DINK ROLLED SLIGHTLY to one side to relieve pressure off a developing bedsore. Despite the discomfort, his eyes lit up when his friend walked in.
“What ya got there, amigo?”
Ty focused his camera. “Need to take some pictures of that handsome face of yours for the book.”
“Hope you got plenty of film. Not quite as photogenic like I was in my prime. Might want to touch up those pictures. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the ladies and lose my female fan base,” Dink said with a wink.
“This camera doesn’t use film. The photos are digital. I can click away until my finger gives out.”
“No film, you say? Whoever heard of taking pictures with no film?”
“Difficult to believe, I know. Technology is advancing at such a fast rate it’s hard to keep up. Just look at all the improvements in golf equipment.”
“Hooey! I say it’s all a bunch of hype. Manufacturers reached the high-water mark regarding the legal limits of balls and clubs long ago. The shaft’s actually the engine of the swing. Nothing but a bunch of bells and whistles, I tell ya. If you’d add up the extra yards claimed by every new contraption that comes out year after year, Joe Hack would be hitting 400-yard drives.”
“You may be right, but we certainly have come a long way in the five hundred or so years since the Scots started hitting rocks with their crooks. By chance, did you ever have an opportunity to make it overseas?”
“Did I! Not only went but played the Holy Grail of golf while I was there.”
Dink placed the oxygen mask over his face and took a deep snort.
“Tell me more about your travels,” Ty prompted him.
“Well, Bucky Norton, a good friend of Jones, used to drop by a couple of times each year for a friendly game, and somehow or another we get hooked up. He likes my style and we just kind of hit it off, you know?
“Sitting over a pint of dark after a stimulating round in which my man had dipped deep into Mr. Jones’s pocket, he tells me he’s crossing the pond for a big-money grudge match. ‘Ever caddie overseas?’ he inquires of me.
“‘Never had the pleasure,’ I tell him.
“‘Don’t know what you’re missing, my boy. The education of a caddie is not complete until you’ve dealt with a Scottish scud. One of those black squalls blowing off the North Sea will sandblast the skin ’til it turns titty pink, and it’ll abrade your eyes ’til they water so badly you’ll be lucky to find your way back to the clubhouse. And the golf! Well, as the Scots say, “Nae, ’tis not a game ’til the wind lifts yer kilt.”’
“Being of an adventurous nature, I decide it’s time to complete my resume. After numerous inquiries, I bid myself working passage aboard one of those iron maidens of the sea. Unbeknownst to me, Bucky and me board the same boat—only difference is he’s styling in first class and I find myself in the working class.
“Walking up the rickety gangplank packing a duffle, I find my sea legs aren’t quite beneath me yet. When I make the mistake of looking down, this condition I never knew existed called vertigo kicks in. Here I am, frozen halfway up the plank, ready to puke my guts out. I’m holding up a line of people when this big seaman with arms the size of my legs picks me up and drags me aboard. I get a wide-eyed view of his life history tattooed on his meaty hocks—and what an x-rated story it is!
“One of the crew members checks the roster and laughs. ‘You’ll have gone to hell and back before this trip is over,’ he snidely remarks. ‘Check in down at the boiler room.’
“Always had a hankering to be a chef. Not exactly sure what his problem is, but figure how bad can broiling steaks be? At the very worst, I’ll either be bussing tables or washing dishes. But oh, how wrong I was!
“Thought I’d walked into Dante’s Inferno deep within the bowels of this iron whale—kind of like a modern-day Jonah, guess you could say. It had to be the hottest place this side of Hades. There are flames shooting everywhere. The grunts and groans of grown men toiling in their own private hell can barely be heard over the clanging and banging in the belly of that beast.
“Smokey, the barrel-chested boss man who didn’t have an unsinged hair left on his entire body tells me I’ll be looking like him before day’s end. He hands me a shovel and places me in front of this red-hot boiler that’s spitting out more BTUs than Satan's crematorium. Could actually feel my skin blistering on that first shovel full of coal. Lost more weight during that eight-hour shift than I could really afford, considering skeletons have more fat than I carry on this bag of bones.
