by James Ross
The round of golf was fun for those that played to their handicap. The ones that didn’t cussed like sailors. When it was over one thing was certain: Shari would be back. She loved the newer generation of women who were in the Illinois league, and she was ready and willing to branch out and meet some new people. As she stood outside the door of the clubhouse and looked out over the Mississippi and the distant shore of Missouri, she came to the conclusion that an Illinois playground might fit well into her new regiment.
“Let’s go in and see who happens to be inside,” Ashlyn said. “It’s not the business community and the country club crowd, but I’ve become friends with a lot of the regulars here.”
The pair entered the clubhouse and the moment was similar to a Norman Rockwell painting. Nothing had changed over the years. J Dub worked the counter. His right hand, number-one assistant, and bookkeeper at the register was a chic brunette named Julie. Curt, athletic in his own right, was sitting at the back table with the guys.
There was Fred with a red-headed flat top and as portly as a whale out of water. Light freckled skin complemented crystal blue eyes. Pork Chop was Fred’s sidekick, the two of them like obese twins. His real name was Andrew; half the world called him Andy and the others called him Drew. The boys nicknamed him on a golf trip after he made a U-turn on an Alabama interstate to take advantage of a pork chop and eggs breakfast buffet. Thanks to a penny stock killing, he played golf every day.
Paul was in early retirement from the Army; a silver-haired perfectionist and ex-recruitment officer. The youngest, blondest, and best golfer in the group was Scotty P who lived with his lover, Father Alphonso Blair, the local Catholic priest. YouWho was a Japanese businessman whose real name was Yuuto Chikuda. After the guys had had a few too many drinks Yuuto became YouWho because it was a lot easier to pronounce. BT was a smooth-talking crooner who retired from a career in public education after he had risen in baseball’s minor leagues earlier in life. Paco came by way of Chihuahua, Mexico; wading the Rio Grande, migrating to St. Louis, and establishing a successful landscaping business. His cousins, brothers, and nephews all cut grass in the area.
A barber from Beirut, Elia had found the game of golf and a second home at Prairie Winds. The boys loved him and could always count on a quick haircut in the cart barn. Doc was the tall, elderly veterinarian that had established himself around St. Louis after growing up near the Wyoming-Nebraska border. The guys never wanted to argue with him about Cornhusker football. He was the designated driver for his good friend Captain Jerry Stafford. Ever tan and a silver fox, Captain Jer was a retired airline pilot and Prairie Wind’s resident drunk. His good drinking buddy was Lemuel Trot. Trot, as he was known around the clubhouse, was short and had a nose that commandeered much of his face. He was an older vaudeville comedian and still did some stand-up in the newer comedy clubs.
The clubhouse wouldn’t be complete without BowTye sitting in his adjacent corner. The diminutive black man from New Orleans was a Hurricane Katrina disaster victim. The brothers took him in, housed him, and gave him a job as a clubhouse attendant which means he did the laundry and shined everyone’s golf shoes as well as a host of other odd jobs. To everyone’s surprise, the tiny man with the booming voice went by the stage name of Peel It Backe and was the king of the rock-a-billy blues. He was often seen wearing a long-sleeved white dress shirt with burgundy bow tie and matching burgundy beret.
B2 napped at BowTye’s feet. He was the second generation bull terrier that lived the country club life spawned by his namesake, Bogey.
“Don’t let these guys intimidate you,” Ashlyn cautioned, “they’re more bark than bite.” She moved to the register. “Let me introduce you to Julie.”
Julie had come to Prairie Winds right out of junior college. She needed a job to help pay for her schooling and got on well with the regulars. Her quick wit and pleasant demeanor with the customers earned her a permanent stay, and she was as much of a fixture at the course as J Dub and Curt. After cordials were shared Julie asked, “So what brings you to Prairie Winds?”
Shari described her situation and succinctly wrapped it up by saying, “And then the bastard yanked my membership at Olde Blueblood. There went the Tuesday morning ladies league and everything that went with it. Now I need to find a place to play on a regular basis.”
“We don’t pretend to be a country club,” Julie said, “but I would think that you will like a lot of the people that hang out here.”
“Hey Jules!” Captain Jer yelled from the corner. “Get those two fillies a drink on me.” The retired pilot raised his drink into the air.
The girls exchanged glances. “I can’t start drinking and kill the rest of the day,” Shari whispered to Ashlyn and Julie.
“Me either.”
“How about some bottled water?” Shari asked.
“Make mine flavored tea,” Ashlyn followed.
The girls raised their beverages in the air after Julie had served them. Shari opened her bottled water and either out of habit or curiosity she checked the inside of the bottle cap. GRAND PRIZE WINNER was stamped on the inside. “I won! I won!”
“You won what?” Captain Jer asked as he got up from the table and joined the trio of women.
“I don’t know,” Shari answered. “It says Grand Prize Winner. I don’t know what that means.”
