Once Upon a Tee Time
Chapter 9

The Plumlees had a regular routine on Sunday mornings. They left the house at ten for breakfast at the House of Pancakes and attended a church service at eleven. Unlike the restaurant, the church changed from week to week. Upon moving to Leisureville, they had decided to visit different churches in the vicinity before choosing one to join. Twenty churches dotted the map within a few-mile radius. After several months, they started to enjoy the variety. Seven years later, Pat still chose among a dozen churches each week and told her husband where to drive.

As regulars at the restaurant, they knew the wait staff and other patrons who shared their routine. Many watched Newswatch and asked about Jane Friend, his golf, and how his name changed since last Sunday, when they knew him as Ray.

Pat enjoyed telling the story of Lucy’s nickname for her husband. Did they recall the Wild Bill Hickock sidekick Jingles? The other customers, mostly seniors like the Plumlees, remembered. The younger employees were clueless. Half the people did Andy Devine voice impressions while the others listened and chuckled. The current Jingles enjoyed his hotcakes and all the newfound attention.

On the drive home after church, Jingles turned to Pat. “I’m not sure we should keep that church on our list. The sermon got a little windy.”

Pat sighed. “Let me guess. You’re disappointed that no one asked for your autograph at church.”

Her comment struck him as a little harsh. What was wrong with wanting to be around people that shared an interest in sports?

She reached across his chest and touched his left breast pocket. “At least you got to use that Sharpie at breakfast. It’s the first time you’ve carried a pen since retirement.”

He blushed. “Yeah, well, I still think the sermon went a little long.”

The phone was ringing when they arrived home. Pat felt resignation more than excitement. “It’s for you, Jingles. He’s from the Sun newspaper. He’s sorry to call on Sunday and he did anyway.”

“Hi, this is Jingles.”

“Phil Smith, Phoenix Sun. Saw you on WAZA last night, and we’d like to do a story about your golf.”

“We get your paper on Sundays. You do a good job.”

“We had a photographer there yesterday when you played, but I was busy on another story. We got some great shots. This is going to be fun to write.”

“What do you need from me?”

“Just some time, maybe an hour or two. Busy tomorrow?”

“Not at all. My foursome isn’t playing. You want to play with me?”

“Sorry, I’m not a golfer. I can’t believe you aren’t playing, though. If I were you, I’d never stop.”

“I could live with that,” Jingles chuckled. “And my wife would probably prefer it.”

“Can I come by your house at Leisureville in the morning? Around nine-thirty?”

“No problem. I’ll leave word with Charlie at the front gate. He’ll give you directions.”

He sat at the kitchen table with Pat. “We’re going to be in the paper! We can send copies of the story to the kids.”

Pat leafed through the Sunday paper with renewed interest. “I wonder if anyone recorded last night’s show. I didn’t even think of that.”

“You might call Mary,” Jingles suggested. “She’ll have it.”

The phone sounded again. Pat grabbed it and quickly raised her eyebrows. “What? A limousine? Go ahead and let it through.”

Pat headed to the bathroom to check her hair. “You aren’t going to believe this. There’s a limo coming through the gate right now. A Mr. Fennel wants to see you.”

Jingles opened the sports section. “That’s a coincidence. We’ll be riding around in a limo ourselves come Thursday. Our vacation’s going to be great.”

“I don’t know how Knickers and Bess can possibly afford it,” Pat called from the other room.

The Plumlees watched through the window as a black limousine pulled into the driveway and parked. A uniformed driver got out and opened a rear door. A silver-haired man in a dark, three-piece suit stepped out and walked deliberately to the front door. Pat opened it before he could knock.

The man looked at Jingles and smiled. “I recognize you. That was an impressive show last night. My name is Derek Fennel.” He took a business card from his coat pocket and handed it to Jingles.

He passed it to Pat without a glance. “Please come in, Mr. Fennel. What brings you here?”

He said nothing at first. He walked into the house, glanced around, and headed for the living room. The Plumlees exchanged shrugs.

Pat read the business card to her husband. “It says Derek Fennel. Board of Directors. PGA Champions Tour.”

“Is this your sitting room?” Mr. Fennel asked.

“It is,” Pat answered. “Would you like to talk in there?”

“This would be quite satisfactory. Do you have a cool drink? Bottled water?”

Mr. Fennel sat in an armchair and Jingles took the couch. Pat scrambled to the refrigerator and returned with a plastic water bottle and a glass of ice. Jingles noticed that the glass was fancy crystal, not one of the plastic tumblers they normally used.

“I’ll get right to the point,” the gentleman said, pouring water over the ice. “I’m here representing both the Champions Tour and myself.”

“Representing the Tour in what way?” Jingles asked.

“How do you think? We want to give you a chance to compete on the Tour.”

Jingles had to laugh. “I can’t play on the Senior Tour. I’m not qualified.”

Mr. Fennel winced disapproval. “Please, don’t be sophomoric, Mr. Plumlee. The question isn’t whether you can play on the Tour or not, it’s whether you want to or not.”