“At the end of my shift, I drink my weight in water, eat half a brontosaurus, and go straight to bed without even bothering to shower. Thought I’d heard snoring before, but those scallywags take a blow to a whole other level as they shiver the timbers. Be that as it may, I collapse into the waiting arms of my bunk and marinate in my juices all night. How many damn days does it take to cross the high seas anyway? I agonize.
“Next morning, before descending back into my hellhole, I decide to catch a breath of fresh air topside. I walk by this row of mummies all wrapped up in their blankets, stretched out horizontally on lounge chairs like cadavers, when I hear someone shout.
“‘Dink! Hey, Dink! Over here.’
“Wouldn’t you know it? There’s Bucky, spooning a soft-boiled egg and sipping a Tequila Sunrise.
“‘Fancy meeting you here,’ he says. ‘Small world and quite a coincidence that our convergence should take place on this ocean flotilla. Glad to see a familiar face. Even this sea dog can become homesick.’ Then his expression instantaneously turns from one of glee to concern. ‘My God, man! You look hideous. Where are you bunking—in the slipstream of the smokestack?’
“Embarrassed to no end over my situation, I lie and tell him I’d fallen asleep on the upper deck and got caught in the smoky draft.
“He continues to spoon the yolk of his continental breakfast. ‘Good to have you aboard, mate. Why don’t you meet me on the poop deck in thirty minutes?’ he asks unabashed. ‘I should be finished with my constitutional by then.’
“‘Sir, I duly respect your bizarre rituals, but I prefer to spend my most intimate moments in private. Besides, I already had a nice, firm constitutional early this morning.’
“He looks at me as if I were daft. ‘The fantail, my good man—at the rear of the ship.’
“So I go to the poop deck, stepping lightly while checking carefully for any signs of dookie. Moments later he shows up in full golf regalia, packing his clubs. He attempts to touch his toes but, no pun intended, comes up two feet short.
“‘Nothing like briny air to make one feel alive,’ he says. The dapper chap does a few deep knee bends and windmills before throwing down a strip of carpet and a golf ball.
“‘Seeing as how fate has brought us together, how would you feel about packing my bag?’
“‘Fine with me, but I’m not so sure how the other passengers will feel about us playing through.’
“‘Oh Dink, your humor is indeed endearing. No, my fine fellow. I’m talking about reliving history at The Dunes.’
“‘Well of course, but as you know, I’m clueless when it comes to links golf.’
“‘Excellent. You only need to remember that the game over there is played close to the ground, not in the air.’
“I flash back to Mr. Kroger at Black Sands and his need for only a putter to play the ground game.
“‘What club would you advise I begin my session with?’ Bucky asks.
“I take a hard look at the horizon over the deep blue and say, ‘Don’t think it matters ’cause regardless of the club, you ain’t gonna be clearing this hazard.’
“‘Astute observation, my boy. Not every caddie is willing to be so candid.’
“He gently pushes me out of the way, grabs his niblick, and places a ball on the portable fairway. He changes the flex in his knees with each pitch of the wave, for he must time his shots with the roll of the ship. Swing too early and he faces an uphill lie; too late, it’s a downhiller.
“‘Timing is the DNA of every swing—wouldn’t you say, my boy?’ he asks, clipping the ball cleanly at the ship’s pinnacle.
“I nod in agreement, never having seen such an artistic display of golf in my life.
“‘Swinging on terra firma is child’s play compared to this. Such a great training exercise. I must buy myself a yacht when we touch base with the homeland again,’ he boasts.
“A crowd starts to gather, and before you can say ‘land ho!’ his gallery is applauding as if each shot were instrumental in his bid for the Claret Jug.
“He works his way through the bag with the precision of a surgeon, then states, ‘It’s off to the short game. Grab the bag. We’re going to the bow.’
“Bowel? I think to myself. I’m tired of being toyed with and just about ready to voice my displeasure at his constant reference to bodily functions.
“He takes me to the forward part of the ship, draws out his putter, and then eyes the curvature of the bulkhead. His keen eye picks a line that has the perfect arc for his stroke. Ever so gently, he places the toe of his putter against the bulkhead and traces the curvature in a graceful, sweeping motion. ‘A perfect parabola,’ he unequivocally states.
