Par for the Course

by Ray Blackston

  21

  LESSON FOR TODAY

  Written communication—be it personal or business related— is frequently misinterpreted.

  The arson investigator wore a lab coat and escorted us back to his office, where he’d set up one of those forensic tables, clear-topped and backlit for examining photographs. He slid onto its surface an enlarged photo of the spray-painted words from my sidewalk. Bias goes up in flames!

  Molly eased in beside him on the left, and I on his right, peering down at the words but having no idea what to look for. Nothing in the golf world prepares one to examine crime scene evidence. And I had major doubts about the political world.

  The investigator’s name was Jonathan. He seemed a direct, no-nonsense type of guy, and he pointed at the B and waited for us to acknowledge him. “In some cases, spray-painted lettering tends to be similar in style to cursive writing. See the long tail on the top left of the letter B?”

  I leaned closer. “Yeah, we already noticed that. What of it?”

  He moved the photo to his left, then slid a second photo in beside it. Now we had a kind of split-screen view. This new photo read, “Having a Bad Day?”

  Together we compared the penmanship. “I see the similar B,” I said to him, “but that message wasn’t spray-painted at my range.”

  Jonathan tapped the second photo. “Nope. This one is from a fire last October. On Halloween, in fact. A small office building on the east side of the city burned to the ground. It’s still unsolved.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” Molly asked him.

  “No. The fire was started after midnight, just like the one at Hack’s.”

  I tried my best to think like an investigator. Failing at that, I tried my best to imitate an investigator: I traced my index finger over the first B, and Molly did the same with the second. They looked so very similar. And then I thought of the grass at my range, where I’d spotted the words “Biased Loser” burned into the Bermuda.

  “Sir,” I said, feeling convicted that I should tell him, “there was a third message that you may not know about.”

  He turned to me, excited. “Where?”

  “Apparently the arsonist poured gas onto the grass at my range. It took a few days for the message to burn through, but this morning I found the words ‘Biased Loser’ in huge letters.”

  He pulled his car keys from his pocket and shook them. “C’mon, we’ll go take a photo.”

  I grabbed him by the elbow to halt his urgency. “Um, there won’t be anything to photograph.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I had a shovel in my truck, and I dug up the sod and flipped it over so no one else could read it.”

  He didn’t just grimace, he clenched his teeth, grimaced, shut his eyes, sighed, stomped his foot, and in general looked as if he were sick to his stomach. “You didn’t?! Tell me you didn’t!”

  I backed away from him, alarmed that he might take his job a bit too seriously. “I’m really sorry. But yeah, the sod is all cut up and flipped over. I reckon I was just mad.”

  Molly moved between us and said, “Sir, perhaps Chris wasn’t thinking logically . . . or forensically.”

  His grimace eased into discomfort, which drifted slowly into resignation. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and clasped his hands together. He moved around Molly, extended both index fingers like the barrel of a gun, and pointed them at me. “Ya know, Chris, you really stink as a crime scene investigator.”

  “Yessir. I should probably stick to golf.”

  Molly spoke from behind him. “I’ll encourage him, sir, to stick to golf.”

  But I could not keep myself from staying involved; I was determined to help. Before I left, I asked Jonathan for a photo of the matching B. He had several four-by-six copies laying on his table, and after a moment of hesitation, he agreed to give me one. “Just don’t tamper with anything else that might be used for evidence.”

  I felt bad for messing up his work. But what I didn’t tell him was that I had my own idea of how to identify the criminal. I thanked him for the photo and motioned for Molly to follow me out.

  Jonathan cleared his throat and said, “Oh, I need you to sign for that photo.” Then he pointed to a form on his desk.

  I went to the desk and grabbed a pen and said, “Sure, no problem.”

  Then he said, “Sign your full name, please.”

  “Okay.” So I signed in my best cursive: Christopher Bryce Hackett.

  He came over and picked up the form and stared at my middle name for a couple seconds.

