Rudy's Surf Shop

Thunk! A few more scrapes with the shovel blade revealed a wooden box, held shut by a deteriorated padlock.
Rudolf, not well educated, nor ambitious, had always lived at the bottom edge of society – last hired, first fired. This year was good to Rudolf. He stayed employed at a grocery warehouse.

He and his wife Klara recently purchase a house from the bank. The house was in Drullins, a poor residential neighborhood on a hill outside Amesport, a rustbelt city personified. The house was old and sagging, on a small plot.

Today Rudolf would plant a vegetable garden. He was about half done tilling the plot when his shovel hit the box. He pulled it out, cleaned it off, and carried it into the kitchen. Klara joined him as he pried off the rusty lock. Shock! The box contained a gun and money – lots. Some old bundles tied with rubber bands. Some new, still in banded bank bundles.

Rudolf and Klara spent the rest of the day and night pondering the box. Rudolf knew what he would do with the money.

Their house in Hawaii, about the same size as the one in Drullins, fronted on a beach, with a small plot of land and no fences. A run-down garage housed a small surf shop. The sign outside now read “Rudy’s Surf Shop.”

The wooden box came with them. The gun was still there as was some money – less now. Old bundles with rubber bands. All the new money was gone.

Today was Wednesday and Rudolf expected little business. He dressed for work though – Hawaiian shirt, ragged shorts, and flip-flops. As he headed for the door, Rudolf looked out the window. Why is that Honolulu County Sheriff car pulling onto my plot?
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