Rule Number Two
By Gary Christenson
Yahoo news reported Eddie Griffin, a prominent socialite, planned to vacation at the charming Lake Meyers Country Club in Florida. I smiled with delight and called to tell Janice, my sister. She said, “That’s great, Amanda. Let’s make a plan.”
I’m a PGA professional, Griffin fancies himself a golfer, I live an hour north of Lake Meyers, and Janice had history with him. I would send him a letter, invite him to play eighteen holes, mesmerize him with my physical appearance, and encourage him to play another round with me.
I selected a picture, one with ample cleavage, a partial profile view that displayed my physical assets, and an adorable smile. The PGA Professional status was the bait. My bustline was the hook.
Our father taught his two daughters the game of golf and one other valuable skill. He also demanded we follow two important life rules.
As a PGA professional, I can improve your golf scores. I propose we play eighteen holes during which I’ll give you individualized attention that will perk up your game.
I have enclosed a recent publicity photo. Call me.
Amanda Barnes, PGA Professional
I mailed the letter to his press secretary, a man who knew Griffin’s tastes in golf and women.
To my surprise, Griffin phoned in person. I saw the caller ID and suppressed a grin.
“Amanda Barnes. To whom do I have the pleasure of serving?”
“Miss Barnes, Eddie Griffin here. I received your letter and found it interesting you didn’t mention your fee. Tell me more.” I heard confidence in his voice, the kind of confidence that might shout, “Take it off, baby. Show me what you’ve got.”
“Mr. Griffin, I didn’t mention a fee because the only payment I want, in exchange for eighteen holes of personalized instruction, is a selfie with you. I use pictures of me with famous people to market my lessons, and I’d love to include a selfie of us.”
He hesitated a moment, perhaps wondering if he could score with me in bed. “Miss Barnes, you have a deal. Would tomorrow late morning at the Lake Meyers Country Club suit you?”
I imagined I heard panting. “I’ll clear my schedule. Tomorrow is good. When’s our tee time?”
“The pro-shop booked us for eleven a.m.”
He had taken the bait, set the hook, and started his run. “Great. I’ll meet you on the putting green half an hour before tee time. You have my picture. I’ll be wearing a big smile.”
“It’s a date. See you tomorrow.”
The next morning, I dressed in a short white skort, tight and revealing golf pullover, uplift bra, and makeup that highlighted my baby blues. I wanted him to look.
Newspapers claimed he had seduced hundreds of women. Other lurid stories confirmed his kinky obsession with underage girls.
I wanted a selfie, an assessment of his golf game, and a second golfing invitation.
Griffin was easy to find on the putting green next to the pro-shop. He sported expensive golf attire, chiseled facial features, oozing charm, and indescribable sleaziness. He fit the image of international pedophile playboy. I smelled excessive fragrance covering masculine musk. Yuk!
I watched him roll a few and knew his best strokes were in bed, not with his putter. He pushed a couple right, gritted his teeth, and smiled as he sank a three-footer. I knocked two eight-footers into the cup and bent over suggestively to retrieve the balls.
The pro-shop announced our tee time. I said, “How about that selfie?” He hooked his arm around my shoulders, and I snapped our picture. “Thanks. Let’s play golf.” I hurried back to my golf car, shuddered at the memory of him touching me, and drove to the first tee box.
Remember to smile, give him plenty to ogle, and act charmed, not disgusted.
We tossed a tee to decide honors, and it pointed toward him. Griffin marched to the box, took five practice swings, put a determined frown on his face, and pounded a hard slice into the right rough, barely in bounds. He muttered something crude. I repressed a grin. “Do you want a mulligan?”
“Nope, I’ll play that one. Sometimes I slice the damn ball.”
On the tee box, I took one practice swing, relaxed, and sent my Pro V1 two hundred forty yards down the center of the fairway. I smiled at him and said, “Game on.”
Griffin double bogeyed the first, tripled the second, parred the third, and doubled the fourth. He complained, “My tempo is off. Usually, I play better than this.”
Usually, you play worse. What a jerk.
I smiled and said, “Relax. You’re tight. Stand an inch closer, strengthen your left grip, and bend your knees more. You’re reaching for the ball and standing too tall. If your timing isn’t perfect, you’ll swing over the top and slice it, like you did on three of four tee shots.”
He sounded surprised. “I’ll work on my swing.”
By hole seven his slice had improved, but he had only hit one fairway. After his three putt I said, “We need to work on your putting. You’re not looking down on the ball, and you have difficulty reading a green. Try that last putt again with an extra ten inches of break. I squatted, gave him a peek, and tossed him the ball. “One more time.”
The pervert knocked the putt long, probably thinking about what my golf outfit concealed.
The eighth hole was a dogleg left. He sliced his drive into the rough on the right, and we gave up hunting after several minutes. I told him, “Drop one here. Don’t go back to the tee box.”
This spot intrigued me. I examined the area and adjacent municipal park while he practiced his shot.
As we walked off the sixteenth green, he said, “Amanda, you’re a gorgeous woman. I’ve aroused many young women to sexual ecstasy. Imagine the sensual pleasures I could offer you.”
I winked my baby blues and said, “I will.” Double yuk!
Instead of sharing a drink with him after eighteen, I shook his hand and said, “I have to pass on your offer today, but maybe next time. I hope you’ll return to Lake Meyers and play with me again.”
He popped his eyes open in shock.
Several weeks later, Griffin telephoned and invited me for another round. I agreed to meet him the next day on the putting green.
He played better and had improved his swing, but as expected, he sliced his drive into the right rough on the eighth hole. Griffin stomped into the six-inch grass, frowned, and dropped a ball. I watched him from the fairway, fifty yards away. He addressed the ball, and then collapsed, crashing to the ground. It could have been a widow-maker, a massive heart failure.
I rushed to check on him. His eyes were blank, and his chest didn’t move. I grabbed my cell phone and called the pro-shop.
I yelled at the pro, “I’m Amanda Barnes. We’re in the right rough on hole eight. My playing partner collapsed. I think he had a heart attack.” I took several deep breaths and finished by saying, “Call 9-1-1, and get an ambulance here soon.”
The course pro said, “Stay with him. Don’t move. I’ll get help there in a couple minutes.”
I paced back and forth, looking worried while I watched for the EMTs. It was an outstanding performance.
The real story was that Janice had shot Griffin, the bastard who raped her at fourteen, five years ago.
Our father was a good golfer and an excellent Marine sniper. He taught us to relax, squeeze the trigger, retrieve the brass, and fade into the surroundings. As per our plan, Janice had nailed him from the deserted park across the street. She would police the area, walk to her car, and drive to visit our mother. Mom had agreed to provide an alibi and swear Janice had spent the morning with her.
The EMTs arrived, checked his pulse, rolled him over, and discovered the hole in his head. Janice, a crack shot, had hit him in the right temple. They covered his body and loaded him into the ambulance. “The police will want a statement from you.”
I told them, “I’ll wait in the pro-shop.” I drove around hole nine to the club house and parked the golf car. The police arrived minutes later. I squeezed out tears, answered their questions, and promised to sign a statement at the station. I repressed smiling until I was alone in my car, driving home.
Our father taught us two rules. The first was ‘Never give up.’ Rule number two was ‘Don’t start a fight, but always finish it.’
Janice finished the fight Eddie Griffin started years ago.
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