“Yeah. Twenty odd years chasing crooks was great preparation for this job,” the former sheriff joked. “Seriously, I've been doing my homework. I think I can make a real contribution, and I appreciate the opportunity."
“I hate to rain on Carl's parade,” Sandra said, shifting in her chair and patting her stomach to calm the active fetus, but the idea of log cabins as rental units around Sunset Pond was mine, and I'm not at all pleased with the boxes that are currently being thrown up."
Carl looked shocked. “Mrs. Dollar, you went with us to Knoxville and approved the demo units. What they are putting up is exactly what we ordered."
“Not true, Mr. Elliott,” Sandra replied with an icy emphasis on the word “mister.” She opened the folder in front of her and held up a large photograph. “Please note, Mr. Elliott, that the foundation in the photograph is made of mountain rock. The material they are using on our units is concrete blocks. The chinks in the photograph are clay. God only knows what they are using on our units. It looks like wood putty. While the photo doesn't show it, the internal fireplace on the model was also made of mountain rock. I know they haven't started building the fireplaces yet, but judging from the huge delivery of bricks, I would guess they are planning to use brick instead of rock."
“I'll check on it as soon as the meeting is over."
“One more thing, Mr. Elliott. If you don't start calling me Sandy, as I have asked you to at least a dozen times, I am going to continue calling you Mr. Elliott."
“Sorry."
“Carl, I don't like the logs they are using,” Tim said. “They're too perfect. They look more like huge dowels than tree trunks."
“I asked about that. They tell me they'll look better after they've weathered a bit."
“I think weathering may solve the appearance problem of the chink material they are using too,” Matt volunteered. “The clubhouse was the first log building erected, and if you'll notice, the chinking on it is beginning to look like clay, except that it's not pulling away from the logs the way clay would."
Carl nodded, more in appreciation for help in getting off the hot seat than in agreement.
“I think that is a good lead-in to today's main topic of discussion. The clubhouse is nearly complete and I believe that the grading of the courses is right on schedule. What did you folks learn on your trip to Tanglewood Park in Winston-Salem?"
“I learned that I can consistently add twenty yards to my drives by shifting my weight from my left foot to my right during the swing,” Vic volunteered.
Susan leaned forward and with a big grin on her face said, “Ever since I started playing golf I have heard the adage, ‘It's not how you drive, but how you arrive.’ Big Willie made a believer out of me. He forced me to back off on my swing and concentrate on placement rather than distance. I tied you on the back nine you know, Vic."
“Luck,” Vic laughed.
“Wait a minute,” Tim interrupted. “I thought you guys were meeting with the greens-keeper, not the pro."
“Big Willie is the greens-keeper,” Matt replied. “He's a hell of a golfer too. Said he tried the pro tour for a while but couldn't keep up with the big boys."
“I was amazed at how much is involved in daily maintenance of a golf course. I had no idea,” Susan commented. “If we don't find someone as good as Big Willie for our operation, we're in for a heap of trouble."
“I agree,” Matt added.
“Tim,” Vic offered. “We did a lot of thinking out loud on the trip back. Big Willie has a twenty-acre grass nursery at Tanglewood where he grows both fairway and putting green grass. Instead of seeding damaged areas on the course, they transplant sod. If we start a similar nursery in the next month or two, we could sod our fairways and greens and open the courses a year earlier than planned."
“What we decided to recommend to you and Sandy is that we do exactly that. We should hire somebody like Big Willie to come to work for us now, get that nursery started right away, and oversee the major building of the courses,” Matt said.
“We have a turnkey contract with Golf Design, USA. I don't think we need anybody to oversee their work,” Tim commented.
“Where's your memory, Tim?” asked Sandy, raring back in her chair for emphasis. “If Bobby hadn't stopped them, they would have cut down five acres of timber needlessly, and Carl stopped them from using metal pipes that would rust in the irrigation system. If people who know nothing about golf course construction can catch major errors like these, what errors would a man like this Big Willie catch?"
