Even When You Win... Read online

  Even

  When

  You Win...

  License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please go on line and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2013 by David Balcom, All Rights Reserved

  This book is dedicated to the long suffering natives of 52501, and the golfers of 93514 who get it. All characters and events in this book are fictional. Real places are mixed with fictitious places.

  Prologue

  1985

  It was late in the waterfowl season, and Ed Sweet and the two Parker boys he’d taken under his wing had been hunting every weekend.

  It had started when Ed asked permission from the boys’ father, Dallas, to hunt his cornfield for geese, and then, a year later, Dallas had asked Ed to teach the two boys about hunting.

  This season had seen them expand their territory to include a reservoir that held a marsh upstream from the dam. The main body of the reservoir was inside a county waterfowl refuge, but the upstream end was open for hunting, and Ed had bought and rigged a sixteen-foot jon boat for the purpose of hunting that flooded end.

  The boys thrived in this environment, and Ed could see their love of the sport, admiration for the birds, and respect for each other growing by the week.

  On the final Saturday of the season, just before four in the morning, Ed arrived at the Parker farm full of excitement at the promise of what was to come. He and his wife, Rita, had three small children, and she often referred to his weekends with the Parker boys as his “Daddy Development Program.” He found Crawford and Riley Parker dressed and ready, waiting on the porch. Ed helped them load their gear into the bed of the pickup, and then they began the 20-minute drive to the launch ramp on the reservoir.

  “What’s up, guys?” Ed asked as he noticed that the boys were absent their normal high spirits in anticipation of the hunt.

  “Nothin’,” Crawford, the older of the two, answered. Riley, who was usually chattering away during this portion of the morning, was sitting silently in the back seat.

  Ed reached up and adjusted his mirror so he could catch a look at Riley’s face in the dashboard glow, but he found the youngster’s head hanging and he saw just the top of his camouflage-patterned baseball cap.

  At the launch ramp, Ed got out of the truck and began the process of preparing the boat for the water, but neither of the boys got out of the truck as was their habit, and he stopped, realizing that something was truly amiss.

  He opened the two passenger doors, “Okay, what’s up?”

  “Nothin’,” Crawford muttered again, but he failed to look Ed in the eye.

  “You guys want to go hunting or not?”

  Neither boy answered.

  Now Ed was certain that something was wrong, and he was both frustrated by the boys’ unwillingness to share with him, and uncertain how to proceed. He hesitated, and the thought hit him that these boys were sad beyond his ability to understand. He reached out with his right hand and gently grabbed Crawford’s left shoulder and pulled his body around. With his left hand, he lifted the kid’s chin to see his eyes and found tears welling there. “What the hell?” He took a step back.

  At that, Riley started sobbing, and Ed reflexively reached into the back seat and lifted the boy out into a hug. “What’s the matter, come on, tell me!”

  Crawford was now sobbing, “It’s our mom. I think she’s sick.”

  “Where’s your dad?”

  That started both boys bawling, and Ed reached out to Crawford and pulled him into the circle of his arms. They stood there in the dark, huddling. The boys sniffled and Ed waited for them to talk to him.

  Finally Crawford pulled away and used his fist to wipe tears from his eyes. “He whipped her. I heard her scream. He hit her until I couldn’t hear her any more.”

  Ed was dumbfounded. “Hit? ... Who?”

  Riley erupted in a stream of hiccups and then, nearly out of breath, he whispered, “Dad. With his belt. He always uses his belt.”

  Crawford nodded, “But he never hit any of us like that before.”

  Ed didn’t know what to say. He stood there motionless for at least a minute, his mind in a whirl, before he realized he needed to act. “In the truck,” he said as he pushed the boys towards their seats.

  He hurried into the cab and started the truck before he realized the boat needed attention. He left the truck idling and hurried to retie the boat onto the trailer, plugged in the trailer lights and climbed back behind the wheel. He wasted no time and there was no discussion until he pulled into his own driveway. He skidded to a stop. “Come on!

  They trooped through the garage and into the kitchen. He pointed at the table, “Sit down, I’ll be right back.” He took the stairs two at a time, and found Rita sitting up in the bed.

  “What’s the matter? Did something happen?”

  “I need you downstairs in a hurry, come on. Something’s terribly wrong with their mom and dad; you need to hear it from the boys.” And with that, he spun and started down the stairs.

  In the kitchen, he realized he had no idea what he should do. The two boys sat with their hands folded on the table, and their chins resting on their hands; their eyes red and sore looking. They said nothing.

  Rita came into the room and brought an air of calm with her. She looked from Ed to the boys and back again, “Why don’t you give us a minute, honey?”

  Ed started to respond, saw a familiar “teacher” look in her eyes. He shrugged, “I’ll be outside.” He walked out onto the porch.

  Rita turned to the stove and started preparing hot cocoa, “So, guys, what’s happening this morning?”

  Neither boy responded, so Rita sat down across from the two boys, put her hands out in front of them, her fingers beckoning them, and they both reached out and put their hands in hers. “So, Crawford, tell me what’s going on.”

  Crawford swallowed several times. “My dad’s going to be really mad when he hears about this, Miz Sweet. I think we need to go home.”

