Mr. Abbott pointed. “That sand trap’s in the blind. The prick’ll go ass over teakettle if he’s not careful.”
“Noah, you there?”
My heart leaped at the sound of Elsa’s voice. “Go for Noah,” I said, depressing the two-way’s PTT button.
“The police are on their way. What’s your twenty?”
“We’re crossing the Chinquapin Creek Bridge between fifteen and sixteen.”
“We?”
“I commandeered Mister Abbott’s cart. We’re in pursuit and gaining.”
A neon green Callaway driver somersaulted through the air, glancing off the crossbar above our heads. The thief swerved around an Autumn Blaze Maple, weaving through the copse of trees standing sentinel over the Pro Shop. Zigzagging slowed him down, and we closed the gap.
“The son of a bitch is trying to kill us!” Mr. Abbott straightened in his seat. “How much did he make off with, anyway?”
“Two hundred, I think. Maybe three.”
“Two hundred, I think. Maybe three.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“Just my pride.”
We burst from the tree line. The E-Z-Go caught a little air, and I wished Elsa was there to see it. One of the players at the seventeenth hole shouted “Rub of the Green!” when his ball ricocheted off the storage rack and back in bounds. The Scotch foursome waved, invited us to play-through, and the caddy sidestepped out of our way as we blasted by.
“Elsa, you still there?”
“Roger that.”
“Looks like he’s headed back to the parking lot.” I was thankful the owners of Matchitehew Resort ponied up the cash for fold-down windshields as another golf club, a gold-colored Titleist putter this time, catapulted past. “Hopefully the cops are waiting for his ass. What’s their ETA?”
“Should be any second now. Be careful out there, Noah. You don’t know what this guy’s capable of. He could be armed, and we already know he’s dangerous.”
“Copy that. Over and out.”
Pedestrians skittered to the safety of the well-manicured lawn as we plowed over the Pampas grass and onto the pavement. We were at twenty yards and closing when a yellow Nissan Juke backed out of its space, forcing the thief to brake.
“Hold on, Mister Abbott!” I veered right, executing a perfect PIT maneuver into the thief’s left rear bumper, sending him careening across the Tarmac and into the oncoming cruiser.
The driver-side door burst open, and two hundred pounds of lean muscle mass known as Officer Briggs poured out. “Freeze! Put your hands behind your head and interlace your fingers!”
The thief hesitated, looking over his shoulder for an escape route.
Briggs assumed a shooter’s stance, aiming his gun at the man. “Now!”
Elsa bolted through the front door of the restaurant as Briggs cuffed and stuffed the perpetrator in the back seat of his patrol car. “Jesus, you’re bleeding.” She lifted the hair from my forehead to get a better look. “It doesn’t look too bad. Does it hurt?”
“I’ll live. I must have bumped it when I nudged the guy. You okay, Mister Abbott?”
“Shit, son, I’m fine. Never better.” He climbed out of the cart and slapped me on the back. “Did two tours in Nam. These shenanigans are a walk in the park compared to that hellhole. I could use a beer, though.”
I smiled. “Done. First round’s on me.”
“Hey, don’t go too far,” Briggs said, pointing at us. “I need your statements.”
The restaurant was cool and inviting. We slid into a booth by the window with a collective sigh, each of us snatching glances at the goings on in the parking lot.
“Bet when you got out of bed this morning you didn’t know you’d be a hero, did you?” Mr. Abbott asked. “That was one hell of a slick move you pulled back there, kid. Where’d you learn to do that, anyway?”
The blush started at my collar and worked its way up. I’ve never been good at compliments. “TV, I guess. I watch a lot of 24.”
“That was a brave thing you did. Stupid, but brave.” Elsa downed half her beer in three giant gulps, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “And I’m going gray waiting for you to ask me out. Besides, you owe me a sundae.” She gestured to the forlorn banana boat at the end of the counter. “It melted while you were playing Jack Bauer."