“Let me get on their website and see what they are giving away,” Julie said. Her fingers were on the keyboard pounding out SPRITZ. After a few clicks of the mouse the answer was clear. “SPRITZ is having a promotional contest like sinking a basketball from half court or throwing footballs through a clown’s mouth at the Super Bowl. They are trying to bring publicity to their brand. Instead of spending a ton of advertising dollars on a Super Bowl ad they decided to offer a million dollars to a contestant that could shoot their handicap on the par-3 executive course at The Classic.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s played the first weekend in May in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. All the players roll into town for practice rounds early in the week. You get an opportunity to play on Tuesday. If you beat your handicap index you stand to win one million dollars. I guess they figure they will be getting a million dollars’ worth of publicity out of the giveaway.”
“Give me that!” Captain Jer yelled. He reached for the bottle cap. “I paid for it!”
Shari yanked her hand away. “It’s mine!”
“It is not! I bought it!” Captain Jer had already consumed a twelve-pack and his voice was elevated.
“What’s going on?” J Dub butted in.
“Captain Jer bought this bottle of water for Shari,” Julie explained. “She twisted off the cap and won a chance to win a million dollars during The Classic week in Muscle Shoals. Now he wants the bottle cap.”
“Jer, it’s her bottle of water. You bought it as a gift,” the pro mediated.
“We’ll just have to see about that,” Captain Jer whined. “I’m contacting my attorney.”
“Go calm down,” J Dub said as he chastised his friend.
Julie continued to read the website. “It says that the business that sold the winning bottle has a chance to win ten percent of the winnings if the contestant shoots their handicap.”
“That’s one hundred thousand dollars for us,” J Dub said. He turned to Shari. “This must be your lucky day. Do you need lessons? Between Curt and me, we can make sure your game is on fire.”
By that time Curt had made his way to the bar. Shari took a good look at J Dub and gave Curt the once over. “I bet you can.” She turned back to Julie. “Find out what else we need to do within the rules to get registered for this. I need to turn this bottle cap in.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The real estate offices of Tyler Cy were located on the I-270 loop encircling Metro St. Louis. On the Missouri side the interstate was called I-270. As the road crossed the river, the same highway became I-255 on the Illinois side. Anyone located on the outer loop around town was conside
red suburban. That loop could easily be distinguished from the cosmopolitan, old-money types that set up shop downtown or the preppie types that operated in the midtown city of Clayton.
All of the main highways in the interstate system hooked up in downtown. Interstate 55 running between New Orleans and Chicago goes through, as well as I-44 which runs to tornado alley and points to the Southwest. Interstate 70 is perhaps the heaviest traveled east-west highway in the country. All three highways intersect about 100 yards from the Gateway Arch and cause a major traffic jam every rush hour.
Tyler Cy wanted no part of that. The outer loop served him and his agents well. The conference room in his mid-level office building had hosted many power meetings over the years. Today’s meeting concerned a pet project that Tyler Cy wanted to put his stamp on. It was to be his final endeavor, and then he was going to retire.
Over the years Tyler Cy had numerous opportunities to shake hands with the real estate movers and shakers since he was the main player in the area. Whether they bought or sold or obtained property through an exchange, his company or one of his agents was likely to be involved. On one such meeting he became friends with the heirs to the Langdon Estate who were large property owners around St. Louis. Over their years of association, he had made it clear that he wanted to be the buyer of their property should they decide to sell. That day came, and the opportunity was his to put over 2,000 acres of highly sought-after real estate under an option contract to develop the property subject to zoning.
Since the Langdon family was very philanthropic, they wanted to have a voice in what went on their property. With that came some restrictions. And within those restrictions Tyler Cy needed to make the purchase profitable for his own company.
A major problem hindered the development. An oil pipeline company—TexArOkLa—acronym for Texas, Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Louisiana, carried an easement through the center of the property. Under the surface were massive oil pipelines that distributed oil around the country and delivered jet fuel from the Illinois refineries on the east side of St. Louis to Lambert-St. Louis International Airport.
Anything that was to be done on the 2,000 acres of ground was to undergo massive scrutiny and come with political influences. Even though Tyler Cy was a successful businessman, he was nothing but a thorn in the side to a mega-player like an oil pipeline company. Asking them to modify the easement that they carried on the property was going on deaf ears. TexArOkLa held the easement that gave them rights to transport oil all over the country. They had no interest in modifying that easement to suit the needs of a new landowner unless it came with a hefty convenience fee. So there were problems that needed to be addressed and Tyler Cy needed a progress report.
Tyler Cy and four of his cronies sat around the table. Leading was Hank Whitman. Over the years he had earned Tyler Cy’s trust and had risen to CEO. Hank had the floor as the meeting started.
“I’m glad to report that our first and second round of talks with the city has been favorable,” Hank started. “They love our idea of 400 acres devoted to a 36-hole golf course development and protected green space for the environmentalists.”
“Will TexArOkLa give us a special use permit over their easement?” Tyler Cy asked.
“They are not cooperating in our attempts to modify the terms of the easement.”
“Then don’t you think before we go much further we should have a sit-down with someone from their company?”
“Definitely. I’m sure the fee will be exorbitant, but they have not responded to our phone calls, correspondence, or e-mails,” Hank replied.
“That’s a little irresponsible on their part, don’t you think?”
