` The Big Bet
Friday, May 5th
________________________________________________________________________________________
Two months before the Bellstone 2011 Women’s Club Championship
“It’s all up to you, pal,” a trembling Bradley Watchtower whispered to his playing partner, the country club president, Newt Sizemore, who was all too aware how of much his putt could cost them if he missed it. That day’s competition had left him and Bradley down $5,000 to their opponents, Joe Pesci and Shorty Columbo. Now, the two men had one last chance for redemption. Before they’d teed off on the 18th and last hole, Joe and Shorty made them the offer of an aloha bet. Win the final hole and clear the deck. Tie the hole, the loss remains. Lose the hole, double the loss. After the other three had putted out, it was Newt’s turn. If he sank his very makeable six-foot putt, his birdie would win the hole and he and Bradley would owe nothing. A two-putt would keep their loss at $5,000. A dreaded three-putt would cost them a whopping ten grand.
“Thraight in the back of the cup, Mr. Thizemore,” Bones, the old caddy lisped to his player as the president eyed his line.
“You can do it, big guy, you can do it,” Bradley assured Newt, who could feel his heart banging back and forth in his chest.
Newt’s ruddy complexion had darkened to a shade of purple after four hours in the L.A. sun, and the added stress of the putt only deepened his unhealthy color. A string of costly defeats over the past few months had taken a toll on his financial stability. Now, the threat of another big loss sent his legs twitching as he stood over the ball. He took a deep breath while his partner, his opponents, the caddies, and all golfers within sight of the 18th green stood like statues while the president of the club focused on the putt.
C’mon Sizemore, you’ve sunk this one a thousand times, Newt assured himself as he visualized the subtle curve the ball would follow before dropping into the cup. With head still, he drew the putter back with a smooth stroke. But as the club moved toward the ball, the sound of a revving 12-cylinder Ferrari exploded through the silence while the car’s owner dropped the car into neutral and gunned the engine as she entered the club parking lot to alert the valet of her arrival. The ear-splitting noise caused Newt’s body to jerk, as he blasted the ball eight feet past the hole.
“Fucking bitch!” he roared as he turned toward the parking lot. “I’m gonna smash that car’s roof with a hammer!”
“Just don’t dent that driver’s beautiful headlights. She paid big bucks for those cans!” Shorty cried out, as Joe fist bumped his partner in agreement.
Now, the furious president’s only chance to minimize a huge loss would be to make the comeback putt. While trying to control his anger, Newt shut his eyes and tugged at his shirt collar to make room for the pulsating veins that ran through his neck. Aware that the chances of making an eight-foot putt for the best players were only fifty percent, he said a quick prayer before executing his stroke. All within eyesight held their breath as the ball rolled straight towards the hole—and checked up one blade of grass shy of falling in. Joe and Shorty high-fived each other in celebration of their $10,000 win.
Out in the parking lot, Bernardo the valet snapped to attention as the red Ferrari screamed to a stop at the porte-cochere. When the driver’s door opened, a pair of shapely legs glistening with tanning oil slid out. They belonged to Many Manville, who was dressed in a royal blue Skort, a combination of skirt and shorts popular with lady golfers, and a white and blue nylon polo shirt that hugged her ample breasts. Her blonde hair was crowned with a visor accented by a row of faux diamonds that glittered in the LA sun. Oblivious to what her dramatic arrival had cost Newt and Bradley, she cell-yelled instructions into her phone with a playful Southern accent while she handed her keys and a ten-dollar bill to Bernardo, with the phone still glued to her ear.
“Scotland gets cold by Octobah—I need layers, Rick. Ask your sales reps if they’ve seen any cute little kilt-style skorts. You know, plaid with the two buckles on the side? They’re bound to give a rise to those Cialis-poppin’ geezer viewers. Gotta run. That lesbo from Golfing Magazine is waitin’ for me at the range. She wants a few quotes from you too, so meet us out thah in twenty. Ciao.”
The valet revved the car’s V8 engine and guided it to a parking spot as Mandy marched toward the lady’s locker room to change from her spike heeled sandals into golf shoes.
~~~~~~
In the back office of the Bellstone pro shop, Rick Lightfoot slammed down the receiver of the phone on his desk. He leaned forward and applied pressure to his forehead with his thumb and index finger to fend off another throbbing tension headache.
“Ya want me to do a national search to find a sexy kilt-style skort for you ta wear ta Scotland, Mrs. Manville?" he said as the headache took hold. "How ‘bout picking up your dry cleaning, like ya had me doing last week? Maybe you’ll ask me to make you an appointment at your gynecologist. Why not? I’m only the head golf pro around here. Must be in my job description to see that ya get your pap smear on time.”
“I thought you weren’t gonna let that lassie get your Irish up, Ricky,” Maggie O’Grady called out from the front of the otherwise empty shop as she opened a shipment of red, white, and turquoise golf shirts from their cellophane wrappings and placed them in perfect piles on the mahogany shelves of the store. Embroidered over the pocket of each shirt was a Bellstone Country Club logo with the design of a white trumpet crane in flight. “Remember,” Maggie called out. “Rick Lightfoot is to Mandy Manville as Bela Karolyi is to Nadia Comaneci, as Butch Harmon is to Tiger Woods, as Phil Jackson is to Kobe Bryant. If she wins, you win. And that’s no blarney!”
