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

by James Ross

“What investigation?” J Dub naively asked. “I’ve had enough of those to last three lifetimes.”

  Booker laughed. “His last words to me were to figure it out,” Booker said. Then he paused and searched for the right thing to say. “You know, it was a human tooth. Normally when there’s smoke, there’s fire.” He paused. “And believe me I’ve woken up many nights wondering about what he meant by that comment.”

  J Dub reached up and scratched behind his ear. He squinted and wrinkled his nose. Curt moseyed over to the twosome and extended his hand. The after-effects of the chemotherapy were causing him to move a little slower than normal.

  Booker smiled and shook Curt’s hand. “How have you been?”

  “It’s been a rough summer,” Curt replied.

  “Are you going to beat it?” Booker asked.

  “Colon cancer?” Curt paused. “I’m going to try.”

  “He’s going through chemo right now,” J Dub added.

  “You have to do what you’ve got to do I guess,” Booker said.

  “I’m fine.” That was the standard answer that Curt had been giving everyone. He didn’t want anyone to know that sometimes it felt like the experience was getting the best of him. “A few more treatments and I can put this chapter behind me in the book of life.” He laughed. “Then I can get out here and start playing again.”

  “You’re a fighter,” Booker said. “I’m sure that you’ll give it your best shot.”

  J Dub laughed at the comment. “Yeah, he can’t stand to lose either.”

  “That’s not so easy to say when I’m bent over throwing up the day after chemo,” Curt said with a grin. He quickly changed the topic. “Who’s in that group in front of you?” Curt always made it a point to be aware of everyone that was on the property.

  “The tall one?” Booker questioned. He kind of figured that the two women in the group ahead of them would attract some attention.

  “Yeah,” Curt said. “But either one of them would be good to meet.”

  “I don’t know her personally,” Booker disclosed. “They’re with some FBI guys. She’s either with the bureau . . . or maybe the State Department.”

  “That’s interesting,” Curt replied.

  “Yeah, I don’t know what she does,” Booker volunteered. “I think she’s out of Washington but has been spending a lot of time in St. Louis lately.”

  Curt’s ears perked up. “Come on J Dub.” Curt smiled at his brother. “Let’s make sure that they’re happy too.” Booker laughed as the two brothers headed off. In a matter of minutes they approached the next tee box as the two men and two women were walking off of the green.

  “Is everything okay?” J Dub asked as he pulled the John Deere utility vehicle to a stop at the fifteenth tee box.

  “Could you have ordered better weather?” the tall, good looking lady answered.

  “Or more sunshine,” one of the FBI guys said.

  “And it’s way too windy,” the other FBI guy added sarcastically. A few feet away on the fourteenth green the flag hung limp on the stick.

  It was an odd pairing. The woman was maybe in her mid to late forties, the FBI guys were in their thirties and looked like they were right out of the Mormon Tabernacle choir, and a girl that appeared to be a college student was with them. Pleasantries were exchanged and introductions made. For J Dub it was the “same ole, same ole” routine keeping everyone on the property happy and keeping the bitching to a minimum . . . with a little extra gingerbread for the VIP’s.

  But for Curt something else was going on. “Hi. I’m Curt,” he said as he introduced himself to the middle-aged woman. He noticed her brown hair with its trendy shoulder-length cut. If there’s something good about having cancer, then at least my weight is down. He laughed inwardly at his own vanity and enjoyed the feeling—it was time for him to laugh.

  His hand was greeted by a beaming smile. Her teeth were perfect! “Ginny Slater.” For a moment her sparkling blue eyes locked onto Curt’s in what probably seemed like an awkward moment for the rest of the people standing on the tee box. Her handshake was like that of a professional arm wrestler. Her shoulders reminded Curt of the roller derby queens.

  Ginny Slater had been a tomboy all of her life. She had grown up with her three brothers—two older and one younger—in Lima, Ohio. It wasn’t too far away from the corn fields that bracketed both sides of I-75 right around the halfway point between Cincinnati and Detroit. She learned early on that it was going to be a lot more fun to join them when they played in the back yard or the neighborhood ball field than to stay at home and change costumes on her dolls.

