by James Ross
“You’ve got a winner’s touch, Lew. Nothing gets past you.”
Lew hooked the golf course flag to the rope and hoisted it to fly under the American flag. “The whole world oughta love us now!” Lew yelled. His normally somber mood had taken a back seat to a rare, jubilant feeling. He was so proud of the golf course flag. It had been a total surprise to J Dub.
Lew and J Dub shook hands again and hugged each other. At that moment, despite their ups and downs, their bond could not have been tighter.
“Be sure to take good care of things today. I’ve got to run off to another appointment,” Lew said hurriedly as he jumped into his pickup truck.
Just as farmers can look at the land and tell when crops should be laid in the ground, Lew knew the seeds of suggestion had already been cultivated with Monty and Raymond regarding his land. Now it was time to develop those seeds into his cash crop.
As if following a beacon, the Marquis returned to Lew’s driveway and slowly drove through the gate once permission to enter was granted. However, this time Monty was alone. As was his custom, Lew approached the car the minute that Monty pulled up to park. “You’re always out here by the time I get parked. Do you have something inside that you don’t want me to see?” asked Monty.
“You know better than that, Monty. The camera at the gate keeps an eye on things,” Lew replied. “Nothing is inside that gate that doesn’t belong inside that gate.”
“Do you need protection over and above what the camera can see? You probably need more eyes with all of the land that you’ve got and now the golf course.”
With a smile Lew added, “You know I do. You’re aware of all that land that has come my way.”
“If you need help watching over it, then I can have that arranged.”
“That piece of land down South is eight hundred acres. It’s not growing much from a yield standpoint,” Lew hinted.
“How can Raymond and I help?” Monty inquired.
“I want to put a cash crop on it.”
“How do you plan on doing that?”
“How are you going to distance yourself from the law?” an inquisitive Monty asked.
“That’s where you and Raymond come in. We’ll have to hide money.”
Monty was all ears.
“We need to set up several corporations with post office boxes for addresses. We can deed the property back and forth to muddy up the property ownership,” Lew proposed.
“Maybe even get a corporation or two from abroad?” Monty suggested. “I could be the registered agent.”
Lew smiled. “I like the way you think.”
“That way you can still keep access to the property.”
“That’s better yet,” Lew said with an evil smirk.
“What’s our cut?” Monty asked.
“I’m thinking that it should be a sixty-forty deal,” Lew surmised. “I need for you to cover my ass and help with the distribution connections. Can you get it done?”
Monty nodded. “Consider it taken care of. You know that we can do that.”
“We’ve tried running the numbers for a few years, but that’s so hot and cold. This will be a lot more lucrative than the bookmaking stuff. We can have a couple of bad weekends with the games and take a hit. This will keep the bucks coming in until George gets the offshore 800 number set up. This should be real steady income for us,” Lew implied. “You know . . . a more positive cash flow.”
Monty smirked. The dollar signs were already becoming visible in his head. Raymond was using his connections to secure a lucrative loan for Lew from the government. With the ground, Lew was off and running in the marijuana trafficking business.
“The field is totally secluded. The river is on one side. Railroad tracks block it on another side. The bluff protects it on the final side. There’s only one way in and I have an electronic system protecting that.”
Monty probed for more information, “What did you have in mind?”
“I need to be aligned with the right people.”
With a grin, Monty replied, “We’ve got that covered.”
“The planting of the crop is simple. We’ll put twelve rows of corn on the perimeter of the field. Every other row is corn on the interior of the field,” Lew continued.
“ . . . Holy shit!” Monty was in awe of the suggested plan.
“With a special spray we can block the infrared camera in case anybody gets suspicious. No one will be able to get onto the property to detect what’s going on.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The next spring—U.S. Attorney’s office in Illinois . . .
The newly appointed prosecuting attorney, Brian Moore looked like the poster boy on a Wheaties box. He had excelled in sports through high school and college. His bio read like a Who’s Who and defined his personality and appeal which garnered an impressive circle of friends. After graduating from college he went on to get a law degree from one of the most prestigious law schools in the nation—Virginia.
He married his high school sweetheart and started a family. His life was a model for success. His perfect conviction record was two percent better than the federal government’s ninety-eight percent average. Brian was a young-looking man in his early forties and was on a fast track to a sensational career. It was no surprise that law enforcement took notice.
The government came knocking right after his graduation from law school. After a number of victorious decisions, Brian was promoted to an U. S. Prosecuting Attorney. To some the boyish good looks and the immaculate haircut were odious. However, for those that are in need of help from a federal level, those same qualities were reassuring that the good guy always wins.
The April showers sprouted the May flowers. The daffodils and jonquils were in full bloom. So it was that spring morning when Lucille Morton and her son, Matt sat in front of Brian Moore. “We had no idea,” Lucille sobbed.
“We thought that we still owned the property,” Matt continued.
“Whoa. Wait a minute,” Brian interrupted. “What are you talking about?” Brian was clearly caught off-guard by their conversation.
“We’re the heirs of the Morton Estate,” Lucille said. “We live in Florida.”
