Chapter One

Jeff King

Three Handicap (Even on a bad day).
Strength: Hits the ball to Jupiter.

In this damp and dark room, lives had short expiration dates. On one visit, a life might be spared; on another it might be snatched so suddenly that a family’s shock besieged their grief, leaving depression as the only available emotion. Another life trying to beat the odds had just entered the room, trying to reach in a monster’s mouth and pull from its throat the words that would offer a reprieve. Jeff King was here to bargain with the man they called Nagga.

"What you sayin’ is, you wanna eat the bullet instead of me feedin’ it to him?” Nagga asked.

“I, never liked the taste of lead,” said Jeff.

“Don’t matter to me. Lead, copper, wood, steel--whatever hurt taste like to you. I 'on't care. But you bedda get ready to for a feast if you gon' try to be a man all up in my face. Don’t try to act like you tough and got it all together! I’ll break yo’ brain right now and forget about all this drama. You feel me!”

The man’s booming voice forced a heavy silence. Suddenly, Jeff could hear the humming of a small refrigerator pushed against a wall in this stockroom-turned-office. He could hear water escaping above, swirling and splashing inside the rusty, corroded cast-iron pipes. Faint sounds of video games crept in from the next room through openings that the barrier of walls could not contain. Jeff could easily die here. There were, in fact, several rumors of people attending meetings in this office and never being heard from or seen again. Yet for some strange reason, he’d thought it necessary to face this self-made demon to solve his dilemma.

      “My bad. I crossed the line a little bit there,” said Jeff humbly.

      “You damn right!” Nagga rose from his desk. He towered toward the ceiling and hit his head against a hanging light, causing it to cast sporadic swaying spotlights about the room. A poster of Sugar Ray Leonard was illuminated, then a poster of Mike Tyson. A poster of Calvin Pete caught the light, then a poster of Tiger Woods. As the swinging light lost momentum and began its course to become motionless, Nagga sat on the corner of his desk, an arm’s length and a chokehold away from his visitor. Jeff was visibly nervous.

      “All I’m sayin’ is, if there’s another way out, then that’s what I wanna do,” said Jeff.

      “Why?”

      “What chu mean, why?”

      “Why you wanna help this clown? He headed straight for an express casket no matter what. It might not even be me, but that fool got a death wish. You talkin’ about somebody who not only gon’ steal my product, but sell it and buy another stash from my enemy and sell it on one of my corners. Then he gon’ take it to the extreme and use some of the money I loaned him months ago to try and open up his own corner. Is he crazy or just stupid? I mean, the juice on the loan by itself is automatically one family member put in critical condition by my policies. But theft and treason? Bruh, that’s a contract on his life worth five grand easy right there. And now I hear this punk tryin’ to be a paid informant. Why the hell you wanna help him? He don’t wanna help hisself. You ain’t even like him.

“Everybody on the West Side was behind you goin’ to college and playing golf. A brother from our neighborhood playin’ golf. And winnin’ too. Just walk away from him, bruh. Get married. Have yo’ own kids. Yo’ brother, he headed for nowhere.”

      Jeff was immune to the words. He’d heard the warnings numerous times from several different people. School officials, family members, therapists, police officers—and now a professional thug. Even this admonition would not make him take heed.

      “Look, I know he jacked up the creed of the streets or whateva, but it’s deeper than I can explain. Nagga, I ain’t got nobody but my little brother. If he’s a crook then he’s a crook. If he’s in the dope game, then that’s his life. But he’s all I got for family. I know you got to do what you got to do and I can’t stop that. What I wanna know is, is there somethin’ I can do?”

      Nagga sighed, predicting how the story would end. A broken heart and a bullet to the skull. Looking over at the pictures of Calvin Pete and Tiger Woods, he was reminded of an experience he’d had some time ago.

      Like so many others, Nagga had fallen in love with golf around April of 1997, when Tiger shocked the world by winning the Masters. Since that time, Nagga (and a few other thugs) had gone country club by purchasing memberships at golf courses. An avid and enthused hacker, Nagga could never score lower than one hundred, but he looked good trying. Fitted from crown to toe with the latest and most expensive golf apparel, he looked liked best player on the course—until he swung a club.

      Though he’d taken lessons and watched videos, Nagga simply lacked the skill and hand-eye coordination the sport demanded.

