by James Ross
“We’re almost home, sweetheart. PGA Tour, here we come!”
“Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched. A lot can happen between now and the end of the day. C’mon, J Dub, stay within yourself!” Marcia was getting anxious.
J Dub had been on a tear. He had recorded four birdies on the back nine and stormed onto the leader board. “Knock it on the green, two putts, and the field can’t catch us.”
“Keep your mind on what you’re doing. The other stuff can follow,” Marcia warned.
“This is a dream come true, Hon!” J Dub could hardly control his emotions.
The optimistic mood changed suddenly as they approached the ball. In the middle of the manicured fairway was a deep, ugly divot. Lodged against the side of the divot was a golf ball covered in mud.
“Damn! Can you believe that crap?” J Dub said disgustedly. He was livid as he bent over to study the lie. “How can they not fix this, Marcia?”
Trying to make a positive situation out of a negative one, Marcia replied, “Maybe they were planning on putting a sprinkler head in there.”
“Yeah, right,” J Dub seethed. “And they thought they oughta dig up the course the week of the tournament. Some dumb, lazy caddy wasn’t doing his job.” J Dub’s mood had darkened considerably with the turn of events and he felt his confidence slowly evaporating.
“At least you thought it was a ‘he’ that screwed up,” she joked. Marcia was trying to keep things as light as possible.
“Let’s try to figure out if we’re as close to qualifying as we think we are,” J Dub blurted impatiently. He wanted to know exactly where they were in the tournament. The top twenty players qualified for their Tour cards.
A nearby scoreboard showed that SCHROEDER was nineteen under par for the tournament through seventeen holes for the day. J Dub saw that he was tied with ten other players at nineteen under par. That was good enough for eleventh place. An entire slew of names sat at eighteen under par.
“Par gets us in, Sweetie. A bogey puts us on the bubble,” he said. J Dub was trying hard to lift his spirits.
Marcia affectionately spoke to him in a lighthearted manner to keep him loose. “Now’s not the time to make a dumbass move and burst that bubble.” She tried to coax a grin out of him as she reached into his bag for a club. It was important for her to keep him as relaxed as possible. “Here’s your nine-iron,” she suggested.
J Dub stopped, paused, and contemplated. He grabbed the yardage book out of his back pocket and studied it intently. “That’s not enough to get us there,” he decided.
“Yeah, but it will get you safely out of that hole.” Marcia was not a gambler. She wanted to take a sure thing.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to depend on getting the ball up and down for a par.” J Dub strained his eyes. He stared at the green. He tried to call upon every ounce of experience to make an intelligent decision under the stressful conditions. “We’ve only got one shot at getting on the Tour. We have to keep the pedal on the floor. Give me my four-iron. I’ll get it on the green.”
“It sounds like you are bound and determined to make that dumbass move.”
“It’s called talent, Sweetie,” J Dub said confidently as Marcia bit her tongue. “I’m the player. I’ll make the decisions.” Marcia intuitively knew that it was time to shut up. She remained tight-lipped even though she felt that J Dub was rushing through the shot. She held her breath and said a prayer for him. It was time for J Dub to commit to the next swing. “I don’t want any second guessing out here,” he stressed.
With that, J Dub grabbed his four-iron. He stood over the ball, went through his mental checklist, and readied himself for the toughest shot of his life. All of the years of grooving his swing were condensed into a single instant. As he started the club in motion he caught the ground on his backswing ever so gently. The by-product of stubbing the earth caused his hips to release too early. J Dub came over the top with his swing and pull-hooked the ball in a direction that wasn’t near the green. When he made contact he knew that he had hit the ball out of bounds. “No! No! No! Stay on the course! You lousy . . . rotten . . . son of a . . .”
J Dub slumped over. “Damn!”
He couldn’t believe it. He felt physically ill as he glanced at Marcia and hung his head in his hands. The moment seemed surreal. He had practiced and played so hard to get to this point. The finality of his playing career had just sunk in. His lifelong dream had vanished . . . all in the blink of an eye.