“Don’t know exactly where he learned to speak the King’s English. I’m inclined to think he’s just making it up as he goes, so I play along. ‘No, think that was more like a georumbuscus.’
“He frowns, scratches the hair on his chin, smiles, and says, ‘By George, I think you’re right,’ which only confirms my suspicions that the mind of a genius is hidden somewhere beneath this hat rack.
“‘Most golfers don’t realize how much math is involved in the swing,’ Bucky says. ‘Take this equation, for example.’
“He writes down this paragraph of what looks like hieroglyphics and commences to talk in tongues. Being an agreeable fellow, I nod with my chin propped in the web of my hand, trying my best to look studious and all.
“‘Quite enough for today, I think. A hot toddy and a game of shuffleboard is in order. Care to join me?’
“Not wanting him to know my status, I interlace my soot-encrusted hands and reverse-crack my knuckles. ‘Would love to, Bucky, but Smokey has invited me to join him and some friends below deck for a barbecue.’
“‘Sounds like a rollicking good time.’
“‘For sure. I’ll be really stoked once things get started,’ I state, tongue in cheek.
“In my shame I slither off to the purgatorial fires of Hades to serve my time under Satan’s most faithful servant, Smokey. The torrid white heat hits me with the force of a sledgehammer when I enter the boiler room. I wilt like a thistle at summer’s end and then stagger toward hell’s gate feeling rather woozy. The first shovel of coal has the gravitational pull of a black hole weighing it down.
“Then, not more than an hour into my shift, I shriek in horror when my eyes deceive me into believing I am viewing the Devil’s minions flash-dancing among the flickering sea of flames inside that glorified kiln. They taunt me, drawing me closer and closer to the fervent heat ’til I can bear it no more. My last memory is that of the Prince of Darkness himself playing the maracas, shuffling his cloven hooves as he rumbas over white-hot coals.
“I awaken to the ghastly horror of Lucifer himself—or so I think, for my blurry vision mistakes the eyeglasses on top of the doctor’s head for Diablo’s horns. I am about to scream and beg for mercy when I hear the faint semblance of Bucky’s voice.
“‘Dink, are you all right?’ he asks.
“I try to shake the cobwebs, but the vivid images of hell and its purgatorial figures are still indelibly pressed upon my mind. ‘Am I dead?’ I innocently presume.
“‘Hardly so, my good man. It appears you suffered a loss of consciousness. What on earth possessed you to take on such a strenuous endeavor in the first place?’
“‘I’m working my way across the pond so that, as a wise man once stated, “I can complete my education as a caddie.”’
“‘Ye gads, man! How uncivilized. Fortunately, I saw them hauling you above deck. There’ll be no more of this nonsense. I’ll pay for your passage. You will travel first class for the remainder of the trip.’
“‘I can’t accept. There’s no way I can ever pay you back.’
“‘Horse feathers! If you’re so inclined, you can barter your services as a caddie.’
“So it was that I sipped champagne and rubbed elbows with counts and countesses for the remainder of the voyage. I actually became somewhat of a celebrity as I spun yarns of Jones and Hagen like we were best of friends, but never had I ever been so happy as when we docked. I swore then and there that after I returned home, the most moisture that would ever surround me in the future would be a tepid, shallow tub of bathwater.
“I pack Bucky’s clubs, lug his baggage to the train station, and request we berth ourselves far as possible from the insidious coal-consuming belly of that iron horse.
“Bucky whiles away the hours wearing out the print on an issue of The Wall Street Journal. He babbles endlessly about his formulations on when best to buy and sell the latest securities as I mindlessly take in the countryside.
“As we near the coast, through the shroud of fog I see nestled amongst the links a stretch of land that resembles a golf course. I nudge Bucky and unwittingly speak louder than necessary. ‘That cruddy cow pasture almost looks like a golf course,’ I crow innocently enough.
“The ensuing suffocating hush within the cab draws away my breath as the glower of a hundred eyes manacles me to my seat. Across the aisle, a strapping elder jumps from his perch. The broad expanse of his chest strains the limits of his tweed coat as he forcefully inhales deeply.
