Chapter Four

chapter

IN KEEPING WITH his promise to Dink, Ty stopped off at Li’l Brown Jug to pick up a pint. He shouldn’t have been surprised to see a pair of homeless regulars looking over their breakfast menu at this hour of the morning. Huddled in the corner, they counted their change and compared prices of the latest-vintage, chemical-laden wines.

The proprietor kept a close eye on their activities as he sat within reach of his loaded twelve-gauge shotgun.

“Pint of Old Crow,” Ty said.

The merchant’s eyes lit up like he had been waiting for this one-liner all day. “Is that for here or to go?” he joked with a heavy accent.

Ty eked out a complimentary laugh.

“Feeling lucky today? Powerball jackpot is at $108 million.”

“I’ve never won anything in my life but heartache.”

“My, aren’t we a Debbie Downer?”

“The chances of winning that lottery are between none and nonexistent.”

“Somebody will win it. Why not you?”

“We’ve already been over that. Besides, if I did win, my wife would divorce me, take over half, and I would fritter the rest of it away on wine, women, and song.”

“But what a way to go.”

“No, thanks. I’d rather just wallow in self-pity and roam the four corners of the globe an aimless loser.”

“Very well. Or as everybody’s favorite clown would say, ‘Have it your way,’” the stand-up comic said, ending his set on a high note.

The two indigents met Ty at the door, blocking his way. One man reeked of urine, bearing evidence that his damp crotch wasn’t the result of your typical wet dream.

His toothless partner thrust his tongue out and ran it over sore-encrusted sandpaper lips. “Hey, friend. Can you spare some coinage? We’re a bit shy.”

Ty noted to himself that these two were anything but shy with their aggressive behavior. To avoid potential conflict, he dug into his wallet and produced a dollar bill. “Keep the change. I’m feeling benevolent today.”

One of the men snatched the bill from his hand. “Benevolent, my ass. Who the hell you think you are, talking down to us? Think you’s better ’cause you gots a few notes in your wallet? Oughta be glad we don’t jack your ass and take it all.”

Ty looked over at the proprietor who now had the shotgun in his hands.

“And it is through my benevolence that I don’t light both of you up,” the storekeeper said. “Make sure you don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

Ty waited until the two men were out of sight before he decided to venture outside. Before leaving, he looked at the owner.

The man shrugged and said, “It is wise always to remember that no good deed goes unpunished.”

• • •

ONCE AT THE hospital, Ty tried to tiptoe past the second floor nurses’ station to avoid Blanchard.

Decked out in her white uniform, she appeared to be a compassionate, diligent RN at first glance, but he recognized her for what she really was: a cold-hearted woman whose only joy in life was inflicting pain upon others.

Blanchard looked up from the book she’d been reading. He fancied the chapter may be titled “Modern Torture Techniques,” a subject she was well-acquainted with.

“Mr. Ryder.”

Ty stopped so abruptly that his hyperextended neck went well beyond whiplash, verging on a more serious diagnosis of herniated disk.

“Today might not be the best day for a visit. Mr. Cooper’s colon is highly inflamed.”

That didn’t surprise Ty one bit, considering what a pain in the ass that woman could be.

“I’ll just stop by for a quick ‘Hi,’” he said, “and if he’s feeling better maybe I’ll stay a bit longer.”

She brushed wrinkles from her dress and went back to reading the section titled “Waterboarding Made Fun”—as he imagined it, anyway.

The journalist could hear Dink caterwauling from clear down the hall.

When Ty entered the room, the looper was punching his fist in the air as he watched Golf Channel. He motioned with his hand toward a chair while remaining glued to the television.

“Watch this. Phil’s about to win his first Masters.”

Ty sat down and scratched his head. “Must be a rerun. He’s already won three.”

“Is that a fact?” Dink asked, disregarding the information.

For the first time, the reporter was beginning to question Dink’s mental faculties. Was the little guy just being flippant or did he truly believe his altered reality?

Ty slipped the bottle of rye from his back pocket and handed it to the old-timer. “As per our agreement.”

Dink looked around for the warden, eagerly unscrewed the cap, and took a healthy swig befitting a sailor on shore leave.

“Ah, mother’s milk. Here, take this before the Wicked Witch of the West comes back.”

He picked up his trusty Calamity Jane putter that was always close at hand and pointed it at the television.

“See that right there? That’s what’s wrong with golf today—too much bullshit. Phil and Bones have been jawing over this shot for five minutes. The game originally was meant to be an individual sport in which the golfer made all the decisions. Caddies back then were nothing more than beasts of burden. Hell, in today’s game they do everything but wipe the player’s butt!

“Too much information, too much time. It’s killing the game, and the duration it takes these guys to putt, it’s like waiting for paint to dry. If golf wants to stay relevant, it’s gotta keep pace with the times and speed up. Back in my day, when the world turned at a slower pace, a five-hour-plus round was acceptable, but nowadays in this amped-up, multitasking society, who’s got the time?”

Ty thought for a moment. “But doesn’t the exchange of information between caddie and player only enhance better scoring opportunities, which the viewing public wants to see?”

