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.”

“Why is that?”

“Your so-called cost cutting methods.”

“What about them?”

“Joi, let me just put everything on the table. During the audit, a misallocation of funds was discovered. Over thirty-five thousand dollars.”

“What!”

He looked away before saying, “I was as shocked as you are.” The president removed a pen from his shirt pocket and scribbled on a pad.

“Why am I in your office?”

“Like I said, you’re the project mana—”

“You should’ve had the comptroller and accountant in here. They have to sign off on everything, don’t they?”

“I, er uh, we talked to the, uh, accountant and they already know what’s going on.” He hadn’t expected the response and was thrown off course. This wasn’t part of his planned speech.

“Seems like everybody knows what’s going on except me.”

Joi was standing now. Trying to decide whether she would run for the door or charge the president and give him a two-hand necklace snug around his throat.

“Joi, I want you to call this gentleman. He’s a friend of mine and a great lawyer. Should be able to help you out.”

“What?” Joi yelled, glancing at the paper. “Why do I need a lawyer?”

“We had to give the results of the audit to the McMinville group and they’ve notified us that they...uh...want to contact the authorities Tuesday morning if we don’t have a resolution by Monday. We just feel it’s in everyone’s best interest if you’re protected.”

“Protected! Did you give this number to the accountant and the comptroller? Did you use the number yet? Are you protected? What do I need protection from?”

“Joi, just calm down. This is very serious. We’re talking about embezzlement, fraud—federal offenses even. This is only a precautionary measure.”

“Are you kidding me? You cannot possibly be serious.”

I’m afraid this is very serious. I mean, what other options do you have—besides, well, recovering the funds. Wherever they might be.” The president gave her a coy look. It was a trap door or possibly an escape route. He waited.

Joi looked at the walls, wondering what her dad would’ve advised her to do. She saw plaques and degrees above the man’s swirling executive gray hair. University of Georgia—Bachelor’s Degree. Georgia Tech—Master’s Degree. She began doubting herself all over again. Had she gone to the wrong school? Was this simply another pitfall in her failure-prone life? Then she initiated the mental chess match her father taught her on the golf course. Always think of your opponent making the best outcome and having to do one better. Never let your opponent see your reaction to their good shot.

Her reasoning left few choices. If this was indeed a setup to get rid of her, calling the lawyer would send a message that she was taking responsibility for the misallocation. By accepting responsibility, she was giving the company reason to get rid of her on the spot—despite the flimsy façade that they were on her side. And if she offered to find the money, it would seem as though she had some knowledge of where it was, which would keep her under the eye of suspicion for the rest of her employment and brand her resume when or if she left. Not to mention that even if she wanted to, she simply didn’t have thirty-five thousand dollars of her own money to somehow sneak into the company’s bank account. Her only play was to somehow get the money and take it directly to the McMinville group and give it as some sort of under-budget, under-schedule customer refund—a cost savings passed along to the customer.

First she had to get the money. She remembered the outpouring of concern and love she’d received after her father’s funeral, most of which came from a vast network of golfers her father had known for many years. There were several people she’d met playing golf who knew her father well. Wealthy people who said to call on them if she ever needed anything, anything at all. What she needed now was a low-interest loan. And she needed it before Monday morning.

Dad would agree with that plan, she thought. If he were here, he’d say, Nice plan, Baby Girl. Memories of her father slowed the seconds.

Before she realized it, the president was standing over her saying, “Joi... Joi!”

“Huh?”

“You spaced out on me for a minute. So, what can we do to solve this problem?”

Joi looked once more at the degrees and the portrait-perfect hair.

“I’ll see you Monday morning.” As she rose to exit, the president’s mouth froze open. This wasn’t the answer he’d wanted or anticipated.

“Are you going to call my friend?”

“Who, me? No. I’m taking the rest of the day off.” She reached the door, turned back to look at him, and said, “I’m going to play golf.”

“What? Huh? But—”

“Talk to ya Monday.”

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Chapter Four

Bob Berry
Seven Handicap (Friendly rounds).
Two Handicap (When gambling).
Strength: Putts like a machine.