“Who wouldn’t want to play? The problem is that I’m seventy-two. Didn’t you know that?”

“I know far more than you might imagine,” the man said, brushing lint from a pant leg with the back of his hand. “I had you checked out after the program last night.”

Jingles drew a deep breath. He’d been checked out? “Well, nobody my age ever had success on the Tour. Most of the guys are twenty years younger.”

“First off, you are far too modest. None of those fifty-something’s can do what you did this past week.”

Jingles hadn’t really thought about that. Maybe it was true. Maybe the bubble lens could open doors that didn’t even exist a week ago. After all, he was on television last night.

The old gentleman continued. “Secondly, your age is the biggest attraction to us. Personally, I’m eighty-one. I’d like nothing more than to believe that older people can continue to be successful at this game. We think you’d be a major attraction.”

“What are you saying?” Jingles asked. “You’d let me play in a qualifying tournament or something?”

Mr. Fennel tapped the arms of his chair impatiently. “Fortuitously, you golf far better than you listen, Mister Plumlee. We want you in Orlando for the tournament a week from Friday. Jacksonville the week after that. I’ll guarantee you sponsor exemptions for the next four events.”

Jingles stared, then looked to Pat. “Can we afford to have me do that?”

Mr. Fennel interrupted. “No one expects you to bear the cost of this adventure. I’m a wealthy man and will cover your costs personally. I even have a wager that you’ll make top ten by your third event.”

The benefactor turned to Pat. “I think you’ll rather enjoy accompanying your husband. There are social events associated with every tournament. You can stay at fine hotels. It’s a lifestyle many of the wives seem to enjoy.”

Pat nodded like a bobblehead. “He’ll do it! We’ll do it! It sounds wonderful.”

“Fine,” Mr. Fennel said, standing and straightening his tie. “I’ll have my driver deliver a complete schedule, tour packet, and authorization tags straight away. In the meantime, plan on getting to Orlando several days in advance so you can get in some practice.”

He took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and dropped it on the coffee table. “This will take care of your expenses for awhile. Do you have any other questions?”

The Plumlees rose from the couch, both speechless.

“My cell number is on the card in case you recover your powers of speech and want to contact me. Now, if you’ll show me out.”

As the limo driver opened the door for Mr. Fennel, he turned back to the Plumlees. “By the way, you can thank Jane Friend for contacting the PGA and advising that we watch the show. I just happened to be the one director living near Phoenix. I don’t usually watch much television.”

The couple stood in the driveway, holding hands, until the limo disappeared. Overwhelmed with excitement, Jingles sat down on the front steps to digest the news. Why couldn’t he succeed? Flowering Cactus was equivalent to the courses on the Champions Tour. He could play that in 67 any day of the week. Pat dashed inside to examine Mr. Fennel’s check.

She returned, sat beside him, and planted a kiss on his cheek. “It’s for thirty thousand! Payable to Ray Plumlee! We’re going to Disneyworld! Let’s leave soon so we can enjoy more time there.”

She hopped back up and rushed to call all the children. “Oh, my,” she hollered back to her husband. “You’re making life so much fun!”

Jingles pondered all that happened in a single week. He thought back to the moment he first looked at himself in the mirror with the odd contact lens. He certainly hadn’t seen a future like this.

A thought sent him rushing into the house. Pat was already talking to their oldest daughter on the kitchen phone, staring at the check in her left hand.

“I’m going to be competing on television,” Jingles exclaimed. “Ask the kids if they get the Golf Channel.”

He could hardly wait to break the news to his friends. How would they react? Would they be as excited as he hoped? Yes, of course. How could they not be? Knickers knew what it was like to make it to the big time. Pat and he would have to miss the anniversary trip, but that would save Knickers lots of money.

Half an hour later, Jingles was on his bed with a phone, mostly listening, while Pat continued to talk in the kitchen. She had the last of the four children on the line.

“Jingles, the limousine’s back,” she said over the phone. “They must be delivering all the stuff Mr. Fennel talked about. Can you go meet them?”

Jingles hurried back outside, where the sleek black Cadillac with the tinted windows had returned to the driveway. Pat joined him a few seconds later.

When no doors opened, the Plumlees approached the elegant car. A rear window opened, releasing a thick cloud of smoke. Through the haze, the faces of Mulligan, Harvey, Knickers, and Derek Fennel appeared. Mr. Fennel’s suit was gone. He wore a T-shirt.

Jingles grabbed a door handle to keep from falling. Four wide grins told the story: Knickers had taken him for still another ride.

“Welcome to the Champions Tour,” Mulligan laughed, raising a bottle of beer in a toast.

Harvey gushed, “Is this the best one ever or what?”

“How do you guys know Derek Fennel?” Pat asked, not comprehending.

“Meet Willie Freeland,” Knickers said, patting Derek Fennel on the shoulder, “my old teammate. The driver’s his friend Max.”

Pat’s entire body started to quake. Her face contorted and turned a ghostly white. She crushed the check into a ball and threw it at Knickers. The wad glanced off his shoulder and caught Willie in the ear.