“No doubt,” said a new voice at the table.
“They’ve got a helicopter that flies over it daily. Maybe we could take a drill and fracture their line. That would get their asses up here,” a third voice added.
“No! No! No!” Tyler Cy fired off in rapid succession. “I can appreciate a little humor, but if we have oil spewing in all directions, the environmentalists would try to prevent any development on the property.”
Hank went in a different direction. “The golf course architect did a masterful job routing the design and utilizing the ground over the pipeline. We have areas that get off the easement and pick up wooded areas, creeks, and water retention areas where lakes can be built.”
“How much did that set us back?”
“It’s a cool million right now for the architect’s work.”
“Championship quality?”
Hank nodded his head. “It will rival any country club in town.”
“Including Olde Blueblood?”
“Including Olde Blueblood. Any player in town will want to step onto these grounds and carry a membership to this club.”
“So how quickly do you think we will be able to recoup the fees?”
“Within three years our membership should have a waiting list.”
Tyler Cy nodded his approval. “How about the municipality?”
“They want us to reserve some space for an elementary school, middle school, and high school. The development alone will bring in enough kids to fill all three.”
“How much land for that?”
“With parking and athletic fields and green space we’ll need approximately 80 acres to accommodate the school district.”
Another voice spoke up. “They want us to reserve three church sites for different denominations, protect 30 acres for shopping center and strip mall development, and have a movie theater site. We can have 18 acres for high density multi-family apartments and another 40 acres for attached multi-family condominium and townhouse living.”
“If we take out 15 percent for streets, how much will we have left for single family housing?” Tyler Cy questioned. His frustration was obvious. “I hate putting a deal together like this. It takes too much up-front money for the uncertainty.”
“I understand. It’s hard to say just yet how many home sites we can get because we don’t know how much green space over and above the golf course the city is going to require.”
Tyler Cy tugged at his lower lip. “It’s your typical PUD. What do the housing studies say? What is the absorption rate?”
“We can spin off the commercial and multi-family areas to local developers if you don’t want that land. The school district is self-explanatory, as are the church sites.”
Another voice added, “As far as the home sites go, we’re looking for at least a half dozen major home builders in town taking down sizeable chunks of lots and several custom home builders buying a few lots at a time for the larger high-end homes. The prediction is 8-10 years for completion on all of the home building.”
“We’re talking four stages of development with the golf course being the first.”
Tyler Cy turned to Hank. “Get a handle on how much more money we have to spend up front for due diligence.” His tongue went around his lips. “I really want this project. Find out what it takes to get the pipeline people on board. Just tell me what it’s going to take to deal with them. If we can’t get a handle on TexArOkLa we might as well have flushed a few million down the toilet already.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
If Raul Mendez had any misgivings or second thoughts about the accommodations he had set up for Shari, they were quickly dashed soon after he walked into the quaint house he shared with Tindra Svahnstrom. Guilty conscience or not, the wrath from his live-in lover and mother of his children could turn life upside down quicker than a tornado ravaging an American town.
Tindra had the sixth sense. Whether she knew or suspected Raul had stepped out of line, she wasn’t saying. But there’s something about female intuition that made for murky waters. And Raul found out all about it soon after entering their home.
“When are you going to help me?!” the Swedish beauty demanded. When in a fit she could hurl as well as a Major League relief pitcher. An apple bounced off the kitchen wall, just missing a head that d
ucked quickly.
“Whoa, Bombon. Settle down. What’s wrong?”
“That’s just it. You’re not around here enough to know what’s going wrong!” She turned her back to him and gazed out the window above the kitchen sink. Tears rolled down her cheek. Raul could see the redness build in the back of her neck. She turned with a knife in her hand and then took a deep breath. In a soft and controlled tone she added, “I have to shuttle little Pedro to and from soccer practice. Elena has gymnastics. There’s no time left for me.” She turned and placed the knife on the counter.
“I’m trying to work, Bombon, to pay the bills.” Raul knew that he had to feed off of her current mood. He replied gently and then advanced to her backside to give her a hug. It had happened before. If he raised his voice and yelled back the conflict would escalate. Nothing would be settled. Anger and resentment would prevail.
If she calmed down, even for a few seconds, Raul knew he could take advantage of the moment and soothe over the damage before she had a chance to fly off again. He wrapped his arms around her stomach, clutched her tightly, and nibbled at the back of her neck.
“Do you think that is going to work?” Tindra asked as the tears rolled off her cheek. She shut her eyes and savored the closeness. Her lips softened and turned slightly upward.
Raul could feel the tension leave her shoulders. He breathed freely. That situation changed in a hurry. It hadn’t always been that way. “It’s my fault, Bombon. I’ve been busy at the office.” He paused and then made an offer. “I can quit at the country club.”
Tindra reflected and then turned to gaze into his eyes. “No. We can use the extra cash.” She pecked him on the lips. “I’m sorry. I guess I get a little overwhelmed at times. Pedro wants someone to play with and Elena cries if she gets hurt. When they both tug at me at the same time I can’t be a mom and dad.” She wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his chest.
“I’ll try to be around more, Bombon.”