  He was a political genius with the common sense of a snail in a salt mine. A people person, while at the same time a parasite’s pleasure. Trouble was his inseparable Siamese twin. Take, for instance, the time he’d announced a remarkable idea for co-opting public school and private school teachers. The plan was met with widespread acceptance—until he met with a known criminal who just happened to give him a handshake full of hundred dollar bills. The criminal had stopped him in the parking lot and said, Mr. Berry, here’s a campaign contribution, would you mind posing for a photo op?

Instead of telling the stranger to send a check to his campaign headquarters, the always-personable Bob Berry showed each of his thirty-two teeth when a photographer appeared, on cue, from behind a car. Just before the election, fliers were placed in mailboxes all over town with the photo, captioned: Can you pick out the criminal in this picture?

Bob lost the election by an overwhelming landslide. He’d held and lost just about every office the county had to offer. School board official, county commissioner, county solicitor. The state representative post seemed to be his best shot at leaving behind a scarred career, until his libido snatched him from the jaws of success.

Bob loved his wife (ex-wife). And her sister, her cousin, her friends, and anyone else of the fairer sex. Halfway through a previous term and just after he’d been heralded a hero for his breakthrough proposal for state welfare reform, Bob was exposed for his involvement in a nasty love octagon. It had started as a mere triangle but seemed to grow a new side with each session.

By day, Bob would dream up public policy that could have made the entire nation a peace-loving, prosperity-gaining country for the next five decades. By night, he would handcuff himself to the bed so he wouldn’t venture off into the night where the freaks came out. Sometimes he stayed chained to the bed and awoke only to find that he’d practically solved the nation’s homeless problem in his sleep. But other times, he’d call Wanda Won-Ton, his favorite Asian girl, and solicit her help because he couldn’t find the key to let himself loose and get to his computer.

Despite the embarrassing sexual escapades, Bob’s greatest embarrassment to date had to be the check-copying fiasco. After learning that cash contributions in the parking lot were ill-advised, he made certain that every cent he raised was in the form of a check. As motivation for why he wanted to be a civil servant and to remind him who he worked for, Bob took a personal check from one of his supporters and made color copies. One for his office, one for his home, and one for his campaign headquarters.

The check was given to him by an elderly retiree by the name of Fantha Lee who’d pledged a whopping five hundred dollars to Bob, specifically for his new proposal of taking social security benefits and paying dividends from younger family members’ 401Ks if senior citizens needed extra health care. Even his opponents privately admitted that it made sense on paper.

Apparently, Fantha Lee’s younger family members had no 401K, but what they did have was her checkbook. They too had been making color copies of the checks—not for motivation, but for mooching. As luck would have it (bad luck, that is), Bob left his copies of the checks at Kinko’s, planning to pick them up and pay for them when his other campaigning material was ready. Copy centers, banks, and check cashing stores throughout the city had been given notice of the scam and were told to watch for anyone making color copies of checks.

Despite his public pleas and detailed explanations, despite the fact that the check he’d copied was already filled out and therefore impossible to kite, Bob Berry became known as the politician who’d forged Fantha Lee’s fixed income.

Since that time, he couldn’t find committed volunteers and didn’t dare have a fundraiser to start a new campaign. And there was absolutely no working a nine-to-five job for him. His job was to work for and with people. It was a habit he’d picked up in college while playing golf at University of Georgia.

Bob quickly learned that his team played better when he shared tips on the golf swing, visualizing the golf course, and controlling emotions in the heat of battle. As team captain, Bob lead UGA to more victories than any other captain, but more importantly, he realized he could accomplish anything he wanted by helping others help themselves. A fearless and naturally gifted golfer, Bob practiced very little and coached whenever possible. His annual golf tournament had proven to be his best fundraiser ever. It was called the Beat Bob Tournament. He gave whoever was willing a one-shot advantage on whichever hole they picked. A person could buy as many shot advantages as they could afford. One shot cost a thousand dollars, two shots cost five thousand, and three shots or more—well, a person could fund his entire campaign for what a three-shot advantage cost. Along with the high-stakes challenge, Bob made donations to charity, passed out expensive imported cigars, and provided child care to those playing in the event. Each year, no more than two people even tied Bob on any given hole. Bob, ever the people person, gave them prizes anyway—a free full-year membership to his country club and a brand-new set of custom-fit golf clubs.