Knickers laughed at her fury. “That’s what I call a brushback pitch, huh, Willie?”

Pat shrieked in a voice Jingles had never heard. “Don’t you ever come here again, Knickers Collins! That was just mean! It was sick! Don’t any of you ever come to this house again! You’re all just jealous of my husband!”

She wheeled, grabbed Jingles’ arm, and tried to lead him back to the house. He pulled the arm free, partly because he didn’t share her anger, partly because his legs were in no condition to walk. Pat rushed off by herself, slamming the front door loudly enough to chase birds out of trees for a square block.

“I’m not jealous of her husband right now,” Mulligan said, forcing a laugh.

“How ’bout a beer?” Knickers asked, pulling a longneck from an ice chest and twisting off the cap.

Willie and Harvey said nothing. Pat had taken their breath away.

Jingles accepted the beer, took a long swallow, and sank to sit on the driveway. He looked at the stranger beside Knickers and shook his head. “That was the performance of a lifetime,” he acknowledged, replaying the entire visit in his mind. “’Don’t be sophomoric, Mr. Plumlee,’” Jingles mimicked. He turned to Harvey. “What’s sophomoric mean? That I’m a dumb shit?”

“Basically,” Harvey nodded.

Mulligan nodded along. “Old Knickers thought it was a perfect way to get you grounded again.”

“Mission accomplished,” Jingles conceded. “Here I am sitting on the damn driveway in my best pants.”

Harvey glanced toward the house. “I’m a little worried about Pat. She wasn’t laughing.”

“She’ll be okay,” Jingles said, more hopeful than certain. “Her biggest problem is the calls she made. She’s been telling all the kids about it. In her mind, she was already at Disneyworld.”

Willie addressed Knickers. “It was risky to involve a woman. In the dugout days, the targets were all guys.”

“You may be right,” Knickers replied, “but women expect equal treatment these days. We shouldn’t be chauvinistic.”

Knickers looked back to the deflated Jingles. “I made one mistake in plannin’ what Willie would say. Harvey pointed it out a little bit ago. He thought you’d catch it for sure.”

Harvey explained. “The Champions Tour event next weekend is in San Francisco, not Orlando. And that’s the last tournament until January.”

“I was lookin’ at the wrong damn month on the schedule,” Knickers admitted.

Jingles shook his head. “Never gave it a thought. If you waited another fifteen minutes, we’d have bought our tickets to Orlando.”

“What?” Knickers asked in mock surprise. “You would have skipped our anniversary trip just to play on Tour?”

“In a heartbeat! You’ll have another anniversary next year.” Jingles pushed himself to his feet. “Anyone for golf? I’m going to allow Pat some alone time.”

“Would it help if I apologize to her?” Willie asked.

“There’s probably a five percent chance that would help,” Jingles said. “Would you risk your life for those odds?”

The men turned down Jingles’ golf proposal, reminding him of the pledge of no more golf until they reached Hispaniola. Their counter proposal was a trip to the Nineteenth Hole, where the beer was free. Jingles passed on the drinking. He decided to practice at the driving range instead.

Inside the house, Pat called Bess Collins. “Do you know what your husband just did to us?”

“Relax, dear. It was all in fun. I made Derek Fennel’s business card on my computer.”

Pat squeezed the phone. “You were part of this? I thought we were friends!”

“Where’s your sense of humor? It was just a prank!”

“My sense of humor isn’t going anywhere with you on Wednesday, I can tell you that! You go on your fancy trip. My husband and I will be staying home!” Pat slammed down the phone.

She now faced the humiliating task of calling her children back. How could she explain such treachery from supposed friends? How many others had her children called with the news? She had to hurry.

Jingles had decided to check on his wife before leaving. He heard her sobbing an apology to their daughter Sarah in the bedroom. He picked up the phone in the kitchen. “Listen, girls,” he said in a soothing voice. “I’m sorry about what happened, but I had it coming. I’ve gotten a big head lately.

“And Pat, let me call the rest of the kids. None of this was your doing. You’re totally innocent.”

Jingles spent the next two hours on the phone, first with the other two daughters and then his son. He described his friendship with Knickers and mentioned other jokes, including the one with the car. They already knew the salmon tale and had laughed about it for years. Everything was fine with the children, who were excited about his golf success anyway.

After the last call, he peeked into the bedroom. Pat was asleep on the bed, exhausted from the experience. The phone rang near her head. He grabbed it quickly and left the room.

Jane Friend was on the line. “Speak of the angel,” he exclaimed. “You made all of Leisureville happy with your show last night.”

“You’ve made us happy too, Jingles. We got hundreds of calls and emails. People want to know more about you and I think we should oblige them.”

“Phil Johnson from the Phoenix Sun said the same thing earlier today. He’s coming by tomorrow to get information for a story.”

“I know Phil,” she said, “he’ll do a good job. Don’t be surprised if the story is picked up nationally.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all. The Sun is part of a huge syndicate. Your story’s an original. Nobody can recall anything like it.”