Marcia, racked with disappointment, reached into the bag and grabbed another ball.
J Dub was heartbroken. “I guess we’re going to find out now how well I handle adversity. There aren’t any more holes out here to make up for that error in judgment.”
Chapter Three
The Treasure Chest—A Few Months Earlier On the Banks of the Mississippi River, August 1983 . . .
The Treasure Chest was a seedy little strip joint where four men had chosen to celebrate the landing of a huge account. It was fitting that they chose a converted Butler building that sat on river bottom ground near the banks of the Mississippi. The joint had beer-soaked carpet, creaking chairs and tables, a small stage in its middle and a bar prominently displayed along the side with cigarette butts mounded in each of the ashtrays. The musty odor of sweat and stale perfume permeated the air as the slow-moving ceiling fans whirred in their attempt to cool off another sticky, sultry night.
Each of the four men was a small-time operator living on the perimeter of St. Louis. The Illinois side of the river was littered with numerous small towns, each possessing a distinct and unique identity that reflected German heritage. Many of these villages were quaint little hamlets that had established a sister-city relationship with towns in Germany. These connections had arisen due to the scores of German immigrants that had originally settled on the east side of St. Louis. Walter, George, Lew, and Monty did business on the east side of the river while living in the shadows of the bigger players in the city. Plus these four found that the state of Illinois was fertile ground that allowed them to operate in any fashion that they wanted.
One of the men, Walter Hancock, was in his early forties and looked about as boring as his chosen profession of accounting. He wore glasses that seemed to find themselves tucked into several g-strings on this particular night. Looking as out of place as a virgin in a whorehouse, Walter over-indulged and boasted about how he had struck an agreement with Vern Morton to take over the books of his empire earlier in the week.
Vern had earned a nickname “Goldie” as he had done very well in life and seemingly, everything he touched turned to gold. He had negotiated contracts for railroads when real estate development caught his eye. When the World War II baby-boomers were growing up, Vern was building subdivisions and cities for their parents.
Real estate is like a lot of things in life. Once you meet with a little success, it can become addictive. Vern didn’t have a few little triumphs. He had a lot of major victories. Sometimes it’s called the winner’s touch. And, real estate became his addiction.
Vern parlayed his vast fortune and golden touch across the country. If he wasn’t buying raw acreage and renting back to farmers, he was buying apartment buildings, shopping malls, or hotels. In his heyday, Vern Morton was the man around town. He wanted to be in all of the real estate deals. However, he was starting to slow down, which was natural for a man over seventy.
At any rate, Walter had met Vern a few years back at a charity bridge function. Vern loved to play cards and was a very aggressive bidder. More often than not, he possessed the card-table savvy to bring the contract home.
On the specific night that they met, Walter was Vern’s partner due to a blind draw regulation that the rules of the game required. Just because they had not played together before was no reason for Vern to back away from his traditional playing style.
The cards were dealt and Vern immediately realized that this particular hand could be the prize hand of the night
. Not one to shy away from a challenge, Vern pushed the bidding to a grand slam contract in spades.
The only trouble was that Walter was going to have to play the hand. Once the dummy cards were laid down, it was fairly obvious that the contract was going to be defeated. But Walter, using his skill with numbers, figured out a way to make the bid. The rest was history as they say. He became Vern’s bridge partner from that moment forward.
Their relationship blossomed. Walter gained Vern’s trust, and Vern turned over the affairs of his estate to Walter.
And with that, came a victory celebration at The Treasure Chest.
Three local buddies joined Walter to celebrate his coup. They were George Pierce, Lewferd E. Zerrmann, and Maurice DiMonte. Maurice went by the shortened version of his last name, Monty.
