James Ross - A Young Adult Trilogy (Prairie Winds Golf Course)

by James Ross

  “If some of them fall out on the ground, can I still hit those?”

  “You betcha. Whatever you can get in the bucket and grab with your free hand you are welcome to hit,” the pro said.

  “Hmmm, okay I’ll think about that.” The caller paused once again. “Can you answer one more question?”

  “Sure, but make it quick. I’ve got people waiting to sign in.”

  “Can I get a tee time for tomorrow?”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Something between ten and eleven.”

  J Dub looked at the sign in sheet. “How does 10:36 sound?”

  “That’s in the morning, right?”

  “Oh,” J Dub said. “You wanted it in the morning and not the evening?”

  “Yeah,” the caller confirmed, “so we can see the ball.”

  J Dub chuckled. “Name?”

  “Russell.”

  “You got it,” J Dub said. “See you then.” He hung up the phone and shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he said to Julie.

  “Another tour wannabe?” she asked.

  “I don’t know how to describe it but I’m out of here.”

  “Where are you going?” Julie asked as J Dub headed out the door.

  “I’m going to go out and check on the kids. That’s all we need is for one of them to fall in the lake and drown.”

  “Let’s hope not!” Julie said. “There are five adults out there with them.”

  “Two we’ve only known for a short time. One has no idea where he is. Another is at least a hundred pounds overweight and BowTye can’t swim.” He turned around and looked at Julie.

  “I see your point.”

  “Watch the shop. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” The head pro closed the door and continued to the carts.

  In a few minutes J Dub was traveling as fast as the golf cart would let him go. He loved the way the warmer air hit his face and blew through his short hair. The smell of the sulfuric mist and windblown droplets of spraying water from the sprinklers told him it was summer. The recently mowed grass smelled like fresh-cut hay fields on a farm.

  He loved his station in life. It wasn’t as if he was going to become the wealthiest person in the world. But he was free of the stress of the nine-to-five grind that faced many Americans. It was true that he had to put in long hours. Being in the golf business meant that he had to work seven days a week. All the days ran together. His responsibilities lasted for all of the daylight hours.

  J Dub was grateful he didn’t have to play the corporate game. Politics, law, upper management and city fathers were all foreign to him. He lived a simple life that wasn’t too far from that of a farmer. The weather was a chief concern and it often established the income stream. But he took off on rainy days and in the winter when either snow or ice covered the grounds.

  The most enjoyable fact was that almost all of his customers were in a good mood. It was a day off for them and they were on vacation. About the only thing that disgruntled them were errant shots, lost balls, higher-than-normal scores and losing wagers.

  He took a deep breath to appreciate all of it. It just didn’t seem to get any better than this. “J Dub! J Dub!” the excited voice blasted from the walkie-talkie.

  The pro recognized Julie’s sound. He reached for the mobile device and answered. “What’s up?”

  “You need to get over to number six.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “They flipped a cart!”

  “Who?” J Dub asked as he immediately thought about the Gators that he had placed the kids on. “Was it Pork Chop and Aieshia?”

  “No!” Julie blared. “It was that other foursome of guys that didn’t have the right golfing attire.”

  “Dammit!” J Dub shot back. “I knew we’d be in for trouble with that crew.”

  Sounds from sirens got louder as vehicles approached the golf course property. J Dub made a slight turn. He got off the cart path and veered sideways across a fairway. In less than a minute he arrived on the site of the accident.

  Laying on the ground, motionless, was the spokesman of the group. Blood trickled from a wound on his head. J Dub hurried to a halt and jumped to assist. “What happened?”

  “What’s it look like?” It was obvious that the cart had flipped. It was turned upside down a few yards away. Beer cans littered the grass. Fragments of a Styrofoam cooler blew across the turf.

  J Dub looked at the guys. “Who was driving?”

  A shrug of the shoulders followed. Sirens seemed to be on top of them. An emergency vehicle came into view.

  “Does anybody want to volunteer any information?”