But now no one wanted to play in his tournaments, and people didn’t want to be associated with him anymore. It was bad business to do business with Bob Berry. And unfortunately, Bob could only do two things well: golf and derive plans for the greater well-being of others.

What once worked for him now worked against him. The common sense that would have told an ordinary man to pack in the Bob Berry buttons and banners had fled this extraordinary man many years ago. Instead, all he knew was to keep prodding and things would work themselves out.

However, time was running out on his political clock. He was quickly approaching the dead end of his 30s. By this time, he’d planned to be on the way to Congress and implementing his Tri-Fold stimulus platform. Bob had been refining the model since his senior year in college. The three elements were education, economics, and equality. Each exploited the benefits of the other factors and flushed out their weaknesses.

Under his plan, Bob could get wealthy investors to fund, and profit from, healthcare organizations and public school enhancement business. Corporations would receive huge tax breaks for teaching business skills to the less fortunate and setting up learning centers in correctional facilities.

Everyone has to get an invitation to the party if you want have a good time, Bob would say. If you bring more to the party, you can take more home. If you want to take more home, you’ll need to learn how to bring more with you.

The plan was useless without a selfless leader at the reins. There was no one he could trust with it. His opponents would take it and dissect it into pieces that fit their own personal agendas. His own party members had a limited vision of what it would truly take to make the plan successful. Even if they could implement it, they were sure to shy away from Bob’s next plan—free healthcare and welfare depletion. Like all of his other political masterpieces, it worked on paper.

There was no other way. Bob had to be in office. In order to be in office, he had to run. In order to run, he had to have campaign funds.

***

“Tom, hey, it’s Bob Berry. Time for that annual golf fundraiser. Got some great prizes. How many people can I put you down for?”

“Hey, uh, Bob,” the man responded, wishing he’d checked the caller ID. “We really can’t this year, buddy. But hey, good luck.”

Once again, Bob was rushed off the phone. Same result for the last three days. The list was getting shorter and Bob didn’t have one single player.

“Skip! Hey, buddy. It’s Bob. How’s the race organizing going?”

“Bob Berry, you old sly dog. What’s goin’ on? You still cashing old ladies’ checks or you breakin’ piggy banks now?” Skip boomed a long loud laugh through the phone and Bob did what any politician would do to avoid embarrassment—laughed louder.

Skip Breiser was one of Bob’s oldest and most trusted friends. He’d racked up a small fortune organizing marathons all over the country. Like Bob, he loved the ladies. Unlike Bob, he had the common sense of Confucius and impermeable discretion. A straight shooter, Skip always told Bob how he felt, even when Bob didn’t want to hear it

“Bob, I hope you’re not callin’ me to play in that charity money-launderin’ golf tournament of yours.”

“Well, Skip, in fact I am. Runnin’ for state rep, you know?”

“Hell, ain’t you been state rep once before? Buddy, you couldn’t get elected septic tank sucker right now. Nobody wants to touch you.”

“I know it’s bad. Probably never been like this. I’m runnin’ out of time here. I gotta put the Tri-Fold in place before the next presidential election.”

“What? It’s time already?” Skip knew how important the plan was to the state and potentially the nation. He used to watch in amazement as Bob would work on the project, using diagrams and scenarios. Matching models to real-life situations. It was a symphony. Bob had once shown Skip the plan by standing in front of a large dry erase board, waving markers about like an insane conductor. He drew lines from the rich to the poor. He enclosed circles from middle class to upper class. He drew connecting dollar signs from corporations to schools. He filled in merging sections of Blacks and Whites. And, when verbalized, it sounded like music. Skip saw the plan and believed in it because he was one of those rich who could get richer by helping the poor. He was silent, then helpful.