  She could run just as fast as most of the guys. With a fair amount of practice playing catch, Ginny developed excellent eye-hand coordination. It didn’t matter if it was a baseball, football, or basketball; she could catch it, throw it, dribble it, hit it, or kick it . . . whatever the sport called for.

  And then it hit her on a wonderfully mild June day right around her fourteenth birthday.

  “Mom! Mom!” she screamed as she ran inside from a back yard volleyball game. “What’s going on with me?” She was terrified and embarrassed.

  One look from her mother’s sympathetic eyes said it all. “Oh, Honey. Come into the bathroom with me.”

  From then on things began to change in the pick-up games with the guys. Ginny’s height spurted to a robust five foot nine. Her long legs developed strong and shapely, turning the heads of the city boys. Her supple breasts adequately filled a C cup. When she dabbled with some light brown streaks in her brown hair Ginny more or less told the boys that she now understood the difference between male and female. If that didn’t make the point, then a subtle touch of blush and a little lip gloss drove home the stake. But her athletic skills always reminded them that she was to be considered an equal. And just so they would ne’er forget, she would take them on in a one-on-one game of hoops in the family driveway and more often than not, kick their butt.

  Her athleticism took her from rural Ohio to Athens, Georgia on a full scholarship to play volleyball. Ginny was homesick that first semester away from home. It was easily a six hundred mile ride down I-75 from Lima with a little jog on I-40 in eastern Tennessee, before the hop, skip, and a jump into Athens, an hour northeast of Atlanta. It was her prowess on the court that helped her forget about missing the country life in Ohio as she quickly earned the respect and friendship of her teammates.

  During a whirlwind four years at the University of Georgia, Ginny tore up the classroom with stellar grades. She graduated magna cum laude with a degree in global politics with emphasis on international affairs. Before graduating she accepted admission into the prestigious University of Virginia Law School in Charlottesville. Her hard work on the athletic fields had instilled in her an intense work ethic. She breezed through law school and garnered the attention of the federal government shortly thereafter.

  The truth was that the government came looking for her. It was quickly determined that with her strikingly wholesome good looks and quick-thinking mind that the next stop in her career path would be the Marine Corps base in Quantico, Virginia—otherwise known as the training center of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  From Jefferson Davis Highway in Triangle, Virginia it is only a few blocks to a security gate blocking unauthorized personnel. After that it is a mere three miles down Fuller Road and through the grounds of Medal of Honor Golf Course. Beyond that lies the quaint village of Quantico, Virginia at the juncture of Quantico Creek and the Potomac River. On the south side of town lies the entrance to the grounds of the FBI Academy. The property is reserved for the few who are mentally and physically elite enough to gain entrance and it rewards them with a show of autumn foliage that is breathtaking.

  Agents are sent to the academy for training. Three dormitory buildings are located at the main training facility as well as a dining hall, library, and classroom building. Additionally, the property is home to an auditorium, chapel, gymnasium, outdoor trac
k, administrative offices and garage. A mock town called Hogan’s Alley is complete with facades of a small town. Beyond that is a defensive driving training track and indoor and outdoor firing ranges.

  Any agent involved in drug enforcement, forensic training, or firearms training will pass through the property known as the FBI Academy. Investigative techniques in computer sciences, graphics, audio visual, and photography are taught. Law, behavioral science, white-collar crime, communications—a complete gamut of investigative knowledge could be found, taught, and shared at the facility in Quantico.

  Whenever she was sent, Ginny determined that her past was going to stay with her. She wasn’t about to tip her hand about anything that she did. In fact, the others in the St. Louis office weren’t real clear who gave her orders. They didn’t know if she was with the bureau or the State Department or the DOJ. Ms. Slater had remained single and was simply referred to as an asset for the federal government. Ginny was headquartered in Washington, D C but had been spending quite a bit of time in the St. Louis field office brainstorming about some baffling crimes that had occurred in the Midwest.

  The two fair-haired boys with the bureau teed the ball up. One drove the ball to the right and the other hit it farther to the right. The younger gal walked up to the ladies tee and nervously popped one high in the air. As Ginny stepped up to the forward tees, one of the young men turned to J Dub and ad libbed, “She doesn’t need us.”

  “Yeah, she might break par by herself,” the other one added.