“It’s only golf, Jane.”

“And only thirty-some million people play golf in this country, Jingles! There’s also the fact that forty million people are over the age of sixty-five. You have a huge demographic.”

“What more can I do?”

“That’s the fun part. You can play more golf for our cameras. The main sponsor for the show, Phoenix City Bank, wants to put together a promotional campaign that features you playing some exhibitions. We’d have an ongoing feature on Newswatch.”

“I’ll start tomorrow!”

“Oliver Pruh is the bank president. He’d like to play with you at Desert Springs on Wednesday afternoon. He’ll discuss a deal with you then.”

“Wow! I’ve always wanted to play that course. The problem is that I’m going on vacation. We leave Wednesday. I’ll be happy to play when I get back in a few weeks.”

“We should strike while the iron’s hot,” she said. “If everything works out, the bank will pay you twenty thousand dollars.”

Jingles shook his head. Derek Fennel all over again. Money for nothing. But this was Jane Friend, not Knickers. It was an amazing opportunity. Then again, if life had taught him a single lesson, friendship always came first. “Ask Mr. Pruh if three weeks from Wednesday would work, okay? This is a special trip I’m going on, a friend’s golden anniversary.”

In her Phoenix office, Jane stared at her keyboard. No delay was acceptable. She wanted to go on air tomorrow night with news that Jingles’ story would continue. Within days, the print media would be doing more advertising for her. She had to take full advantage. Beyond that, the bank president was relying on her to seal the deal. He wanted something to happen before his annual meeting in less than two weeks.

“Jingles, don’t you think your friends would understand? You’re a star now. You have to take advantage of this chance.”

“The world won’t change in just a couple weeks, Jane. Tell Mr. Pruh I can golf with him tomorrow or Tuesday, before I leave. I’ll explain it all to him. He’ll understand.”

Jane’s eyes stayed on the computer. She hadn’t achieved success at such an early age without persistence. “Well, Jingles, I honestly don’t think the deal will be there if you wait. That’s a lot of money for a few rounds of golf.”

“Tell me about it,” he replied. “My wife would go ballistic if she knew I turned down so much money.”

Jane smiled. Perhaps there was a chink in Jingles’ armor. “Oliver will be calling you soon. I hope everything works out.”

The phone rang again. Knickers this time. “I’m calling about the trip, Jingles. Your wife told Bess that you guys aren’t coming. We’ve got to fix this fast.”

Jingles triple-blinked his surprise. Pat was angry - he’d never seen her so mad – but still. “She’ll feel differently tomorrow. You don’t realize what a great job you did. That was cold-blooded murder!”

“It was all in fun,” Knickers chuckled. “I came up with the idea on Friday while you were busy shooting sixty.”

Jingles laughed. “Maybe you should have concentrated on your golf instead.”

Knickers was silent too long. Jingles sensed he may have touched a nerve with his smack talk. As he learned last night, his partners were a little sensitive. Who could blame them? At the same time, maybe Knickers’ latest trick had rubbed him the wrong way, at least a little. Why couldn’t he compete with anybody now? He couldn’t hit a ball as far as the pros, not even in the same zip code, but he could make up for it on the greens.

Jingles broke the uncomfortable quiet. “I’m sorry I said that. I was trying to be funny and I’m not that good at it.”

“No problem,” Knickers replied. “This trip is important to me. You have to come along.”

Jingles thought of mentioning Jane Friend’s offer, but decided against it. It was the wrong time to be bragging. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Everything will work out.”

Oliver Pruh sat in his home office, a small nook in his sprawling manor at the Desert Springs Country Club. Given his huge size, the space seemed even tighter. He slept alone in one of the five bedrooms, but rarely felt lonely; his work was his life. The most popular joke around the bank was: What would Oliver call a sixty-hour work week? The answer: A vacation. His office at the main branch in downtown Phoenix was ten times larger, paneled in teak, and furnished in rich brown leather. Nonetheless, he insisted that the only furnishing of importance was a computer.

At age 48, he had been head of the bank for six largely successful years – largely, but not grandly. He was reminded of that as he studied the balance sheet for the failed Prescott Hills development. The once-promising golf course community was the only blemish on his otherwise excellent investment record. The project unexpectedly tanked when the developer had a heart attack and his surviving family walked away from the business. The bank now owned an idle golf course and a slew of empty lots for a $17 million investment – a number that grew every day due to maintenance and property taxes. Until the housing market improved, there was no relief in sight.

Using that setback for motivation, Oliver had increased the number of accounts by forty percent in the last year alone. The bank’s affiliation with Newswatch played a significant role in that. However, there would be no rest for Oliver until Phoenix City managed every account in the state.

Two years ago, he saw Jane on Newswatch during her first week on the job. He recognized star quality immediately. Within days, he acquired a major share of the show’s commercial time. Newswatch and Phoenix City Bank were now solidly linked.