“His bushy gray brows mesh into a violent collision above his eyes, and the right side of his handlebar mustache rises and twitches spasmodically. He spits at my feet and clenches his fists into wrecking balls. ‘Aye laddie, would ye be brave enough to say that to me face? No man shall desecrate our national shrine without a fight.’
“A rousing, roof-lifting ‘Aye!’ was shouted in unison.
“I cower in my seat, certain I had wet myself.
“Bucky leaps to his feet and holds up both hands in an act of surrender. ‘Sir, you must excuse the lad for this would be his first excursion from his home and he is ignorant to the ways and customs of the world. Under my tutelage, I have brought him to this sacred land to pay homage at this reliquary. My deepest apologies for not having schooled him regarding the subtle beauty of this sanctorum, and I apologize that his words have brought disrespect to this time-honored memorial.’
“The elderly statesman relaxes his hands and, without taking his eyes off me, seats himself amidst the rumblings of fellow passengers.
“Bucky leans over and whispers to me. ‘That was close. You can certainly get away with taking the Lord’s name in vain but heaven help you if a disparaging word is cast toward golf’s Holy Grail. It is arguable, but many have said The Dunes is actually the birthplace of golf, so speak softly and with reverence or forever hold your peace.’
“At the end of the line we board a station wagon, a term later adopted by car manufacturers, and make our way through the quaint little town of Stewart. It was a throwback to a simpler time before the advent of modern conveniences paradoxically meant to simplify our complicated lives.
“We traverse winding cobblestone streets, passing drab limestone houses that appear as mirages through the thick, pea-soup fog. On the outskirts of town, spires of a ruined cathedral rise majestically from the mist, standing guard like giant sentinels granting passage to The Dunes. Not more than a wedge away, monolithic slabs of gray granite born from the earth comprise the sixteenth-century castle that is the very heart and soul of the iconic course.
“I sign myself and ask for the Blessed Virgin’s forgiveness as I enter the arched gateway guarded by demonic gargoyles. The iron portcullis dangling overhead like Damocles’s sword is a not-so-gentle reminder of the warfaring days of yore. As we enter the main chamber, it is surprisingly warm and cozy as the yawning mouth of the hearth provides both light and heat.
“Bucky is greeted at the desk by a venerable old Scot dressed in a stylish, breezy kilt.
“‘Good day to you, sir,’ my traveling companion says. ‘I have a single reservation for Bucky Norton, but as you can plainly see, the accommodations will need to be modified for a party of two.’
“The innkeeper clears his throat and adjusts his tam. ‘You can share quarters all right,’ he says, ‘but the confining nature of a double bed could be problematic. Would it be possible for one of you enlightened gentlemen to relinquish the aforementioned and abide the comforts of a fold-out single?’
“Acknowledging it was on my benefactor’s dime, I volunteer with a quick nod.
“‘Might good of you, chap, for I have not had a bedmate since Lady Ann drew me into her lair under false pretenses,’ Bucky states with a slight blush to his cheeks.
“A chill runs up my spine while passing a larger-than-life portrait of Old Tom Morris wearing one of his four Open Championship belts. His steely eyes follow me across the room as if he were ready to defend his rightful place as lord of this time-honored palatial domicile.
“We stop by the bar for a quick nightcap that turns into a marathon session of darts with the locals. Scotch whisky flows like river water to the ocean, eroding the details of the night from my memory. It seems I had just closed my eyes when I’m rudely rousted from my dreamless slumber.
“Bucky is shaking me like a rag doll. ‘Hurry! Get up!’ he says. ‘We have not a moment to spare.’
“I clear the nightly accumulation of effluent from my eyes only to see dread and horror registering on his face. ‘Come on, man. Get with it, would you?’ he urges.
“‘What’s going on?’ I ask, peeling a desiccated tongue off the roof of my mouth.
“‘My four-ball partner is a no-show. I need you to take his place.’
“‘Me? But I haven’t touched a club in a month of Sundays!’
“‘Oh, poppycock! Your reputation as a golfer precedes you. You didn’t win the Caddie Cup four years straight against those hordes of sandbaggers without game.’