  Ginny looked the part in her wrap around skirt and chic golf shirt, regardless of whether she could swing the club. She bent over and placed her tee in the ground as the men took notice of her long, shapely legs. She got behind the ball and picked out her line. As she peered down the fairway she subconsciously tightened the golf glove on her left hand. Two seconds later she was addressing the ball.

  J Dub and Curt were mesmerized as they watched the woman who they had met only minutes before. Ginny assumed a perfect stance. Her posture and ball position were excellent. She had a strong grip on the club. Slowly Ginny brought her driver back and uncoiled into the ball. It soared off the club and seemed to go into orbit. Curt and J Dub couldn’t help it. They both started laughing. Neither expected to see something like that on a government outing.

  “Where did you learn how to hit a ball like that?” Curt said. He was still laughing at the sight of the woman busting the cover off of the ball.

  “I just picked it up along the way,” Ginny said with a smile.

  “My ass,” Curt said as he called her bluff. “You’re a player.”

  “Three brothers and a lifetime of sports,” Ginny said and grinned.

  “You can play in my foursome anytime you’d like,” Curt replied.

  “I might take you up on that some weekend.” She looked at the two younger agents. “That’s if I can find the time.”

  “Then make it before the weather changes,” Curt said as his interest level stepped several rungs up the ladder. “How often do you play?”

  “Maybe two or three times a year.” Ginny liked the attention.

  “And you can hit the ball like that?” Curt was astonished.

  “I’m new to town and don’t know anybody. It would be nice to have a good golf game.”

  “You’ll have to play the same tees as us,” Curt said as Ginny placed the club in her bag and got in the driver’s side of the cart.

  She glanced over her shoulder and a tight-lipped grin formed a dimple at the side of her mouth. “I can handle it.” She stepped on the accelerator and headed down the path.

  “Nice to meet you too,” Curt yelled as his voice trailed off, the back of the cart becoming a speck in the distance.

  J Dub and the two male agents were laughing. “You got a little more than what you bargained for.”

  “She’s a tough nut,” an agent said.

  “You’re playing with fire with that one,” the other said. The two agents climbed into their cart. As they pulled away from the tee he continued, “She’s the only chick I’ve met that thinks like a guy.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Tuey O’Tweety, dere you’s goes agin!” LeVournique exclaimed. Tuey walked into the kitchen of his home smelling full of a floral scent, like he had just walked out of a honeysuckle garden. He was dressed in his familiar turquoise suit, but had put on a white shirt with a gold tie this Sunday. On each foot was a shiny, white patent leather shoe. Atop his head was his dark brown bowler with the white silk band. “Mmmmmm. Dere’s ain’t enough butta in dis kitchen ta dip you’s in!”

  “Why’s don’t ya go wit’ me, Sweet Chile?”

  “Tuey O’Tweety, you’s knows dat’s I’s gotsta work down dere at da casino.”

  “We’s needs ta git ya outta dere on Sunday’s an’ git you’s uh prayin’.” Tuey flashed his infectious smile in his wife’s direction.

  LeVournique brushed her hand over the top of his suit to knock the white lint out of sight. She reached up and pinched his left ear lobe, then kissed him affectionately on the cheek. “Sometin’ sho’ has bin uh comin’ ova you. I’s neva known you’s ta be dat uh way.”

  “Sweet Chile, dere’s is so much love bein’ spread ova dere at da church.” Tuey paused then kissed his wife on the forehead. “Dat Rev’rend Puld is dy-no-mite.”

  “Even afta dat fire?”

  Tuey shook his head up and down. “Dey’s aw uh workin’ togetha ta git tings fixed down dere.”

  “I’s knows you’s bin goin’ ova dere uh lot lately. Has everybody still bin prayin’ fo’ ya?”

  “I sho’ do hope so. But I’s tinks dat dey might be uh prayin’ mo’ fo’ dere church right nowadays.”

  “You sho’ do seem mo’ relaxed.”

  “I’s feels uh whole lot betta. I’s can forgit ’bout aw uh dat bizness wit’ da peoples down dere at da city hall.” Tuey smiled once again.

  LeVournique wrapped her arms around her husband, pressed her body against his, and laid her head on his chest. “Everyting will work out jus’ fine.”