Maggie was right. For nine consecutive years, Amanda “Mandy” Everett Manville had won the Bellstone Women’s Club Championship. In the fourth week of April, the big news at Bellstone was that when Mandy captured her 10th consecutive club championship win that July, Bellstone would win too. Because any member of the Women’s Southern California Golfers of America Association who was able to secure a ten-year reign as the club champion of a private golf course would receive an invitation to play in that year’s Cialis Invitational Pro-Am, to be held at Scotland’s legendary Saint Andrews Golf Course. The tournament would be televised on NBC, and it was expected that Tiger Woods would be among the professionals competing.
Though still ranked as one of the finest golf courses in the country, Bellstone had not hosted a major tournament in decades. Though the club once had a waiting list of those anxious to hand over the $150,000 initiation fee, the still sluggish economy had caused a slump in the sales of new memberships. Now, the publicity surrounding a Bellstone player teeing it up with Tiger in the Scottish Pro-Am was sure attract waves of potential new members that would beef up the club’s airing treasury.
Not that long ago, Rick had loved being the head pro at one of the finest and most historic golf clubs in the nation. But now, having grown tired of the traffic, crime, and high cost of living in Los Angeles, he and his wife were talking about a move to Arizona if he could secure a Head Pro position at a top-ranked golf club in that state. Now, thanks to Mandy Manville, that dream could become a reality. Sources at Golf Pro Magazine had assured Rick that his star student’s tenth club championship win and her appearance in the Scottish Pro-Am would land him a prime spot on the magazine’s yearly list of The Top 50 Teaching Pros in Nation, and make him a hot hire at any golf club in the country. Now, with his entire future riding on Mandy winning again, the pro would mop the woman’s kitchen floor and scrub out her toilet to keep her happy.
~~~~~~
"What can I do you for, Mr. Sizemore?" Mario the bartender asked the club president who had just sat down at his usual stool at the clubhouse bar. Not waiting for an answer, Mario grabbed the bottle of bourbon from the line of bottles behind the bar and poured a heavy dose of the liquid into a cocktail glass. "Double Daniels, straight up? You got it, sir!" One look at Newt’s face told Mario within fifty bucks, how much dough the president had won or lost on any given morning. The larger and the darker the veins pulsating through the man’s neck, the steeper the loss. It was almost like glancing at Fox Business News on the bar’s TV. The more red stocks running across the screen, the harder the Dow Jones industrial average had fallen.
“Thanks for the meds, Mario,” Newt said as he grabbed the glass of the dark-colored liquid from the gleaming mahogany bar with hands trembling. He raised the glass to his thick lips, poured the contents into his mouth, and closed his eyes while he savored the spicy liquid as it rolled down his throat. When his eyes opened, the smile on his face vanished as he spotted Shorty Columbo strutting up to the bar.
“Hey Newtie! Knew I’d find you at the watering hole,” Shorty said in a high-pitched voice that matched his diminutive stature. Standing less than five-foot three inches tall, Shorty’s double wide shoulders and springy step gave him the appearanc he was always ready for a fight.
“Hey, tough break on the putting green Senior Presidente! Believe it or not, a part of me was hopin’ for ya ta knock that first ball in!”
“Like hell you were,” the six foot three Texan snarled, looking down at the man. “You’ve been gunning for me since I beat your ass in the election. We all know you’d have handed off your hot little trophy wife to the pimps on Hollywood Boulevard in a nanosecond if it would’a gotten you the presidency.”
"Not true, chief! I’ll admit that it broke my heart to lose, and not have the chance to serve the place I call home." He held his hand over his chest to signify his pain. "But with my business taking off like a pistol, I’m happy to let you do the heavy lifting.” He turned to the bartender. “Hey, Dr. M . . . I’ll take a glass of that Cabernet, if you still have that bottle from last night.”
“Savin’ it for ya, Mr. Columbo,” Mario said as he set a wine glass down on the bar and filled it with the deep purple-colored liquid.
Shorty took a sip of the wine and turned to Newt. “I know you and I have butted heads over the years. But who’s not a fan of the man behind the 20,000 bottle, state-of-the-art wine cellar that’s gonna turn this joint into a world class watering hole?” He pointed to the mammoth wine cellar that was being constructed next to the clubhouse bar and lounge area.
"Now wait just a minute, little man,” Newt shot back. “During the election, you called the new cellar an obscene waste of money. Said you’d kill the project on your first day in office."
“Times change, people change, Newtie. Now, Destiny and I can’t wait to have our hotshot guests from the boxing world watchin’ their 300 dollar French merlots arrive at the bar in style. All thanks to your hard work and foresight, I might add.”
Newt puffed out his chest and held his chin high. “Hmmm . . . well, I’m glad to have your support on my project, Shorty.”
“Thing is,” Shorty said pointing out the window that had a stunning view of the golf course and the Santa Monica mountains in the distance. “I can’t ignore those rumblings out on the course about you being in deep doo-doo on job’s overruns. Some are sayin’ it’ll be double what you said it would cost. I’ve heard numbers as high as half a million. And you’ve only got 200 thou in the member’s treasury to pay for the thing. That could mean a major assessment for us members, Newt ole buddy.”
“Just lies my little man, just lies!” Newt roared as he slammed his empty glass down on the bar. “The rumors have been vicious since I got the vote. What people don’t seem to understand is that—”
“No excuses necessary, Mr. President,” Shorty said, raising his hands in the air. “I’m on your side. And to show my appreciation for what you’re doin’ here, as well as my respect for the new board of directors, I’ll tell you how you can pay for that cellar in a heartbeat.”