“My stomach is a roiling cauldron of turbulence and my inflated head pounds out the drone of a death procession with every beat of my heart. ‘There’s no way, Bucky. Please let me die in peace,’ I state, pulling the fluffy down pillow over my head.
“‘You have no choice. If I lose this epic wager, we will both be swimming our way back home. Now get your keister out of bed. I’ll acquire a set of clubs for you. Meet me on the range in ten minutes.’
“I feel like I’m back on the rolling ship deck as I stagger toward the bathroom. After kissing porcelain for five minutes, I stare at the frothy, stagnating pool of bile, which makes me even sicker.
“Seeing as how the dry heaves have now subsided, I make it to the range only to find Bucky statuesque, sitting next to a pile of balls in a lotus position with eyes closed.
“‘How come you aren’t practicing?’ I inquire, sounding like a scratched record.
“He raises one eyelid just a slit. ‘Can’t you see I am meditating? The importance of mental preparation far exceeds that of physical exertion. I’m in the process of visualizing every shot I will face today, and so far I’m fifteen under after twelve holes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to finish my round.’
“I withdraw a club and use it for a crutch as I wobble on stilted legs toward the rock pile. Standing over the ball, I’m stiffer than a blue-veiner. The club feels like a garden implement in my hands. I painfully work the hickory to the top of the backswing when my brain screams out, Now what? Knowing full well the mind-body connection is severed, my legs sag beneath me, leaving no option but to hit a foot behind it. The flange belly flops and then bounds off the firm turf over the ball.
“‘Unusual practice swing, I must say, but who’s to quibble with the club champ?’ Bucky japed, having just scored fourteen birdies and four eagles in a stellar round of mental fortitude.
“I try to refocus on my next attempt, but something is oddly wrong with my vision. The ball appears to have shrunk in size. It is then that I make a pact with the Lord: If he will return my senses back to normal, never again will the Devil’s brew touch my lips.
“‘I’ve got to see a doctor,’ I insist.
“‘Man up, son. It’s merely a hangover. Think Hagen would have won any of his eleven majors or four Opens if not for the social lubricant coursing through his veins the morning after?’
“‘It’s not that. Everything’s out of focus and proportion. I swear that ball looks smaller.’
“‘In fact, you’re quite right, old boy. Don’t fear; everything’s cricket. Over here they play the small British ball whose diameter is 1.62 inches versus the 1.68-inch American ball, a seemingly small but important difference. The larger American ball backspins at a higher rate. Thus, it rises in the air more readily than the smaller ball. Keep in mind it’s all about staying under the wind, my good man—all about the wind.’
“I come to find out the USGA banned the small ball in ’31 over concerns that the extra distance resulting from the new metal shafts would render existing courses obsolete—a situation similar to that facing today’s modern ball.
“A scolding gale meets us on the first tee. Our opponents that day are a seasoned pair of weathered fairway jockeys who relish a typhoon-like blow. Jake is a brute of a man who stands at least nineteen hands. In direct opposition, his partner is of such slight proportions he needs all his spikes in order to keep him grounded.
“Ironically, I become increasingly uncomfortable after I’m assigned a caddie—afraid it’ll be a distraction, sure that I’ll continually be second-guessing him, wondering what I would do if in a similar situation. On top of that, the Scot spoke with such a burr as to be unintelligible. The only words I could make out on the first tee were something about getting into the Devil’s anus, of all things.
“I scramble over to Bucky. ‘I need a new caddie.’
“‘And why would that be?’
“‘Pretty sure this unsavory perv wants me to place my balls in the Devil’s anus.’
“Bucky cut loose with a horselaugh. ‘You’ve got it all wrong, Dink,’ he says, pointing to a pot bunker on the leeward side of the fairway. ‘The Devil’s anus is the nastiest pit on the face of this earth. It is rumored men have lost their lives trying to extract themselves from that bunghole.’
“From then on out I confer solely with Bucky on each tee so there would be no misinterpretation on where to place my balls. Throughout the match, I am of little help to my partner as I bludgeon my way around with the finesse of a lumberjack. The only consolation is that most of my thin mishits stay straight and true, ducking beneath the jet stream like a fledgling quail scrambling for cover.