  “Not before you have your cocoa and talk to me, certainly.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t think I should talk about this at all. My dad’s going to be really mad.”

  “Crawford, how’s your mom doing this morning?”

  Crawford looked her in the eye, and the tears started rolling down his cheeks again. “I’m not sure how she is...”

  “But you know she’s not well, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he choked out.

  “Why is that?”

  Riley blurted, “We heard daddy hit her with his belt last night, that’s why.”

  Rita reacted as if she’d been slapped. “Hit? Your dad?”

  Then, like a dam breaking, the boys took turns describing the hell of abuse in which they lived. The stories spewed out of them in a torrent until they stopped, breathless, silently crying, their tears pooling on the table.

  Rita got up and walked to the phone on the wall just as Ed came back into the room from the porch where he had been listening, “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m calling the sheriff; that’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Let’s think that through. I think I should go over and see Dallas. This could have been something totally innocent. I don’t think we should involve the authorities until we’re certain.”

  “I don’t think you should go anywhere near that place until the police have s
orted it all out.”

  Ed put his hands on her shoulders, and then hugged her to him. “If you don’t hear from me in twenty minutes, you make the call. Okay?”

  “I don’t think...”

  “Twenty minutes, okay?”

  Ed pulled his truck to a stop in the Parker yard, and slowly climbed out of the cab and walked towards the porch.

  “What’s up, Ed?” Dallas’ voice came out of the dark on the porch, and then Ed saw the glow of a cigarette. “Those two boys got to talkin’; didn’t they?”

  “Bawlin’, more like it, Dallas. I came to see Sally Mae.”

  “She’s abed.”

  “Maybe we could wake her up, so I could speak with her?”

  “Not likely.”

  “What’s going on here, Dallas?”

  “None of your business. This is my home. I run it as I see fit. There are rules and everyone has to follow ’em.”

  “Dallas, do the rules include beatings?”

  “This is my home. I run it as I see fit.”

  “Is Sally Mae okay, Dallas?”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “Did you really beat her, Dallas?”

  “Cow sassed me; what did she expect?”

  Ed stood stunned. “Dallas?”

  “Now you turn right around bring ’em back here, Ed. You got no right buttin’ in on my affairs. I figured I’d taught them to keep their own counsel, but I guess it didn’t take so far; now you just go git ’em and bring ’em home.”

  “I can’t do that, Dallas. I need to see that Sally Mae is okay. Does she need medical attention? The boys said her screaming woke them up.” His voice changed, lowered to more of a whisper, “Dallas, really, her screaming?”

  “You better git goin’ ’cause iffin you don’t, I’m not going to treat you lightly. Now git!”

  Ed started towards the door, and Dallas stood up. The light from the kitchen caught the gleam of a weapon he was holding in his right hand. “One more step, Ed, and you’ll be trespassin’. You know I can shoot trespassers in my house. You know that, don’t you Ed?”

  At that instant Ed realized he was not dealing with an ignorant farmer, but a man whose mind had gone. He put his hands up in front of him, “Take it easy, Dallas. I’m your friend. I’m no threat to you.” He backed down off the porch. “Take it easy. I’ll just go fetch the kids.”

  Dallas let out a huge sigh. “No, I don’t think so. I think you pushed your nose into my family business, and now you’re thinkin’ you want to call the sheriff.” He shook his head slowly. “You got no business here; I’m full in my rights to treat you like a trespasser...”

  At that moment a bright light flooded the porch, freezing Dallas in stark relief just as his right hand started up from his side with a large black revolver in it. A sheriff’s cruiser rolled to a halt behind Ed’s truck.

  “You...” Dallas started to say something, then bit it off.

  “Mr. Parker,” a voice called from the cruiser. “Please lower your weapon.”

  Dallas kept shaking his head, slowly, and then he started raising his hand again, bringing the muzzle to bear in Ed’s direction.

  A voice from the darkness behind Dallas stopped the gun’s movement. “Freeze, Mr. Parker, or I’ll be forced to shoot you.”

  Another deputy had walked up to the porch from the road, and was standing with his own weapon poking through the porch railing. “Please don’t make me shoot, sir.”

  “Fuck you all!” The farmer roared as he tried to bring his weapon to bear on the deputy. The officer’s weapon belched fire and the slug took Dallas in the chest, just right of his left shoulder. The impact spun him around, and his gun went off, his slug burying itself in the porch ceiling before he lost his grip. He and the revolver hit the floor at nearly the same time.

  Ed rushed up onto the porch with the deputy from the car right behind him. Ed knelt to see if Dallas was still alive. The deputy kicked the revolver away, then pushed Ed aside. After a few seconds he was joined by the other deputy. “He’s breathing,” the first deputy hissed, “we better cuff him. You call for an ambulance.”

  Ed went into the kitchen, and then realized he had no idea what lay behind the doors in that room; he’d never been any further into the house.

  “Where’s the bedroom?” The second deputy asked as he entered the kitchen.

  “No idea; I’ve never been beyond...”

