Today, it is the only fourteen-hole course with lights in the entire world, as far as anyone knows. In honor of Dewey, it’s called Old Rico. Its membership consists solely of his cronies and conspirators. Alan’s job these days is taking care of the course and keeping it playable, which he manages to do. He plays nonstop himself and dreams of becoming a pro. He collects enough in dues to hire a few groundskeepers, all undocumented workers, plus we suspect he knows where some of Dewey’s old loot is buried. I pay $5,000 a year and it’s worth it just to avoid the crowds. The greens and tee boxes are usually in good shape. The fairways can get rough, but no one cares. If we wanted a manicured course we would join a real club, though none of us at Old Rico could survive the vetting process.
Every Wednesday night at seven o’clock we gather for Dirty Golf, a game that bears little resemblance to what you might see on CBS. Dewey’s original plans were to build the course first, so he would have a place to play, and then build the clubhouse, so he would have a place to drink. Absent a proper clubhouse, we meet for pregame drinks and wagering in a converted tractor barn where Dewey once enjoyed cockfighting, perhaps the only crime not covered by his indictment. Alan lives upstairs with two women, neither his wife, and he’s the organizer of Dirty Golf. The two gals work the bar, absorb the crudities, and banter with the crowd. The rituals call for the first pint—in fruit jars—to be lifted in a toast to Dewey, who’s smiling down from a bad portrait above the bar. Tonight there are eleven of us, a workable number since Old Rico has only twelve golf carts. As we drain the first pints, Alan goes through the rather raucous chore of bracketing the tournament, establishing handicaps, and collecting money. Dirty Golf costs $200 each, winner take all, not a bad pot but I’ve never won it.
Winning takes skill, of course, but also a higher handicap and the ability to cheat without getting caught. The rules are flexible. For example, a bad shot that goes outside the fairway boundaries is always in play if it can be found. There’s really no such thing as out-of-bounds at Old Rico. If you find it, play it. A putt of three feet or less is always conceded, unless an opponent is having a bad night and wants to play hard-ass. Every player has the right to require another player to putt everything. A foursome can agree that each guy can take a mulligan, or a free shot in the aftermath of a bad one. And, if all four are in the right mood, each can take one mullie on the front seven and another on the back. Needless to say, the sponginess of the rules leads to disagreement and conflict. Since not one golfer in ten knows the real rules anyway, each round of Dirty Golf is loaded with incessant carping, bitching, complaining, and even threats.
Partner drives my golf cart and I’m not the only one here with a bodyguard. Since I play alone, tonight I’m paired up with Toby Chalk, a former city councilman who served four months in the wake of Dewey’s demise. He drives his own golf cart. Caddies are forbidden at Old Rico.
After an hour of drinking and preliminaries, we head for the course. It’s getting dark, the lights are on, and we do indeed feel privileged to be playing golf at night. It’s a shotgun start. Toby and I are assigned the fifth tee, and when Alan yells “Go” we race away, carts bouncing, clubs rattling and jangling, grown men half-drunk and puffing on big cigars, whooping and yelling happily into the night.
Partner grins and shakes his head. Crazy white men.
Here’s what happened:
My clients, Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Renfro, Doug and Kitty to everyone, lived for thirty quiet and happy years on a shady street in a nice suburb. They were good neighbors, active in local charities and the church, always ready to lend a hand. They were in their early seventies, retired, with kids and grandkids, a couple of dogs, and a time-share in Florida. They owed no money and paid off their credit cards in full each month. They were comfortable and reasonably healthy, though Doug was dealing with atrial fibrillation and Kitty was rebounding from breast cancer. He had spent fourteen years in the Army, then sold medical devices for the rest of his career. She had adjusted claims for an insurance company. To stay busy, she volunteered at a hospital while he puttered in the flower beds and played tennis at a city park. At the insistence of their children and grandchildren, the Renfros had reluctantly bought his-and-her laptops and joined the digital world, though they spent little time online.