  “Interesting signature, Chris,” he said. Then he broke into a grin and said, “Only kidding! Just jabbing you a bit after messing up that sod. I assure you that you’re not on the suspect list.”

  All we needed, a prankster investigator. “Can we go now?” I asked.

  He set the form back on his desk. “Yes . . . you two enjoy your weekend.” From the look on his face, he regretted his little tease. But I wrote that off as bad timing, aware that I’d done the same on many occasions.

  Unmoved by the exchange, Molly tapped Jonathan on the shoulder and said, “Sir, could you share with us the names of any legitimate suspects?”

  He frowned and in general acted as if he would refuse. But finally he relented and told us that he planned on investigating a few people and would share the names only if we gave him our oath not to get involved. When pressed further, he leaned over his desk and scrawled some words on a sheet of paper. He handed the piece of paper to Molly, and the two of us stopped in his doorway and read the suspects’ names:

  A) Various and covert political operatives

  B) Mr. Roycroft

  C) Lin Givens

  Still in the doorway, I explained to Jonathan that choice A—various and covert political operatives—were the only true suspects. Mr Roycroft was simply too nice of a guy, and Lin Givens was so obsessed with Adam’s shortcomings that she’d never find time to commit arson.

  Jonathan acted as if he accepted my explanations and told us again to enjoy our weekend. Everything still moved too slowly, however, and as we walked outside the building and onto the sidewalk I told Molly of my personal investigative method.

  “We need the name of a former president whose last name began with ‘B’,” I said and noted her confused reaction. “And we also need his place in the numerical order, if he was the eighteenth or twenty-third or whatever.”

  She stopped next to my truck and counted on her fingertips, three trips through her left hand. “The fifteenth president was Buchanan.”

  I opened the door for her and said, “You have all the presidents memorized?”

  “It’s a job requirement,” she said and climbed in.

  Before pulling onto the highway, I explained to her my method might take a while, yet I figured that was what I had the most of—time.

  No one has more time on their hands than an unmarried, unemployed golf instructor.

  Inside the lobby of Charleston Democratic headquarters, we feigned interest in everything liberal and blended with dozens of volunteers. Gathered in twos and threes, they assembled signs, unpacked boxes of flyers, and chatted about the upcoming elections.

  Molly and I blended well. Awesomely, in fact. This was due partly to our visit to a CVS to purchase hair gel—the slick-backed look for me—and two pairs of nonmatching, nonprescription wire-rimmed glasses. These, along with the free patriotic donkey caps and nametags we were given outside the front door of headquarters, disguised us about as well as my small budget allowed. I was now Christopher Hammett, Democratic volunteer, and Molly was now Milly Conner, also a volunteer.

  Smiling warmly, we moved between clusters of anti-this and anti-that until someone patted me on the back and said, “We’re gonna stick it to the Republicans in November, aren’t we?!”

  “Yessir,” I replied, not missing a beat. “No doubt about it. No more wars for oil.”

  He grinned big, picked up an armful of campaign signs, and toted them out to his c
ar.

  I had no such things in my arms. The only thing I toted was a stack of sixty copies of a questionnaire I’d brought with me, which was quite brief as far as questionnaires go. It consisted of a single question, plus the promise that all who got the question right (no asking fellow volunteers for the answer!) would be entered into a drawing for a free set of Nike golf clubs.

  The question was typed in big letters:

  Can you name the fifteenth President of the

  United States? Please write his name in cursive:

  Beneath the answer line was a space for the questionee to write their name and phone number. My idea may have seemed far-fetched, but it was all I had, and Molly agreed that it at least held possibilities. It was time to compare the penmanship of liberals with the penmanship of conservatives. And a free giveaway never hurt, either.

  A coordinator for the volunteers toiled behind a bumper-stickered desk, her phone at one ear, her hands stuffing cards into envelopes. I waited patiently until she caught my gaze and put one hand over her phone. “Yes?” she inquired. “May I help you?”