“Bucky, on the other hand, has complete control of his game and plays flawlessly. The way he orchestrates his way around the course is a thing of beauty. Hooks, fades, punch shots, bump and runs, you name it—all are at his command, and once on the greens he plays unconsciously. It’s clear to me that the antifreeze still flowing in his veins from the previous night has preserved his pickled brain under these adverse, frigid conditions.
“Our opponents are clearly off their game that day. Their frustration mounts as Bucky matches their scores at every turn.
“We are all even going into eighteen—a par-four stretched out to a mind-numbing 430 yards into a heavy, tempestuous, bone-chilling wind—and then it happens.
“In the middle of Bucky’s swing, a gust hits just hard enough to knock him slightly off balance, causing him to hit a crop duster off into the gorse. Knowing all is lost, the despondent man drags himself off the tee, shoulders slumped and looking as if he’d just lost the Claret Jug. He stares at the whitecaps topping off the North Sea, unable to watch Paul Bunyan chop his way down the fairway.
“Under the circumstances, I should’ve been a bundle of nerves with the weight of the match placed squarely on my shoulders, but I inexplicably enter another dimension. It’s as though St. Andrew, patron saint of golf, took pity on my retched soul and lent a guiding hand. Time warps and almost seems to stand still as I orchestrate my way through the shot. I see without seeing. There is no wind, no gorse, no bunkers, no ocean, and no swing thoughts or pressure—only a secret place in my mind’s eye that connects me to a specific spot at the center of the fairway. I heedlessly set the swing in motion and hang in suspended animation at the top.
“It is at the pinnacle that a clarity I had never experienced allows my body to react instead of act. The sequential patterns of the swing meld into a cohesive movement whereupon each correspondent action built upon itself until, at long last, I was tearing through the shot and holding on for dear life. I have only a fleeting recollection of the downswing, but I pirouette onto my right toe after having shifted every ounce of my diminutive frame to my left side.
“At this point, my altered state returns to normal, and I watch the ball land on the designated patch of sacred turf I’d visualized all along. I could’ve parted the sea or whisked away storm clouds with a flick of my hand while standing on that tee. No words were spoken as my ball trundled a significant way past those of my competitors.
“Bucky dared not look at me, let alone speak, due to fear of interfering with my unearthly transformation.
“Faced with a 200-yard second shot, I choke a three-wood just a skosh and play it toward the middle of my stance, all prepared to hit what nowadays would be called a stinger. I re-enter the zone as though I had never left it and watch my low burner scorch the sod with heated vengeance.
“Hushed silence grips my competitors as they watch their destiny unfold before my very hands. The fifteen-foot putt is a mere formality, for there was never a doubt in anyone’s mind that fate had predetermined the ball’s destination. After my birdie putt won the match, Bucky cut loose with a war whoop and a rather lively rendition of an Irish jig.”
TY SAT ON the edge of his chair, wide-eyed with his mouth agape. “How do you account for what happened on that last hole?”
“Don’t rightly know. Certain things in golf are inexplicable and best be left in the hands of providence. If I knew the answer, I’d have half a dozen majors listed next to my name by now.”
Ty turned off his recorder. “That was quite a story. Coming from anyone but you, I’d have my doubts.”
“I’ve lived a full life, that’s for sure. And to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t change any of it, for each experience shaped me into the scallywag I am today,” Dink said with a gleam in his eye.
“Sounds like a man who’s comfortable in his own skin. I don’t know about you, but that exhausted me. Think that’s more than enough for today. Let’s see what we can come up with tomorrow.”
“Hopefully. At my age it’s best not to plan too far into the future, especially when the she-devil’s on the warpath. That cantankerous woman keeps the guardian angels above awake at night due to fear of what she might do.”
“You best watch your steps around her. Never know what’ll set off that time bomb in her head.”
“She’s the closest I’ll ever come to a suicide bomber, that’s for sure.”
TY RETRACED DINK’S story in his mind as he drove home. What could have caused a sick man, totally out of his element that day, to magically turn it all around? Could it have been divine intervention? Or perhaps self-hypnosis, a brain tumor, or even mad cow disease—they were in Scotland, after all. The only answer he could come up with was that golf is truly a game in which the impossible can become possible when least expected if you never give up. Ty couldn’t count the number of rounds he’d ruined when he had become frustrated and mentally checked out.
