James Ross - A Character-Based Collection (Prairie Winds Golf Course) Page 3

  “We’ve got bigger fish to fry back here,” George said.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Lew replied.

  The headlights of an approaching car glistened in the distance. “Whatever we do, let’s get a move on it,” Walter called in a hoarse whisper.

  “We can’t go. That’s hit and run,” George pleaded.

  Lew and Monty hurried to the ditch to examine what Walter and George had found. “Leave the bitch!” Lew screamed as he checked out the body. “That’s the one that gave me the clap last year.” The gold-capped tooth had jogged his memory of past liaisons.

  Monty put his experience as an attorney to work. “It’s more like vehicular homicide. We better not leave the body here.”

  Lew eyed the rear of the station wagon. “Come on. Let’s load her in the back,” Lew urged.

  With a knee-jerk reaction the four men lifted the lifeless body of the streetwalker into the tail compartment of the station wagon.

  “What now?” George questioned. An alcohol-induced mood of panic had replaced good judgment.

  “Will you shut up and get in? We’ve got to get out of here!” Lew hollered.

  The four men scampered into the station wagon as the headlights of the approaching car neared. Lew stomped on the gas pedal and sped off.

  “Lew! Slow down!” Monty shouted. “We’ve got a body in the back, for God’s sake!”

  “Where are we going now?” George pried.

  “Head over to the river. Let’s dump her in there,” Monty suggested.

  “It’s too damn foggy out. I don’t want to get anywhere near the water,” Lew retaliated. The river bottom property had choked all visibility out of the night. “We need to get out of here and get on some higher ground!”

  A tense moment elapsed as the men searched for an idea that could be passed along as common sense. “I know about this semi-secluded piece of ground,” Walter recommended.

  Lew looked at Walter in the rearview mirror for a split second while considering his options. “And . . . ?”

  “It’s up on the bluff,” Walter continued.

  Lew’s eyes were fixed on Walter’s as he stared into the mirror. A myriad of thoughts were racing through his head.

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard yet. Show me the way.”

  Chapter Five

  Vern “Goldie” Morton must have known that his days were numbered. There’s just something special about that little voice that we all listen to. Call it a hunch, a premonition, or a gut feeling. Somehow, Vern knew he had to get his affairs in order.

  Within months of Vern’s decision to let Walter Hancock look over the affairs of the estate, Vern died of a heart attack. Now, the total affairs of the estate fell squarely on Walter’s shoulders. He had a major responsibility to probate the will, manage the estate, pay the taxes, satisfy any debts, and distribute the assets.

  Even though Walter was a very skillful estate planner, he worked better with live people than dead people. He had a massive mess dumped into his lap. Since he was the executor of the estate he had to look after the best interests of Margaret Morton, Vern’s widow, her only child, Lucille, and Lucille’s son, Matt.

  Margaret had been a well-kept woman. She had met Vern right after the war. Margaret was wise enough to say and do the right things to keep him around for a few decades. She was no fool, she saw talent in her husband to spin gold out of straw and wasn’t about to let it get away from her.

  She had gone to an upscale finishing school and learned what to do and how to do it. Margaret could ride horses, play golf, and parachute out of airplanes in her glory years. Her years as a runway model taught her how to carry herself properly. She had been groomed to prosper in the lap of luxury.

  However, her main role was to be a mother to Vern’s only child, Lucille. Margaret’s job was to make sure that Lucille was not spoiled by the money even though neither of them had to worry about anything financially. Of course, that was tough to do once Lucille spent some time on the east coast of Florida.

  Lucille had gone to an all-girls high school. Vern and Margaret demanded that because they wanted to shelter her from boys while she was growing up. That all changed when Lucille decided to go to college in Florida. She fell in love with the climate, practically threw away the books, and let the male college students chase her around campus.