Oliver didn’t always watch the show, but Jane called in advance of last night’s broadcast, insisting that he check it out. He was glad that he had. The spectacle at Leisureville was remarkable. Those people adored this Jingles Plumlee, and Oliver adored the business of senior citizens. They tended to park money in low-yield certificates of deposit or savings accounts. In turn, the bank put that cash into loans for construction, home purchases, and business ventures that kept Arizona prospering right along with the bank. He had to put Jingles to good use.

The story itself was phenomenal. Yes, the Leisureville course might be golf’s version of Taco Bell dining, but that didn’t matter. Oliver used to eat on the cheap himself. Putting on lumpy greens, hitting from sparse fairways, and blasting out of kitty litter bunkers was no picnic. 60? The old guy Jingles was a freak!

Jane had called him soon after the show. She demanded more Jingles coverage and asked Oliver himself to make it happen. She laid out an entire promotional concept. Why not have Jingles make scheduled appearances at other retirement communities in the area? Well-orchestrated exhibitions matching Jingles against top local talent would create the same wild buzz, wouldn’t they? The showcases would be linked directly to Phoenix City Bank and WAZA.

Oliver sensed it was a solid concept, possibly brilliant. He vowed to sleep on it. Organizing exhibitions would be time-consuming and costly. On the other hand, there might be willing volunteers in the retirement communities. How might it affect the bank’s bottom line? Would the publicity generate an influx of new customers?

He had called Jane back at noon. He wanted her to broach the subject with Jingles - not because it was her idea - but because he doubted anyone could say no to her. He told her to float a $20,000 figure and lots of television coverage for a half dozen appearances. He also insisted that a meeting be arranged at Desert Springs. He wanted to assess the man in person before making a commitment. Now, at nearly 5:00 p.m., he awaited confirmation from her. His cell phone finally chirped.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“Good and bad. He’s good to go but bad on scheduling. He wants to postpone things for a few weeks. He’s going on vacation.”

“Vacation? What kind of vacation?”

Jane smirked. Oliver didn’t understand vacations. He viewed them as slacking off. “It’s a friend’s anniversary or something.”

“Did you mention the money?”

“Of course.”

“Is he rich or what?”

“Oliver, he lives in Leisureville.”

The banker paused and thought. He needed Jingles Plumlee now. He wanted to excite his board at the annual meeting a week from Thursday. A solid earnings report wasn’t enough. A golf ball signed by Jingles would probably mean more to them.

Jane read his mind. “You might call his wife and see what she thinks. What woman could say no to you?”

You could, Oliver thought to himself. I’ve asked you out a dozen times.

“Mention the money to her,” Jane suggested, and gave him the Plumlees’ number.

Pat was up from her nap, making dinner, when she answered the phone.

“This is Oliver Pruh,” the caller said. “I’m with Phoenix City Bank, sponsor of Newswatch.”

“You must be looking for my husband.”

“I assume he told you about our offer?”

“He hasn’t told me anything. He’s off at the driving range.”

“That’s fine,” Oliver said. “I really wanted to discuss it with you personally. After all, marriage is a partnership.”

Pat was impressed to hear a man acknowledge that. “Go ahead. I’ll listen while I fix dinner.”

Oliver painted a picture of Jingles playing matches at other retirement communities, large turnouts of his fans, and more television coverage. He explained the importance of starting immediately, while the story was fresh.

“I’m sure he’d love that,” she replied.

“That’s what I thought, but he told Jane Friend you two had travel plans.”

“Really?” Pat asked. Did her husband really think she would go anywhere with his traitorous so-called friends? After what they had just done?

Oliver played his trump card. “We’re offering you twenty thousand dollars if Jingles will start this week.”

Her blood froze instantly. The very idea! “Who is this? Another one of Knickers’ friends? Tell him to leave us alone … or I’m calling the police.” She slammed down the phone. That’s the final straw, Pat thought. I never, ever, want to see that man again!

Dusk had settled over Leisureville by the time Jingles got home. He had worked exclusively on iron shots in the 150 to 170-yard range, now the weakest part of his game.

His wife was waiting with loaded gums. “Do I have to get a restraining order against Knickers? Is that little boy going to harass me forever?”

“Is this a bad time to talk about our trip?” Jingles joked, trying to lighten the mood. “I thought you would have gotten over Derek Fennel by now.”

“Gotten over it? Knickers won’t stop! He had somebody named Prude call to make fools out of us again.”

Jingles walked to the stove, lifted the lid on the spaghetti sauce, and dipped a finger for a sample. “Are you sure it wasn’t Oliver Pruh from Phoenix City Bank?”

“That’s what he said, but I knew better. He wanted to pay us twenty thousand dollars. Why won’t Knickers leave us alone?”

“Knickers had nothing to do with it. Jane Friend called while you were sleeping. The offer’s real. What did you say?”

Pat tried to swallow, but her throat had gone dry. “I told him to stop bothering us and hung up.”

“Bet that impressed him,” Jingles laughed. “I’ll call back and apologize.”

“Does the bank really want to give us all that money?”

“Maybe. Jane wanted me to start playing this week. I told her I’d play when we got back from our trip.”