His low point had come several weeks earlier when, during one of his worst days on the course, he was reminded of how golf had, not long ago, been exclusionary. One of his tee shots had sailed over the hole parallel to the one he was supposed to be playing. Once he arrived at his ball, the group playing the proper hole drove their cart over and watched his awful, awkward swing. The ball jetted across the ground, never rising higher than a squirrel’s tail, and ricocheted into a flock of trees. The pines cried out like a wooden pinball machine.

The group watching laughed. One of them commented, “See that, Tom, you can dress ’em up all you want, but if the hole is smaller than a basketball rim, they can’t find it.” Nagga, who would have ordinarily sent a crew to hurt the man, found himself wanting to beat him a different way. The issuer of the insult had completely disregarded all golf etiquette. He was having a bad round himself and felt the need to attack everything. The man had kicked the cart, thrown his clubs, run off some geese, and now it was on to Nagga.

“You say somethin’ to me?” asked Nagga.

“What’d you say? I couldn’t hear you from all the tree banging your ball did in the woods. Get the hell off our fairway! This ain’t your sport anyhow.”

“Tell that to Tiger,” Nagga replied.

“Guess what? You sure as hell ain’t Tiger and there’s not another person around here with that kinda game.”

“You must be outta yo’ damn mind,” Nagga lashed. It’s plenty of brothas ’round here that’ll clean yo’ clock.”

“Yeah, right. Find your best man and I’ll get my average guy and he’ll send you back to Africa,” the man said, driving off in the golf cart and taking the last word with him.

Nagga wanted to stop him. Wanted to pull out a nine-millimeter and aim for a spot just above his neck. But this was a different place from where he conducted that kind of business. He had to use his universal weapon, the one that penetrated all boundaries and spoke all languages.

Nagga shouted as loud as he could, “Ten grand!” The sound echoed from the trees and bounced across the rolling hills for anyone within a reasonable distance to hear. The cart, once shrinking in size with each turn of the tires, began a U-turn and became larger as it headed back toward him. Soon the men were face to face again.

“You shouldn’t write checks you can’t cash. That is, if you have a checking account.”

“And you shouldn’t get up in my face when you don’t even know me,” rebutted Nagga.

The man smirked and turned away, mumbling, “Just like I thought, bluffin’. What a waste of space.”

“Look here, fool. You want it or not? I called it. It’s ten grand.”

Still smirking, the man replied, “Tell you what, if and when you do find that kinda money, if and when you do find a ‘brotha’,” he said mockingly, “you call me. Here’s my card.” He placed the rectangular piece of paper in Nagga’s hand. “Do you have a card? Or should I ask, do you have a job?” Nagga frantically reached in his wallet to prove the judgmental man wrong. He pulled out his own small rectangle. The surprised recipient read the words

Up To The East Side Records.

Get yo’ turn at bat.

Nagga, CEO.

Into the golf cart he jumped, laughing once more, making the electric vehicle smaller and smaller until it disappeared along the cart path. Nagga stood in the middle of the fairway, furious. He looked at the card, which read Jones Outfitters, Billy Jones, President/Owner. Thinking of his own chosen occupation, and his love for a game that did not love him back, Nagga spewed profanity, then grabbed his five iron at both ends and thrust it down over his thigh, snapping it in two.

***

After recounting the incident and pulling out the card he’d looked at every day since then, hoping for an opportunity, Nagga smiled at Jeff.

“Maybe there is somethin’ we can do. How’s yo’ game?”

“It’s a’ight. I get out as much as I can. Engineering won’t let me play like I want to. We lookin’ at some voluntary layoffs so you know what that means.”

“Didn’t you win the SWAC championship when you was at Grambling?”

“That was ten years ago, bruh.”

“But still, you got some game I know. You wanna save yo’ brother’s life, you gon’ play golf. I got this game I’m gon’ line up for you.”

“Against who?”

“Do it matter? They ain’t no professional. You play in the match and we’ll work things out wit’ yo’ brother...this time.”

“For real?” Jeff’s eyes lit up at the assumed good-natured offering of Nagga. “You promise? Can I get this in writin’ or somethin’?”

“Fool, is you crazy? I look like a Equal Opportunity Lender to you? Hey yo, Deshawn!” Nagga yelled, summoning a witness from the next room.