“Bull pucky. What you’re seeing week after week is production golf where players hit driver, wedge, and routinely stamp out scores of fifteen or twenty-something under. Why the hell even have par when it’s become irrelevant? The premium on driving accuracy is a joke nowadays. These guys are so good at getting out of rough and fairway bunkers, it’s not much of a penalty anymore. Why even rake bunkers? Turn them back into real hazards, I say. And while we’re on the subject, fashion the traps more like the pothole bunkers seen on British courses that actually penalize you. Line fairways with thick stands of bushy firs or similar trees that branch close to the ground. Put the bite back in Old Man Par. At least that way, Joe Hack can relate somewhat to the game he’s playing ’cause as everyone knows, misery loves company.”

“I guess there are two schools of thought at work here, and both are neither right nor wrong,” Ty said. “What do you say we get back to your earlier days of caddying? What are some of your most memorable experiences?”

“Guess memorable is the key word in that question. Things get a little foggy nowadays. Fact and fiction sometimes bleed into one another, and I’ll be damned if I can sort it all out. Let’s see now. Where were we?”

“At the end of our last visit, you had just finished talking about your first experience packing clubs.”

“Oh yeah. Not long after my first try at caddying, I start to skip school and carry a bag just about every day—sometimes thirty-six holes when the opportunity presents itself. Mama isn’t happy about me skipping school and all, so she commences to give me the ass-whooping of a lifetime. I gotta tell ya, I wasn’t keen on being beaten by a woman—or anyone else, for that matter—even if she was my ma. It especially didn’t sit too well with me seeing as how I was the man of the house since my dad had long ago flown the coop.

“So I run away and live in the thicket just off the first fairway ’til winter rolls around. Talk about miserable! Some nights are so cold I pee on my hands just to keep them from freezing. I’m not comfortable sleeping on the ground, using leaves for a blanket and such, so Butch, the caddie master, takes pity on me and lets me sleep in the caddie shack. Have all the comforts of home there, even a small wood stove, so I’m happier than a pig in shit on a hot summer day.

“All I have to do is open every morning, clean clubs, and do whatever odd jobs come up until my first mark shows. Well, that is ’til Butch gets to depending on me so much he starts sleeping in as his hangovers get worse and worse. This makes me madder than a shooed hornet at a Sunday social ’cause I’m doing his job practically for free and it’s cutting into my chance at scoring with the big tippers that tee off early.

“After a year or two, the course owner stops by one day and asks, ‘Where’s Butch?’ So I tell him the true story, elaborating on how some days he doesn’t come in at all.

“‘I like the cut of your jib, kid,’ he says—whatever the hell that is. He tells me, ‘You’re still a bit young, but I like your work ethic. Think I just found me a new caddie master.’

“I’m liking the new title and all, but he still hasn’t mentioned anything about money. So I ask, ‘How much it be paying?’

“‘Tell you what, son. Start you off at thirty cents a day—plus you can keep any tips.’

“I do some quick figuring and decide that was a pretty good deal. That is, until Butch shows up next morning feeling none too chipper. He picks me up with one arm and cocks the other haymaker, telling me to say my prayers.

“Just so happens my knee-jerk reaction connects with the shag bag hanging between his legs. He drops me like a hot potato and then staggers backward, falling against that toasty stove I’d stoked earlier. Never forget the look on his face. That’s when he ejaculates an expletive so vile I dare not repeat it. Then he goes high-stepping out of there, hootin’ and hollerin’ like nobody’s business. Thank God that’s the last I ever saw of Butch.”

“How long did you work there?” Ty asked.

“Managed to work there for little over a decade. Saved darn near every penny I earned but started getting that restless itch that strikes most young folks at one time or another. The boss man urged me to stay. Even offered me a raise, but what’s money when there’re adventures to be had? Made my way out to Cal-i-for-ni-a where the weather’s hot and the beach babes are even hotter. Had a gay old time cavorting around until I frittered away most of my savings. After cinching my belt another notch, it didn’t take a genius to figure out it was time to get a job. Didn’t know nothing ’bout nothing except golf, so I figured that would be a good place to start.

“Happened to be walking along the beach one day when I notice these fancy convertibles, some with clubs jutting out the back. They turn onto a long, tree-lined driveway, so I decide to have myself a look-see. Thought I’d died and gone to heaven, for lo and behold, right before my very eyes is this golf course so lush and beautiful I first mistake it for some kind of park. That old goat track where I’d cut my caddying teeth bore little resemblance to this beauty. And there, not more than ten yards in front of me, is a vision so breathtaking I have to rub my eyes, thinking I’m hallucinating.

“I run toward the mirage and drop to my knees, marveling at the putting surface that’s actually green grass. I was ashamed to admit at the time, being a man and all, but it felt even nicer than that weed patch Mary Ann Stanley had growing between her legs. Suppose it’s high maintenance, just like Mary Ann, but it’s a small price to pay if for no other reason than the sheer beauty of it—not to mention its puttability.

“I’m reveling in the grandeur of it all when next thing I know, there’s some clown out in the middle of the fairway yelling, calling me a whore.