“I don’t know why I’d trust you on that one, Shorty.”
“Here’s exactly why you can trust me, Newtie.” Shorty looked toward the window and took a moment to savor the rolling green fairways, the majestic oak trees, and the sparking lake in the distance. “’Cause Bellstone is like a second home to me. And if you think I’d risk my membership here by giving you bad info, that bourbon has boiled too many of your brain cells.”
“Well, that’s true,” Newt agreed. “You do make more off my missed putts than anyone else around here.”
“So here’s the deal . . . I’ve got a tip on Saturday night’s Louie Lopez, Manny Guillermo fight. And you know my sources are golden. With just one call, you can triple whatever you’ve got in that Bellstone bank account.”
The president moved closer to Shorty with narrowed eyes. “This another tip from Rocket—King’s inside guy?”
“The one and only Rocket man. And he’s never yanked my schlong yet.” Shorty wedged himself even closer to Newt, stood on tiptoes, and whispered in the taller man’s ear. “Lopez is taking a dive in the third. And you can take that to the bank, Mr. President. Let’s just call it ‘my payback’ for all you’re doin’.”
~~~~~~
"Come on through, folks— it’s a beautiful day at Bellstone! I’ll let the fellas up front know you’ve arrived." Bob at the guardhouse ushered the silver BMW640i convertible through the majestic wrought iron entrance to the club as Derrick and Jody Benson gave him a wave of thanks. The couple in the car made a pretty picture. The young woman’s face was unadorned by any hint of make-up. She didn’t need eye shadow or mascara to accent the sparkle of her light green eyes. Her mane of black hair was loosely knotted in a chunky braid and looped through the back of a baseball cap. One glance at her strong square shoulders and the long, toned muscles of her legs and arms spoke volumes about the her athletic abilities.
Jody looked over at her boyishly handsome husband. She loved how a few renegade locks of his shiny brown hair always managed to rebel against his meticulous styling and curl onto his forehead. She wondered how anyone could resist that mischievous smile or his twinkling brown eyes. Her gaze settled on that sexy cleft in his chin that sent her heart pounding the moment she set eyes on him. Not for the first time, she told herself how blessed she was to be married to Derrick. Besides being drop dead gorgeous, he’d come to her rescue during the darkest chapter of her life. For that alone, she’d love him forever. And now Derrick needed Jody’s support.
He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thanks for being a trooper about this, hon. I know coming back here isn’t easy for you.”
“It’ll never be the same place that I loved so much. And I can’t promise that I’ll ever be anywhere close to the kind of golfer I was. She wiped a tear away from her eye. “You get that, right? But I’m willing to start with some baby steps.”
“Yup, baby steps . . . that’s all I’m asking.” Derrick stroked his wife’s thigh. “Like I said, having a membership here takes me to a whole new level of coolness. Instead of being just another run-of-the-mill salesman, I’ll be someone who can offer my clients a slice of Hollywood glamor. They can warm up at the range next to stars like; Trevor Studley and Chandler Dane; practice their putting alongside Larry David and Ray Romano. And no pressure, Jo, but getting you back in the game could be a great asset for the company. We can invite clients with golfing spouses to those husband and wife tournaments they have here. You’ll knock their socks off with your killer—”
“Zip it, Derrick!”
“I know, I know . . . baby steps.”
They pulled up in front of the clubhouse, where the passenger door was opened by a tall Hispanic man in uniform.
“Buenos Dias, Bernardo!” Jody called out, as she jumped out of the car and gave the valet a hug.”
“Buenos Dias, Senorita! Or I should say, Senora!” Bernardo turned to Derrick.
“Welcome to Bellstone, Mr. Benson! And I wish you and your wife many happy years at our fine club, sir.” He pulled the couple’s golf bags from the trunk and set them on the valet station’s bag rack.
“Jorge will be out to take these to the bag room in a moment.” He glanced at Derrick’s spanking new set of clubs, and Jody’s well-worn bag, with its Princeton University logo and tiger mascot head covers. “Will you both be going down to the driving range today?”
“We will,” Derrick said, as he looked at his wife with concern. “That is, I think I’ve convinced Mrs. Benson to hit a few balls too.”
“Hey Bernardo, is Eddie’s here today?” Jody asked the valet.
“He sure is, Senora. And he can’t wait to see you!”
Jody turned to her husband. “Hey Der, I think I’ll run and try to catch Eddie now. Meet you in the clubhouse in a few.”
“Cool babe. No rush.”
~~~~~~
In a tall booth with windows overlooking the golf course, sat an eighty-eight-year-old Bellstone icon. When the club opened in 1948, the young Eddie McDermott was brought in as the best caddy at any private course anywhere. He served as Bellstone’s top caddy for years before graduating to caddy master and starter—the traffic cop who controlled the caddies and the tee times on the course. The inside of the booth he’d sat at for over sixty years was lined with pictures of the young Eddie toting bags and shaking hands with some of the most famous amateur golfers of the last century: Amelia Earhart, Harry Truman, Ronald Regan, Jackie Gleason, Diana Shore, Perry Como, and a beaming Jack Kennedy.
But during his years at Bellstone, those that touched Eddie’s heart the most were the kids he watched grow up at the club— toddling across the practice green one day and, it seemed, teeing off with their parents the next. And of all those progenies, none meant more to him than the granddaughter of his friend Forrest Wheeler, the founder of Bellstone Country Club.