  Tuey reached up and rubbed the back of LeVournique’s neck. He paused to let her words sink in. A few seconds later he grinned to himself. “Have mercy on you.” He looked at the clock on the wall and quickly turned to leave. “I’s gotsta git goin’!”

  As quick as a bee buzzing toward honeycomb, Tuey was out the door. In a matter of minutes he pulled his pickup truck to a stop on the side of the road. One day earlier Tuey had placed folding chairs in rows across the gravel parking lot. A platform had been built for Reverend Puld. The choir would have to stand during the whole service, but the preacher had promised to keep the service short. At the entrance to the parking lot was a portable blackboard on wheels that looked like it had come out of a grade school. Printed on it was Nehemiah’s Neighbors Have Arisen . . . Reverend Ostrahemial Puld, Officiating.

  In due time the congregation started to gather. As promised by Reverend Puld, the weather was picture perfect for the outdoor service. Lady Macey DuWillet made her way across the gravel parking lot, her hand holding steadfastly to Tuey’s forearm to keep her ankles from turning over in her high heels. She wore a flowing flower print dress and atop her curly orange hair was perched a magenta Easter bonnet that matched her lipstick.

  Following her was Lady Phoebunica Jackson. Her bleached blonde hair was matted down with a shiny gel. A glitter of sunshine flashed off a golden front tooth. Larvinulees and Lady Celesteppe Brown found seats in the second row. They were church regulars and helped organize the monthly bingo tournaments.

  Reverend Puld wasted no time getting the service to start. From behind the charred remains BowTye appeared strumming his guitar. The organ had been destroyed in the fire so BowTye had been recruited to provide the music. The preacher raised his arms, the cue for all to rise. D. Wayne Smith who had gotten back in the middle of the night from refereeing started singing the song. “Hallelujah!” An instrumental from BowTye followed. “Hallelujah!” BowTye p
icked more at his guitar. “Hal . . . . le . . . . lu . . . . jah!”

  As an impromptu usher Tuey stood behind the back row. Moved by the music and standing in awe, a single tear rolled down his cheek.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The caravan of cars pulled up to the hotel valet area. Curt had driven Pork Chop’s luxurious SUV while Pork Chop watched a movie video in the back seat. Dr. DV acted as the co-pilot in the front seat and had to reach for his reading glasses to read the Internet map that had been printed out.

  “Don’t worry about anything,” Pork Chop announced to the group as he hopped out of the back seat. He was the biggest gambler in the group and had arranged comps for all the boys. “I’ve got everything all taken care of.”

  “That’s what concerns me,” Fred said as he stood by the trunk of the second car.

  The parent company of the Aqua Mermaid owned another gambling riverboat near the confluence of the Mississippi and Ohio rivers called the Gurgling Sheba. As they pulled onto the casino property, an engraved monument informed them and all visitors that rapids had developed on the Ohio River during the New Madrid earthquake in 1812 at which time the current of the Mississippi had reversed its direction. It was thoughtful of Pork Chop to get rooms for all of the guys in an area with such impressive history.

  Curt popped the trunk. Pork Chop reached in for his bag, a mashed french fry stuck to the back of his shorts. “You’re a mess,” BT said. He was a good looking, lanky, retired school teacher who had taken a stab at pro baseball earlier in life.

  “Why?” Pork Chop shot back.

  “You’ve got part of your lunch stuck to the back of your shorts,” BT replied.

  Pork Chop reached behind his butt and brushed the residue away. The minute it hit the ground three sparrows nosedived for it and a couple pigeons strolled in its direction. “Look at that. My lunch leftovers fed a family.” He cackled at his suggestion.

  Two valet attendants wheeled a portable clothing rack to the curb and assisted with unloading the trunk. There were four cars, each packed with three riders. The guys planned on having an out-of-town golf excursion for three days and two nights. The Kentucky Lake area south of Paducah was an ideal getaway for the group. The drive was only two and a half hours and the courses were wonderful to play. It was an opportunity for the guys to kill two birds with one stone. They could gamble when they weren’t golfing, and the casino was flying in world-renowned rockabilly blues great Peel It Backe for a series of nightly performances.