  “Um, we’re helping out west of the Ashley River and wanted to ask if you could distribute these to all the volunteers. It’s something to thank them . . . just a short questionnaire with a chance to win a set of golf clubs.”

  Molly leaned in and said, “They’re really great clubs. We’ll return to pick a winner in a couple of days.”

  Apparently in a great hurry, the lady pointed at her desk and said, “Leave the questionnaires there. I’ll get to it as soon as I can. Thanks.”

  A brief wave and she was back on the phone, talking excitedly about the momentum of the campaigns.

  On the way out we grabbed a handful of flyers, just to appear genuine.

  Twenty minutes later we donned elephant caps, entered Republican headquarters, and held in our hands another sixty copies of my questionnaire. I was now Christopher Hammond, and Molly was now Mildred Cusackski.

  We stuck our nametags to our shirts, and it was then that I had to question Molly’s name choice. “Mildred? Cusackski?”

  She pressed her nametag firmly into place. “Mildred is a nice conservative name, Christopher. Though I admit Cusackski may stretch credibility.”

  We mingled, shook hands with strangers, mingled some more. The Republicans dressed more conservatively than their opponents, and yet their energy level and confidence ran just as high. In fact, on the back wall they showed on a video screen a herd of rampaging elephants traversing a jungle. Molly called this a somewhat shortsighted video, since the herd had obviously eaten enormous quantities of food earlier in the day and were now leaving enormous messes for whoever came behind them on the path.

  “Not the most awe-inspiring political rah-rah,” Molly said, shaking her head as if she could do better, much better.

  Dozens of volunteers then burst into chants of predicted victory—“Elephant romp, elephant romp!”—and this overwhelmed the video, plus the blaring voice of a local radio talk show host.

  Molly squeezed between groups of volunteers and handed her stack of questionnaires to a coordinator, a clean-cut man who, although he looked too young for the job, wore a nametag that read “Coordinator.”

  “What is this?” he asked.

  I pointed to the large lettering and interrupted. “Just something to reward the hardworking volunteers, sir. An easy little trivia question that will qualify them for a drawing for a new set of golf clubs.”

  He smiled and said, “Republicans do love to golf. . . .”

  “Can you hand them out?” Molly asked with a humble smile. “We’ll pick them up in a few days.”

  He glanced around the room at the chanting volunteers. “I’ll be glad to.”

  Molly and I pushed open the twin exit doors and left the Republicans, convinced that somewhere in the city of Charleston lived a political operative whose handwriting boasted a long tail on the letter B. We were determined to help find this person. And when we did, well, I hoped I would have enough sense to let the authorities take over.

  In my truck we tore off our nametags and deemed our plan a good beginning. We’d wait a day or two, collect the questionnaires, then compare the handwritings of lefties and righties.

  I stuck my key in the ignition but did not crank the engine. “Would you like to go on a date now?” I asked.

  Molly snapped her seat belt shut and said, “Sure. But was this questionnaire thing the only idea you had for today?”

  “For now, yes. You have something different?”

  Molly slowly bit her lip, shook her head. “Let me think on it.” For a moment she rubbed her temple, but then shrugged as if to signal the topic was over for now. “So, what kind of date do you have in mind?”

  “Well, Miss Cusackski, the first romantic thirty minutes will be spent at Lowe’s, getting some equipment prices for Allstate.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “The second thirty minutes will be spent scoping a piece of barren land.”

  “Whoo. I’ll be sure to wear my little black dress.”

  I smiled and cranked the engine. “Then we’ll have the entire rest of the day to tour historic downtown Charleston.”

  “Now you’re talkin’, Golf Man.”

  22

  LESSON FOR TODAY

  On or off the course, a shared stroll is a great time for discovery.