“Well, sure as shoutin’, that got my dander up. I might not be big, but I got my pride. I go up to him and say, ‘Who do you think you’re calling a whore?’

“He proceeds to laugh, which makes me even madder. Then he says, while still chuckling, ‘No, my good fellow. You are mistaken. I yelled “Fore,” the universal warning call for golfers to beware.’

“Feeling like a real dumb-ass, I say, ‘I knew that. Just funning with you. I’m a caddie after all.’ Truth is, I always thought they were yelling Whore!

“‘Very good. Welcome aboard,’ he says. ‘Hopefully, we can hook up some time or another. The facilities here are unparalleled.’

“I hastily rush out and spend the last of my money on new threads befitting a king. Next morning at the crack of dawn, I meet the caddie master just as he’s about to open up his so-called shack that has furnishings equal to the finest house in my humble little hometown.

“He gives me the once-over and says, ‘Sorry, sir, but this is a members-only club.’

“Now, I’m heartbroken ’cause I never knew you had to be a member in order to caddie. ‘Where does one go to become a member?’ I ask in my most sophisticated voice.

“‘I am afraid it is not that easy. There are certain qualifications that need to be met before your application can even be considered.’

“‘I need to go through all that just so I can caddie?’

“He looks at me in disbelief of my ignorance. ‘And what, may I ask, are your qualifications?’

“‘I’ve caddied most of my life. Recently I held the position of caddie master at Black Sands. It’s the prettiest muni you’d ever want to see, if I may say so myself,’ I lie.

“The bewildered man damn near chokes on the big, fat cigar he’s chompin’ on. ‘Never heard of it. Caddie master, you say?’

“‘Yes, sir. Best darn caddie master this side of the Mississip—present company excluded, of course.’

“He crosses his arms and looks like he’s thinking real hard. ‘Don’t usually do this, but we caddie masters must stick together,’ he says with a nod and wink.

“‘Yes sir,’ I say, snapping to attention.

“‘Going to give you a shot. Think you can handle it?’

“‘Wouldn’t be here if that weren’t the case.’

“‘That’s the spirit. Here; read this. These are all the rules and regulations our caddies are expected to follow here at Ocean Crest Country Club.’

“I commence to try reading this book that’s thicker than Ma’s bible, but with my lack of education and all I forgo the main text and just thumb through, hoping for some pictures.

“‘Ready to have a go at it?’ I hear this vaguely familiar voice ring out. There before me stands the dapperly dressed man I’d encountered the day before.

“‘Yes, sir. Willing and able. Dink at your service.’

“‘Well, Dink. Charles here. What do you say we get under way while the day’s still young?’

“We proceed to the first tee and I pull this driver from his bag that leaves me speechless. I shield my eyes from the metal shaft’s glare, never having seen such an illustrious piece of craftsmanship before. It’s the only time I’ve had such a reaction to a club other than when I held Walter Hagen’s driver.”

“You actually got to hold Hagen’s driver?” Ty marveled.

“Shoot yeah, I did. In order to offset the torque of the softer wooden shaft and to help square the clubface, Hagen put a slight kink at the bottom of the grip. If extended, the handle would point to the center of the clubhead rather than its heel, a feature that would be totally illegal today. Feeling rather cavalier that day after a few toddies, he allowed me to hit a couple of shots. He and Jones found great sport in critiquing the flaws in my swing. Fortunately, I had my A-game and didn’t embarrass myself too much.”

“You’re telling me that you had personal golf lessons from Jones and Hagen?”

“In my current state of health I’m a fool for saying, but I’m dyin’ if I’m lyin’. At any rate, after a few adjustments, Hagen tells me, ‘Now try slicing the hell out of one.’

“By this time, both gents are feeling no pain and are having a gay old time at my expense. So I weaken my grip slightly, open my stance and clubface, and then cut the ball so hard it should’ve bled. When I finally look up, all I see is the prettiest little fade you could ever wish for. I’m truly amazed at how the clubface returned squarely down the line despite how badly I’d swung.

“Now, where were we? Seems like I got a bit sidetracked there.”

“You had just seen your first steel shaft.”

“Oh, yeah. I mean to tell ya, that shiny-shafted club was a whole other animal. Later in my career, I learned that steel shafts were actually introduced around the turn of the twentieth century. However, somewhat reliable clubs weren’t presented to the golfing market until the twenties and not officially approved for legal play by the USGA until 1925. It wasn’t until 1929 that the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews finally legalized the new shafts for use in the rest of the golfing world. I hadn’t seen them before, though, seeing as how the players at podunk Black Sands weren’t exactly rich folks.

“So anyhow, I run my hand up and down that chrome shaft, not believing my eyes. ‘Sure is a beauty,’ I tell Charles.

“‘Get used to it,’ he says. ‘A few years down the road these will be the only shafts on the market. They’re revolutionary.’

“No doubt about it, they were revolutionary, all right. ‘Bet they cost a pretty penny,’ I say.

“‘Wouldn’t really know. A friend of mine who makes clubs for A.G. Spalding was kind enough to gift me these.’

“Having never heard of Spalding before, you could imagine my surprise when I see the name printed on the golf ball I was about to hand Charles. I ask him, ‘This Spalding fellow. Did he make these balls, too?’