"Well, here she is, the top bird doc for the U.S. Department of Fish and Wildlife!" Eddie stepped out of his booth. “And my favorite lady golfer of all time!”
Jody gave the spry little man a big hug. “Can I take some of your DNA into the lab, Eddie? I haven’t seen you since the memorial. What was that? Seven years ago? You look like you haven’t aged a day!”
“Never mind me, young lady. I just hope you’re getting back in the game. You know your grandpa’s greatest joy came from watching you become a champion golfer. He’d be heartsick to know he was the reason you gave it up.”
“Oh, Eddie, like I told my husband, I just don’t think I’m ready. I’ve agreed to try hitting some balls on the range, just to humor him. But that’s it.”
“Well, that’s a start, hon! We’ve got a lady golfer here that’s got them all in a tizzy, but she can’t touch you when it comes to talent. I’d love to see you give her a run for her money out there.”
“Enough about my non-existent golf game. I want to hear about what you’re up to. Are you still getting the respect here that the great Eddie McDermott deserves?”
The sparkle from old man’s blue eyes faded. “They treat me all right honey. But guys like your grandpa and his pals don’t exist anymore—not around here, at least. Back in our day, golf was all about honor and the love for the game. We have a new kind of membership now. Folks who only joined this place for the contacts they can make. They’re all about sucking up to whoever can help them rake in more damn money in whatever cutthroat businesses or schemes they’re into.”
“Oh c’mon Eddie, it can’t really be all that bad!”
“It is, little girl. Believe me, it is.”
~~~~~~
Derrick was waiting for Jody in the lobby of the clubhouse when she pulled the brass handles on the heavy wooden doors to enter.
“Eddie’s still going strong, babe,” she told her husband. “Physically at least. He seemed a bit down though. Misses the good old days.”
“I’m sure he got a boost from seeing you, though.”
Jody took in the familiar smell of the rich, oak paneled walls that she remembered so well from her childhood. Her eyes fell on the heavy gold trophies on the shelves with the names of famous golfers that played in the major tournaments that were once held at the club. On the walls were photos of Bobby Jones, Ben Hogan, Sam Snead, Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, and other golf legends who competed there during the club’s heyday. She froze when she came face to face with a life-sized portrait in the center of the photos.
Seeing her reaction, Derrick put his arm around his wife. The subject of the painting was a man who looked to be in his late thirties, with light green eyes set off by thick dark hair waving back from a kind but strong-featured face. Holding a wooden golf club that would now be considered an antique, he was dressed in woolen golf knickers, a button-down shirt and an argyle vest bearing the Bellstone logo with a white trumpet crane in flight.
“I haven’t seen this painting since I left for college,” Jody said in a small voice. “He was really handsome, wasn’t he?”
“He sure was. And his granddaughter got his good looks.” Derrick kissed his wife on the cheek and took her hand. “C’mon sweetheart, let’s get into our golf shoes.” The couple entered a hallway leading to the men and ladies locker rooms. “Hey Jo, look at these cool old photos! There’s Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy on the course!” he said in an effort distract his wife. “Oh wow . . . Bob Hope and Bing Crosby! There’s Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra! I love the history of this place.” Further on down the hall, the walls displayed portraits of the winners of the yearly club championship that determined the club’s best man and best woman golfer. On the men’s side of the hall, a different name and face appeared for each of the past ten years. But on the women’s side, though the hairdo kept changing, the smiling face on every portrait belonged to one woman.
“Hey, Der, check this out.” Jody looked at the name on the plaques below the paintings. “This Mandy Manville must be the hot lady player Eddie was telling me about. Seems she’s got this Woman’s Club Championship thing locked up.”
“You mean, ‘had it locked up,’ don’t you? Mrs. Manville won’t know what hit her when she’s facing Hurricane Jody in this year’s championship.”
“Whoa—easy there, Derrick. Baby steps, remember?”
~~~~~~
“Beautiful strike,” the woman reporter exclaimed, as Mandy sent another ball whistling into the distance. “Anything special you’re working on with your swing to tell our readers about?” Michelle was doing a cover story for “Woman Golfer” magazine about Mandy that would hit the newsstands right after her club championship win and just before her appearance in the Scottish Pro-Am.
“It’s all about the fundamentals, as our wondahful head pro Rick Lightfoot keeps reminding me,” Mandy replied in her most cheerful drawl. “I’m just tryin’ to stay balanced and finish my swing.”
“It must be incredibly exciting for an amateur to be taking such a huge leap into the professional golf arena.” Michelle held up her iPad to record Mandy’s response.
“Let’s not jump the gun heah,” Mandy advised the writer. “To be at the junctuah is an honor for any golfah, but I really like what I see happenin’ with the other ladies in our group. And this year’s championship could go to any numbah of them. For me, it’s not just all about winnin’. It’s about the love and respect for the game, abidin’ by the rules, and encouragin’ one’s opponents to play their best.”
“Ok, got that!” Michelle stopped her recording. “Now, how about if I get some pictures of you hitting the driver? You go ahead and swing when you’re ready.”
The photo session attracted a small crowd of onlookers who “oohed” and “aahed each time Mandy hit the ball. Farther on down the range, another woman was attracting some attention of her own. It was Jody, trying to find her swing. And though the balls were flying every which way; hitting a ball shack out yonder and a truck on a distant path, they were easily traveling fifty yards farther than Mandy’s balls. The contrast between the two women was striking. Mandy, in her perfect golf attire, with a swing as smooth as silk, displayed what years of lessons can buy. Jody, in her white polo shirt and khaki-colored capris, had the natural power and ease of the born athlete, with her tremendous body rotation and a release move that caused the ball to snap off the face of the club.