  In the historic section of Charleston, pedigree is often as valued as real estate. Beside their whitewashed antebellum homes, fourth-generation owners poke around their lawns beneath overgrown magnolias, avoiding eye contact with tourists and, in general, displaying the privileged air of entitlement. If you happen to meet one, the owner might repeat your last name as if tasting it for a familiar spice. “Cusack? No, sorry, don’t know that name. You must be from up north.”

  This was Molly’s experience as we walked the shaded sidewalks south of Broad Street. She’d tried to introduce herself to an elderly lady outside a lush-gardened, pastel blue house and received that very response. Molly laughed off the experience and, a block later, referred to the owner as a “grits and caviar Republican.”

  We crossed the street and headed for the waterfront, where the homes were colossal, the views outstanding. “Just curious, Mol—how would you classify me?”

  “Hmmm,” she said, on her toes now and peering out at Fort Sumter. “A grits and golf Republican?”

  “I’d accept that.”

  With craned necks we admired another row of Old South habitations, and it was here, while distracted by the charm and vintage of our surroundings, that our fingers interlocked and we held hands. We walked out to the tip of downtown and sat on a bench beneath an oak, a tree that looked as old as the homes it fronted.

  “This is not going to be easy, Chris,” she said and rolled her foot around the top of some acorns.

  “You mean figuring out the long tail on the letter B?”

  “No, I mean long-distance dating.”

  Before I replied I paused to consider the possibilities. Although I was free to rebuild anywhere and wanted to be near Molly, I had no real interest in establishing a Hack’s of Washington DC. Then again, I could see where employing Cack and his bullhorn in such environs—around all those politicians and pundits—might offer unending comedy and no shortage of revenue. But no, that was off my radar. Mainly because I loved Charleston’s climate, plus its proximity to great seafood.

  What I determined to tell Molly mentioned nothing of climates or DC; I grasped the real gist of what she was asking. “Molly, this may sound a tad premature, or maybe it won’t, but know this—if we determine we want each other in a permanent way, we will make it happen. Whatever it takes.”

  My comment seemed to press Molly against the back of the bench. She sat staring straight ahead, eyes glancing left and right, mouth agape. What I had said to her had come from the heart, but it had also grown out of a conversation I’d had with Pauly Three Seeds. On his fourth date with his future wife, he’d empl
oyed a similar approach and said it worked wonders for her confidence level. His insight on the matter led him to conclude that the average single woman is so used to hearing vagueness from men instead of initiative, that such a reply would, in most cases, render the woman temporarily speechless.

  Pauly Three Seeds was right. For one minute, perhaps a minute and a half, Molly said nothing. I hoped I hadn’t scared her off, that she would not suddenly jump from the bench and announce she had to catch an early flight home. Instead she turned to me and said, “Ya know, Chris, I wish politicians were that forthcoming.”

  I stood in front of the bench, faced the flag flying over the fort, and performed a politician’s exaggerated salute. “Vote for Golf Man, Senator of Duffers.”

  She reached out and tugged me back to the bench. “For you, Golf Man, I might just rig the voting machines.”

  The way we eased in and out of serious and lighthearted topics had been evident to me from the first date. I figured we would sit there a while and enjoy this growing sense of compatibility, but the light of day faded fast into an October chill, and when she rubbed her arms and shivered I knew it was time to make dinner plans.

  Yet another reason I was attracted to this woman—she gave great signals.

  At a corner table in The Boathouse, our meal unfolded beneath soft lights and even softer music, the high point a tie between the sharing of our entrees and the story Molly told about growing up in Virginia. The short version was the week she turned eleven, she and her best friend, Hannah, also eleven, decided to visit a new Kmart just down the street from their neighborhood. It was July, and since curfew was dark-thirty, they wandered into the Kmart at 8:30 p.m., just to look around and buy some candy. They ended up in the clothing section and, after weighing the consequences and deciding this was worth it, hid inside a rack of sport coats. The store closed. Lights dimmed. Parents panicked. They were discovered at 1:00 a.m., asleep in plastic canoes and wearing men’s work boots, pink prom-like dresses, and fake coonskin caps.