“‘Well, his company did. I first met Albert Spalding a few years before he died. That A.G. was quite the sportsman.’

“It didn’t take a genius to figure out Charles wasn’t one of your run-of-the-mill dew sweepers.

“I ask him, ‘Have any tee sand I can use?’ At this point, I’m beginning to wonder if he doubts my skill in the art of caddying.

“‘In the tee box there,’ he says, pointing to a small structure that contains a bucket of sand and a smaller container of water.

“Having never heard of a tee box, I scoop up a handful and wet it thoroughly before getting down on my hands and knees in order to shape a cone. But the task literally becomes a handful as I try my best to hold together the crumbling mound.

“‘Need a mold?’ he asks while holding out a clever little metal device that insures a uniform conical shape.

“‘Thanks. Must’ve lost mine,’ I lie like a rug.

“He steps up to the first tee that’s quite elevated, gives that shiny shaft a few waggles, and hammers out this drive that takes my breath, leaving me gawking. This gives me cause for concern seeing as how it’s my standard practice to help club my mark if asked. How do you club a guy who has superhuman powers instilled through the magic of his clubs? I back off for a while ’til I get a feel for the distance this gorilla propels the ball.

“Just about the time I start settling into the round, we come to this shot over water. ‘Hand me a floater,’ he says matter-of-factly.

“Now, the only reference to floaters I ever heard of has to do with certain bodily functions that’re best left unsaid and done in private.

“‘Pardon me, sir,’ I say.

“‘A floater. I need a floater.’

“The idea repulses me to no end, but being the liberal-minded person I believe myself to be, I head off toward a nearby toilet facility.

“‘Where are you going?’

“‘To the restroom. You want a floater, don’t you?’

“‘Hold up!’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Check the large pocket in my golf bag.’

“I start to thinking this guy’s a pretty sick puppy if he’s got me packing a bag full of crap. With great care I slip my hand into his bag and, much to my relief, pull out a packet of balls marked Spalding Floaters.

“‘One floater coming up!’ I say, nervously laughing.

“‘They’re only seventy-five cents apiece, but why throw away a good ball when I can just as easily retrieve it?’ he says before inexplicably dunking one into the drink.

“‘Drat! The only consistent thing about my game is its inconsistency,’ he mumbles while teeing another. ‘I’d sell my soul to the devil for some insight.’

“I had learned long before not to go giving advice unless asked, but his problem was all too obvious and this poor, tormented fellow was desperate enough to make deals with the Prince of Darkness.

“‘Sir, if I may?’

“The normally jovial chap backs away from his shot, looking agitated enough to break one of those classic clubs.

“‘It’s your pivot, sir—or should I say, “the lack of…”’

“‘My pivot? I’ve never been apprised of that before.’

“‘More precisely, a reverse pivot. Not the worst case I’ve seen, but it’s enough to cause your mishits. A good drill during your practice swing is to lift your left leg off the ground going back and your right leg on the follow-through.’

“‘Like this?’ Charles asks, dancing to and fro in a rhythmic motion. ‘Reminds me a little of the two-step I used to woo the ladies with. Makes sense. How’d you become so knowledgeable about swing mechanics?’

“‘During our spare time at Black Sands, us caddies would hang out at this barren patch of hardpan they had the nerve to call a range and try various methods we stole from players we caddied for. When one of us hacks would stumble on something that worked, we’d all be using it by day’s end ’til eventually some of us pieced together a fairly decent swing. Got to the point where I could beat just about anybody at the club. As my knowledge of the swing improved, so did the demand for my caddie services when I was asked for swing tips. The head pro was more than happy to see me go so he could regain his wayward flock.’

“‘Proof is in the pudding. Let’s give it a go and see what happens,’ Charles says.

“He makes a few practice swings using his new drill and then steps up and hits it dead solid perfect.

“‘Well, I’ll be hoodwinked! Could actually feel my weight shifting. Got any other observations you’d care to share?’

“‘While caddying, I took an interest in why some golfers hit it better than others and why better golfers hit the most god-awful shots for no reason,’ I say.

“‘And your conclusions were?’ Charles asks.

“‘Bad golfers usually have a number of technical flaws and swing way too fast, especially on their backswings. With the better golfers, it usually comes from their rhythm and timing being out of sorts—namely, from their transition at the top.’

“‘Oh,’ he says, as if he’s thinking why didn’t that ever occur to me?

“From that point on, the man shifts his weight with the grace of Fred Astaire and magically transforms into another Bobby Jones before my very eyes, holding at even par on the inward half.

“On the seventeenth, I mold a tee but feel the need to call my man off the shot when I notice a large pit in the center of the green. ‘Sir, I think that green’s under construction.’

“‘Talking about the trap?’

“‘You’re putting me on, right?’ I ask. ‘A trap in the middle of a green?’

“‘Quite so, my good man. It requires a deft touch to place the ball onto the proper quadrant.’

“‘What happens if the trap gets between you and the hole?’

“‘Simply chip over. It’s a shot similar to the stymie but on a much larger scale.’