  After several party-time liaisons, Lucille met a man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. She became pregnant and they quickly married. Shortly after her son, Matt, was born, Lucille’s husband was killed in a car crash. She chose to stay in Florida and raise her son in West Palm Beach. Lucille was free to enjoy the warm weather of South Florida and try not to overspend the vast amount of money that went into her checking account every month. Lucille was fortunate to benefit financially from the proper upbringing of her mother and the entrepreneurial genius of her father without having to follow in their same footsteps.

  Margaret and Lucille never wanted for money. Vern always made sure that they were amply supplied. But strange things can happen after the breadwinner dies.

  The heart and soul of Margaret Morton went after Vern’s death. She lost her will to live. For all of those years, she was the best friend and steadfast companion of a highly successful man. With his passing, her health deteriorated rapidly. Her weight dropped dangerously low and her lethargic moods would sink her into a depression so deep, she couldn’t seem to climb out of them.

  It was around that time that she got a call from Walter Hancock.

  Walter operated his accounting practice out of a quaint, two-story home. The walk-around porch added a down-home feel and the tree-lined street provided the perfect setting for attracting new business. A tidy sign on the exterior read: HANCOCK ACCOUNTING and ESTATE PLANNING. The stencil on the frosted window of the front door read: WALTER HANCOCK, C. P. A., C. F. P.

  Walter was very fidgety when Margaret showed up for her appointment. As she entered the door he rushed to greet her a little too loudly. “Margaret Morton! You remember me, don’t you?”

  “I believe so.” Margaret felt she barely had the energy to speak, much less respond to such a formal greeting.

  “I am the executor of your husbands’ estate. We met once prior to his death.”

  “Mmm . . . Yes.” In reality, Margaret Morton was very confused and was too proud to admit it.

  Walter knew that Margaret was having a difficult time understanding simple things. He had to balance the accountability of an ethical professional with a fiduciary duty against the whims of greedy human nature. It was a wafer-thin line that he had mastered to an art form. “I have the unenviable job of settling some of your husband’s affairs. It should take a bit of time, but I think that we’ll manage very well for you.”

  “That’s so reassuring.” Margaret still wasn’t sure about this fellow. She felt as if she were on remote control with her duties as a widow and gave into that frame of mind.

  “Your husband’s portfolio and his estate had a lot of land and property. So I would like to introduce you to George Pierce,” Walter explained.

  Lacking in professionalism, Walter yelled out the door for George. It was hard not to notice the snaky, mistrusting look on the face of George Pierce as he entered the room and met Margaret.

  “George, this is Margaret Morton. Margaret, George Pierce.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Morton,” George stated. He shook her hand and tried his best not to let her know that he really wanted to meet her pocketbook.

  “My pleasure,” Margaret replied politely as she noticed the diamond-studded pinky ring that was mashed onto his thick, swollen finger.

  Walter continued with an explanation. “Mrs. Morton, George is a lawyer. He owns a title company where the estate has a lot of land holdings. I called him in today to meet you. We’ll be using a lot of services that George can provide.”

  George picked up the schmoozing by laying it on thick. “Yes ma’am, I plan on working very closely with Wal
ter to dispose of some of the assets in your estate. Does that sound agreeable to you?” he asked in a condescending tone. He was doing his dandiest to be as charming as he could to the old lady as he forced a flashy smirk.

  “I suppose so. Vern had always trusted Walter. If Walter suggested this meeting, then we can proceed.” Margaret was far too nice and worldly to be mixed up with these two and was in too confused a state to realize the caliber of men they really were.

  “Based on your substantial holdings, we will be in constant touch with you, Mrs. Morton. One of the first things I would like for you to do is sign this power-of-attorney form,” replied George. He pushed a form to Margaret. He hoped that his blasé manner wouldn’t raise any suspicions from her.

  “What do you want me to do with this?” Margaret asked.

  George’s anxiety caused him to blurt out a hurried response. “Just sign it!” He immediately caught himself and gave Walter a quick look as if to say, I’m okay . . .

  “Vern always warned me about a document like that,” Margaret mentioned. “He told me to never sign a power of attorney form.” That was the one thing that she did remember explicitly and didn’t mind reinforcing the point.