Pat took two plates from the cupboard. “Forget the trip. Tell the bank you can play right away.”

Jingles shook his head. “We have to go with our friends, Pat. It’s a very big deal.”

She dropped the plates loudly on the table. “Oh, right. He and Bess have been planning this for the longest time. We found out about it last night … or maybe it was this morning. Was it after midnight when Knickers proposed this wonderful trip?”

Jingles had a sinking feeling. His best friends were about to be very disappointed.

“You can all just go to Haiti,” Pat added. “I can use the time to pack and move out. Enjoy the spaghetti. It’s your last supper.”

“You’ll feel better after we all go to the football game tomorrow night,” he suggested.

“I’d rather die than go anywhere with those people. Consider me gone from your life.”

She stormed out of the kitchen and headed to the War Room, smiling inside. Success was the sweetest revenge. The world had real plans for her husband. And with $20,000 on the table, she could start revising her Christmas shopping list.

Jingles pondered his one remaining decision. Who should he call first? Knickers or Oliver Pruh? He settled on the banker. The call to Knickers would be painful.

The bank president seemed pleased to have Jingles on board. He encouraged his new employee to play a practice round at Desert Springs on Tuesday, before their Wednesday golf date.

Jingles’ excitement subsided as he pressed Knickers’ number. He hated to disappoint anyone, but his generous friend was in a league of his own.

“I have amazing news,” Jingles announced. “Call it a coincidence, maybe fate, but I got a call from Jane Friend. Her sponsor, Phoenix City Bank, is going to pay me lots of money to go on my own Champions Tour. I’m going to play exhibitions at some of the other Leisurevilles around here.”

Knickers waited for a punch line, but none came. “That’s great. Congratulations are in order.”

“They’re going to put highlights on Newswatch again.”

“When’s this happenin’?” Knickers asked. “As soon as we get back?”

“Well, that part’s a problem. I have to start right away. We can’t accept your great invitation.”

“You’re jokin’, right? Tryin’ to get even.”

“Wish I was.”

“Think about this, Jingles. You can still come. They’ll work around your schedule. You’re the attraction.”

“The money won’t be there later,” Jingles replied.

“How much we talkin’?

“Twenty thousand.”

Knickers chuckled. “How about I give you the twenty grand to come with us? Our little secret. Hey, it’s our fiftieth.”

Jingles knew his friend was dead serious. The offer both irritated and touched him. “Listen, I wish you and Bess the very best. You’ll have four great travel companions, and we’ll have lots to tell each other when you get back. Tell Bess I’ll be by with her anniversary gift before you leave.”

“What about the game tomorrow night?”

“We’re not going to be able to make that either. Pat’s still pissed about Derek Fennel. I’m not getting divorced over a Cardinals game.”

Knickers started to reply, but stopped. His friend Willie had been right. Getting a woman involved was a big mistake. He said bye and hung up.

After the call from Jingles, Knickers sat at his kitchen table to mourn. Bess, who had listened on another line, joined him. For the past week, Jingles had been the sole topic of conversation under the Collins roof.

“Don’t feel bad,” Bess said, rubbing the old catcher’s gnarled right hand. “We couldn’t see that coming.”

“We should have,” her husband grumbled. “After the car gag, we should have known better. Pat can’t laugh at herself.”

Bess nodded. “And she wears the pants in that house, no doubt. She rules with an iron hand.”

Knickers glanced up. “I thought you liked her.”

“Pat? Love her to pieces. Never respected a woman more.” She got up to toss a frozen pizza in the oven. “She’s all about family. Very different than us, that’s all.”

“Jingles needs to put his foot down sometimes.”

“Really?” Bess asked, handing him a cold beer from the fridge. “Like you do?”

“Hey, now. At least we’re a partnership. Pat’s a dictator.”

Bess sat and uncapped her own bottle. “That’s not always a bad thing. I’d say she’s done an excellent job of raising Jingles. He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

Knickers thumped his bottle down. “I thought you really liked him too.”

“I do. I’ve always been partial to simple-minded men.”

“What’s that ’sposed to mean?”

“Figure it out, Mr. Butter Knife. I’m married to a man who set his alarm for four-thirty every morning so he could sneak into someone’s garage and pour gas in his car ... twenty days in a row!”

“You thought that was funny!”

“It was funny because I was still warm in bed while you did it.”

Knickers stepped on her toe. “At least you’ll never have to worry about me gettin’ senile.”

Bess smiled. “True that. You’ve been there for fifty years.”

The Plumlee phone refused to stay silent. Jingles answered himself because he still stood next to it.

“This Jingles?” a man’s voice asked.

“Yes, sir. Can I help you?”

“I think so. I own Super Puttz, a family entertainment center a couple miles from Leisureville. My name’s Alex Levin.”

Jingles knew the place. He drove past it every week on the way to the House of Pancakes. Looked like a miniature golf course, go-carts, and maybe batting cages. The parking lot was always empty, at least on Sunday mornings.

“I wanted to drop an offer on you, something you might really enjoy,” he continued.

“What’s that?”