“Who’s that wild child, Rick?” Mandy asked the head pro as he walked up to join the interview session. “Not one of ah ladies. Is she a guest?”
“That’s Mrs. Benson, Jody Benson," Rick said. “She and her husband, Derrick, the guy next to her, are the new Junior Members. Word has it that she played here as a girl and was a ranked college golfer. All before my time. Her parents are members, but they don’t seem to play much golf. Just use the club for the social, mostly.”
“Well, I’ve just got to meet her. We do need some new blood in ah ladies group, now don’t we? But not until ah darling Michelle is through with us.” Mandy put an arm around the writer’s thick waist and gave it a squeeze.
In the stall past Jody and Derrick, a middle-aged man with a penguin-shaped physique and a clerical collar fastened to the top of his golf shirt was hitting irons. He took a break from finessing his perfectly timed golf swing to meet the new couple.
“Excuse me, but you folks must be the new Junior Members we’ve been hearing so much about,” he said to Jody. “I’m Father Norm O’Malley of the All Saints Church over in Encino.”
"Pleased to meet you, Father." Jody extended her hand for a shake. “I’m Jody Benson and this is my husband, Derrick.”
“Wow!” Father Norm exclaimed. “You surely inherited your grandpa’s green eyes, young lady. I had the privilege of playing with Forrest Wheeler a few times when I was a new member way back when. What a delightful man! Great golfer too, of course!”
Father Norman O’Malley was the beneficiary of what golf clubs call a Courtesy Membership, a perk given to a select handful of local public leaders, such as police officers and fire chiefs, and church officials. In exchange for golf and social privileges, the Courtesy Members give input and add assistance with community-related matters that impact the club. The fact that Father Norm was at Bellstone 24/7, and it was a rare event that he could be found at the church, was the subject of much whispering among the membership, as well as the church’s congregation.
As Father Norm resumed his practice, he seemed to wince at the sound of a loud southern drawl behind him. “I just have to meet this excitin’ new couple!” Mandy exclaimed as she and Rick approached.
“Jody and Derrick . . . meet Mandy Manville, our woman’s club champion,” Rick said.
"Pleased to meet you, Mandy, said Jody as the two women shook hands. "And congrats on all the championship wins! Nine in a row—wow!"
“Well I’m sure you know how the game goes,” said Mandy. “The golf gods give, and the golf gods take away.”
“They do indeed,” said Jody, sounding a bit melancholy.
“Hey, I can’t begin to tell you how thrilled I am to have another golfing lady here at ole Bellstone. The moah the merriah, I aways say.”
“Well, thanks,” Jody started to say. “I don’t know if I’ll be—”
Are ya’ll coming to the dinner-dance tomorra night?” Mandy interrupted. “If so, please sit with us! We’ve got seats at the president’s table. And I undastand your parents are membas heah too, Jody. How ‘bout if you ask them to join us?”
“Thanks, but I think we’ll have to pass,” Jody said. “I’ve got a report to finish this weekend that I have to—”
“Report? What report?” Derrick asked his wife.
“I mentioned that, babe. For the Senate subcommittee? About the effect of global warming on California waterfowl?
"Well, that’s perfect!” Mandy exclaimed. “The white birds in that lake over thah are the theme of the party! It’ll be right up your alley!”
“Well not exactly,” said Jody. “But I guess I can find time for some fun.”
“That’s my girl,” Derrick chimed in, giving his wife a kiss.
“Super!” Mandy clapped her hands together. “See y’all tomorrow night then. Wear some comfy dancing shoes, now Jody, ya heah?”
When Jody and Derrick walked off, Father Norm turned to Mandy. “Mrs. Manville must be tickled pink to have a lady who can hit the ball a mile join the club just two months before her big championship,” he snickered. “Something tells me you’ll make sure that girl will not be playing this year.”
“You’ve got some nerve, Norman. Mooching off those of us who pay good money to play at this club, and then you insult us,” Mandy hissed at the priest. “Don’t you have some altar boys to fondle?”
“As you’re well-aware, that’s far from being my style,” he said with a smile, before he teed up a ball and banged it to the far end of the range with his driver.
“Those of you old enough to remember this little ditty of ours are definitely… old! A one, two, three: ‘I thought love was only true in fairy tales, meant for someone else but not for me. Love was out to get me. That’s the way it seems. Disappointment haunted all my dreams.’”
On the second Saturday in May, the Bellstone dining room was decked out for the gala named in honor of the birds whose annual migration to the Wheeler Garden Lake signaled the beginning of spring for the club. Beneath the bandstand’s “White Trumpet Crane Spring Fling” banner, the members were dancing to the tunes of the 1960s group, The Monkees.
"Comfy dancing shoes? Did I hear wrong?" Jody asked Derrick while the two were dancing. Jody had spotted Mandy standing and chatting at the bar wearing pointed peep toed sandals with five-inch-high-heels. Her robust cleavage that burst forth from a form-fitting Versace dress had caught the attention of every man in the room.
Not far from the bandstand, Mandy’s husband Monty was sipping his second margarita at the President’s Table, that included Jody’s parents, along with the members of the Bellstone Board and their spouses. Several bottles of French wine from the club’s cellar were being opened by servers in crisp white uniforms and poured into crystal glasses.