  An uneasy moment expired. Walter and George exchanged glances. George, who seemed to have an answer for everything, was speechless. With his eyes, he gave Walter a look. You’re the one she trusts . . . Do something!!!

  “Well, uh, if you don’t want to sign that, uh, Mrs. Morton, uh, then that will make our job of carrying out the wishes of your, uh, deceased husband a lot more difficult,” Walter adlibbed.

  “Why, no, I have no intention of signing a power-of-attorney form,” Margaret insisted.

  George and Walter swapped looks again. “Okay, then well, we’ll deal with things as they come up,” Walter had an idea. “We do have to pay some money to the government. Would you sign this tax form?”

  “I’ll sign that,” Margaret agreed. “Vern always told me to pay what was owed to the government.”

  A slight sneer crept across George’s face. Walter pushed a tax form to Margaret. After a momentary pause she reached for a pen. In a matter of a few trusting seconds Margaret Morton signed her life away.

  Chapter Six

  Through a series of shrewd and highly questionable business moves, Lew had amassed quite a few assets. He had figured out that obtaining owner-financing agreements from some older land owners and renting the acreage back for a percentage of the crops was a pretty good gig. It had become even more profitable when the storage bins were located next to his barn on ground that he owned.

  If cash got tight to make payments, he could always use his chameleon-like sales ability to stall off an elderly note holder. Or, he could blame his misfortune on some less-than-favorable weather conditions to renegotiate the loan. In his opinion, the old land owners were much easier to deal with and more forgiving than the asshole bankers.

  Those days on the banks of the Mississippi watching the trains go by also put a few fruitful ideas into Lew’s head. He concocted a plan to buy property from the railroads. Lew had befriended a retired railroad executive who had explained a dilemma the rail line was facing.

  The company had abandoned several lines and the railroad tracks were sitting on ground that was virtually worthless. However, Lew figured that it had value to whoever was on either side of the rail. Many times, the right-of-way, or easement, went right through a farm field. Often times, the same owner was on both sides of the tracks.

  With the help of the retired exec, Lew purchased the rights to the abandoned rail line. He then contacted the neighboring property owner and literally raped them into buying the property back just to cross their own farm field.

  It wasn’t like putting a gun to a person’s head, but psychologically, it was just as effective. And he profited handsomely off of that scam.

  During the middle part of his life, Lew’s maneuvering started to provide him with a very comfortable lifestyle. He had acquired a large, ranch-style home. One storage bin became two and two became four and four became eight and so on.

  The rent for the property was coming to him in the form of corn, wheat, and soybeans. The bins were needed to bank his profits. By doing it that way Lew could wait until the commodities market was to his liking. There was no sense selling corn at a buck eighty a bushel if he could wait until the time was right to get double that.

  And that was what Lew did. It seemed to be a fairly effective way to get around Uncle Sam, too.

  When Lew needed a new barn to replace the old, rotten one, a mysterious fire that destroyed the barn and a few old tractors was blamed on a lightning strike. With a little help from his insurance friend, the new barn was paid for.

  To protect all of these assets, he decided he needed a security gate to complete his fortress. The electronics were soon in place and up went the eight-foot tall, moving wrought-iron gates. He had the only farm in the area with a protective entry to screen out traffic on his driveway.

  Lew even finagled a way to keep it all through two disastrous divorces.

  On this particular morning, he sat at his kitchen counter and sipped a cup of coffee. Standing near him was a skanky-looking brunette, fifteen years his junior. She buttered toast at the breakfast island and was clad only in panties and a t-shirt. It appeared that she had been a conquest from the previous night.

  Even a young toy like that couldn’t erase the misery from Lew’s face. He was a balding old man who wore tinted sunglasses despite being indoors. Every day, he wore the same thing; his trademark mechanic’s uniform with “Lew” stitched over the shirt pocket. Lew was a miserable SOB and nothing would change that.