“For several years our family has had an accountant named Walter Hancock handling our affairs,” added Matt.
“He had been managing our property for all of this time,” continued Lucille.
“But we’ve come to find out that we don’t even own very much of it anymore,” said Matt.
“How can that be?” asked Brian.
“Walter is the executor of our estate,” explained Lucille. “He would give us monthly, quarterly, and yearly statements.”
“What we thought that he was managing, he sold!” Matt added angrily.
“Without our authority,” Lucille cried.
“I don’t understand,” Brian replied.
“We don’t either,” Matt conceded.
“The best that we can figure out is that my mother must have signed a power-of-attorney document before she died,” Lucille volunteered. “But that doesn’t sound like anything that she would have done. We talked about it all the time. Daddy had strongly advised her not to do anything along those lines.”
“And Walter Hancock took it upon himself to sell our property off,” Matt added.
“ . . . Without our permission!” Lucille exclaimed. “He must have had a bogus power-of-attorney document.”
“We don’t know where to turn,” Matt carried on. “There doesn’t seem to be any branch of law enforcement that we can use.”
“It’s too big of a deal for the state,” Lucille stammered.
“And the local yokels and highway patrol can’t understand our dilemma,” Matt included.
“And you think that some federal laws were violated?” Brian surmised.
Matt and Lucille both nodded their heads. “Where else can we go?” Lucille inquired.
Brian shifted his attention to the window. He looked out at the
gorgeous foliage and its radiant colors. He pondered his next question. “What do you think happened?”
Lucille responded adamantly, “We think that we may have been victims of a forgery!”
“It might be more of a situation for civil court. We just handle criminal matters out of this office,” Brian rationalized.
“If it is grand theft or grand larceny, would that make a difference?” Matt probed. “Those certainly are criminal offenses.”
“Wait, before the word criminal is used in this conversation, with all due respect, was your mother cognizant of her actions when she visited this executor of the estate?”
“Of course she was!” Lucille snapped.
“Do you have proof of that? Did either one of you accompany her to this meeting with this Hancock fellow?”
Both Matt and Lucille looked at each other and dejectedly admitted no.
“The reason I ask that is because any attorney involved in this case would.” Brian sat back in his chair and fixed his stare upon the Morton heirs. He finally conceded. “Something just doesn’t feel right here. I’ll tell you what; let me get one of my assistants on it. Maybe it is a situation that can be investigated by the FBI.”
“We want to find out what happened,” Lucille said. “What we thought was a sizeable portfolio of property has been whittled away to nothing.”
“Not only do we not have the property, but we didn’t get any money for it either,” Matt admitted.
“How can that be?” Brian wondered out loud. “If the property is no longer in your possession, then you should have gotten money for it. Did you check all of your bank statements to verify that no deposits were made?”
“I checked all of the bank statements for the estate as well as our personal statements to make sure a deposit wasn’t made into the wrong account.” Matt admitted.
“We feel like fools,” Lucille sobbed.
“Let me put one of my white-collar experts on the file. It sounds like we are going to need someone that understands a financial statement and a tax return. My office will look into it,” Brian assured them.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Prairie Winds Golf Course—that same spring . . .
The days, weeks, and months continued to pass by. The chief concern for J Dub was running the business. All of his energies were concentrated on getting the golf course operational on a day-in and day-out basis. It was quite an undertaking to have the facility open for business from dawn to dusk, seven days a week, during every kind of imaginable weather condition. Running a successful golf operation was hard work and took a lot of hours.
J Dub had no idea who the heirs to the Morton Estate were . . . let alone Monty and Raymond Parsons. Nor did he care. His new family was keeping him busy when the golf course would allow. It was tough on him to get up every day in darkness, service the public, and return home to the demands of Marcia and Gail. But not once did he complain. He loved the work that he was doing, the boys, and Bogey . . . and he most certainly loved his wife and daughter.
On one of the days Rollie approached J Dub in the pro shop about having a special tournament. “You know J Dub, all of us regulars have really taken notice as to how nice you’ve made this place.”
“Well, thanks Rollie. I’m glad that you fellas are enjoying your days around here,” J Dub replied.
“I’m good friends with some higher-ups over at Children’s Hospital. Would you guys like to host their charity tournament?” Rollie asked.
J Dub was excited about the chance to host a prestigious event. “We’re trying to build the business up. That would be the perfect clientele to have over here.”
“Let me hook you up with the guy running the charity event. They’re looking for a place to play.”
Soon thereafter Children’s Hospital agreed in principle to a ten-year pact to have their annual fund-raising golf event at PRAIRIE WINDS GOLF COURSE. J Dub considered that a major coup for the blossoming business. It takes a fair amount of money to play golf. J Dub thought that throwing out the welcome mat for a group of financially stable doctors was an excellent way to build repeat business.
“If you’re going to start attracting those types of people, then you have to do something about that idiot on the motorcycle,” Easy Earl complained. “We’ve got more golfers bitching about that than any single thing around here.” Easy Earl had a way of getting to the point with J Dub.