A trusted pawn appeared. “Whassup, Nagga?”

“You know that mark that stole a stash and tried to set up shop?” he asked, never taking his eyes off Jeff.

“Yeah, you want me to put the contract out?”

“Naw, not yet. But this here is his brother. He gon’ play in a money game and we gon’ wipe the slate clean. You my witness to my word.”

“I feel ya.”

“Holla.” And the pawn vanished. “That’s better than any contract right there, bruh.”

“A’ight,” said Jeff. “What we doin’?”

“Ten large.”

“What! Is that how much he owes?”

“Naw, bruh. Right about now he owes me his life. If you don’t think his life is worth ten Gs, then don’t play.”

“Ten grand,” Jeff said, rubbing his temples. “I thought we was talkin’ about five hundred dollars or somethin’.”

“What! Boy, you smoking crack? Who you think I’m gon’ let wipe the slate for five notes? My mama owe me more than that. She gon’ be gettin’ a visit pretty soon too if she don’t pay up. Look, I ain’t got all day. I got runs to make and deals to do and contracts to put out. Question is, do I have one less contract this month?” Nagga asked. He walked around the room and allowed Jeff to brew in his predicament.

“Yeah,” Jeff said.

“Yeah, what?”

“Yeah I’ll play. But the slate’ll be wiped completely clean, right?”

“You got it, dog. But if he do somethin’ else stupid, that’s another issue.”

Jeff avoided looking at Nagga, knowing his brother could regress to stupidity with every sunrise. Given his brother’s trouble-prone life, they might be having this conversation again before too long. “And all I got to do is play in this money game, right?”

“Oh, no no no no. You got to do more than play. ’Cause if you lose, he don’t live.”  

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Chapter Two

Kevin Tanner

Four Handicap (If he practices before playing).
Strength: Hits irons like throwing darts.

Kevin Tanner had addictions. His first was gambling, but his worst was golf. If he could, he’d boil golf, draw it into a syringe, and rush it through his veins. Would take a sleeve of brand new golf balls, crush them into a fine powder, and vacuum them up his nose with a graphite shaft. Would take a chunk of grass from the nearest putting green, roll it up in a score card, and smoke it until his lips turned green. Yet it was here, in a doctor’s office plastered with pieces of paper from institutions deeming the man in the white coat rich and smart, that his addictions would meet a head-on collision with life’s necessities.

“So, are the tumors cancerous?” asked Kevin, concerned for his wife.

“They’re fibroid tumors. Very common among women, but I don’t think they’re malignant,” the doctor replied. “They’re different sizes. Some are so small they’re difficult to detect. Other times they can be as large as golf balls or larger.”

Kevin’s eyes lit up at the mention of his mistress’s name—golf.

“Good Lord. Don’t mention that word around him,” said Kristen.

“Avid golfer, are you, Kevin?”

“Little bit. I play whenever I get a chance.”

“He gets a chance whenever the sun is shining.”

The doctor chuckled as Kristen continued. “That game has made me eats lots of dinners alone and made me miss some engagements because someone didn’t leave the golf course when he promised to.” Kevin’s head lowered and the doctor’s grin quickly disappeared behind a clearing throat.

“These fibroids, unfortunately, are a tad bit larger than normal,” the doctor said. “They’re six inches wide, some of them, and the ultrasound reveals more than one. It’s the source of your extreme pain during your menstrual cycle. And there’s a good chance it’s the reason you’re having trouble conceiving. I’d like for you both to see a fertility specialist, just to be sure. The specialist can also give you options for getting pregnant.”

With each word, Kristen’s head sank lower and the time between blinking eyes grew longer. She didn’t want to see this moment or any moment that would follow. If she looked up, the future could be in front of her and it might be one without children. She wanted so badly to have them, to share the fruit of her womb and contribute to her family’s lineage. For years they’d tried, afraid that the years of birth control had caused damage; then they thought their timing was off. After performing meticulous experiments of ovulation dates, perfect positions in bed, and timed moments afterwards of lying perfectly still allowing the swimmers to find their way, the result was always the same.

In the recent months, when the monthly reminder came, informing her that she was still amongst the flat-stomach tribe, excruciating pain accompanied her cycle. Some months it was so painful she would have to take days off from work. Her sick leave becoming increasingly sparse, it was finally time to come here to the doctor and receive whatever her maternal fate would be.

