James Ross - A Character-Based Collection (Prairie Winds Golf Course)

by James Ross

  Lew had quickly reached into his pocket. He seized the black velvet covered pill box. With catlike quickness he grabbed the pills and popped them into his mouth. They were swiftly ingested. He threw the pill box across the deck of the yacht. It contained the gold-capped tooth of the hooker. “If you’re so smart, get your monkey-ass, tar-baby brain to figure that one out!”

  Booker had no idea what Lew had thrown. He remembered back to the time that they had confronted each other in the confines of Lew’s home. He smiled and chuckled. “You just don’t get it, do you Lew?”

  “More than you can ever imagine,” Lew replied.

  J Dub wasn’t surprised. In fact, he had privately mentioned to Marcia and Curt that if Lew ever got cornered he would pop the cyanide pills and do himself in. Cyanide poisoning can be rapid. Lew had always made it a point to carry a dose that would be heavy enough to finish the job. Hitler had always been Lew’s idol. He had mentioned that to J Dub on many occasions.

  Within a few seconds Lew underwent contractions in his chest cavity. He experienced a shortness of breath. His body went into mild convulsions. Inside a couple of minutes he slumped over and slid into unconsciousness. His breathing ceased. He literally died within three minutes.

  It was over that quickly.

  J Dub looked at Booker and smiled. The early morning chill had forced him to wear a sweatshirt over his golf shirt. He proceeded to take off a bullet-proof vest that was hidden underneath. As he handed it to Booker he said, “This came in handy after all. Thanks for the advice.”

  Chapter Ninety-Nine

  The weather for Lew’s funeral cooperated for the few people that were in attendance. It was bright and sunny, much better than what Lew deserved.

  J Dub and the boys didn’t bother going to the memorial service. They sat in the coffee shop a few doors down from the church and waited for the hearse to drive by on its way to the cemetery. When the procession went by only five cars followed the hearse. That came as a mild surprise to the boys. No one knew that Lew had that many friends.

  The boys scurried out the door and piled into their cars as hastily as they could. Not a one of them wanted to miss the casket’s final descent into the ground.

  Julie jumped into a car with J Dub and Curt. This was another event that Marcia had planned to miss. Elia, Paco, and BT shared a vehicle. Paul, Rollie, and Fred hopped into another car.

  At the grave site the pastor made the eulogy short and concise. He had finished his final words only moments before the boys had arrived.

  Ray and Monty walked away from the coffin as J Dub and the group approached. “J Dub, let me know if I can provide any help to you,” Ray offered. He and Monty walked to their car.

  J Dub stood in disbelief. He glanced at all of the guys and shook his head.

  Julie broke the silence. “There’s another loser.”

  “Can you believe that guy?” J Dub replied. The group stopped to gaze at the casket. The realization that it was over finally hit home. J Dub turned to the boys. He was in a celebratory mood. “What do you say we go to the course and play a round of golf, guys?”

  “I couldn’t think of a better way to enjoy this day and have a good time,” Fred said with a grin.

  “Maybe we can get them to throw that noisy piece of junk motorcycle in the hole, too,” Paco stammered.

  “He sure was appropriately named,” Paul stated.

  “Julie and I always joked that Lew was short for loser,” J Dub replied.

  “What a chicken. He couldn’t stand the heat and took the easy way out,” BT added. “He turned out to be the ultimate loser.” His words took a minute to sink in. Everyone nodded in agreement.

  “Before we go and play, we need to do what they do in the old country,” Elia mumbled in his Middle Eastern accent.

  “What’s that Elia?” J Dub asked.

  “It’s an old Middle Eastern custom to do this to people that have done you wrong.” Elia stood with a grin and reached for his zipper. “Piss on him!” J Dub and all of the boys stepped forward and relieved themselves on the coffin.

  Chapter One Hundred

  In the days that followed, J Dub was all over the golf course shaking hands and making the golfers feel welcome. He and Dominic Miles had made a deal with the heirs to the Morton estate to purchase the golf course. The pro shop was for Julie to operate. Marcia popped in a lot more regularly to see her husband and deliver lunch.

  J Dub always made it a point to make sure that Easy Earl’s tree got plenty of water. He would repeatedly go and sit in the shade of that tree and remember his trusted friend.

  One of the items that got priority on J Dub’s agenda was the acquisition of a golf course dog. He wanted a bull terrier that would make the surroundings feel like home. Yet, after looking around, he couldn’t decide on one. So, after a little thought, he decided to buy the whole litter. They were appropriately named Bogey, Birdie, Eagle, and Ace.

