***
"Welcome to Golf Federal de Carthage." Karim announced, bouncing from the front seat onto the flower-and-shrub lined walkway and flinging open the back door.
"The Carthage links," I whispered, tipping my hat to Karim. "Well done."
"It is Hasan who deserves praise."
"And the final drive?" Pat shielded the sun from his eyes with a raised hand.
"She meant hole eighteen. It must be hidden somewhere near the tee." My excitement exceeded even that which I experienced when participating in the Faithful Hill CC pro-member tournament each September. I started toward the clubhouse to gather a course map.
"Hold on, boyo," Karim placed his hand on my chest. "Khalid speaks the language here, what ho? It is his membership. He is a board of director. Besides, there is no playing through. We need exemption to hop on number eighteen."
"Pat, why don't you inquire with the reservation desk to see if a certain party has arrived," I suggested. "Certainly that's permissible, eh Karim?"
"Off with you now. Hustle back!" Karim followed Pat's departure, then smiled at the arrival a hulking behemoth sporting a Miami Dolphin gandora. "This is Mr. Hannibal, our special exception. He has a love affair with the ocean, right? Good morning, good sir!" The newcomer nodded and remained grimfaced, the blue-and-orange logo of the leaping marine animal stylishly accented by his matching sunglasses.
"Mr. Hannibal certainly creates a level of comfort."
"As long as you come through for Khalid, you are safe, Horn. The minute you bodge the deal, Mr. Hannibal cancels your contract. Will not be pretty."
"Fair enough." What else could I say? Pacing the driveway as though a rash were burning up the back of my legs, I nearly leapt over Karim when Pat reappeared. "What's the news, friend?"
"The Loo party teed off about twenty minutes ago. They should be finishing up on the second green about now."
"Without being able to play through gives us two hours, at least. Did you --"
"A foursome headed by Brat, accompanied by a man whose description fits Bridgework."
"Let's assume the other two are Moeziz and a Holstein." I chewed on my lip waiting for Khalid and Hasan to return. "Assume the flash drive is on eighteen, somewhere between the tee box and the green. Any ideas?"
"Eliminate the cup and the flagstick." Pat quickly echoed my exact thought.
"Right. The position of the hole is transitory. And someone could walk off with the pin at any time. We have to focus on a permanent fixture or marking."
"What about the other part of the clue. Tunis. Two knees?" Pat stooped to tap his legs. "Or tune us, perhaps."
I shook my head. "Toonies? Cartoons."
"Where out here would you find --"
"Wordplay, friend. Listen. Sinut? Yes nut? Sin yoo tee?"
"This is going nowhere, Baron."
"Wait, Pat. Think about it, the message is backwards. The city, the location, the specific sight. Tunis. Carthage Links. Final drive. Logically, what would come next?"
"The person it's addressed to. You. Baron."
"That's right, Baron."
"Wordplay." Pat scratched his head. "Bar on."
"Look for a bar on the final fairway, Pat. Let's go!"
We sprinted around the eighteenth green with Karim shouting at us to stop before he joined in the footrace, keeping to the row of shrubs on the left as a foursome prepared to hit their approach shots. They paid no attention as we dogtrotted past, slowing our pace and scanning the ground as though searching for a misplaced club.
"You two! So wrong!" Karim chastised us between labored histrionics of catching his breath. "You should wait for Khalid!"
"No more waiting, Karim," I firmly replied, estimating our distance from the eighteenth tee. "This is far too important for club protocol. Khalid will have to understand."
"Not so sure, Horn."
"Too bad." I was in no mood for implicit statements. "Pat, the one hundred fifty yard marker to the right of the tree."
"I'm on it."
While I strolled out onto the fairway, pretending to look for a misplayed ball in order to delay the next group teeing off, my young colleague dropped to one knee and pulled at the rectangular-shaped slate gray sign imbedded firmly in the lush turf. "It seems to be fastened onto something heavy."
"Concentrate. Look for a latch or release." I waved at the distant group and shrugged my shoulders, holding up my hand as though requesting an additional moment of search time. "Maybe a hinge or slide."
"Got it! A bar on the bottom front." He pushed a piece of the signage to one side, exposing a small cavity. "Behold the Tunis CerebStix."
"Grab it and go."