“Bob, what do you need?” His tone was deadly serious.

“I gotta win the primary in August and it’ll take…” Bob glanced down at his spreadsheet. “...$11,857.23 to do it.”

“What’s the twenty-three cents for?”

“Not sure. If I look at the projections for—”

“Bob.”

“Huh?”

“I’m jokin’. I gotta tell ya, friend. Nobody’s gonna play in that tournament this year or any other year until you get yourself cleaned off. You can—”

“Skip, this is all I got—all I ever wanted to do. Helping people. And, well, you know... play a little golf whenever I can.”

“God, don’t I know it. Bob, I’ll help you, but it ain’t gonna be how you might like. I’ll help you help yourself. First off, you’re gonna need more than eleven grand. More like twenty. You’re gonna need money for a TV ad, a smear campaign, and a private investigator. The first—”

“Nope. That’s never been my style, Skip. I won’t start it now.”

“You want the Tri-Fold put in place?”

“Yeah, but—”

“But nothin’. He’ll bounce back. Everybody does. The private investigator is for you. First thing you gotta do is to get someone else to clear you of those checks. Nothing’s gonna change before you do that.”

“Okay, I agree with you there. So I guess we’re talkin’ about a loan. Don’t kill me with the interest because I’m not sure how long it will take to pay you back.”

“A loan! For you? Are you crazy?” Skip said with a coyote laugh. “Your career is the worst investment since the Yugo. There’s only one thing I’ll put my money up for you and that’s your golf game.”

“Yeah, but no one is gonna play in my tournament. You said it yourself.”

“I got wind of a big game coming up. Guy I use for security at the marathons works at some outfitters place and his boss has a ringer playin’ for ten grand. There’s nobody around here that can touch you on a good day.”

“I’ll probably need a few weeks to get ready.”

“Oh, you’re ready.” Skip replied. “You’d better stay ready so you won’t have to get ready. It’s for twenty grand and it’s tomorrow morning.”

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Chapter Five

Mystery Valley Golf Course

Mystery Valley was a beautifully carpeted giant scorpion. It twisted and bended, then stung and pinched those trying to attack its holes in search of good scores. Nestled near the bottom of DeKalb County, it lurked off a main road and was guarded by iron gates that kept golfers out before dawn and pushed them out at day’s end. There was no mystery about this valley: It was long and difficult.

Entry into the golf course was a tease, or an intimidator, depending on the golfer’s attitude. Lush green fields manicured to prime conditions lined the asphalt-paved roller coaster that dipped and swerved alongside several holes. Today the road would be traveled by the players of a game unlike the course had ever hosted. Jeff was the first to arrive and begin practicing on the driving range as the clouds danced and swirled above, ready to unleash dripping soldiers whenever they felt the desire for battle. He’d spent the entire night flipping over in his bed, tossing from one end to the other. Recurring visions of a young man beaten to a pulp awakened him throughout the night. At 1:00 am he was up watching SportsCenter; at 3:15 am he was up again watching the Golf Channel. Finally, at 4:40 am, an action movie put him to sleep for a few hours. At 8:00 am sharp, he was at the gates of the golf course and the first customer to be seen that day. He rushed the gentleman working the pro shop, grabbed a bag of seventy-five practice balls, and began perfecting his swing for the day.

Fifteen minutes after Jeff got to the driving range, he noticed a man on the putting green with four rows of balls all lined up, pointing at different holes in different directions.

With smooth gliding strokes of the putter the man made each ball disappear. Jeff quickly did the math. Four balls, four holes. The guy had just dropped sixteen putts in a row. That’s sixteen possible birdies, Jeff thought to himself. He thought about going up and complimenting the man on his stroke—maybe get a putting tip or two.

Instead, he thought of his brother and the torturous dreams. Jeff pulled out his driver and went back to work on his swing. He placed a ball on the tee, set up, and took the club back slowly, starting his back swing by wrapping the driver around his body on a perfect plane. He swung, cutting the air with a descending whip. It was a soft, quiet motion until he got within six inches of the ball, when he increased the speed of the club and made a turbulent rip just before ball impact. It was all grace and power—the winding of his body, the smashing of the ball, and the bouncing echoes shooting through the trees. Jeff’s tee shots sounded like lethal collisions of small round objects and precisely manufactured metal.