  It was a common sight to see J Dub pounding balls on the driving range. He had finally gotten back home to the place where he belonged. On many days, Curt would join him.

  “You know Curt, I’ve made lots of birdie putts to win matches, but I had to stand over this one for a few years, give it a good read, and then drop it,” J Dub said.

  “We had some help along the way,” Curt replied.

  “Thank goodness because he sure didn’t play by the rules,” J Dub added.

  “We were lucky that the government paid for a lot of the investigation,” Curt stated with a grin, “and the estate funded the lawyers.”

  “All it took was a few years of patience . . . something that the great game of golf has taught me,” J Dub smiled. “Besides, I had a lot more time left on my clock than him.”

  “That pathetic loser wanted to rush things and play hard ball. He didn’t give you much of a choice,” Curt agreed.

  “That made my decision easier,” J Dub acknowledged. “I just wish that George Pierce didn’t get off.”

  “Snakes can slither away.”

  J Dub switched gears. “You know, Booker really surprised me.”

  “ . . . How’s that?”

  “I finally figured out why Booker couldn’t talk. The government was waiting to put their final plan into action. The obstruction of justice charge was a lot easier for them to prove than tax evasion,” J Dub said with a grin.

  “I guess that they had enough invested in the guy to make sure that justice was done,” Curt responded. “In a sick, demented way, Lew’s greed helped you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If he would have sold it to you, then you would have had to fight the estate,” Curt explained. “You would have had to turn the property back over to them.”

  J Dub stared into his brother’s eyes. “Denny had warned me about that. We always knew that the land would survive Lew. I just didn’t know if all of us would make it through the process.”

  “It sure ate up a lot of time,” Curt said as he looked to the heavens. “Somebody sure is looking over you.”

  J Dub allowed for the minute of reality to settle in. “It was a lot better for us to have the estate on our side rather than going against them in court. We would have never made it.” J Dub peered out to the range and reflected on his youth. “You know, dad was always right.”

  “ . . . About what?” Curt pried.

  “He always told me under the shade of that old oak tree at the range to stay patient. He told me to apply the principles that I learned from golf to everyday life,” J Dub put into plain words. “Dad always told me to slow down, be honest with myself, and commit.”

  “It looks like you learned your lesson well.”

  J Dub smiled. “You know, Curt, all things considered I probably should have hit the nine-iron.” J Dub slowly pulled his driver back, uncoiled his body, and launched a drive into the crystal clear blue sky. “Who knows what’s going to happen next?”

  “Wow,” Curt said as he marveled at his brother’s swing, “es
pecially if you keep hitting shots like that.”

  J Dub grinned. “You never know. We’re not getting any younger. If I can keep my cool, stay within myself, and finish the round strong, then there’s always the senior tour.”

  # # #

  TUEY’S COURSE

  James Ross

  Copyright © 2009 by James Ross.

  Library of Congress Control Number 200891115

  ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4363-8994-5

  Softcover 978-1-4363-8993-8

  eBook 978-1-4500-8000-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book was printed in the United States of America.

  To order additional copies of this book, contact:

  Xlibris Corporation 1-888-795-4274

  www.Xlibris.com

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  49559

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER ONE

  East Side of Saint Louis . . . Late July of 2007

  Harold Syms was always the last kid picked when it came to choosing teams on the sandlot. Not only was he the runt of the neighborhood, he was the most uncoordinated as well. Still, when it was time for the neighborhood gang to assemble a pickup game of baseball or basketball or football, Harold showed up early and optimistic wearing shorts that fell below his knees and a dark pair of socks that covered his stubby calves. The space between the top of his socks and the bottom of his shorts allowed two inches of flesh to be exposed to the sunlight. He was rarely picked.

  It was during those days of getting pushed around and left out that the “I’ll-get-you-back” attitude developed and began to mold his personality. Even though he reached an adult height of five foot four, he was determined to stand tall and be the most powerful, ruthless, and connected person in his local sphere. Harold wasn’t the brightest guy in the world, but he possessed enough business savvy to try to stay one step ahead of whoever might be looking over his shoulder. And he always wanted to be the one holding the trump card.

  Throughout his college years he transferred countless times and barely stayed long enough at any one spot to get a hot shower. He finally migrated back to his hometown and finished his schoolwork by attending night classes at a community college. But as fate would have it, along with the gift of gab that had trickled down in his gene pool, he met the daughter of one of the most successful real estate developers in St. Louis, latched onto her, and wouldn’t let her roam away.