The doctor had more bad news. “Aside from the possible infertility, I’m more concerned about the size of the fibroids and the symptoms you’re showing. The pain during sex, the aches in your abdomen and lower back, the fever, the nausea are all signs that your case may be severe. Depending on how long the large fibroid has been growing, there’s a slight chance that it may be malignant. Just to be sure, I want to do a biopsy.”

Kevin asked, “That means she might have cancer, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does,” the doctor answered with comforting sympathy. “But the good news is that it’s very rare for that to be the case. Less than one percent of fibroids become cancerous.” He turned back to Kristen. “But given the size of yours and the symptoms, I want you to consider a myomectomy after the biopsy results. The only other option we have after that is a hysterectomy.”

Kristen threw a glance at the doctor as though he’d just pronounced her terminal fate. Her head fell into hands and tears jetted down cheeks. She was barely thirty years old, facing the possibility of an operation for a woman the age of her mother. An operation that would preclude any chance for her to become a mother.

      Kevin had no words that would comfort, so he did the best he could. The husband who loved a game more than life itself held his wife and wiped her tears.

      Some tears and sobs later, Kevin turned to the doctor and spoke, “Doc, we’re gonna make it through this. What do we need to do and how soon do we need to do it?”

      Kristen raised her head after hearing the willful statement. She sniffed and mashed the tears off her face. Daring them to return.

      “That’s the best attitude you all can have, Kevin. We’ll get you set up for the biopsy as soon as possible. After that—”

      “How much is the surgery, Doc?” Kevin asked. It was a strange question, asked at a strange time.

      “I’m not sure; it can be rather expensive. Most insurance providers cover a good portion of it. You shouldn’t have a problem. How’s your insurance?”

      “We’ve got great coverage,” Kevin’s wife asserted with confidence.

      Kevin remained silent but looked in the doctor’s eyes the way men do when they know one of them has done something terribly wrong. The doctor recognized Kevin’s look—the look of forgetting to bring the wine home for the dinner party or leaving the office too late to make it to the children’s recital.

      But Kevin’s screw-up was far worse than the occasional honey-do slip-ups. The doctor had a hunch as to what might have caused his look and decided now might be a good time to end the visit.

      “Tell you two what. Talk about things on the way home and I’ll have someone from the office call you tomorrow and set everything up. How’s that?”

      Kevin jumped from his seat, anxious to leave the topic of surgery costs.

      The doctor escorted them to the door, patted Kevin on the back, and said, “You two make sure and have some good dialogue on the way home.” The doctor closed the door and exhaled a worried sigh. He knew exactly why Kevin had given him the look.

***

      “What the hell do you mean our insurance is canceled!” Kristen exploded. They sat in the car, waiting for the light to switch hues and allow them to continue home.

      “Honey, I’ve been meaning to tell you for quite a while. I had to cancel it because the bills weren’t getting paid and we were gonna lose the car. We were two months behind on the mortgage.”

      “How? Where is all of our money going, Kevin? I haven’t been spending any more than usual!”

      “It’s just one of those times, I guess. We needed something here and there. Something broke and had to be replaced. Car repair here, house repair there.”

      She looked out the window, watching buildings pass by, wondering about the people inside, thinking about what kind of financial problems they were having. After a few blocks, she turned to Kevin and said, “Well, I guess it’s time to dip in the savings. If we get the insurance back this week, we might be able to do the biopsy by the end of the month—that’s if they don’t get us for a preexisting condition.”

      “The, uh, savings are what I used to pay the mortgage and get the house fixed.”

      “What? Kevin, what is going on? Tell me you haven’t been gambling again. Where is our money? What have you done with it?”

      The car was silent, but the anger grew deafening. Kevin knew he would have to reveal his losses—all of them. He’d been trying to work extra hours so he could make things right. He tried taking in some action at golf course where no one knew him, but he often found himself winning only five or ten dollars at a time. When there was a big money game, he usually found out at the last minute and arrived at the golf course just in time to tee off and start the round, which almost always ensured a terrible score for his match that day. In just six months, Kevin had dwindled their checking account down to $56.23 and depleted their savings to $239.12.