The man on the putting green noticed the explosions. Jeff teed up another ball and commenced with the same poetic and powerful swing. They both watched as the ball jetted outward on a low trajectory, rising higher each millisecond until it began to turn ever so slowly to the left and finally disappeared into the woods at the back of the range.

“Oooh weee! That’s a big stick. Friend, I once saw a man hit a ball like that. They called him Mr. Woods whenever he walked into a room and he had green jackets in his closet.” Jeff grinned at the flattery. “Bob Berry’s my name.”

“Jeff King. Nice to meet you, Bob.”

“Likewise.”

The two gripped hands and Bob felt lightning strength shoot from Jeff’s boulder shoulder, down his arm, and into Bob’s hand with paralyzing force. Now he knew how Jeff hit the ball so far.

Jeff noticed the texture of Bob’s hand. Not at all rough like the hands of golfers who beat balls day after day. He obviously spent more time on the putting green, massaging his golf balls over and around the undulations.

“You’ve got a great putting stroke,” said Jeff. “You dropped, what, sixteen putts in a row?”

“Yeah, stroke’s a little off today. Gotta work on it before I go out and play.”

“What time are you playing?” Jeff asked, trying to find out if Bob was his competition.

“Not sure, supposed to be meeting an old friend out here, but he’s not here yet.”

“Your buddy’s name isn’t Nagga, is it?”

“Who?” Bob asked with raised eyebrows. He recognized the name only as something that sounded a lot like a career-ending racial slur.

“Nagga.”

“No, I thought you said something else. Afraid I don’t know anyone by that name. But have a good round today.”

“You too. Drop some big putts on whoever you’re playing.”

“And you crush some drives, my friend. You’ll have ’em beat on the first tee if you hit one like you just did.”

Bob walked back towards the putting green and Jeff smiled at the encouragement and the satisfaction that he wasn’t playing Bob.

“Hey yo, Bobby!” Skip Breiser had just emerged from the parking lot, his hair still wet from a quick morning wash.

“Skip! Hey, you old sly dog.”

Jeff saw the two men smile and shake. He assumed it was Bob’s playing partner as they both entered the club house and were passed by another man in typical golf attire—polo shirt, walking shorts, saddle-oxford shoes, short ankle socks, and a hat with a popular golf brand stitched across the top.

It was a subtle wardrobe that spoke clearly to those in the know. Golfers could spot each other from clear across the store as they accompanied wives or children on shopping sprees and errands. One guy would see the trademark sign on a shirt or hat—Titleist, Strata, Calloway, Maxfli—and he would know that the guy was a fellow golfer. Or another player would recognize a golf emblem on the sleeve or breast of a shirt. It was a bragging right, as if to say look where I’ve played—Pinehurst, Pebble Beach, Jackson Lake. These telltale signs caught the eye of every golfer and often began a conversation. You play much? one might ask. The conversation sometimes ended with an invite, an exchange of business cards, a phone number, a challenge, or simply a “nice meeting you” if one of them determined that the other’s skill level was too high or too low.

Right now, Jeff simply wanted to find who he was playing—who stood between him, eighteen holes, and his brother’s survival. This guy looked like a player and he seemed to be searching for someone. Jeff made up his mind that this had to be the guy. He put his game face on and teed up another ball. Just as he was about to boom another drive into the wooded oblivion, another type of noise disrupted the sanctity of the entire golf course.

Jeff looked up, as did the other guy. They both turned in the direction of the racket. Speeding down the snake-shaped road was a midnight black SUV spewing deep thumping bass sounds of hip-hop music into the air. The offensive vehicle disappeared into the parking lot, and Jeff saw the other man shake in his head in dismay at the rude entrance.