  Even though Stella towered four inches above her husband, the bond between the two of them was one that hardly anyone could figure out. She was a stay-at-home mom and a daddy’s girl who grew up with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth. Her stunning good looks turned the heads of the Baptists that congregated at the town square. While what she saw in Harold remained a mystery, it was enough to produce six offspring that shared the Syms name.

  With the help of his father-in-law, Harold became president, majority shareholder, and chairman of the board of First Cornstalk Bank and set out to put his mark on the world. He was determined to be the most powerful and aggressive lender in the region and was motivated by a gorgeous wife, six kids, and a chip on his shoulder. His desire to be front and center in all the deals never wavered. If there was a buck to made, then Harold wanted to be the one to cut the deal and get the client.

  So it was as he sat at his desk burning the midnight oil. His office was unlike any other bank president’s office. Files and papers cluttered the desk. Pictures of the Syms’ clan sat in the bookshelves. A flat screen monitor was bracketed by a cup of pens and a business card holder. In his chair was a pillow that raised his height while he was seated and minimized the continual rash on his ass that baby powder couldn’t solve.

  As Harold’s adulthood progressed so did his unique traits. Around town he had developed the reputation as a sly fox. He was slick and he was quick. If there was an angle to make a deal work, then he went for it. And it was well documented that he kept the upper hand. After all, in his view, that was the perk that came along with the vast resources he had access to. It wasn’t beyond him to cut himself in on any of the business deals. If a loan was tough and the client needed a silent partner, then Harold was the first one to jump out of the woods and become a passive cohort.

  His personality carried over into his physical characteristics. With his reputation as a sly fox firmly entrenched, his body took on the creature’s appearance. He had little legs but was quick on his feet. The pointed nose resembled an elongated snout, and even his triangular ears added to the uncanny resemblance of the four-legged animal. With a heavy beard and hair that looked like fur on his reddish-brown scalp, he could almost pass as a clone of the preying animal. Further, he worked best at night, his nocturnal acuity keen and able to easily solve things that weren’t accomplished during the day.

  On this particular night in late July, Harold had cause for concern. The lending policies of the bank were out of control and bordered illegal. Earlier in the day he had been reminded that the one-year anniversary of a visit from the state regulators was long overdue. It could be only a matter of days before the supervisory body from the state of
Illinois marched through the revolving front door of the institution. If it was anything like it had been in years past, they could arrive unannounced as early as tomorrow. With stacks of files full of doctored loan papers strewn around and covering his office floor, Harold had good reason to turn a seemingly innocuous night into one that brought beads of sweat to his forehead.

  After flipping through the folder of a local homebuilder Harold tossed the documents onto the middle of his desk. The stamp of Harold Syms was all over the paperwork. His elbows found their way to the desktop. Both hands massaged the upper bones of his eye sockets. His fingers worked his brow and continued upward to his hairline. He sighed and exacted a huge yawn, the breath muffled in his hands. It was late. He palmed each temple, relaxed for a minute, and yawned again—this time the exhale was deep and powerful. He was tired.

  The hands on his wristwatch signaled that it was approaching midnight. He closed his eyes and pressed back in his chair, engaging the hinges for a full recline. His right arm fell across his chest and became a brace for the left as he again rubbed his eyes and massaged his forehead. I’m beat, he thought. Another deep yawn convinced him that he needed to wrap things up and head home. But home would be another missed opportunity; his wife and children would all be asleep.

  There’s nothing I can do about this crap now. All of these loans are upside down. If they’re not overextended and saddled with late pays, then the collateral is gone. He rationalized the situation. Hell it’s not my fault. The Fed started all of this by raising the rates. Those idiots in Washington keep thinking that inflation is the main culprit. How the hell do they think they’re going to fix that? Do they want to drive twenty percent of the public into bankruptcy? He sank deeper into the chair and shook his head in dismay.

  It’s midnight. He envisioned the vacant parking lot and the quiet street beyond. What the hell am I thinking about? Somebody could be waiting for me out there. Harold sat up. The reality of the situation seemed to snap him out of his drowsy state even though another loud yawn followed. I walk out that door. Some nut puts a gun in my side. I’ve got the keys to the vault. The idiot cleans the place out. Then he wastes me. His mind was getting the best of him. The late hours and lack of sleep were making him delusional. But the caution was justified. Maybe I better call the police and have an escort. He walked to the window and raised his hand to separate the slats so that he could peer through the horizontal blinds. There’s nothing I can do about these crappy loans now. If we get our hands slapped then we have to call some loans or get the deposits up or get some of the guys current.