A Hole In One, Paul Weininger [top novels to read txt] 📗

They met that Sunday and every time one of them took a club to strike the ball, they looked over each other’s shoulders to see if there was anything disquieting.

Jack was up first. He took a driver, practiced a couple of swings, and then hit the ball in such a trajectory that it flew approximately 330 yards straight on the green for the par four, 510-yard hole. He turned to the others and took a bow. “May I please have a standing ovation, Gentlemen.” They applauded in amazement at the shot.

Todd asked how he managed to do it.

“I finally found the sweet spot on my club.”

Todd replied, “Well, in that case, I would suggest you have someone shoot you in the ass every time you plan on golfing with us, since it helps you find the sweet spot.”

The look Jack gave Todd could have killed him. “Todd, I was not shot in the ass but in my kidney and that’s not something to joke about. I was in the hospital for quite a while and then I had to stay at home, not being permitted to do anything but remain in bed, doctor’s orders. The only thing I was able to do was walk out to my backyard and practice my swing and hit into a golf practice net. Is that clear?” he said with a smirk on his face.

He got a big laugh out of them with that comment. Todd said he first thought, “Jack was going to punch me in the head” for real, but then Green concluded with his sarcastic punch line, which was even better than the previous one made by Neil.

Bloom was up next. He expected the guys to say, “You’re up, Putz.” But they didn’t. He walked over to the tee box and laid his ball on the tee. He took out a wood driver and hit the ball about 250 yards straight into a sand trap. Looking skyward, he exclaimed “Why God, do you always punish me when I play golf?” Everyone got a chuckle out of the remark.

Todd was up next. He took his ball and placed it on the tee. He felt overly aggressive against the ball and was about to teach it a lesson. He struck it almost three hundred yards but hooked it to the right and into a grove of trees and shrubs: “Shit!” To which the Rabbi gave him a disapproving look, but also winked at him with a wry smile.

Tony was up last. He had his special clubs with him and was extremely confident of getting a double eagle. That meant getting a score of three under par for this hole. He placed the ball on the grass right next to the tee box and took out his best club. He looked down at the ball and only took his eyes off it once to look at the flagstick. He started his swing just as he saw Tiger Woods do it on TV. He followed through gently but with as much power as he could, to make that ball feel the pain of the strike. He hit it so hard it must have felt hot, because approximately 285 yards ahead it landed in a water trap to cool off. “Shit, shit, shit,” Tony muttered. He also left a divot in the grass, which he now had to fill in before leaving his spot.

Once Tony got to the water trap, he was given a mulligan—permission to use a second ball to continue playing versus diving into the water and trying to hit the ball from there, an impossibility. It didn’t take too much longer for them to realize they were too heavily burdened with anxiety to continue. They agreed to cease golfing until the shooter was caught or killed.

Eighteen

Detective Pratt set off to question Tony’s business partner, Gerald Biggers, in Scottsdale. He had an hour and a half drive with traffic. When he got there, he put an official police sign with the department’s insignia and his badge number on his dashboard. With the “On Official Business” sign, he was able to park wherever he wanted to. No other cop would dare give him a ticket.

He walked into the accounting firm of Pilaris & Biggers, noticing about six secretaries and administrative assistants, along with perhaps five accountants and one bookkeeper. Biggers approached Pratt and said, “Good morning, sir, may I help you? I’m Gerald Biggers.”

“Yes, you can,” he answered and took out his ID along with his badge. “I’m Detective Pratt and I understand that you are Tony Pilaris’ junior partner, correct?”

“Well yes, I am. What does that have to do with any police business? Has Tony been arrested or is he in any kind of trouble?”

“If you call getting shot at trouble, then I would answer yes to your question.”

“I don’t understand, Detective, are you saying he took a shot at you or that someone shot at him?”

“What I’m saying, Mr. Biggers, is that someone shot at him but missed. Can you think of any of your clients that might want to ‘off’ him because he may know too much about their money and or stocks, which may not be completely kosher?”

“No, we have no such clients. Everything he handles, I review for accuracy. It’s part of our procedure to keep me abreast of what his customers are claiming on their taxes. Please understand, our customers are big corporations.”

“Even big corporations can do illegal things. Ever hear of Enron, Mr. Biggers?” replied Pratt.

“Of course, I have, but you can rest assured we don’t have any clients remotely like Enron or accounting practices like they had. You see, among our responsibilities is auditing them on a quarterly basis and certifying their annual reports. Any fraudulent numbers on their part that we don’t catch makes us equally liable.”

“I see,” said the detective. Now he was looking straight into Gerald Biggers’eyes and asked him a question out of left field. “Mr. Biggers, how satisfied are