He eased into his driveway and felt the tensions of the day melt away—that is, until he noticed the curtains being pulled shut. Joy never closed the drapes due to her complaint that there was never enough light in that house. They had even discussed installation of a skylight.
Ty removed Tommy’s bike from the front steps, slightly frustrated by his son’s unusually careless behavior. He became more alarmed when he discovered that the door was locked. In their safe, upper-middle-class neighborhood they usually left it unlocked during the day, and often overnight too.
He cautiously inserted his key, turned the doorknob, and tentatively poked his head inside, praying he wouldn’t find Raj and his wife in flagrante delicto. The candle-lit room and soft classical music had him scratching his head.
“Joy?” he meekly called out.
A muffled, metallic sound emanating from the kitchen was the only response. The mouthwatering smell of surf and turf lured him closer to the chamber of culinary surprises. He peeked around the corner of the kitchen opening. A gasp of breath caught in his throat.
There stood Joy, clad only in garter belt, nylons, a pair of stilettos high enough to cause a nosebleed, and a skimpy apron that barely covered her garden of earthly delights.
“There’s my man,” she cooed, posing like a French whore in a low-budget B movie.
“Joy, for God’s sake! What the hell? Did you forget about Tommy?”
She maneuvered toward him, manifesting a sexy, cat-like walk that made the unnerved man back up.
“We’re all alone. Does that scare you?” she purred in a deep, sultry voice.
“Well yeah. Frankly, it does. You hitting the sauce again?”
She intertwined her leg with his and began to nibble on his earlobe. “I’m on a natural high just being close to you,” she sighed in his ear.
“Okay, I give. What’s this all about?”
“Can’t a girl express love for her man without all the suspicion?”
“In your case, no. Now, what gives?”
She untangled herself and accentuated her hips as she made her way over to a pot of boiling lobsters, exposing her voluptuous, bare bottom. “Just a little celebration.”
“You going to let me in on it, or is this a private party?”
“Well, if you must know, Mr. Nosy Pants, we’re celebrating our good fortune.”
“Okay, I’ll play your game. Gee honey, what could that be?”
“Remember the lottery ticket you so casually threw underneath that pile of papers on your work space and forgot about?”
Ty nodded.
“Good thing I was tidying up. Ran across it—and guess what we won.” She ran toward him, and in one gigantic leap threw both legs around his torso.
He staggered backward until his head thumped against the wall.
She smiled. “Didn’t get all the numbers, but we managed enough to score a cool $324,000.”
“You sure?”
“Would I be dressed in this regalia cooking lobsters and filet mignon if that were not the case?”
“I’ll be a son of a…” Ty twirled Joy around and shouted, “Eureka! We’re rich! Remind me to send Raj a holiday card and box of chocolates this year.”
“You two got a little something going on behind my back?” she asked.
“You have to admit, he is quite the charmer. I’m sure he wouldn’t be adverse to a ménage à trois.”
“You’re the only stud muffin I’m interested in.”
“Why don’t we quit with the pretenses and just bang one out? Then we can eat,” he said, sliding up behind her.
“Such a romantic. How can I resist?”
Ty grazed the peach fuzz on the back of her neck. “Man, this sure is a game changer! I can now work on my book without facing financial ruin in the process.”
“You know, honey, it sounds like a lot of money, but we could easily burn through that in a couple of years. Securing a real job should still be your number-one priority.”
“Agreed, but I’m about ready to wrap this thing up. If I put all my energy into it, I’ll be done before you can say ‘Pulitzer Prize.’”
“Love it when you talk like that. Makes me think of money.”
“Why you little gold digger, you. Think daddy’s gonna have to spank that bodacious booty of yours.”
“Gracious no!” the Oscar wannabe said with mock horror, drawing a hand to her mouth. “Just make sure you don’t spare the rod ’cause mama’s been bad—I’m talking real bad,” she said, pooching out her bottom lip.
THE NEXT DAY, Ty stopped at a roadside vendor to buy a small bouquet of flowers and left the frail, old woman a substantial tip. He had been walking on cloud nine ever since he’d awoken that morning. Why wouldn’t he, knowing the world was his oyster? And to think that only a day or two before his bleak outlook on life had the world crashing around him.