  Blank stares followed.

  “It just flipped over by itself?” J Dub theorized.

  Again silence.

  The pro grabbed a golf towel and wiped dirt and blood from the face of the injured player. Paramedics rushed to the scene.

  “Nobody wants to tell us what happened,” J Dub said as he scrambled to his feet and two paramedics rushed to aid the victim, “but it’s pretty obvious they were going at a high rate of speed to end up like this.” The pro studied the looks on the faces of the other members of the foursome. “Anybody want to add anything?”

  Only the chirping of birds broke the calm as a gentle breeze rustled the leaves in the trees.

  CHAPTER 16

  “What was all the commotion out there?” Fred asked as the guys filed through the door after loading their clubs into the trunks of their cars.

  Pork Chop had already taken Uncle Woo back to the retirement center. Pabby and Shae were long gone. Aieshia and Carla had loaded them into the van and driven back to the children’s home.

  Solemn looks covered the faces of J Dub, Julie and BowTye. The mood in the clubhouse made it seem like the guys had entered a funeral parlor and were attending a wake. “Did someone die?” Elia asked. He went over his heavy beard with an electric razor to trim the stubble that appeared to grow as fast as a weed. After going over his cheek he lifted his left hand to feel the smooth result.

  “No, nothing like that happened,” J Dub answered, “but you have to be concerned whenever anyone gets hurt.”

  “Dat happen befo’ hasn’t it?” YouWho asked. His long straight bangs covered his brow as he took off his black rimmed glasses and cleaned the lenses with a napkin.

  “Well sure,” J Dub replied. “We’ve had a lot of guys go down with heart attacks. You didn’t know them but Rollie and Easy Earl went that way. Then it seems like three or four people get hit by a ball every year. This time one of the carts got flipped and a guy was thrown out”

  “You got in-shur-once?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “Den dat be no pwob-lim.”

  “But it’s always something different. Ask Elia about the time that he and some of the guys had that lightning scare.”

  “Oh no, don’t remind me of that day,” the native of Beirut replied.

  J Dub smiled. “Have you ever seen anyone turn green?”

  Elia gasped. “You want to talk about something that is quick.”

  “I know all about that from sitting in the cockpit,” Captain Jer added.

  “You should have seen them on that day,” Julie said as she brought a can of beer over for the retired pilot. He didn’t have to order. She knew what he wanted. “They were as green as a blade of grass.”

  “Dey?” YouWho’s interest was piqued.

  Julie turned to Elia. “You were playing a fivesome that day, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, and if we hadn’t been doing that we probably would have beaten the storm.”

  “What happen?” YouWho blurted.

  “We were out playing,” Elia started. “The clouds started to roll in. It wasn’t any different than any other time.” He turned to Julie and motioned for a drink. “We only had about three holes to go and we wanted to finish the round.”

  “Who was dere?”

  “It was Rollie and me and Easy Earl and Paco and BT. We
had our simple game going and Easy Earl was being hard headed. He was losing and didn’t want to go in.”

  “Dat no good in storm.”

  “Tell me,” Elia agreed. “We heard the rumble in the distance and the next thing we knew everyone felt a glow.”

  Captain Jer took a swig of his brew. The guys never knew what to believe out of his mouth or what was trash talk. “When the air gets charged like that you ought to be able to feel the hair on your head stand on end. The static electricity alone should have tipped you off. Next time you’ll know.”

  “No thank you. I don’t want a next time.”

  “You were lucky,” J Dub said. “The bolt hit a tree and some of the electrical charge traveled across the ground. You only caught a little of the strike.”

  Elia slowly let out a breath of air. “I’ve never been the same since. My arm goes numb once in a while and I get dizzy spells.”

  “If nothing else it caused us to get some lightning rods for insurance purposes,” J Dub conceded. “I guess I’m going to have to call Crash on this thing too.” He bemoaned the thought of having to call his insurance agent.