“Well, I’ve got a boy. He’s only twelve, but he’s the best putter I’ve ever seen, at least on our course here at Super Puttz. I’ll give you two hundred cash if you can beat him. How’s that sound?”

Jingles laughed. “It sounds like you have serious faith in your kid.”

“Actually, I have faith in you. If I get word out that you’ll be playing a round on my course, it’d be a nice promotion. People aren’t playing mini-golf like they used to. I’d consider it a favor, even if you win.”

Jingles hadn’t played miniature golf in years, but the idea intrigued him. Would it be good test for his new vision? He’d replace out. “When did you have in mind?”

The match was set for Tuesday night at eight.

Rows of tall Arizona pines stood like sentries on each side of the long driveway leading to Desert Springs Country Club. A huge white clubhouse, with four prominent columns rising three stories, stood regally at the end of it.

“Now that’s a picture,” Jingles said, slowing down to prolong the view. “It looks kinda like the White House.”

“Yes,” Pat replied. “Definitely some Palladian influence.”

“Pallady what?” Jingles asked. His wife still surprised him with her worldliness now and then.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure there’s a bathroom. That’s all you need to know.” Pat had listened to him whine about having to go for fifteen minutes, sounding just like the original Jingles.

She had agreed to make the trip, to chauffeur his majesty around eighteen holes, based on bribery alone. After practice, they would enjoy a complimentary dinner at the gourmet restaurant. Mr. Pruh recommended the lobster!

Pat absorbed the aristocratic surroundings with a sigh. Leisureville would never look quite the same. Jingles led her to the pro shop, which reminded her of a fancy department store in downtown Phoenix. The Berber carpet was the same deep blue she had chosen for her master bedroom. Golf shoes were displayed on pedestals, not lined up on a rack. A half dozen mannequins wore the latest golf fashions. The place had the scent of big money, and the price tags documented it.

A gray-haired man at the desk wore a monogrammed golf shirt that matched the rug. He grinned recognition of the old golfer. “Welcome to Desert Springs! I’m Greg. I’ve been expecting you.” He pushed a button on the wall, then walked out from behind the counter to shake hands with Jingles. He lifted Pat’s hand and brushed it with his lips.

She felt a blush. So many men were kissing her hand lately. Everyone was treating her with special respect - all except some supposedly good friends. Even Harvey and Irvin had stabbed her in the back by going along with Knickers and Bess and their cruel joke. While those two at least apologized after she had words with their wives, the Collinses expressed no remorse.

A young man called to them from the doorway. “Your cart is ready. It has snacks in the basket behind the passenger seat. If I may have your car keys, I’ll grab your clubs.” Jingles tossed him the keys and got directions to the men’s room.

Greg told Pat, “There’s also a cooler behind the driver’s seat. It has a variety of drinks.”

“You didn’t have to go out of your way for us,” Pat said.

The man looked surprised. “It’s really nothing, Mrs. Plumlee. All the carts go out that way.”

“How much does it cost to play here?” Pat asked in a whisper.

Greg grinned at the question. “It’s a private club, of course. Guests play with a member or are sponsored by one. It’s two seventy-five after one in the afternoon. Three seventy-five in the morning.”

“What does it cost to be a member?”

“You know, I can’t even tell you for certain. Put it this way: my annual income wouldn’t pay the dues, let alone the initial membership fee.”

“Ooh,” Pat cooed. “The lives of the rich and famous.”

“Rich, maybe,” Greg said, “but none as famous as your husband is right now.”

Jingles returned, carrying a large thermos. “Look what I picked up at the bar, Pat. A whole jug of frozen margaritas! You can drink and drive.”

Greg watched them roll off to the first hole, all giggles and promises to bring the cart back in one piece. Yes, Mrs. Plumlee, the members here are rich. But none of them can buy the ability to play golf like the gentleman next to you.

Pat sat, sipped, and munched as she observed her man at work over the first few holes. Prior to the last week, she had never watched him play, not once in the twenty years he’d been at it. He didn’t play these holes like those at Leisureville on Friday and Saturday. Instead of teeing his ball between the markers, he had her drive him halfway to each green. At that point, he scattered a few balls on the grass and hit each toward the flag in the distance. Once at the green, he exchanged contacts on his right eye and proceeded to putt for a few minutes. He seemed to make almost every one, but showed no emotion doing it.

“Why do you have to change that right lens all the time?” she asked after the second hole. “They’re all the same prescription.”

Jingles considered an acceptable answer. “One right lens is different than the other. It lets me see better at a short distance, like reading glasses. If I leave it on, though, it irritates my eye. It’s just one of those things.”

“One of those things?” she asked. “I never heard of such a thing.”

“I know it sounds strange, but how can we argue with the results? Look where we are.”

Pat couldn’t argue with that; his eye seemed fine. She turned her attention to the course itself, and the homes surrounding it. Was there a single weed on the premises? She couldn’t locate one. The cart path looked like a fresh-paved highway. The paths at Leisureville had cracks everywhere, with vegetation sprouting from them. The fairways here looked like the White House lawn. And the homes! Each lot was half an acre, enough space for six homes in Leisureville. The same Arizona pines that greeted visitors out front, as well as majestic leafy trees, provided shade for the houses. The entire area was an oasis.