“Well, yes, I am old, and I do remember The Monkees and their songs,” Jody’s mom, Stacy Stafford told those at the table. “And those fellows are not The Monkees. Davy Jones was the head of the band, and he’s dead.”
“My talented and dear wife, Hope, can fill you in on that one,” board member Bradley Watchtower, told Stacy. “She’s the one who organized this shindig and hired the band.”
“These fellows aren’t the real Monkees,” explained Hope. “The surviving members of the original group have franchised the rights to their name and songs to other performers. Lots of those old groups have done that.”
“Don’t say that word old!” Mandy warned, as she sat down and pointed to Derrick and Jody who were walking to the table from the dance floor. “You’re remindin’ our new baby membas here that they’re sittin’ with a bunch of geezers. These twenty-somethin’s must think I’m ready for Sunset Hills at thirty-five,” she added, as a server topped off the glass in her hand with more wine.
“Feel free to argue that point with my wife,” Monty told the others. “You’ll make her evening by not agreeing with her.”
"Oh shush, Monty," said Mandy, as she thrust an elbow in her husband’s ribs. "Can’t remember the last time I argued with anyone at this club. Plus, everyone knows I’m about the most agreeable person out on that golf course—thanks to my southern upbringin’. She stood up and began to tap her water glass with a spoon. “Heah, heah y’all! I’d like to make a toast to our brand new, adorable arrivals, Derrick and Jody! Welcome to Bellstone, you two!”
“Welcome Derrick and Jody!” the others at the table called out, holding their glasses toward the couple.
“Thanks so much everyone,” said Derrick, as goblets of red and white wine touched and emitted a series of clinks.
Mandy sat down and took a long sip of her Cabernet. “And girls . . .” she looked to Hope and Newt Sizemore’s wife Noreen, “. . . we just have to convince little Jody to become a membah of our women’s golfing group.”
“Of course!” said the two women in unison, as they nodded their heads in approval. “Hey Jody, how about joining us this Tuesday for a little game and lunch?” Noreen suggested.
“Thanks for the invite,” said Jody, and she grabbed and stroked the ponytail she’d fashioned on one side of her shoulder. “But I’m a working girl. Besides, I haven’t been out on a golf course for years. You wouldn’t want me holding you up out there. I’m afraid your lunch might turn into a dinner.”
“C’mon hon,” Derrick chimed in. “Playing golf is like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never forget. Anyway, you’ve got a slew of vacation days coming to you. Go out there and have some fun with these ladies. Do it for me . . . please?”
“Alright, just for you,” Jody agreed. “I’ll play with the girls on Tuesday. But you’re on your own tomorrow. I’d like to spend some time down at the lake here so I can see how those trumpet cranes are faring. Some crazy things are going on with those poor birds. Plus, I’ve gotta get my preliminary draft out to Senator Feinstein on Monday.”
“Deal!” Derrick put out his hand for her to shake.
“Are you against making a little wager on the course, Benson?” Newt asked Derrick.
“I’ve been known to roll the dice now and again,” Derrick replied with a grin that produced a pair of impish dimples.
“We’re looking for a fourth for tomorrow’s game. Tee off at eight-thirty.”
“I’ll be there!” the younger man assured the president.
Stacy turned to Noreen and spoke in a low voice. “Thanks for inviting Jody out with you ladies. Ya know my dad started bringing her here as a little girl. The golf gene must have skipped a generation because I stunk at it. But my daughter took to the game like a duck to water. It brought her grandfather such joy to teach her. I only wish she’d stop blaming herself for what happened and get back on the course—Forrest would want that.”
Ray Stafford nudged his daughter. “Hey Jody, honey—when can you lasso that husband of yours away from his office and take him out to the beach house for a weekend? We’d love to get him aboard The Mulligan.”
“I’ll try my best, Dad,” said Jody. “Can’t promise anything too soon, though. That boss of his has been on the warpath lately—Derrick hasn’t had much time for fun.”
Two servers arrived at the table to present each guest with a large plate holding filet mignon, roasted potatoes, and asparagus topped with hollandaise sauce. Newt signaled for one of the waiters to fill the crystal glasses of those at the table from a magum of 2006 Opus One Cabernet that he’d ordered from the club’s expansive leather-bound wine list.
Jody nudged her husband. “This wine gotta be costing a fortune! Who’s paying the tab on these bottles?”
“The prez probably gets a great deal on the booze here,” Derrick whispered back. “Just enjoy yourself, hon! It’s all a write-off for us anyway.”
Newt turned to the red haired freckled faced Monty Manville. “So, tell me Red, how’re your Guard Rite guys doing with the installs?”
“As of tonight, the cameras are live in the pro shop and the bag room," Monty told him before he drained his glass of the remaining margarita. "The men’s and ladies locker room are next on the list.”
“Great! And be sure to tell those fellas that if the cameras catch any hot broads showering in the ladies locker room, the club president needs to review the footage!” He rose from the table. “Would you all excuse me if I made a visit to the little boy’s room? And I need to borrow my partners in crime for a moment if I may.”
Having consumed far more than his usual two glasses of wine, Monty was a unsteady on his feet as he and Bradley followed the president into the men’s room. Once inside, Newt checked under the doors of stalls to make sure they were alone. “What’s up Newt?” asked Bradley.
“Our money woes are about to become a distant memory, fellas. The wine cellar project shall be fully funded after all!”