Jeff giggled just a bit, went back to hitting balls, and waited. He knew the next face he saw rising from the parking lot would be Nagga’s. And up from the depths of whatever hell gave reprieves that day, whatever demon house had excommunicated one of their own, he came.

Adorned all in black, Nagga strolled near the clubhouse and looked over at the putting green. He finally saw Jeff. He also saw the other guy. Each gave the other a death look. For an instant, Jeff thought the two would draw their weapons for a gunslinger’s battle. Instead, Nagga just smiled and walked down to the driving range.

***

Joi pulled in that morning along with the scores of other cars coming to get some practice before their Saturday round. Norbert Riley, one of her father’s most trusted and longtime friends, had asked her to meet him there at 8:30 after learning of her predicament.    Norbert was well-off and connected—more connected than well-off. He was also the president of the Mystery Valley Golf Association.

“Joi, I’m sorry. There’s no way I can get my hands on that kinda money over the weekend. And I wouldn’t feel right askin’ people to chip in for a loan like that. It’s nothing against you. I got your message Friday, but I had no idea you were in this kind of a pickle. When you called last night, it just stupefied me, I swear.”

Joi’s face seemed to droop further towards the ground with each word.

“No disrespect, Mr. Riley. I appreciate your help, but why’d you have me come out here this morning? Now I’ve gotta spend the rest of the day begging for money.” Tears began to tickle the back of her eyes, trying to maneuver down her face. This wasn’t at all the type of bad break she’d anticipated—in golf nor in life.

Norbert chuckled, trying not to appear cruel or insensitive.

“You’re right about one thing. It’s gonna take you all day. But honey, you won’t be beggin’.”

“What do you mean?

“I had you come out here because I got word of some bozos having a money game this morning.”

“Norbert!” Joi blurted out with frustration. “Do you know how many money games I’ll have to play to get that kinda money?”

Again Norbert gave the chuckle.

“Young lady, today all you gotta play is one good one. You go get warmed up and I’ll make the introductions.”

***

The first showdown was the at the starter’s booth. Jeff and Nagga were conducting their own personal pow-wow. Nagga reminded Jeff how much money was at stake; Jeff reminded Nagga that his brother’s slate would be wiped clean upon his victory.

Bob and Skip were continuing their back-slapathon. Every time the other recounted one of many past shenanigans, he would throw a palm square across a shoulder blade and follow with spontaneous guffaws. Their laughing interrupted the pep talk Nagga was pounding into Jeff.

The well-dressed player Jeff saw earlier approached the starter’s booth. Nagga switched from coach to cold-blooded.

“What’s wrong, Billy? Yo’ boy ain’t showin’ up today? This my dog Jeff, right here. All-Conference at Grambling and he ’bout take it to the house.”

“Whatever, Neckbone,” Billy mocked. “My man’ll take this Division II hack any day. If not today, then tomorrow.”

“Oh hell no! Somebody walkin’ away with a win today. Yo’ boy don’t show up, that’s fine with us. A forfeit is just as good as a win in my book and the payoff is just the same.”

“Yeah, right. You try to get ten large off me without your boy teeing it up. I’d like to see that.”

“You’ll see it, if you can look up,” Nagga said, lifting up his shirt just enough to show the butt of a nine-millimeter stuffed in his pants.

Jeff backed away. He looked around to see if anyone else saw the gesture. Billy didn’t flinch or back down in the slightest.

“That don’t scare me, coon boy. Shoot me. I gotta two-million-dollar insurance policy, a private investigator, and a team of lawyers. You won’t do nothing but get a free trip to jail and make my family richer. If you want some, you can put that sissy pistol down and we can go for it man to man—I mean, man to boy.” Billy touched his own chest when he said “man.” Nagga started towards him, pulling his shirt out of his pants in preparation for the feud. He mumbled some profanity, and the commotion made the starter turn to look. The older gentleman guarding the booth reached for his radio to call the clubhouse just as they heard some shouting.

“Billy! Hey, Billy!” It was Kevin running from the parking lot, tucking in his shirt, squeezing his heel into a shoe by ramming it into towards the ground with every other step, all while trying not to lose his clubs, which were fleeing the confines of the golf bag that was sliding off his shoulder. He reached the starter’s booth gasping for air and grinning.