“Simmer down, little mother,” Tim grinned. “I know when to eat crow."
“Then you agree we should consider this approach?” Matt asked, looking at Sandra Dollar.
Before his wife could respond, Tim asked, “What does this Big Willie you're all so impressed with look like?"
The three who had met Big Willie looked at each other for a moment. “If his hair was white and he wore a beard, he would look something like Santa Claus,” Matt volunteered.
“Yeah,” Vic laughed, “if he had white hair, a beard and his skin were white."
Susan chimed in, “Think of a clean shaven black Santa with black hair and who chews on an unlit cigar instead of a pipe."
“Thanks for nothing,” Tim replied. “You all seem favorably impressed with Santa Claus. Do you think there is any chance we might steal him away from Tanglewood?"
“I wish,” said Susan.
“He seems to be content where he is,” agreed Vic.
“Maybe,” said Matt.
All eyes turned towards the former sheriff.
“Before the, uh, accident, I used to play a little golf,” he continued. “Every course needs a professional. Big Willie made a point of telling us that when he left the tour he tried to get a club pro job. A club pro looks after tee times, a retail golf shop, cart rentals, lessons and in general butters up the customers to keep them coming back. We saw that Big Willie is a good teacher, he's personable, and, hell, anybody can do the rest. I think we might have a chance at Big Willie if we offered him the club pro job, and make course maintenance part of the job description."
“What would we have to pay him?” Tim asked.
Bobby laughed. “I remember when Tim thought he had so much money he didn't have to worry about costs."
“You can blame that on me,” Vic joked, patting himself on the back. “The name of the game is profit, and you can't make a profit unless you control costs."
“Yes,” Tim smiled. “I'm learning, but I remind you all that the cheapest way is not always the most profitable way in the long run. If this Big Willie fellow is as good as you say he is, he's worth top dollar, whatever that is."
“I don't honestly have any idea,” responded Matt, but I'll find out and make a recommendation next week."
“Lady and gentlemen,” Sandy said as she pushed back from the table, “Tim Junior here is using my bladder either for a drum or a football and I can't stand it much longer. You'll have to excuse me."
Everyone understood that this was the signal that the meeting was over and they stood as Susan helped Sandy to her feet.
“When's the baby due, Mrs. Dollar?” Carl asked.
“The doctor says on or about July 15th, Mr. Elliott,” Sandra replied.
“But that was last week."
“Tell me about it,” Sandra laughed.
“How's the novel coming, Sandy?” Susan inquired.
“I sent it off to a prospective agent last week,” Sandy answered, rubbing her extended stomach. “His brochure says he will respond in six to eight weeks. Keep your fingers crossed."
“I knew Sandy wrote book reviews for the Dot Courier and the Charlotte Observer, but I didn't know she wrote novels,” Matt commented to Susan as Vic pushed his wheelchair towards the study door.
“It's extremely good, I think. She let me read the second draft of the manuscript. Men should really like it."
Before Matt could ask, “Why?” Tim, who had caught up with t
hem said, “She won't let me read it. She says I'm too young and innocent."
Chapter Six
“You missed a spot,” Big Willie growled.
Following his boss’ pointing finger Bo aimed the high-pressure water hose at the offending spot and shouted, “Take that, you dirty rat,” as water and grass splashed off the axle of the center reel in the last row of the huge fairway mowing machine.
Bo caught the towel tossed by Big Willie and began wiping down the front end of the expensive apparatus. “I was concentrating so hard on learning to swing a golf club last night that I forgot to ask how the tour turned out."
“Nice people,” Big Willie responded as he began the drying process on the rear of the mower. “They certainly have big plans. You were right about letting them see course maintenance in progress. I hope they haven't bitten off more than they can chew."
Bo wiped perspiration from his forehead with the now damp towel. “What do you mean?"