“‘A stymie?’ I ask.

“‘It’s commensurate to a pool player hitting a jump shot, but in golf if your path to the hole is blocked by your opponent’s ball, you simply chip over it.’

“Just goes to show you can teach an old dog a new trick, as I come to the realization that my education as a caddie is not yet finished.

“At the completion of the round, Charles slaps me on the back and tucks a five-spot into my hot little hand. I try my best to hide my excitement ’cause this was well over a week’s wages at Black Sands.

“‘You’re a godsend, my boy. That was far and away the best nine of my golfing life.’

“Then he hands me the keys to his Cadillac. He tells me he’s got an away game the next day and asks me to throw his clubs in the back, pull it around front, and then meet him on the veranda.

“I scan the parking lot and eventually feast my eyes on this cream-and-toffee-colored land yacht that’s got a hood longer than a short par four. After securing the clubs, I slide into the cavernous front seat. Having never driven a car, I sit behind the wheel pondering all the gadgets at my command. Now, I had seen keys jutting from the dash before when I’d hitched rides, and I knew that pedal on the floor somehow stopped and started this fandangled machine. I also knew one was needed to shift things into gear so as to get it moving. Without further ado, I slip the key into the starting slot, gently turn it, hold the on position, and this god-awful noise comes from the engine.

“In my panic I start to bail, but when I release the key, the noise suddenly stops and the engine purrs like a kitten. I’m thinking maybe the hardest part is over, but now I gotta get this beast moving. I cautiously grab the stick next to me like I’d seen done before. Well, that ear-piercing racket that came from the starter didn’t come close to the gnashing gear shear that had me thinking this baby was about to blow.

“‘Can I help you?’ I hear this silky-smooth voice from the heavens speak.

“Praise Jesus! I’ve been saved! is my first thought when I spot Ginger standing there like an apparition.

“Now, most would say in a kind sort of way that the girl is rather homely, but what I see is the most beautiful creature God had ever created.

“‘Why yes, ma’am,’ I say politely. ‘This contraption is getting the best of me, that’s for sure.’

“‘Slide over.’

“So, this divine vision of loveliness takes control and parks it in front of the main entrance.

“‘Where are you headed?’ she inquires.

“‘Out to the veranda—if I can find my way.’

“‘Quite a coincidence. I am also going there. Just follow me.’

“Couldn’t help but notice that although the girl’s not a raving beauty, she has more curves than Cy Young breaking ball.

“‘What brings you to our quaint little club?’ she asks me.

“‘First day on the job. Just finished looping for the grandest gentleman I’ve ever met.’

“‘Mark that on your calendar. They are a rare breed—possibly even on the endangered list,’ she says with a giggle.

“Right then and there, sure as mama makes the best apple pie in the county, not only do I feel the heat of cupid’s arrow as it pierces my heart, but just about every major organ in my worthless carcass melts.

“She escorts me past these endless rooms. Some are filled with art, some contain walls of books, others are occupied by gloved ladies playing cards, and still more provide sanctuary for old, stodgy men puffing away on cigars while ruminating over tall tales of yore. Then, curiously, she raps three times—real distinctive knocks—on this strange door that has a small, sliding window.

“This big ape wearing a penguin suit peers out. ‘Miss Conley. What a pleasant surprise,’ he says all sophisticated-like.

“You would’ve thought I had just stumbled across a New Year’s party, for inside there is music, flappers dancing the Charleston, and of course the devil’s brew flowing freer than the mightiest river to the ocean. Prohibition? What the hell is that?

“We spot Charles over in the corner entertaining friends while he’s swizzling his Canadian Club. No bathtub gin in that joint, that’s for sure.

“‘Ah, Ginger. Glad you could make it, dear,’ Charles says. ‘I see you’ve met Dink. Sorry, old boy, but I forgot to tell you that veranda is the secret code word for the nesting ground we have managed to so humbly fashion into our naughty little playground. Care for an aperitif?’

“While I’m trying to plug in the code words—veranda for speakeasy and aperitif for cocktail—I notice Ginger is bending over and kissing Charles on the cheek. My heart deflates faster than a sawbuck during the Great Depression.

“But hark! There is a God, for I then hear her say, ‘Oh, Daddy. Must you spoil me so?’

“‘Darling, Dink and I had a rollicking good time on the links today. Didn’t we, old boy?’

“Before I can reply, Charles continues on. ‘Through sheer insightfulness he guided this blind man around the back in even par. Oh, happy days are here again!’

“I look around at the aristocrats, nodding their heads while waiting for me to bestow words of wisdom upon them so they might share my insightfulness.

“So I decide to regale them with my wisdom. ‘I’m sure you realize that no single tip, regardless how beneficial, will work its magic forever, seeing as how the swing is always in a state of flux.’

“A few murmurs circulate, along with a few hear-hears, as they all nod in unified agreement.

“‘I’ll drink to that,’ Charles says before downing his lively libation. ‘Not only do we have a head professional in the making, but he has the mind of a philosopher to boot. If I may be so bold as to inquire, would you mind terribly if I were to employ your services on a permanent basis?’