      “I guess I should have told you, but I did have a relapse back into the action for a while.”

      His wife faced the window again. Her silent tears were louder than any scream she could have released.

      “But the good thing is that it’s only been golf. I haven’t been doing the online casinos or the baseball games like I did last year. I think that’s progress, don’t you?”

      She looked at him with sharp eyes, wishing her vision could prick his jugular and cause a slow, dripping bleed.

This was, however, progress. Much better than maxing out his credit cards on cashcasino.com just before they were to start a much-needed summer vacation. Then there was the time he’d spent all day at an electronics store, watching every baseball game he’d bet on and winning just enough to get their television out of the pawn shop he’d hocked to cover another bet. It was progress, albeit absurdly misplaced.

      “I’m sorry. I’m still trying to get help and I was working to put all of the money back and get things back on track. But this thing just came out of nowhere. Who would have known you’d need surgery like this? If we could have just—”

      “Fix it!” she yelled. His wife didn’t want any more of his words. “You fix this thing. I don’t care what you have to do. I’m gonna have children and I’m not gonna die because of some tumor. You get everything in order and don’t even think about speaking a word to me until it’s done.”

      “What can I—”

      “Is everything in order yet?”

      Kevin put the car in park as he pulled into their driveway and tried to camouflage the stupid sheepish look turning his face red.

      “Then don’t speak to me. The next time I wanna hear from you is when you’re taking me to the hospital for surgery and how you’re paying for it. Or you can tell me when the divorce papers are arriving. I won’t live like this anymore, Kevin.”

      Tears rolled again before she exited the car. Kevin fought back emotions of his own as he thought of the only solution he’d ever known. The number was already programmed in his cell phone.

“Billy. Hey, it’s Kev. Your old Wake Forest classmate needs a favor, buddy.”

“Hey, roomie. How’s it goin’? I hope you’re not asking for more money. The word’s out, brother. You owe way too much.”

“Yeah, I know, that’s why I’m quittin’. No more action after this last game. I just need one more piece, a huge payday, then I’m done for life. Billy, I need the biggest money game you can put together. I can’t tell you about it now, but it’s for my wife.” Kevin recalled the doctor’s conversation and all the words that ended with -opy, -omy, and other terms he’d forgotten that meant nothing good. He thought of Kristen’s warnings and ultimatums.

“Well, that’s a whole ’nother proposition altogether. Brother, this might be your lucky day. Met some guy other day who thinks he’s the Don King of golf. Says he can find somebody to beat any man. Serious money, too. I’ll track him down. See if we can get somethin’ done.”

“Good. I’ll take it. I don’t care what it is or who it’s with. I’ll put my house up if I have to. But seriously, it’s gotta be huge. I’m thinking at least five large.”

“Oh no, son. You’re talking to the wrong man. Way this son of gun was talkin’ smack, this’ll be the match of your life. This old boy was talking about ten large.”

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Chapter Three

 
Joi Martina
Five Handicap
(From the men’s tees…scratch from the ladies’).
Strength: Unbelievable short game.

She’d made all the right moves but they always seemed to yield the wrong results. High school valedictorian—Harvard lost her application. Cruised through Bethune-Cookman college in three and a half years—entered the job market when no one was hiring business majors. Whizzed by graduate school in a year and half—learned MBAs are a dime a dozen. Unless, of course, they’re from Harvard. Used her extensive networking connections to leap ahead of the job-hunting pack—wound up here in the worst of the worst scenarios she’d ever fallen into.

The company needed a token. Someone who would make them look good when prospective clients were curious about the diversity of the personnel. People had begun to take an interest in the number of Blacks, Hispanics, Asians, and disabled employees a corporation employed. Consumers were not only becoming wise, but very conscience-driven as well. This, however, had proven to be another of Joi’s good decisions beset with terrible results. Her nice salary hardly seemed worth the politics she had to endure at the office: the smiles they gave her walking down the hallway, the knives they threw at her back when she turned the corner, and the lustful looks some gave her in the parking lot.

Life was wearing on her. The constant misfortunes despite her overachievement began to outweigh her motivation to strive for more. Her only solace, her only redeeming joy, was learning life’s lessons while playing golf.