I waved my arm windmill style, indicating the fairway was now open for play. Without comment, Karim took the lead with Pat between us as we loped along the slight incline of the fairway back to the clubhouse, sticking close to the hedges now on our right. We reached the green just as the exiting group finished putting out and, amid their handshakes and backslapping with one another, a most curious sight rose from the lip of the far bunker. Bridgework, Moeziz, Brat and Staple dismounted their haphazardly parked carts and, drawing clubs saber-like from their bags, brought their attention to bear on our line of travel. "To the right, boys! Down the drive!"
Karim broke into a sprint of impressive velocity while Pat and I, winded from the foray down and back, redirected ourselves to the obvious escape route quickly closed off by the irate foursome. "You've had it now, Skeet Burnisher!" Staple's yelp of well-deserved revenge was instantly recognizable to my ears.
Like a rugby ball, Pat lateraled the flash drive into my hand seconds before the scrum commenced, diving so he took down the two lead aggressors, Bridgework and Staple. The gandora's double-stitched hem constricted the length of my stride, making me an easy target to tackle for the remaining opposition. Down we went in a heap and, much out of the norm of rugby rules, Moeziz slammed his barely used cleek on the back of my hand as Brat's foot became hung up in the bottom of my garb while he attempted to knee me in the groin.
"Give it up, Baron!"
I clenched the CerebStix in the palm of my hand while struggling to fend off blows from the iron club. On a positive note, I managed to scissor-grip Brat's leg and flip the small Frenchman to one side.
"One last chance before I chop your hand off!"
Before I had time to consider the outcome of his directive, Brat -- playing out of a tough lie -- struck the back of my noggin squarely with his mashie niblick just as Moeziz drove the cleek into my metacarpals. The reflex to protect my head trumped my desire to retain the flash drive. I threw the miniature storage device away from me and turned my attention to Brat's backswing, thankful he was unable to follow through a second time.
"I've got it!" Moeziz's cry was followed by three rapid bursts of gunfire.
"Grab von dek Horn, too!"
Brat ditched his fairway stick and grappled with my kicking legs, ripping my prized gandora in the process. I drew my knees to my chest and launched a mighty mule kick into his midsection, sending Brat tumbling backwards clutching a handful of torn cloth. Before he could recover, Mr. Hannibal arrived on scene to dispatch the disrespectful French golfer with a blow to the top of the head.
"Pat!" My throbbing hand felt the knot forming on the peak of my skull as I rolled onto my knees.
"I'm good. One to the foot, is all." He rocked on his back like an overturned turtle, grasping his left ankle. "That peckerwood Bridgework!" The squeal of tires from the parking lot foretold of the trio's departure, along with the CerebStix that was once in my possession.
"Dammit!" With three of the four flash drives now held by Bridgework -- not to mention Angel and Stinky -- dissolved any leverage I hoped to wield.
"What's the matter with you?" Pat grunted.
"We're deeper in the hole than ever before."
"Here, I need a cane. Hand me that iron, would you?"
Khalid arrived with Hasan. Cowering behind them, several m
embers of management gawked at the chaotic scene. Khalid barked orders at Mr. Hannibal who, without hesitation, jammed the unconscious Brat into the crevice of the nearby hedgerow. "You were impatient," Khalid rebuked me. "In just a few minutes, the greenskeeper would have done your work."
"Indeed, it played out unfavorably," I said sheepishly, helping Pat to a standing position. "I might as well have just handed it to him."
"You tore your Saint gandora and ran off Karim." These developments proved more upsetting to Khalid. "Your friend gets scratch, too."
"Totally bungled," I agreed, fearful Pat's foot bled at a heavier rate than first thought. "A complete botch job."
"Chin up," a voice called from the green, "today I broke ninety for the first time."
"Here come Karim." Khalid nodded at the blue Mercedes sedan circling the parking lot. "Get foot wrapped tight, no blood in car. Hospital for him. France for you."
"The sooner the better, Khalid. I am certainly sorry for --"
"No words now," he said, holding up his hand. "Action only."
I clinched my fist in frustration and issued an execration only Pat could hear.
"Baron, it's so unlike you to curse."
"A bitter pill to dry swallow, Pat. Not only did they turn the table on me, they proceeded to run the damned thing, then flip it over on their way out the door."
"It's not all that bad," Pat said, his injury having little impact upon his good-natured spirit, "after all, you still have this." He tossed me a CerebStix flash drive.
"What in the world? Is this the --"
"I borrowed a page from you book, professor. We won't want to be around when Bridgework discovers his version contains the complete works of William Shakespeare. In French."
"Brilliant, my boy!" Now it was my turn to be on the offensive. "Khalid! Shake a leg! I've got a mission to finish!"
Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 50