“The volatile vapors emanating off my septic, ruddy cocktail should’ve given me fair warning as to the potent potable’s toxicity. My virgin throat is on fire after having tossed back that heady poison disguised as a cool, refreshing drink. I grasp at my neck and exhale an invisible flame that could not be extinguished. My reply to Charles is so raspy that I had to follow it up with a simple nod. A few minutes later, my head is spinning faster than when I had smoked a bowl of corn silk with Billy Bob out in Old McCreary’s lower forty.

“‘Looking a little peaked there, chap,’ Charles tells me. ‘May be a good idea to stick with cherry fizzes for the remainder of the evening. Might be best if I drive you home later. Where’s your place of residence?’

“Even in my inebriated state, I know better than to give a truthful answer, which would be ‘Under the pier.’ So instead, I say, ‘Still looking. Sure I’ll find a place by tonight.’

“‘Look no further, old boy. Mi casa es su casa.’

“Not too sure what this casa thing is, but it’s gotta be better than sharing space with land crabs and sand fleas.

“Later that evening, after polishing off the last of my carbonated fizzy, we pile into his land yacht. I sprawl out in the back and get nice and comfortable, thinking I might catch a few Z’s on the ride to my new casa, but it just so happens we arrive at his place without even leaving the club grounds.

“I’m sure we’ve just pulled up in front of the White House as I gander at this stately colonial perched atop a hill overlooking the course.

“Wilford, the butler, greets us at the door. ‘Good evening and welcome home, sir. I take it your outing was memorable.’

“‘Quite right, my good man. Dink here will be spending the night,’ he says with a nod toward me. ‘Do make sure all his needs are met.’

“The butler looks down his long, noble nose at the riffraff that’s just entered his domain. ‘Will the Hamilton Suite in the west wing meet with your approval, sir?’ he asks his employer.

“‘Heavens to Betsy, yes. And see if you can’t muster some clothes for our guest. As you can see, he’s been traveling on the fly.’

“‘Most certainly, sir.’

“‘Hope you sleep off that big head, old boy,’ Charles says to me. ‘Have a tight schedule with a rather early round tomorrow up at The Cliffs. I’m sure a little hair of the dog for breakfast will set us on the right course before we hit the links.’

“And wouldn’t you know it, just then I spot this small, hairless pooch wandering around in an adjoining room. I’m thinking these rich folks must be crazier than hell if they think I’m eating any hair off that dog—or any dog, for that matter. Besides, that mutt’s balder than a billiard ball.

“‘Good night, Ginger,’ I say before taking leave. ‘And thanks again, sir. Hope I haven’t inconvenienced you any.’

“‘Don’t be preposterous, Dink. The pleasure is mine.’

“I follow Wilford on this long, cross-country expedition to the West Wing. He shows me to this room that’s bigger than Ma’s whole house, including the yard.

“‘May I get you a glass of hot milk or a warm toddy before you retire?’

“Don’t know where this guy dressed like a penguin is coming from, but as I’m sure he can plainly see, it’ll be many years before I retire.

“About the time I finally settle in and fluff my pillow, I hear a weak knock at my bedroom door. In walks Ginger wearing one of those frilly-looking, peek-a-boo nighties the ladies like. Seeing as how I’m naked as a jaybird and there’s only one thin sheet separating me from this titillating creature, I reach down and corral my unruly manhood before it can get out of hand and rear its ugly head.

“‘I’m so pleased that you decided to stay. Is everything okay?’ she cooed in the most melodious tone imaginable.

“I quickly avert my eyes from her brisket and silently begin reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Little did the snake charmer realize, I’m in a life-or-death struggle with a spitting cobra.

“‘Quite all right,’ I say as my voice cracks and climbs up the octatonic scale.

“She sits on the bed, leans back, and displays the most luscious mounds of mammalian flesh ever spread across the female form. At this time I find myself in the middle of a rosary while visualizing the Stations of the Cross.

“‘You sure everything’s all right? You seem a bit distracted.’

“I want to tell her everything is fine and that I’m only trying to stay abreast of my current situation, but good sense prevails. ‘A bit out of my element, I guess you could say. Have you lived here long?’

“‘Ever since I can remember. Daddy acquired this house when he purchased the golf course.’

“My head turns into a cauldron of pudding as I try to wrap my mind around the high points of our discussion. ‘You’re telling me he owns the course along with this house?’

“Her captivating bosom jiggles like a bowl full of jelly as she nods her head fervently. ‘He’s contemplating the purchase of another course, but deep down I know that Ocean Crest is his first love. A lot of history is attached to these grounds. Movie stars, captains of industry—even a few presidents—have graced this property. Roosevelt spent the night right here in this very room. Then, of course, we have the annual professional golf tournament that takes place every year. It would behoove you to learn every blade of grass that grows on this track. Who knows? That information could have you packing the winning bag.’

“Bingo! She just so happens to flip the switch that activates a small incandescent bulb flickering ever-so-dimly in the dark recesses of my mind. It’s simply genius. In the months preceding the tourney, I’ll plot that course like I’m making a map. I’ll have my mark swimming in so much information he’ll be a shoo-in when the time comes to hoist that trophy on Sunday afternoon. But first I’ll have to prove my worth as a looper.”