“What’s up, Billy? Sorry I’m late. Wife had me up late doin’ this and that. I got time to run and hit some range balls?”

Billy clutched Kevin’s arm and pulled him away from the small group.

“Hell no, you ain’t time to hit no damn range balls. You barely made the tee time. Do you know how much money I got on the line here? You out of your mind showin’ up here late!” Billy continued the conversation with more curse words than breath. He would have filled a dictionary with ones he was inventing had it not been for Skip and Bob walking over.

“Gentlemen, everything all right?” Skip interrupted.

Billy unmussed his hair and composed himself after giving Kevin one more scornful look.

“Yeah, everything’s fine here. You, Skip?” he asked, nodding upward at the ever-smiling Bob.

“No, I’m Bob Berry. This is Skip.”

They exchanged shakes as Kevin asked, “Aren’t you the guy that’s always runnin’ for office?”

“I’m the one.”

      “I think I saw you on the news recently.”

      “So, let’s things started,” Skip quickly interjected. He knew the only recent television appearances covered Bob’s alleged scandals.

      “Yeah, let’s, since everybody’s finally here,” Billy said, eyeing Kevin.

      “Looks like we got one more player. Hope you don’t mind,” Billy announced to Nagga. Jeff saw Bob standing with the rest of the men and felt his stomach jostle the way it did before he lost the division championship his junior year.

      “What kinda hustle you got goin’ on here? We ain’t said nothin’ about no two against one,” Nagga replied.

      “Hi. Skip Breiser. Nice to meet you. We heard about the action and figured we’d increase the pot. Say five grand a man? That way everybody spends less money, but the winner still gets the whole pot. Fair enough?”

      “Hell nawh! You want in, it’s gon’ cost you ten large just like Billy Boy. How I know you clowns ain’t gon’ try to beat my boy and y’all split the money? Everybody gon’ have the same thing to lose if they gon’ play.”

      Skip walked closer to Nagga. “Look, it’s not like that at all. We just—”

“Fool, you bedda back up off me!”

The starter grabbed the radio again. A voice came through and he answered. “Yep, they’re all down here. Better get here quick, though.”

Suddenly the club house doors burst open and a man ran to the starter’s booth.

“Guys, guys. How’s everyone doing? Skip, Billy, Bob? Jeff, haven’t seen you in a while,” said Norbert. “Not sure we’ve met before,” he said, shaking hands with Nagga. “I’m Norbert Riley, pleasure to meet you.” Norbert whistled and waved someone over from the driving range who’d been hitting iron shots for the last twenty minutes. “Guess you’ve all met by now. I hear you’ve got a little game goin’ on here today. You don’t mind if we throw more action into the mix.” He extended his arm just as Joi was approaching and it landed around her shoulder.

“What’s up, Joi? Ain’t seen you in a minute. Lookin’ good,” Jeff said, recognizing the familiar face.

“Hey, boy, good to see you,” she flirted.

“Gentlemen, this here’s Joi Martina. She’s gonna be playing in your game today.”

“Hold on, pahtna,” Nagga began. “I don’t know her or you and unless you got ten Gs, you need to get on away from ’round here.”

“Son, like I said, this is Joi Martina and she will be playing in your game today. She’s covered. And as for who I am, I’m the guy that can close those front gates and end this game before it even gets started. When you’re ready, I’ll call the safety and public administration director and tell him we got a problem that needs investigating immediately which requires evacuation. Now you try finding another tee time at the last minute on a Saturday morning.”

Jeff pulled Nagga aside and whispered to him.

“I know this chick, bruh. I’ve played her at least a dozen times. She’s good, but she can’t beat me. Besides, if these other cats are trying to run somethin’ me and Joi can flush out their hustle.”

Nagga pulled his ear away from Jeff, looked at the chumps standing before him, thought about the possibility of forty grand in one day, remembered how many street hustles he’d won and said, “What the hell y’all waitin’ for? Tee it up.”

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