George was in his late thirties and looked like a slimeball in spite of his mediocre credentials. He had gotten his law degree from a state college, which guaranteed him a career either as an ambulance chaser or as a two-bit lawyer for an insurance company. He had a penchant for chocolate snacks and had the fat ass and pudgy belly to vouch for it. George favored starched shirts, the tan European look, and a gold pinky ring squeezed onto his sausage-like finger. His black hair was greasy and slicked back. He looked like a bad imitation of a used car salesman.
Anybody trusting this guy had to have their head examined.
But George was one of those guys that always landed on his feet somehow. He was a smooth talker and had the business sense to always stay one step ahead. It was a very polished technique that he knew would serve him well.
As luck would have it, George’s older brother, Norman was a local homebuilder. George was quick to realize that if Norman sold homes as fast as he could build them, then it stood to reason that the buyers would need a place to close the deal.
So, with the builders’ funds and George’s degree, a title company was born. George’s fate as a two-bit insurance company lawyer had been realized. He and his brother hooked up with a reputable lawyer and ran some bodies through the doors while getting numerous complaints about excessive closing fees.
George knew that he would need someone to do his books. He knew of Walter and his talent with numbers and struck a relationship with him. It didn’t hurt that they both had a fondness for naked women that would dance on their faces. After all, The Treasure Chest was known for some male bonding through the years. They thought that it was a far more entertaining place to gather for lunch than a restaurant.
Another member of the group was man by the name of Lewferd E. Zerrmann. This guy was nothing more than a big fish in a little pond that wore a mechanic’s uniform with “Lew” embroidered over the shirt pocket. He was as self-assured and cocky as a banty rooster. Never mind that he was relatively short in stature, Lew had a swagger and a misguided perception that women loved him. He never picked up on the fact that the women who paid him attention were working for tips. After all, the stripper straddling Lew knows that her lap dance will be more lucrative if she is quick with a compliment regarding the magnitude of his manhood.
Some of the strippers even made bets with each other to see who could get the biggest tip out of Lew. Telling lies to pay the rent was as natural to the girls as breathing. But, for Lew, he devoured the lies much like a starving man wolfing food. Yet, the lies were as substantive as cotton candy upon his tongue.
It wasn’t the glamorous job, Hollywood good-looks, or dozens of cheap gold-tinted chains around his neck that solicited attention. Lew owned an auto body repair shop. The store wasn’t a chick magnet and most assuredly, nor was he. It was the word around town that Lew may have his hands on more than strippers.
A few years back, Lew’s father had passed away. The will instructed the executor of the estate to title a thousand acres of ground fifty-fifty to Lew and his sister. It just so happened that this acreage was situated on some of the best crop ground in the entire nation. Bumper corn crops were known to come off the black gumbo soil of the Mississippi River. Of course, it didn’t hurt to have a fence line that abutted land that was owned by Vern “Goldie” Morton, either.
With the river on one side and Vern Morton on the other, Lewferd E. Zerrmann was sitting pretty comfortably for a little auto body repair guy. But you know how human nature is. If one buck makes you feel comfortable, then two bucks will make you feel twice as nice.
Lew had to figure out a way to get rid of his sister. That piece of ground was just too appealing to him to share. After all, opportunity only knocks once in a while.
After an occasional heavy lunch, Lew would drive his station wagon down the gravel road, up and over the levee, and park on the banks of the “Muddy Mississip.” One of his favorite spots was under a river birch tree that would provide enough shade for a nap on a lazy, summer day.
That locale would also provide an awesome sight of the widest river in the United States. With that came a view of the local quarry, nearby railroad tracks, and scattered marine traffic in the form of barges and tugboats.
Warm summer days lend themselves to creative dreams under shade trees.
And Lew had one.
Chapter Four
As Lew watched the tugboats traverse the swirling waters of the Mississippi river, he thought it would make sense to get the operators to dock their boats on his property. That way, he could get income from the crops and from the tugboat owners or the barge operators.