“The only way to found it . . . to fund it, is to access . . . is to assess the membership,” insisted Monty. Even in his inebriated state, he could smell one of Newt’s get-rich-quick schemes a mile away.
“No need, Red,” said Newt. “Got the lowdown on tonight’s fight from Shorty Columbo. Lopez is taking a dive in the third. And Shorty’s sources are golden. We take the 200 grand sitting in that no interest bearing account, and bingo! We’ll triple our bet and take a nice chunk of the profits for our own pockets. All with a quick phone call to my man, Pete.”
"No, nope, don’t like it—don’t like it at all," Monty shook his head, while he grabbed the lavatory counter to steady himself. "Gotta be illegal to gamble with a club’s treasury. And I don’t wanna be writing a check for 200 grand to your bookie on Monday morning. Plus, why would you trust Shorty? Everyone knows he’s been on the warpath since you stole . . . I mean won . . . the election. Nope, I smell a rabbit . . . a raccoon . . . I mean a rat."
“But think about it, Red—if you’re in any condition to do so,” Bradley began. “The only guy who logs more hours on this golf course than Father O’Malley is Shorty Columbo. Ya think he’s gonna risk his membership here by screwing with the Board? Plus, I’ll bet he’s already been bragging to his hotshot Vegas gang about that new wine cellar. I say place the bet. We’ll find a creative way to fund the treasury when the cash comes in.”
“And what if Shorty’s wrong, and we’re out the money?” Monty cried. “What are ya two gonna do then?”
“Not gonna happen, Red—no way,” Newt assured the treasurer.
A sober Monty would have killed the plan then and there. But his drunken state had killed all resolve to butt heads with Newt.
The men returned to the dinner table during a break in the music. Newt rose from his chair, tugged at the collar of his dress shirt to allow more room for his ever-expanding neck, trotted up to the stage, and took the microphone.
“Good evening my fellow members! I hope you’re all enjoying the marvelous food at this always wonderful event here at Bellstone. Now, I’d like to make a special toast to the lady who’ll be playing her little heart out in just a few short months in the Cialis Pro-Am, to be aired on network television and seen in hundreds of countries around the world. But, before I do, I want to remind all of you who plan to cheer Mandy on at St. Andrews Golf Course in Scotland to book your flights and hotel rooms ASAP so you don’t miss out on the fun. Now, please raise your glasses to the golfer soon to be crowned our Bellstone Woman Club Champion for the tenth year in a row, Mandy Manville!”
The crowd broke out in applause and whistles as Mandy stood and raised her glass of wine in the air. She wiped a tear from her eye and downed what remained in the glass. The room erupted with chants of “speech, speech, speech, speech,” while she made her way to the stage where Newt handed her the microphone. She looked around the now silent room.
“Fa fa fa friends . . . my deah, deah fellah membas . . .” Mandy uttered, before pausing to wipe another tear from her cheek. She sniffled, wiped her nose with her cocktail napkin, and spoke again. "My deah friends and fella membas. Havin’ had the honah of being your club champion these past nine yeahs has been the most rewardin’ chapta of my life. And with the golf gods willin’, I shall proudly represent each one of you come Octobah. But I must warn y’all, my game is a bit rusty right now, and I’ve got my work cut out for me to get it, as they say, ‘match ready’. So please wish me luck on that. Now, do enjoy the rest of this wondahful evening.”
The audience chanted “Mandy! Mandy! Mandy!” as the champion paraded back to her table with breasts thrust forward.
“My heart is thumpin’ right out of my chest,” she told her dining companions when she took her seat. She then placed a hand between her partially exposed bosoms that were still heaving from the rush of excitement and took a moment to catch her breath. "And y’all can trust me, my game is rusty. This yeah’s championship could go to any one of our golfin’ gals.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about us stealing your title,” Noreen assured the club champion as Hope nodded in agreement.
“Oh, don’t be so negative, Reeny. You know as well as anyone heah that golf is mostly a state of mind.” After finishing another glass of wine, Mandy checked her diamond encrusted Tiffany watch. “Now if y’all can excuse me for a moment, I have to grab something from the bag room.” She gave her inebriated husband a peck on the cheek and made her way from the table.
Hope kept her eyes on Mandy as she exited the dining room. “You must thank the good Lord every day, Mr. President, for blessing our club with a golfer as talented as that lady,” she told Newt with an almost religious reverence.
Ignoring the woman, Newt craned his head towards the oversized TV screen in the bar. From where he sat, he could see color commentator Jim Lampley doing pre-fight analysis at the MGM Grand Arena in Las Vegas. Men were gathering near the screen to watch the Lopez/Guillermo fight that would begin in the next twenty minutes. Newt glanced over at another table, where Shorty Columbo gave him a ‘thumbs up’ sign and mouthed the word “payback” to the president.
“Newtie,” Noreen Sizemore said in a lowered voice, “Don’t tell me you bet our money on another fight, baby boy.”
"No, Nor," Newt told his wife as he took one look back at the giant screen that showed the fighters warming up. He then rose from his seat and muttered, "not our money", while he headed for the door to the parking lot with a cell phone to his ear.
“What are the odds tonight, Pete?” the president asked his bookmaker.
“Five to three, Mr. Sizemore. Lopez is still the crowd’s golden boy. He was looking like a killing machine in the training ring. More than ever these past few days.”
“Put 200G on Guillermo for me.”
“Guillermo? He’s a rookie! You sure about that? Unless you know somethin’ I don’t.”