  CHAPTER 17

  Frankie “Booby Tat” Mastralacci sat in the waiting room of Atkins, Blum and Charles. The nickname originated from the tattoo design of a 42 DD bust line popping a button that was embroidered on his forearm. At thirty-six he had risen to the top of HUG, the acronym for Haulers United Group. Just about every truck driver in the St. Louis area belonged to Local 1410. As business manager of the union Frankie had made the contacts to advance in his world and obtained the financial backing to live a comfortable lifestyle.

  He had grown up a product of the streets, had a keen sense of when he was getting the wasted banana peels and could provide the muscle to get a desired outcome. The tight black jeans and white t-shirt were in the rear view mirror. Now he wore fashionable slacks and a button down shirt.

  Frankie stood five foot ten and was as solid as a pit bull. The jet black hair that had been combed straight back was thinning on top. The stubble that covered his face was as thick as Elia’s. In another life he could pass for a barber from Beirut. But in this life Frankie was a street thug with muscle. The drooping crease at the corner of his mouth made it look like he had met a tire iron at some point in his life. His lower jaw was square and pronounced. A cleft occupied the middle of it.

  The smile was crooked, lazy on the left side and hid his true intentions. There wasn’t a genuine movement in it. The scowl that he wore revealed an attitude of distrust and heartache. It looked like Frankie would just as well waste someone that wanted to buy a gallon of milk as see them make their way through the checkout line.

  Now he wanted to discuss a civil matter with the most influential lawyer in the Metro area. To make the effect more visual he sat in the law office lobby with a neck brace.

  “Tanner Atkins,” the impeccably groomed lawyer said as he walked into the lobby and extended his hand. “C-Daddy called and said to meet you without delay.” He was tight-lipped and business-like. His eyes studied the new acquaintance and settled on the neck wrap. “It looks like you need some help.”

  “Frankie Mastralacci,” the man replied as he rose to his feet. “Yeah, there’s sumptin we need to discuss.”

  “Come on in,” Tanner said as he opened the door to his private office. The room’s décor was as spotless as the man. A padded leather swivel chair was behind the desk. Two leather chairs fronted his desk. A matching couch took up space on one wall. Trendy magazines and financial newspapers adorned the coffee table. Book shelves were full of legal journals and keepsakes. A flat screen television was on display. On the desk was a keyboard and computer monitor. “Have a seat. What brings you here?”

  Frankie’s eyes perused the walls and shelves decorated with souvenirs and pictures from the St. Louis Cardinals. “Quite a collection you have.”

  “That one would probably bring twenty-five hundred,” Tanner said as he pointed to one with his arm around the manager after a World Series victory. He pointed at another. “Maybe fifteen hundred for that one.” A cigar stuck out of the side of his mouth in yet another. “I’m sure some collector online would give a couple thou there.”

  “You’ve got your retirement covered with trinkets on the walls.”

  Tanner picked up a ball autographed from everyone on the winning World Championship team. “Check this out.” He flipped the ball, encased in plastic, to Frankie. “I can’t even guess what that is worth.” A wall full of eight-by-ten color mug shots, cushioned pill boxes with pendants, signed ball hats, autographed baseballs, personalized pens, scorecards and ticket stubs were literally everywhere.

  “What’s it all worth?” Frankie pried.

  “Easily over two hundred thousand if I ever wanted to sell it.” Tanner sighed. “There’s no need for that. I like having it.” He reached for a red hat, placed it on his head and walked to a mirror to admire the look. “It will all go to my kids someday.”

  “How many do you have?” Frankie asked.

  “Five.”

  “Boys? Girls?”

  “Three sons. They’re triplets.” Tanner had a smug grin. “Zack, Mack and Jack.”

  “Are the girls younger or older?”

  “The guys rule. They were our first. The girls came two years later.”

  “Together?”

  Tanner laughed. “Yeah, they’re twins—Brenna and Glenna.” He took off the ball hat and returned to sit in the swivel chair behind his desk. “I looked it up once on the Internet. We’re a statistical anomaly. The odds of triplet sons and twin daughters happens about as often as a planet goes into reverse orbit.”