• • •

NURSE BLANCHARD EASED into the room the way a Sherman tank pushes through the first line of defense. The muscles and tendons in her jaw bulged as she vigorously, but politely, worked a stick of gum for all its worth. She crossed her arms and stood defiantly at the end of the bed, tapping her foot as if listening to music orchestrated by her own one-woman band.

Dink intentionally cut loose with an atomic blast that had the most villainous smell ever to offend a nostril. “Whoops! Wasn’t quite what I was expecting. Might have to call in the hazmat squad.”

Blanchard closed her eyes, marginally swooned, and then swallowed her gum as the rancid fetidity ruptured small capillaries in her lungs. “As you can plainly see, Mr. Ryder, Mr. Cooper’s highly inflamed bowel needs to be irrigated.”

“Yippee—water sports!” Dink shouted with glee. “But you’re gonna want to handle my sphincter with a little more tenderness. Might’ve sprung the old trap door last time.”

“Honestly, Mr. Cooper, in all my years of nursing I’ve never run across a more despicable person.”

“You think that’s something? Just wait ’til you see what I got on tap,” he said, patting his catheter.

“Please excuse us, Mr. Ryder,” the nurse said while drawing a curtain.

“Tomorrow—same time, Dink?” Ty asked.

“Fine with me, assuming the she-devil doesn’t snuff me first.”

“See you then.”

Moments after exiting the room, Ty overheard Dink shriek, “You’re not gonna stick that garden hose in me!”

“We must cleanse the body before purification of the moral decay that festers deep within your depraved mind can commence,” Blanchard replied.

“Won’t be the first time water has flooded the banks of this eerie canal,” the old man shot back.

• • •

FEELING A BIT melancholy after his visit with Dink, Ty drove to his office and sat in the parking lot for over half an hour while pondering his mortality. Did he want to hang on to life just for the sake of staying alive like the poor old man whose free spirit had been caged like a wild animal? Was it really worth getting more years out of your life when all that really matters is getting more life out of your years? Are an additional five, ten, even fifteen years worth it when you must compromise your values and suffer in silence? He only hoped that situation would never arise for him.

The multi-story headquarters cast an ominous shadow across the landscape. It didn’t take much of an imagination to visualize a penitentiary within its walls. Of course, there were no bars on the windows, no fences topped with barbed wire, or guards manning gun towers, but it was a prison nonetheless. If lucky, he’d be paroled after thirty years, but the drudgery of his job was a death sentence as far as he was concerned.

Once inside, Ty craned his neck as he peered into each individual cubicle he passed. He’d never realized before how dehumanizing it was to spend an entire lifetime within the confines of four temporary partitions while staring at a computer screen day in, day out. The entire experience with Dink had really opened his eyes to his own situation.

He entered Rob Nelson’s enclosure just as the highly embarrassed man was desperately trying to escape the matrix of a kinky porn site.

“Working hard? Or is your hard working?” Ty asked with a smirk.

“Like I’m sure you never broke the monotony of your day looking at a little skin. It just indicates I’m a healthy, all-American male so horny the crack of dawn’s not even safe.”

“Yeah. Well, you’ll never catch this all-American male looking at chicks with dicks.”

Rob quickly changed the subject by bringing his spreadsheet back up on the screen. “How’s the project going?”

“Starting to make some real progress. My interviewee is quite an interesting subject.”

“When are you going to let me in on the identity of your mystery man? This cloak-and-dagger secret of yours is becoming a bit of an irritant.”

“Does the name Dink Cooper ring a bell?”

“Why, you rotten SOB! You stole my idea.”

“A bit harsh, wouldn’t you say? It’s more like I developed a concept you disregarded after failing to realize its potential.”

“Paint it any color you want, but I still say it’s piracy on the high seas. Must be a rather dull assignment, though, trying to jog the memory of a centenarian.”

“Quite the contrary. He’s one spirited, ornery old cuss, that’s for sure. I do wonder at times, though, where’s the line that separates fact from fiction? On occasion, he does experience momentary memory lapses, and I feel he has a tendency to embellish his stories with a bit of, shall we say, ‘the old razzle-dazzle.’”

“At least it saves you the trouble of enriching the article with your own corny anecdotage.”

“Well, as we all know, any journalist worth his or her salt incorporates their own individualistic style within their works.”

“By the way, before I forget, Callahan wants to see you. Says it’s urgent. He seemed to be rather agitated.”

“Tell me something new. When doesn’t he have a stick up his ass?”

Ty juked past a horde of employees clustered in the hallway, bullshitting away the remainder of their time on the clock. He felt his stomach drop as he huddled near the corner inside an executive elevator that shot him directly to the top floor. Stepping off the conveyance, a sonic, warm breeze titillated his senses. The rarefied air was infused with the sweet smell of success.

He was about to say something clever to Sue Brown when he noticed her brilliant baby blues had turned bloodshot red. A box of tissues was close at hand as she dabbed at the corner of her eye.

“I believe Mr. Callahan is expecting me,” Ty said, trying his hardest to avoid any eye-to-eye contact with the obviously discomposed young woman.

