my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, so I ignored it. About 30 seconds later, it rang again.
“Get it!” Trudy said, sounding a little hysterical. “Maybe it’s someone who can help us!”
I pushed the button to connect and put the phone to my ear.
“Is this Jack?”
“Yeah, who is this?”
“It’s Randy. Glad you have the same cell number. What the hell was Trudy thinking?”
“She wanted to get back at you,” I said. “Dumb mistake. So how do we solve this?”
“Is that him?” Trudy said. “Tell him to back off!”
“Jack, this is a serious situation, OK? These are bad people, and they aren’t just going to let you walk away.”
“They’re bad people? What about you, Randy? You’re not exactly a Boy Scout here. I’m not sure who I should be more afraid of.”
“It’s them, Jack. No question.”
I hung up then, and threw the phone down by my feet.
“This is not good, hon,” I said. “We need to think of something.”
Trudy, her face now ghostly white, pulled the car onto the exit at Dubuque Street, blew the stop sign at the top of the rise and headed north away from town. As we followed the road down toward the Iowa River and then back up and past it, I got an idea.
“Remember that Frisbee golf course out at Sugarbottom that Randy and I used to play?”
She nodded.
“Head out there. I think I know what we need to do.”
Truth told, Randy and I didn’t see each other much outside our apartment. He was a perpetually undeclared major who didn’t make it to class very often, and I was a pre-engineering major always loaded up with homework. He had answered an ad I posted in the student union looking for a roommate after Tony, a friend from my hometown, had dropped out and moved back home after a bad case of mono.
The one thing that Randy and I both took to was Frisbee golf. There were a few courses around, but the one at the Sugarbottom camping area near the Coralville reservoir, a state park surrounding a man-made lake north of town, was the best. For a few short weeks our junior year, we played so often that we got to know every twist and turn, every dip and rise. We’d wander around, talking about sports, girls and music, me trying to discuss the latest from the Strokes or the White Stripes and Randy digging down into hippie rock arcana in the hope of convincing me I was missing out. There were some tricky holes, the wire basket that we aimed for completely out of sight around a copse of trees or over a scrub-covered hill of limestone. Those obstacles, and my familiarity with them, was the edge I sought to get us out of this.
The phone rang again, but I ignored it. I wanted to think that Randy was on our side, but I wasn’t willing to put my faith in someone tweaked to the gills that was probably armed. Trudy steered the car onto Mehaffey Bridge Road, careful as it snaked through wooded areas and over the water, then turned onto Sugarbottom Road as it swung out wide to the south around the lake. She turned into the camping area, slowing a bit as the road turned from cement to blacktop.
Randy and the other guys were still behind us, staying tight but not so close that someone would get suspicious. The phone rang again. Trudy glared at me, so I swiped it off the floor and pushed the button.
“What?”
“Jack, now isn’t the time for games,” Randy said. “What are you doing?”
“What, you don’t want to toss a few for old time’s sake?” I said. “You’re not willing to help me recapture the innocence of my pre-incarceration days?”
“Jack, you don’t know what you’re in the middle of here, OK? Why don’t you toss the bag and then circle around the campground and get out of here.”
“Sure, and leave you to scoop up the drugs and your buddies back there to tail us and take care of business while you conveniently split again? Don’t think so.”
I hung up the phone and jammed it in my pocket. Trudy had reached the parking area for the
“Get it!” Trudy said, sounding a little hysterical. “Maybe it’s someone who can help us!”
I pushed the button to connect and put the phone to my ear.
“Is this Jack?”
“Yeah, who is this?”
“It’s Randy. Glad you have the same cell number. What the hell was Trudy thinking?”
“She wanted to get back at you,” I said. “Dumb mistake. So how do we solve this?”
“Is that him?” Trudy said. “Tell him to back off!”
“Jack, this is a serious situation, OK? These are bad people, and they aren’t just going to let you walk away.”
“They’re bad people? What about you, Randy? You’re not exactly a Boy Scout here. I’m not sure who I should be more afraid of.”
“It’s them, Jack. No question.”
I hung up then, and threw the phone down by my feet.
“This is not good, hon,” I said. “We need to think of something.”
Trudy, her face now ghostly white, pulled the car onto the exit at Dubuque Street, blew the stop sign at the top of the rise and headed north away from town. As we followed the road down toward the Iowa River and then back up and past it, I got an idea.
“Remember that Frisbee golf course out at Sugarbottom that Randy and I used to play?”
She nodded.
“Head out there. I think I know what we need to do.”
Truth told, Randy and I didn’t see each other much outside our apartment. He was a perpetually undeclared major who didn’t make it to class very often, and I was a pre-engineering major always loaded up with homework. He had answered an ad I posted in the student union looking for a roommate after Tony, a friend from my hometown, had dropped out and moved back home after a bad case of mono.
The one thing that Randy and I both took to was Frisbee golf. There were a few courses around, but the one at the Sugarbottom camping area near the Coralville reservoir, a state park surrounding a man-made lake north of town, was the best. For a few short weeks our junior year, we played so often that we got to know every twist and turn, every dip and rise. We’d wander around, talking about sports, girls and music, me trying to discuss the latest from the Strokes or the White Stripes and Randy digging down into hippie rock arcana in the hope of convincing me I was missing out. There were some tricky holes, the wire basket that we aimed for completely out of sight around a copse of trees or over a scrub-covered hill of limestone. Those obstacles, and my familiarity with them, was the edge I sought to get us out of this.
The phone rang again, but I ignored it. I wanted to think that Randy was on our side, but I wasn’t willing to put my faith in someone tweaked to the gills that was probably armed. Trudy steered the car onto Mehaffey Bridge Road, careful as it snaked through wooded areas and over the water, then turned onto Sugarbottom Road as it swung out wide to the south around the lake. She turned into the camping area, slowing a bit as the road turned from cement to blacktop.
Randy and the other guys were still behind us, staying tight but not so close that someone would get suspicious. The phone rang again. Trudy glared at me, so I swiped it off the floor and pushed the button.
“What?”
“Jack, now isn’t the time for games,” Randy said. “What are you doing?”
“What, you don’t want to toss a few for old time’s sake?” I said. “You’re not willing to help me recapture the innocence of my pre-incarceration days?”
“Jack, you don’t know what you’re in the middle of here, OK? Why don’t you toss the bag and then circle around the campground and get out of here.”
“Sure, and leave you to scoop up the drugs and your buddies back there to tail us and take care of business while you conveniently split again? Don’t think so.”
I hung up the phone and jammed it in my pocket. Trudy had reached the parking area for the
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