“Well, they have all kinds of projects going. They're in love with ideas, but as far as I can tell they don't have anybody with practical experience and know-how. Damn, it's hot this afternoon."
“Humdidity's high too,” Bo joked. “Makes it feel worse than it really is."
“There were three of them that made the trip. You've probably read in the newspaper about one of them, Matt Dilson. He used to be the sheriff in Mecklenburg County."
“Isn't he the one that used to drive a confiscated bootlegger's car? Spider car I think they called it."
“Yeah, he's the one."
“I thought he was killed in a high speed chase or something."
“He's paralyzed from the waist down, but he ain't dead."
“How can he play golf?"
“He can't. Not yet at least. Guy's got guts. It wouldn't surprise me if he figured out a way. Dilson's sort of the recreation director—he's in charge of all the projects."
“When are they going to start building the course?"
“They've already started. Got most of the grading done they said."
The two men worked their way to the center of the mower. Big Willie stood and watched Bo polish the last reel. “You have any trouble yesterday or this morning passing out work assignments?"
“Not really—just the usual grumbling. Stick wanted to know who died and made me king."
“Did y'all get everything done?"
Bo stood up and again wiped his sweaty face with the now filthy cloth. “I guess so."
“You guess so?” Big Willie's voice had the volume turned up. “Didn't you check?"
“Damn it, Big Willie. You didn't tell me to check up on them."
“I don't tell you when to take a leak either, but that don't seem to stop you."
“Shit."
“That too.” The big man carefully stepped over the mower reels, plugged an air hose into a handheld grinder, squeezed the trigger and watched the fine-coursed stone spin on the end of the shaft. “See what you can do with this thing."
Bo took the heavy device with a scowl on his face. “You haven't taught me how to use it."
“Haven't you watched me sharpen the blades every afternoon since you came to work here?” Big Willie exploded.
“Not on my days off,” Bo muttered under his breath.
“What was that?"
“Nothin'."
“Boy, don't you give me no lip."
As he remembered Big Willie doing, Bo scotched the first reel so the blades wouldn't turn, squeezed the trigger a couple of times to get the feel of the grinder, then gently touched the spinning wheel to the right edge of a blade."
“No, damn it all,” Big Willie shouted. “If you rest the wheel on a blade like that you'll grind a rut in it. Move the wheel quickly along the edge of the blade. You have the angle about right."
“How's that?” Bo asked after zipping the stone the full length of the curved blade.
“You tell me."
Remembering how Big Willie tested the sharpness of the edge, Bo brushed the blade with his thumb. “Sharp enough to shave with,” he announced.
“Then do the next one."
Big Willie watched Bo continue the process. Took me a month to learn how to do that, he thought. Ruined a dozen blades in the process too. He studied the expression on Bo's face, waiting for the anger to disappear. Instead, it grew more intense. “You know why I'm hard on you, boy?” he asked.
“I think I do."
“Tell me."
“I think Tad has it about right."
“What's that prissy s.o.b. have to do with it?"
Bo's lips curled slightly. “He calls me Token ‘cause I'm the only white man you've ever hired. I figure the Park made you to hire a white guy to correct a racial imbalance or something, and you're doing your best to make me quit."
“You calling me a racist?” Big Willie barked in disbelief.
Bo stood up to relax the tension in his thighs. “Well, you don't jump on the other guys."
“And that's because they're black like me?"
Bo glared at him. “It sure ain't because they do better work than I do.” He squatted and resumed the sharpening process.
“I don't teach them how to play golf either.” Big Willie walked to the opposite end of the mower so he would be facing Bo. “Think a minute,” the big man shouted over the roar of the grinder. “Why else would I be hard on you?"
Bo released the trigger. “Like I said, it ain't because they do better work than me. I've been working for you about two months now and I already know more about this stuff than they ever will."
“Keep going,” Big Willie said, making sure Bo saw the smile on his face.