  The deputy went to the door on the left and opened it. “This is the parlor, there are stairs...” Ed could hear him pounding up the stairs, so he turned in the opposite direction and focused on the door at that end of the room. He went through it and followed a short hallway past a bathroom and into a bedroom. He fumbled around near the door for a second until his hand hit a light switch.

  He was standing at the foot of a bed. The only other furniture in the room were a wicker chair and a four-drawer dresser with a mirror. A closet door with a bare light was hanging open to his right.

  Blood-soaked bedding was pulled up to the headboard and over a small, motionless mound. All the adrenaline and energy drained out of Ed as if a plug had been pulled. He staggered a few steps and fell into the wicker chair.

  He heard the deputy step into the room, hesitate and then proceed to the head of the bed. He leaned over the bed, blocking Ed’s view, and pulled the covers back. Ed could see the deputy’s shoulders slump.

  “You need to back out of here, Mr. Sweet. Go sit in your truck. We’re going to have a lot of people here in a few minutes, and some of them are going to want to talk with you.”

  “Can I call my wife?”

  “No, don’t touch a thing,” he lifted the microphone clipped to his vest, “I’ll have dispatch call her and tell her you’re okay, and that you’ll be home later. She called us. Did you know that?”

  “She was going to wait twenty minutes...”

  “Good thing she didn’t,” the officer said nodding at the bed.

  Ed thanked him, pulled himself into his truck, closed the door and sat silently with tears rolling down his cheeks and dripping off his chin onto his heaving chest.

  Chapter 1

  2010

  As Ed walked across the parking lot towards his car, he felt a little smug. He couldn’t help but replay in his mind’s eye the putt at 18 that had capped off his best round ever. He chided himself that it was just a game, but, still, the real attraction of golf was the feeling that comes with execution.

  He opened the back of his Suburban, took the clubs off his push cart, and stowed them before breaking the cart itself down and stowing that on the cargo deck.

  He checked his pockets, and then turned his golf bag over. He opened one of the small side pockets to retrieve his wallet, car keys, and his glasses case. He traded his golf glasses for his normal “shades,” and then he buttoned up his ride and headed for the club house.

  He stopped by the Pro Shop to post his score on the GHIN computer, and exchange a few words with the head professional before making his way to the bar.

  “There he is,” Sam Trisker called out as Ed made his way to a vacant stool next to Ron Flynt and on the other side away from Trisker.

  Flynt gave Ed a gentle nudge with his elbow, and then piped up, “So, Sam, how did we come out?”

  Trisker made a big show of putting the glasses that inevitably hung from a lanyard around his neck up onto his nose, and holding the card out at arm’s length where he seemed to be studying it.

  “Well?” Flynt said, sounding impatient but giving Ed a wink at the same time. “Nines isn’t one of those games that takes a lot of mathematical skill,” the younger man said.

  “Ahem,” Trisker said. “It is, however, one of those games that can often undress the traditional sandbagger, as it did once again today.”

  “Who’s the sandman?” Flynt asked, with another nudge. “You sound put out, Sam. Did it become a bit tight for you today?”

  Trisker raised one eyebrow towards Flynt without turning his head. Everyone who
knew Trisker at all knew that the stakes and outcome of a golf game would never be too tight for him. Trisker had been born to money, and had worked as hard as anyone could to make it grow; which it had. Gambling for quarters was about as risky as he ever was with a dollar.

  “What did you think you shot today, Ed?” He asked without taking his eyes off the score card.

  “I posted seventy-four,” Ed responded laconically.

  “And you posted?”

  “You know I always post my scores,” Ed said right back to him.

  “I just don’t understand how a guy with a twelve handicap can shoot seventy four, post it, and come out again the next day carrying that same twelve handicap.”

  Flynt was enjoying himself, “Come on, Sam; publish the results so we can pay up.”

  Trisker smacked his lips and with a show of intent, turned to the other two. “I shot eighty-four, a bit over my handicap, but still respectable. Mr. Flynt shot and should post his ninety-two, and, as we’ve all heard, Mr. Sweet shot a career-best, two-over-par seventy-four.”

  Ed interrupted, “What makes you think that was a career low?”

  “Because, Mr. Sweet, I played with you the first time you ever played, and I’ve been playing with you regularly ever since. If you’d ever shot seventy-four here or anywhere, or anything close to that number, I would certainly have heard about it.” Both Flynt and Sweet chuckled, and then Trisker returned to his pronouncement voice worthy of an edict from Augustus Caesar.

  “Now, as the game goes, each hole is worth nine points, and the winner takes five, runner up takes three and the laggard takes one. Today, Mr. Flynt, you earned more points than usual; you earned twenty points by coming in second on the par-five tenth hole.

  “While I shot my handicap plus a couple, and earned sixty-one points. That leaves Mr. Sweet holding the pot with eighty-one points...” He hesitated for a second before resuming, “That means you owe Ed fifteen and a quarter; I owe four bucks.”

  Ed gave a sign to Jodie, the young woman behind the bar who had been studiously ignoring the bookkeeping. She came over, “Nice shootin’, Tex.”

  Ed nodded and motioned to his two cronies, “Fix ’em up with whatever they need; I’ll take my usual.”