  Frankie was puzzled. “Can that happen?”

  Tanner laughed. “Not in our galaxy. But maybe those bodies of matter that revolve around a different sun.” He leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. “We laugh about it ’cause we’re out of this world. It’s not supposed to happen, but it happened to us.”

  “Are they identical?”

  “That’s what makes it crazier. Both sets are.” Tanner rolled his eyes. “Needless to say, my wife has me up early in the morning. What brings you here?”

  “We gotta get some help for my neck.”

  “How did you hurt it?”

  “Playin’ golf.”

  Tanner grinned. “That’s a contact sport from what I can see.” He raised his hand to cover the smirk on his face. “Did you come into contact with someone else’s club after hitting a good shot?”

  “I don’t hit good shots.” Ninety percent of Frankie’s voice came out of the side of the mouth that moved. Any kind of smile actually pained him. “The only contact I made was with the ground.”

  “How did that happen?”

  A detailed account of what took place followed for the next twenty minutes. “ . . . and the next thing I knew I woke up in the hospital.”

  “You came to the right guy.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I specialize in personal injury and civil litigation.” The look on Tanner’s face resembled a wild animal ready to go on a feeding frenzy.

  “I want some insurance money.”

  “Why settle for that?”

  “Isn’t that the easiest thing to do?”

  “Who wants easy?” Tanner countered. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands. He let both thumbs rest under his chin while his right index finger was positioned under his lower lip. “Why go after an insurance settlement when we can own a golf course?” The look in his eye was rabid. “I have mouths to feed.” He paused and looked squarely at his new client. “I’m sure you do too.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “What’s he doing over there today?” Fred bellowed as he led the guys into the clubhouse. One by one they followed him through the door.

  “Sssssshhhhhhh!” Julie said as she flailed her arms. “Get a table next to him and leave him alone.”

  “He saw dat pape
r wit’ da horse on it,” Aieshia followed. “We haven’t been able to pry him away from it since.”

  Pabby sat quietly. His arms were bound up; his elbows touched the sides of his waist with both fists clenched together resting on the top edge of the table. His neck craned forward to read the print. At times his nose appeared just inches away from the type. His round face, deep-set eyes and open mouth intently examining each detail in the newspaper.

  “Have you ever tried to read one of those?” Pork Chop asked. “Half the time you might as well be reading Chinese.”

  “Dey make per-feck sense to me,” YouWho chimed.

  “Oh get off it,” Fred chastised. “You wouldn’t know a gelding from a mare.”

  “Oh, no, no,” YouWho argued. “Me an’ da howsies get along like chopped celewy an’ gawlic chicken.”

  “You like to go to the track?” Pork Chop asked.

  “Big time. Me an’ Colonel Chang luv to play da howsies.”

  “Who the hell is Colonel Chang?” Pork Chop asked.

  “Is he related to Uncle Woo?” Fred asked. The guys laughed at the reference to Pork Chop’s dad.

  “No, no, no,” YouWho explained. “Colonel Chang own Happy Peking. He be to da ponies what cwab be to wangoon.”

  “Can he pick ’em?” Fred asked. “Pork Chop always needs some help.”

  “Are you saying I don’t know what I’m doing?” Pork Chop countered.

  “The last time you won at the track was a hundred and fifty pounds ago.”

  Paul made his usual deposit with BowTye. He couldn’t stand having any grass clippings, dirt or dust on his shoes. Doc sauntered over to Pabby. The gray-haired golfer towered over the boy. “Whatcha got there?”

  Pabby looked up almost protectively of what he was reading. “Horses.”

  Doc knew plenty about horses. When he was a kid growing up on a farm in western Nebraska near the Colorado and Wyoming state lines he had plenty of opportunity to examine them. In fact it was one of the main reasons he had chosen to become a veterinarian. “I know that you know a lot about them because you’ve shown me that you know quite a lot about animals.”