Increasing his income was only half the problem; the other part was related to him. There would be no sense in making plans for his income with his sister in the picture. Pure and simple, Lew needed to get rid of her to double his income. Murder was out of the question. Even a small-time swindler with connections like Lew knew better than that. Deception was legal and perfectly acceptable within the rules of almighty capitalism.
Lew looked to his mutually sleazy friend, George Pierce to help him cultivate a lucrative business deal. It seems that George had gotten to know quite a few appraisers that would be friendly to whoever was paying the bill. Before Lew signed the lucrative lease agreement with the tugboat owners, he had an appraiser low-ball the value of the farm property. With that document, Lew figured that he would get a better deal for himself in any negotiations with his sister.
After all, she had her back up against the wall. Her income was fixed as an elementary school teacher. Plus she was in need of money to erase some of her extensive medical bills that resulted from a bout with breast cancer. In typical Lew fashion, he presented her with the lowly appraisal and then told her he’d give her thirty-five cents on the dollar to help her out.
George Pierce had the title work done before the sun went down. And Lew made the financial deal of his life. Of course it didn’t matter that it occurred at the expense of his sister. All that mattered was that Lew profited, courtesy of his ravenous appetite for wealth, regardless of the consequences. The deed was quit-claimed to reflect his sole ownership in the one-thousand acre tract.
Monty was a maverick attorney in his late-thirties, the fourth and last-minute member of the group to celebrate at The Treasure Chest that night. He had been over at Lew’s farm taking some target practice and tagged along when Lew said that it was time to go. He thought that if he played his cards right, then one of the other guys might buy him a woman.
It wasn’t surprising to see these four together on a night of celebration. In some form or another, they all had reason to be grateful. The men drank their liquor until their words became clumsy and thick.
The lap dances were grinding to a halt and the girls had to work too hard for their dollar bills. It was getting late. The booze had been flowing and from the looks of their bloodshot eyes, it was time to go.
The four men staggered out of the strip club well past midnight. The fog on the river resembled a layer of pea soup resting on top of the warm waters of the Mississippi. Nothing was stirring. The air was choking off the far side of the parking lot.
“That’s some racket,” Lew chimed.
“It’s a damn gold mine,” replied George.
“Yeah, the same guy owns the hookers around here,” Lew snorted. “They get you all worked up in there and want you to blow what’s left on a gal out here.” Lew waited for his cohorts to get into his car, pulled his station wagon out of the lot, and then drove out into the thick fog that hugged the road.
Walter jumped into the conversation. The Treasure Chest and the sexual innuendos had made a lasting impression on him. He could hardly contain his sexual intentions. “Wow, all they leave on is the four-inch heels.”
“Right here in the Bible Belt,” said George.
Lew strained his neck to see out the window. “I can’t see a damn thing.” The fog had reduced the visibility to a matter of feet. The heat from all of the bodies in the car had fogged up the windows to boot.
A loud thump was heard. The station wagon rocked from side to side. “Shit!” yelled Lew.
“What the hell was that?” asked Walter.
“Let’s go back,” whimpered George.
“It was probably just a pot-hole,” Lew stated. The station wagon crept to the shoulder of the road. All four guys jumped out. George and Walter continued to the back of the vehicle. Lew ran to the front followed by Monty.
Walter eyed a black woman in the drainage ditch next to the side of the road. Her attire suggested that she was a hooker that had been working the streets. The foot or so of standing water in the ditch had soaked her dark blue skirt and pink blouse. Her red high heels were scattered . . . one on the edge of the water and the other on the shoulder of the road. The hooker’s body was motionless in a small puddle of water. Her eyes were wide open and frozen in time. A gold-capped front tooth sparkled through the mist. “What are we going to do now?” Walter yelled. “It sure doesn’t look like it was any pot-hole we hit.”
Lew examined the front-end damage on his car. “Dammit! Look at this,” Lew roared at Monty. He kicked the tire in rage. “I just fixed that.” Lew began pacing and clinching his jaw in exasperation.