  Scattered across the top of the breakfast island was an assortment of pills. They seemed to represent an escape from reality for Lew. His neurotic obsessions bordered on the edge of paranoia. He was especially proud of the jet black, velvet, ring holder which he had nicknamed “Nirvana.” The contents of the elaborate case were known only to Lew and the container never left his presence.

  The morning paper was spread across the counter. On this specific morning the local sports headline read: J.W. SCHROEDER FALLS ONE SHOT SHORT.

  The body of the article continued with, “After landing in a divot on the 108th hole of the grueling PGA Qualifying Tournament, Schroeder pull-hooked the next shot out of bounds . . . .”

  The article caused Lew to pause. The headline caught his eye before he really comprehended the goldmine he had discovered. He floated into deep thought and suddenly his eyes flew open wide as he grabbed his phone. He grunted into the receiver, “I think we got our boy, Monty.”

  Maurice “Monty” DiMonte was on the other end of the line. He was a piece of work. His hardened look seemed twenty years over his given age. His rock-hard pot-belly would rival that of the most serious beer drinker. He wore his thinning hair in carefully combed strands pulled into a ponytail that was patterned after a rock-star idol. To say that he was not particularly pleasing to the eye would be an understatement.

  His desk was cluttered with files and documents. The office was in as much disarray as his personal hygiene and his attire.

  “Monty” was the person that Lew always called for advice. Monty had a childhood buddy that aspired to be a political figure. Right out of law school he got involved in his friends’ campaign. They won the election and he became a force in local politics. Lew was attracted to Monty because of his connections.

  Most people in that position would put on a pretty straight face. But Monty seemed to get a lot of enjoyment out of crossing over the line. He always thought that he was above the law and didn’t mind going into uncharted territory. That was especially true if he felt like he was protected or could wield his political influence to escape with the spoils. He was addicted to the power of being well-connected.

  “Get him up here,” Monty urged.

  “How much time do you need?” Lew asked.

  “The incorporation documents are boiler plate do
cs.”

  “Huh?”

  “Standard, simple, basic shit,” Monty curtly responded as he became impatient with Lew’s questions. “I don’t need any time to put it together.”

  “Damn, you’re quick! Give me a day to meet with George and Walter,” Lew replied. “We need to go over some title and accounting stuff too.”

  Chapter Seven

  Humble, Texas—Mid December, 1983 . . .

  J Dub and Marcia were stuck in a double-wide trailer. Their hopes of setting up a little nicer living arrangement were dashed when J Dub knocked the shot out-of-bounds on the last hole of the PGA Q-School Tournament.

  So, Plan B went into action. J Dub decided to stay put in Humble for the winter. No sense in battling the winter in Illinois when he could be hitting balls in milder weather. He applied for a job at the local driving range during the day and for a little extra cash he found work at a truck stop near Interstate-45 a few nights a week. It would be a sore reminder of his errant decision during the tournament.

  J Dub sat at the kitchen table tweaking their budget and guesstimating maternity expenses. Marcia has a few months to go before she delivers he mused as he calculated his meager projected salary for the next several months and compared it to their expenses. Damn! J Dub knew it was going to be a struggle when he looked at the numbers. He sighed and rested his head in his hands. He couldn’t get the picture out of his head of what could have been when he rushed through his shot at the Q-School Tourney.

  “Dammit,” he said to no one in particular.

  Marcia was sitting in the living room looking out the window as she sipped her decaf tea. She saw J Dub sitting in a heap at the kitchen table and knew he felt badly about their predicament. She was struggling herself to keep her mood light, which was not the easiest thing in the world to do when you’re nearly six months pregnant. She cursed her raging hormones and began to feel sorry for herself.

  She jumped suddenly as the unruly neighbors raced the car engines next door. Irritation set in. It was one thing to be startled and an entirely different thing to be aggravated. At different times of the day and night, Marcia heard the rednecks gunning their engines as they worked on their wrecks. Their slobbering yells were a constant reminder of the non-stop beer guzzling. Pabst Blue Ribbon cans littered the park. She was already sick of it and they had just moved into this mobile hell hole.