The estate behind the third green proved to be her favorite. It stood at the center of a double lot and had the same architecture as the clubhouse. A walkway led from the golf course into the property, ending in a bridge that crossed over a swimming pool to the rear veranda. She imagined her great grandchildren at play in the pool, her entire family on the lovely terrace.

As they continued around the course, Pat pointed to each impressive house and listed the features she appreciated most. Her husband nodded, barely looking. She knew he could pitch a tent and be satisfied if a golf course and playing partners were nearby.

Pat viewed their marriage as a practical merger of contrasting personalities, a pairing that made each of them better people. As a shy, studious girl, she loved Ray Plumlee by the time they were thirteen. His friendliness toward her wasn’t unique - he extended the same kindness to all the kids - but what girl wouldn’t want to marry the nicest guy around?

Even in high school, where teenagers tended to divide into subgroups, he remained the universal friend. Whether kids played clarinet in the band, dribbled on the basketball team, acted in class plays, or studied in the library, he laughed at their jokes and applauded their efforts. Ray never seemed to look at a person’s attire, only their eyes. When someone sneezed, he was the first to offer a Kleenex. He was elected class president without even running for the office. Most of the kids simply wrote in his name.

While the happy-go-lucky boy strolled through life, she had plotted their future together. She stayed near his elbow in classes to assist with test answers that stumped him. She offered help with math and English assignments because he struggled with those subjects more than the rest. And she always had an extra brownie in her lunch bag.

In their junior year, she told him that being his prom date would make her the happiest girl ever. Even though the dance was five months away, an eternity to a teen, Ray predictably agreed. “No” wasn’t in his vocabulary. She finished high school as his girlfriend while he, with her help, finished high school.

The birth of The Cleanery in the summer of their graduation secured their future together. Customers flocked to Ray for service and Pat made sure they got it. A marriage, a home, a family, and a retirement later, she had only one complaint with her husband. Sometimes he was just too darned nice.

Pat knew the luxury of Desert Springs was out of their price range, but they might have done better than Leisureville. For a hundred thousand more, fancier developments had been within reach. Had they sold their business instead of giving it away, they could have afforded the difference. For that matter, selling their home in Alaska would have done the trick too.

The decisions on the disposition of their business and home had tortured her. She always assumed they would sell The Cleanery for a good price. It had been a major surprise when her youngest daughter asked her father if she could take over the thriving janitorial business. It wasn’t really a request, of course, because Ray knew only the one answer. Another daughter approached her father with an offer to purchase the family home in Eagle River. She wanted to live where she grew up. Ray just signed over the property.

When Pat expressed concern for their own future, her husband had been sympathetic. If she wanted to ask for payment, she was welcome to do so. Personally, he thought they could get by without inconveniencing the children. When she questioned the equity of giving a valuable business and home to two children while the others got nothing, Ray shrugged and said, “We’re lucky. The others didn’t ask. Tell them you’ll balance the books in your will.” Life was so simple for Ray.

Well, the Plumlees were getting by. They had saved enough money to purchase the home in Leisureville. Their retirement plan provided almost $70,000 in income last year. And there was the social security too. Pat’s marginal existence was her husband’s life of Riley.

While Pat drove the fairways of the back nine, she considered the excitement at Leisureville, Newswatch, the dancing, and the $20,000. In over fifty years of marriage, Ray had never disappointed her. Now, though, for the very first time, he had delivered a surprise.

After golf, the Plumlees headed for the second-floor restaurant with a view of the course. Their meal featured Caesar salad, smoked salmon chowder, and fresh Maine lobster. While they studied the dessert menu, a waiter brought a silver tray with a telephone on it.

“Jingles,” the soft voice of Oliver Pruh said, “what did you think of my home course?”

“Well, Mr. Pruh, I’m not used to having so much grass under my ball. Hitting off your fairways is like hitting off a tee.”

He laughed. “I’m glad you approve. Are you ready to show me and all of Arizona your stuff tomorrow? Newswatch will be there. Hope you don’t mind the cameras.”

“I don’t even notice them,” he admitted, “especially around the greens.” Through the bubble lens, he saw only what mattered, the cup itself. Like a racehorse wearing blinders, he had no peripheral distractions. Maybe that was part of why the lens was so effective.

Oliver said, “The reason I called was to insist that you try the cheesecake. Order the chocolate with strawberries and the regular with blueberries. Then you can share. It’s a life-changing experience.”

“Thanks for dinner and the tip. Let me put Pat on the line to say hello. She promises not to hang up on you.” After Pat conveyed her appreciation, the Plumlees ordered the desserts to take home.

Walking to the car, Jingles held his wife’s hand. “I’m thinking cheesecake for breakfast instead of prunes.” When Pat didn’t immediately reject the idea, he broke into a grin. Anything was possible these days.