The Links

 

Griff walked along the tees at the Spyglass driving range in the soft morning light, carrying the putter lifted earlier from Lance’s bag. He spied Lance down the line working the duffer in the next tee box over as they traded shots. He stopped to admire his friend’s easy, fluid stroke as he effortlessly pounded drive after drive straight down range three hundred yards, much to the chagrin of his tee box neighbor.

Griff walked up behind the pair and said loudly, “Well, look at you showing off like you’re the veritable Jack Nicholson of the Highlands Group.”

The golfer on the tee to Lance’s right arrested his stroke in mid-backswing. He looked over his shoulder at Griff.

Griff smiled broadly at the man, recognizing him as one of the founding partners of Talon Technology.

“I believe you mean Jack Nicklaus.” Lance said. “Not Nicholson—he’s the actor. You know, The Joker.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Anyway, you are really spanking the ball,” Griff said. He had heard Lance use the term.

“Yeah, I love my new Calloway.” Lance leaned on his driver. “Oh, this here is Larry Schmidt from Talon Technologies. He’s playing the tournament this morning, too.”

“Beautiful day for it. Glad to meet you, Larry. Griff’s the name.” He gripped Larry’s hand hard and long until his wince was replaced by dawning recognition. “Griffith Crowe.”

“Yeah…likewise.” Larry pulled back, opening and closing his fist to restore circulation.

“Thought you might need this.” Griff handed Lance the putter.

“Thanks. So, what are you and Maura doing today?”

Schmidt wiped the head of his driver clean with a towel, then bagged it, following the conversation between Lance and Griff closely.

“Touristy stuff. The Wharf. Cable cars. The Golden Gate Bridge.” Griff looked at Schmidt. “Alcatraz.”

“Gee, I’m sorry we’re going to miss out on all that fun.” Lance winked at Schmidt. “But, you know, duty calls. And…it’s a write-off. How great is that?”

“A write-off?”

“God, I love my job. Don’t you, Larry?”

“I, ah, I’ve got an early tee time.” Schmidt shouldered his bag. “I should check in.”

“Wanna make a little wager? Fifty a hole?” Lance asked.

Schmidt just shook his head and headed for the first tee.

“Well, good luck, Lar,” Lance called out, then under his breath said, “Dickhead.”

“Always making new friends, huh?” Griff asked.

“So, what are you and Maura really doing?”

“I told you: The Wharf. Cable cars. The Golden Gate Bridge.”

“No Alcatraz?”

Griff shook his head remembering his visit there with Helena.

“Too soon after your stint in stir?”

“Yeah. That, too.”

 

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