“Just place the bet for me, Pete.”
“You got it, sir. You’re a valued customer, so if things go sour, I’ll give you til noon Monday to pay up. Just lettin’ ya know, Mr. Sizemore.”
Newt returned to the clubhouse, confident that in just a few minutes, his headaches over that wine cellar project would be history. He made his way towards the bar that was now filling up with members anxious to watch the most anticipated heavyweight match of the past five years. At nine o’clock sharp, ring announcer Jim Lampley introduced the fight.
Ladies and gentlemen . . . from the MGM Grand Arena in Las Vegas . . . the 2011 World Heavyweight Championship! In the red corner, weighing 180 pounds . . . he hails from Atlanta, Georgia and was rated by many as the best pound for pound boxer of the last decade. With 35 wins, 25 of them coming by the way of knockout, and only 3 defeats, he is, the former middleweight champion, former, super middle weight champion, former light heavyweight champion, and defending HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD, Louie Lopez.
From the blue corner, weighing 200 pounds, a relative newcomer making headlines here to claim his title. He’s been battling his way into the boxing world over the last 15 months with 6 wins and no defeats, “the avenger from Denver” Manny Guillermo!
“Yeah, ’the avenger from Denver’! That’s my Manny!” Newt roared in triumph.
For the first two rounds, Lopez displayed the definite advantage by assaulting his opponent with lightning fast jabs. The rookie appeared to be no match for the furious fists and springy steps of his opponent, causing to Newt to fear that he’d made a terrible mistake. Mario the bartender took one look at the president’s face and handed him his double Daniels.
When the bell signaled round three, the crowd hooted at the action in the ring, but the president was too nervous to breathe. With eyes glued the screen, he stood fixed as Jim Lampley resumed his commentary.
“Left hook from Lopez—on a mission to search and destroy— Guillermo on the offensive with counterpunching. Lopez is pure firepower. One more combination for Guillermo. Guillermo taking a beating down the stretch— hell of an assault. Big punch from Lopez to punctuate the third round. But Guillermo comes alive and makes a powerful move to show he’s a force.”
“Here he comes!” screamed Newt. “That’s what Shorty was talkin’ about!”
Down goes Lopez on a straight left hand! What a turnaround! After dominating the ring, Lopez may be down for the count in round three of this fight— looks like a stunning win for Guillermo!”
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Sweet fuckin A!” Newt’s voice thundered through the crowd as he raised his fists toward the ceiling in triumph.
Then, like a bolt of lightning, Lopez sprung to his feet, as if mocking his opponent.
“It’s not over! Lopez is up and comes back with a perfect shot! Holy cow! Guillermo is down! Could be lights out for Guillermo!
At the ref counted the seconds, a stunned and confused Newt turned to Shorty for answers. The president’s longtime enemy smiled and mouthed the words "payback”.
“It is lights out!” screamed Lampley. “Guillermo is down for the count! Lopez has indeed proven himself to be the KILLER!”
~~~~~~
“Who’s the killer? Who’s the killer? who’s the killer?” a woman’s voice demanded amidst the rhythmic rocking of the metal shelves in the darkness of the Bellstone golf bag storage room. Though the voice was that of Mandy Manville’s, the accent was distinctly New Jersey.
“And who’s gonna beat the bitches here and become the ten-time club champion of Bellstone?” the voice raged, as she commanded her partner to answer her question.
“You will Mrs. Manville! You will!" the panting bag room attendant agreed.
“And who’s gonna make those bitches back in Bayonne sorry for being so bad?”
“You will, Mrs. Manville! You will!”
“Who’s the killer? Who’s the killer? Who’s the killer?”
“You are Mrs. Manville! You’re going to take them all down and go on to win the tournament in Scotland with the world watching,” the boy assured the woman.
“Oh yeah! Oh Yeah! Oh yeaaaaaahhhhhh!” cried Mandy as the screaming reached a crescendo before all was silent for a good thirty seconds.
"Mrs. Manville? Mrs. Manville? Are you okay?" But the only sound to be heard from the woman was a soft snoring. The combination of wine and sex had caused Mandy to fall into a deep sleep.
Jorge made use of the moment to get the results of the fight on the TV bolted to the bag room wall. He was a huge fan of Louie Lopez and had been looking forward all year to watching the fighter defend his title. Though Mrs. Manville had interrupted him at the worst possible moment, the hardworking Latino would never disappoint a lady who handed him a crisp twenty-dollar bill on a regular basis. He looked over at the sleeping woman wedged between a row of golf bags on the shelf. Through the snores, her body twitched as she yelped like a dog in the middle of a dream.
Then the cries began. “Drop me off here, Mommy. Drop me off here. I don’t want them to see me in the old Pontiac. Please Mommy, please!”
“Mrs. Manville! Mrs. Manville—are you awake?” The bag boy gently shook Mandy’s shoulders. “Time to get back to the party—Mr. Manville must be wondering where you are.”
“Ahhh—where am I? Oh, Jorge! Must’a dozed off for a minute.” She twisted her body as she struggled to pull her skintight dress back down over her hips and thighs, taking no notice of the tiny infra-red light pointing at her—one of the new features of her husband’s security upgrades.
“And Jorge . . . be sure to have my clubs cleaned and waiting at the counter for my eight a.m. tee time with Mrs. Benson and the other ladies on Tuesday. And don’t forget to lock this place up tight. There’s been some theft around here, and I don’t want to lose my brand-new Lady’s Big Bertha.”