Bo finished the reel he was working on, then looked up with an angry sneer on his lips. “Maybe it's because you love me, think of me as a son, think I'm somebody special and want to be sure I become the best in the business."
“I knew there was a brain hiding somewhere behind that thick skull of yours,” Big Willie replied as he walked away, still smiling. He returned drinking a Pepsi and carrying a second just as Bo finished the last reel. Bo rubbed the cold can across his beaded forehead before taking a long pull on the soft drink. He looked Big Willie squarely in the eyes and asked, “Are you telling me that you are training me to be your assistant or something?"
“Who else am I going to leave in charge if I take a vacation or get sick or run over by a truck?"
“Why didn't you tell me?"
The ever-present unlit cigar rolled from one side to the other of Big Willie's mouth. “Would it have made a difference?"
“Yes it would have made a difference. Man, I've actually been looking for another job."
Big Willie squatted next to the mower, took the cigar out of his mouth and seemed to be studying it. “I figure that just like me you've been put down all your life ‘cause you ain't pretty. That makes a man out of some boys and a crybaby out of others. I had to find out which you were."
“And the verdict?"
Big Willie grinned, stood up and slapped him on the back. “You haven't quit yet, have you?” He jammed the cigar back in his mouth, took the empty can out of Bo's hand and tossed it into the recycling bin. “You check out the Red Course and the front nine on the White. I'll get the Blue Course and the back nine on the White. Make a note of anything that didn't get done. Then meet me at the driving range."
“In a minute. We didn't grease the mower yet.” Bo smiled a toothy grin. “Gotcha."
“No you didn't, big shot. I was just testing you,” Big Willie lied.
* * * *
Bo took a mighty swing, topped the ball and watched in dismay as it dribbled fifteen yards out onto the range. “Shit.” He placed another ball on the rubber tee, gripped the club handle as tight as he could, glued his eyes on the ball, and swung again. He caught sight of the ball just as it reached the peak of its flight. It immediately hooked far to his left. “Damn.” He grabbed another ball from the basket.
“Hold on, Bo. Take a couple of p
ractice swings. Line up your feet. Grip the handle firmly but don't squeeze it too hard. Glue your eyes to the ball. Remember to lock your wrists and left elbow on the downswing, and for goodness sake, quit trying to kill it. What you want is a nice, smooth swing."
“I need a damn computer to keep up with all the stuff I'm supposed to remember,” Bo groused.
“You have one, right here,” Big Willie said, tapping Bo on his forehead.
This time Bo heard the sweet click and watched with satisfaction as the ball rolled just beyond and to the right of the 300-yard marker.
“Keep hittin’ ’em like that and you might some day be a pale imitation of Tiger Woods,” Big Willie said as he walked away.
Three shots later Big Willie was back. “Man,” Bo said. “That's a fancy set of clubs you've got there."
“Yeah, they are. These are the clubs I used on the tour."
Big Willie set up shop on the next tee and the two continued to hit practice shots for thirty minutes.
“Come on over here in the grass,” Big Willie abruptly instructed. “I want to teach you to use your fairway woods. Can't use a tee in the fairway."
“Maybe not,” Bo said, “but I don't see much difference between using a tee and rolling the ball up on a clump of grass."
“Who told you to do that?"
“Nobody, but I've seen lots of golfers on the fairways do it."
Big Willie removed his cigar and spat in disgust. “The little hotshots come out here and cheat all over the place and still can't come up with a decent score. The rules allow you to move your ball under very few circumstances, but they never allow teeing it up on grass or anything else except for the first shot on every hole. I don't ever want to catch you cheating—improving your lie, taking mulligans or gimmies—stuff like that."
“You lost me boss man."
“Improving your lie is just what you were talking about. Some of these so-called golfers wind up behind a tree and use a foot wedge."
Bo laughed. “You mean they kick the ball into a better position?"
“Yeah. They hope their partners don't see ’em."
Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors Page 31