Joi’s father had introduced her to the game with a new set of golf clubs on her ninth birthday and they had become her best friends since the candles were blown out that day. Golf imitates life, he would tell her when they played. If you play, there will be unlucky breaks and bad bounces. But if you keep playing the game and play long enough, the breaks will come your way and victory shall be certain.

Playing golf with her father was Joi’s treasured birthright. She’d watched him go out on Saturday mornings for eight years. Saturday morning cartoons were of no importance when she watched him gather his things to go outside and play. Joi asked every time, Can I come and play with you, Daddy? Always the same answer. Not now. It’s not your time yet. Finally, on one brisk October morning, she was given the answer. Baby Girl, get your clubs if you wanna go play with Daddy. Joi was so elated, she dashed from the couch where the cartoons went on without her, into the garage where her clubs awaited this day, and into the passenger seat of the car—all without washing up, brushing her teeth, or taking off her pajamas.

Joi’s father had anticipated the reaction. With cool patience, he placed his own clubs in the trunk and sat in the driver’s seat. Before starting the car he turned to her and said, Baby Girl, I get excited too, but you might need these, handing Joi a duffel bag with warm clothes and a toothbrush.

Joi developed into a talented golfer at the expense of her social skills. While others were hanging out after school and getting together on the weekends, Joi insisted on getting her studies out of the way and then heading to the driving range for practice. Her father saw this void during the critical development time in his daughter’s life and suggested she do something other than study and play golf. She tried, but eventually she always came back to the game that allowed her time with Daddy.

Worried about his daughter’s ability to get along with others and interact with her peers, he settled for instilling verbal lessons of dealing with people using analogies from their favorite game.

People are like putting greens—they feel a certain way one day and another way on another day. Gotta learn how to adapt to their changing conditions.

People you work for are like your clubs—if they don’t feel right when you work with them you can’t do your job.

People are like playing in rough weather—if you make adjustments to the conditions, you can achieve the desired results.

Meeting and networking with people is like hitting balls at the driving range—Each shot can do something different for you in a different situation, so don’t forget a single one.

She never forgot those nuggets, nor the numerous others they shared eighteen holes at a time. The most enduring memory was a hellish one: She was standing over a putt at a college tournament and saw her father collapse in the high noon heat. What at first was believed to be dehydration actually turned out to be a large brain tumor. Joi’s father was able to watch his daughter play golf for only six more months. Before his untimely death, he reminded her once again, Baby Girl, golf imitates life.

Joi felt that she’d always found the bad breaks because her father wasn’t there to help her. Had he still been living, she might have been persuaded to do what she loved instead of looking for job security in corporate America. He would have told her to try and play professional golf and let the good breaks come her way. Instead, she entered the turbulent waters of working and dealing with people in the daily grind.

On the weekends, she’d visit her father. Every Saturday she made a tee time for two people but showed up alone—or so it appeared to others. For Joi, it was the usual round of golf with Daddy. Passers-by could see her in a golf cart, talking and laughing with herself. He was there with her for every shot, saying, Nice ball, Baby Girl.

She needed her father’s guidance now more than ever because the company that had originally needed a token statistic now needed a token scapegoat. Joi’s current work project was slowly becoming a debacle. Their largest client had changed the completion deadline and asked for an immediate audit of the entire project to date. After the audit, Joi was called into the president’s office.

“Joi, come on in. Thanks for dropping by on short notice.”

“What’s this about?”

“Oh, it will only take a minute. How’s your golf game? We hear you’re quite a player. Why haven’t you ever played in the company tournament?”

“Didn’t want to. What’s this about?”

The president sighed, looking at Joi, never having gotten used to her abrasive personality.

“Joi, the McMinville Group has run into some problems that were revealed in the audit.”

“Okay.”

“Some difficulties that we feel were a result of misallocation and oversights.”

“Okay,” Joi said again, still wondering why she was called in.

“Joi, I hate to say this, but it’s a simple case of mismanagement.”

“Okay.” This time she raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, weren’t you the project manager for the McMinville Group?”

“Yeah, I was, but what does this have to do with me?”

“Are you serious?”

“Aren’t I always?”

“You don’t know about the audit results, do you?”

“Why should I? No one told me about the audit until it was almost complete anyway. My main focus has always been project completion and cutting costs.”

The president’s eyes widened at the mention of cutting costs. “Then that’s why we have a problem, I assume.”