The indomitable man cheerfully bounded through the hospital doors, plucked a bloom, and laid it in front of the impersonal receptionist he had dealt with on his first visit to the facility.
She looked up from her impeccable nails. “What’s this for?” she inquired with all the emotion of a wet dishrag.
“It’s for just being you,” he said while scampering along his merry way.
The rose he left behind almost brought a smile to her hardened face—that was, before she dumped it in the trash can.
He stopped by the second-floor nurses’ station and set the flowers on the counter.
Blanchard looked up from her book and then back down with a sardonic grin tattooed on her face.
What psychological warfare is in her game plan today? he wondered as he left without sharing a word. She wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man in the back now, would she?
When approaching Room 222, he felt a bit nostalgic, knowing his time with Dink was drawing to an end. It’s not like he would never visit again, but it was sad nonetheless, for he certainly enjoyed their daily interludes.
He walked into the room and backed out immediately to recheck the number.
Fiddling with the box of tissues on his lap, Rico waved him in.
“They transfer Dink?” Ty inquired, rushing into the room.
“He passed last night—or should I say, ‘was murdered.’”
“What? Murdered? What are you talking about?”
“Found him this morning. His oxygen mask had been knocked off-kilter. He slowly suffocated in his sleep.”
“Christ almighty! That’s unreal! He seemed to be just fine yesterday. What in God’s name does his passing have to do with murder?”
“Blanchard and him got into a big rhubarb and a lot of nasty things were said. Dink complained to hospital administration about her abusive behavior and insisted she be fired. He went so far as saying if nothin’ was done, he’d go to a local news station and talk to the producer of ‘Call 3 for Action.’
“Late last night, she strapped him down and gave him a sedative. He went down harder than if he’d been kicked in the head by a mule. Then at exactly three o’clock a.m.—I know ’cause my son got me this digital clock/radio that lights up—I heard somethin’ that woke me and saw this nurse huddling over Dink. She was acting real suspicious-like and kept looking around. Then she scampered out real quick.
“My eyesight is none too good and it was dark, so I couldn’t tell for certain who it was or what was going on. This morn they found him dead as a doornail. Sure as the sun’s gonna come up, that nasty bitch drugged and then killed him, although I can’t prove it.”
“We need to report this to the authorities.”
“Just remembered something. I smelled a hint of her perfume. It’s real distinctive. Think it’s Soir de Paris, which my wife used to wear back in the forties. Lots of ladies wore it then, but hardly anyone uses that anymore. None of the other nurses wear the smelly stuff.”
Ty was crestfallen. Here was this man who had persevered through countless trials and tribulations during his 108-year life only to be killed by a vindictive sadist.
Rico hawked a loogie onto the floor, secretly hoping Blanchard would slip. “Strange thing is he knew it was his last night. He gave me his putter right before he went out and told me I was to give it to you. Yep, sure as shit, he knew it was coming.”
He turned down the volume on Golf Channel, pulled the club from under his bedcover, and handed it to Ty.
“Never played the game or had any interest, but as you can see from the telly, I’ve become a fan. Hell, might’ve even taken up the game had I known him earlier. Yep, sure gonna miss poor old Dink. He was one ornery cuss all right, but the man had a heart of gold.”
“Would you be willing to testify in court regarding the story you just told me?”
“Anything to put that bitch away, but I ain’t gonna be hopping out of this bed anytime soon.”
“You let me worry about that. You may be able to give a deposition right from this room.”
Ty stormed into the hall and forcefully marched to the front desk.
That derisive leer was still pasted across Blanchard’s face.
He swung Calamity Jane as if he were smashing a 300-yard drive, shattering a vase that soused the nurse in a deluge of water.
“You fucking asshole! You’ll burn in hell after they execute you!” Ty spewed.
Blanchard held the sadistic smirk while she blotted beads of water from her freshly starched, pristine uniform.
“I’ll reserve a seat for you there, Mr. Ryder—right next to Mr. Cooper.”
He stormed down the hallway and exited the building in a cloud of fury.