“I know it Earl. I’ve mentioned it to him several times,” J Dub sighed.
“What sort of hillbillies would do something like that? This is a golf course, not a dirt bike track,” Earl continued. He was clearly frustrated.
“He totally disregards the golfers,” agreed J Dub. “And it looks so unprofessional.”
“You know what he says . . .” Earl continued.
“Yeah, it’s his place and he’ll do what he wants.”
“But I’ll tell you right now, it is making a lot of the players mad around here,” Earl ranted. “And it’s such a shame. This is a fun place to play a round of golf.”
“Let me work on it.”
To say that the motorcycle issue was straining the relationship between J Dub and Lew would be understating the obvious. Lew spent a lot of his spare time atop the highest hill on the course dilly-dallying around. It was customary for him to race his motorcycle down the hillside, with muffler blaring, on a regular basis. Naturally, Lew paid no attention to the players on the course who were primarily out there to enjoy some of the solitude that a golf course can provide. The roar of his motorcycle was meant to be a subconscious reminder that he was always there, always watching.
One morning, Lew roared off of the hill and made a beeline for the parking lot. He cruised into a spot near the front door of the pro shop. Lew had pre-determined that an area by the front door was off limits to vehicles. Parking in that spot was the best way for him to announce to the world that he was on the premises. After parking his cycle, he sauntered into the pro shop.
All of the boys were in the back at their table playing backgammon and gin. The talk varied from simple reminiscing to the world affairs to current events. Bogey had developed a certain comfort zone with the boys. On most days the dog would nap nearby. After all, it was like he was one of the guys anyway.
“Why don’t you guys do something constructive? Is that all you bums have to do today?” Lew said in a condescending tone as he entered the pro shop and glanced at the table in the rear of the room.
Rollie was not going to take any static off anyone. He was a war vet that had worked his tail off after the war. His disposition was normally pretty sour. He fired back, “I worked all of my life to enjoy this and I don’t know why it’s any of your concern since my money is padding your pockets.”
Fred, who was never at a loss for speaking his mind, added, “We know you don’t do squat. All you do is sit up on that hill and stroke your engine.”
Lew quickly got defensive. “That’s a crock of crap. I work every minute of every day just to get ahead in this world. Do you know that I have to work the first eleven days of every month for free? It all goes to the government. Uncle Sam gets way more than his share.”
Easy Earl had been around the block a few times. He was no spring chicken. He’d heard it all since he’d kicked tires all of his life on a car lot. “You probably screw him too. Don’t come in here and throw your crying towel our way.”
The fact that the boys had bonded so well and enjoyed a great deal of camaraderie had always irked Lew. “You guys need to go get a life instead of playing games all day,” Lew yelled across the room to the boys. He then turned his attention to Julie. “What’s the tent for?”
“We’re hosting the Children’s Hospital tournament tomorrow,” she said.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Lew asked, oblivious to the day-to-day activities scheduled for the golf course.
“There’s a lot of stuff that goes on around here that you’re not aware of,” Julie lashed out. “We can’t go
running to you every time a decision needs to be made.” Julie had a way of putting Lew in his place. She bit her tongue to not offer more words of wisdom to Lew. Where is J Dub? He needs to get this old fart off my ass, she mused.
Lew glared back at her. “It’s my place. I certainly have every right to know what goes on around here.”
Julie rolled her eyes as she passed Lew and muttered an uninterested “Whatever” under her breath. At that instant, J Dub walked into the pro shop with Mel Parker. Mel was a huge, gregarious man that towered well over six and a half feet. It appeared that he obviously hadn’t missed too many meals either.
“Lew, I’d like for you to meet Mel Parker. He’s the hospital administrator for Children’s Hospital,” said J Dub.
Mel smiled heartily and looked down on Lew. He delivered a crushing grip to Lew’s hand when they shook. Even though he was an innocent, “teddy-bear” type, Mel’s huge frame towered above Lew and intimidated him.
“Lew Zerrmann.”
“We are so grateful for the donation. The gift that you’re providing will benefit children’s health in so many ways,” stated Mel.
Lew nearly flew into a fit in the pro shop. A very awkward moment passed. Lew caught himself and meekly mumbled, “Yeah . . . well, I just love kids.” He offered the comment in a mocking tone.
Mel had several last minute duties to take care of before the tournament so he gracefully bowed out of the conversation. He turned to J Dub and said, “It looks like we’re all set. See you tomorrow.” With that he nodded to everyone and waved goodbye. Mel quickly left the pro shop.
The door barely closed and Lew turned to J Dub and shouted, “When did we donate the golf course?”
J Dub found Lew’s reaction very mysterious. He replied matter-of-factly, “You made a ten-year commitment to them for their fund-raising drive.”
Lew did his best job of acting as if he was unaware of the obligation and flippantly asked, “You mean they’re not paying for the course?”
J Dub shook his head and tried to keep his temper in check. “No. You agreed to donate the course one day a year for their fund-raising drive. You mentioned at the time that it would be a helluva way to get a write-off from taxes.”