She nodded her head, sniffed, and pointed in the direction of the boss’s office.

Ty knocked gently. Upon hearing no reply, he edged his way in, feeling like an unwanted intruder.

Callahan was pacing like a caged panther in front of a huge, panoramic window with hands behind his back. He appeared to be deep in thought, mumbling to himself, and was taken by surprise when he became apprised of Ty’s presence.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Ty noticed a shot glass and a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker on the desk.

“Yes, by all means. Have a seat. Care for a drink?”

The journalist began to have grave reservations about the context of this meeting. “No. Thank you, sir. It’s still a bit too early for me.”

“What’s that old saying: ‘It’s five o’clock somewhere in the world,’” Callahan rationalized as he refilled his shot glass and then downed the elixir like a seasoned professional.

He sat on the edge of his desk close to Ty. “I’m in a bit of a conundrum and need your assistance.”

“Why certainly, sir. You can always count on me.”

“It’s a rather sticky situation that I find myself embroiled in—a situation that needs to be handled with the highest degree of decorum.”

Ty dared not blink as his body stiffened in anticipation of the punch line.

“Miss Brown requires a certain medical procedure, and I need you to escort her to the clinic.”

“Nothing serious, I hope. Last time I went to the clinic they had to put old Rex down. Said he had kidney failure, and unfortunately I couldn’t afford to pay for ongoing dialysis treatments,” Ty said with a snicker.

He realized his gaffe before Callahan’s mouth dropped open.

“This is no laughing matter, Ryder. I would hope this cavalier attitude of yours will cease and desist right here and now.”

Embarrassed, the reporter hung his head. “Most certainly, sir. Consider it done,” he said, still looking down at his shoes.

Callahan rose and shook his hand. “Knew I could count on you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ty hesitated at the door, knowing he would be confronted by Miss Brown’s anguish. What he wouldn’t have given to have Scotty beam him aboard the starship right about then.

He kept his head down while walking out of the office but could still hear inconsolable sniveling barely muted by her tissue. What to do? he thought. She knows that I know what she knows—what we all three know—to be at the heart of the issue.

Ty looked up and opened his mouth to speak. That’s when she broke down. Her mournful wail was enough to make the angels cry.

Callahan came rushing out, seemingly incredulous, and cradled Sue in his arms. “What the hell did you say to her, you insensitive bastard?” he asked angrily.

“But sir I, I—”

“Get the hell out of here before I do something both of us will regret.”

How did I get caught up in this quagmire? Ty wondered as he made his way back to his cubicle. Totally brain dead, he plunked down in his chair.

Rob popped in. “Hey, how about we have a little drinky-poo at the club after work?”

Ty sat unresponsive until Rob gently shook him.

The preoccupied man damn near jumped out of his seat. “Jeez, Rob! Sneak up on a guy, why don’t you?”

“Time to have your hearing checked if you think that was a sneak, pal. What’s wrong? Looks like you just received a death sentence.”

“Not funny!”

“Okay, okay. Relax, would ya?”

“I’m not feeling too good. Think I’ll knock off early.”

“Must be nice having a part-time job,” Rob jabbed.

“At least I work part of the time.”

Ty felt disembodied as he made his way through throngs of jovial people yucking it up—so much so that even Dolores’s over-the-top flirtatious squeals fell on deaf ears.

Deeply entrenched in thought, he had no recollection of the drive home. He barged through his front door and headed directly for Joy’s bottle of Chardonnay. He drank as though it were his last dying wish.

“Hey, hey! Slow down there, honey,” his wife said. “Save some for mommy. She’s had a tough day.”

“And you think your situation is exclusive?”

Joy hissed and clawed at the air. “Aren’t we in a pissy mood?”

“Don’t start with me, Joy—not tonight.”

His wife massaged his shoulders. “I’ve never seen you quite this tense before.”

He took another healthy swig off the bottle.

“Yeah well, you know sometimes all the shit that comes flowing down the crapper eventually lands right in your lap.”

Joy commandeered the wine from him. “You want to tell mommy your troubles? Promise I’ll be compassionate.”

“Oh, what’s the use? This cesspool of a world in which we live keeps on spinning no matter how fucked up it is.”

“Honey, please keep your voice down. Tommy can hear you.”

“Jesus, Joy! From the way that boy talks, I’m sure he could teach us a few new choice words.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you? It’s been awhile since you were this worked up over anything.”

She handed him the bottle. “Think you need this more than me. Wait right here. I’ll draw you a nice bubble bath and you can tell mama all about it.”

Ty sank up to his neck in the warm, soothing water and nudged the small yellow rubber ducky with his big toe.

“What’s the major dilemma that has my favorite guy all riled up?”

“It’s all so messed up. Mother Nature can be such a bitch. Think she gives a shit about any of our moral dilemmas? So why should I give a rat’s ass? In the natural order of things, there’s only life and death—without any qualifications. There’s no who, what, where, or why. It’s all plain black and white.”

“I think it’s best that I leave you to your thoughts. After you’ve sorted through things and calmed down, maybe we can talk about what’s eating you.”