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Authors: Lee Geiger
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goodbyes, but not before Mac noticed a picture on a wall of Osher swinging a golf club. He had just teed off on the 18 th hole at Pebble Beach, one of the most famous golf holes in the world. Mac had been fortunate to play the famous oceanside course once in his life, and he could still remember every shot he hit on every hole.
“That’s the 18 th hole at Pebble Beach, isn’t it Mr. Osher?” asked Mac.
“Why, yes it is. That picture was taken at last year’s AT&T Pro-Am tournament. The gentleman watching the flight of my ball is the other amateur in our foursome, Maury Povich, the famous talk show host. He’s a great guy and an outstanding golfer. Have you played there?”
“Yes I have. Once. I can’t help but notice that you’re aiming at the sand trap to the right of the tree in the middle of the fairway. Weren’t you afraid your ball was going to fly that bunker and land out-of-bounds in some mega-millionaire’s backyard?”
“Not at all,” said Osher, sounding like he was about to give Mac a golf lesson. “Look at where my hands are when I finish my swing. You can tell I play a strong fade off the tee.”
“Of course you do, Mr. Osher. How foolish of me.” The detectives thanked Osher and Lawyer Woodson for their time and departed.
The elevator doors closed. Mac and Mayes stood in silence, alone in their thoughts. As the elevator approached the parking garage, Mayes, who had never picked up a golf club in his life, asked Mac what the last conversation was all about.
“Sorry Mayes. I forgot you’re too manly to play golf. Anyway, a ‘strong fade’ is another way of saying he slices the ball.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means he sucks at golf.”
“So what does that mean?” repeated Mayes, his patience falling faster than the elevator.
“It means he hits the ball from right to left.”
“Am I going to have to beat the answer out of you, because you know I can? I’m going to ask you one more time, Mac. What the hell does it mean and what does it have to do with the case?”
“It means he’s left-handed.”
The elevators doors opened to the garage. “Damn, you’re good,” said Mayes.
“Of course I am.”
MAC DROPPED MAYS OFF at his home located at the corner of Moraga and 28 th street, across from the Sunset Recreation Center tennis courts where Mayes liked to work on his backhand. Buddy and Holly sprinted out the front door and wrapped their tiny bodies around their super-sized father. Pamela walked outside, welcomed her husband home, and waved to Mac as he drove away.
Partnering with Mayes was a hundred and eighty degrees from working with Larry Kelso. Mac and Larry were like two college fraternity brothers. They worked hard when they had to, and played even harder when they didn’t. Forty-eight hour shifts were not uncommon, and neither were spontaneous trips to Reno. Kelso had been more than just Mac’s partner. He was also his best friend. And he still was.
Mac peered into The Sub’s rear view mirror. Mayes looked like Gulliver fighting off the Lilliputians. The rambunctious kids had their gargantuan dad pinned to the ground and were tickling him while Pamela caught the frolicking action on a video camera. Daddy’s suit was getting dirty, and no one cared.
Mac never had a brother or sister. Despite being told often by his mother that he was a bundle of joy and the love of her life, Mac grew up blaming himself for the lack of a sibling. Maybe he was such a difficult child his parents couldn’t bear the thought of having another. Why else, he figured, would his father abandon his five-year old son for a life with Miss Lap Dance?
The way Mac saw it, as a child, he was a failure.
SHEYLA NEVER CALLED MAC as promised. He tried calling again several times, none of them successful. So he decided to take another shot at finding her at work. After guiding The Sub back to Pearls of Asia, Mac flashed his police badge at Mr. Ponytail, who then ushered him
“That’s the 18 th hole at Pebble Beach, isn’t it Mr. Osher?” asked Mac.
“Why, yes it is. That picture was taken at last year’s AT&T Pro-Am tournament. The gentleman watching the flight of my ball is the other amateur in our foursome, Maury Povich, the famous talk show host. He’s a great guy and an outstanding golfer. Have you played there?”
“Yes I have. Once. I can’t help but notice that you’re aiming at the sand trap to the right of the tree in the middle of the fairway. Weren’t you afraid your ball was going to fly that bunker and land out-of-bounds in some mega-millionaire’s backyard?”
“Not at all,” said Osher, sounding like he was about to give Mac a golf lesson. “Look at where my hands are when I finish my swing. You can tell I play a strong fade off the tee.”
“Of course you do, Mr. Osher. How foolish of me.” The detectives thanked Osher and Lawyer Woodson for their time and departed.
The elevator doors closed. Mac and Mayes stood in silence, alone in their thoughts. As the elevator approached the parking garage, Mayes, who had never picked up a golf club in his life, asked Mac what the last conversation was all about.
“Sorry Mayes. I forgot you’re too manly to play golf. Anyway, a ‘strong fade’ is another way of saying he slices the ball.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means he sucks at golf.”
“So what does that mean?” repeated Mayes, his patience falling faster than the elevator.
“It means he hits the ball from right to left.”
“Am I going to have to beat the answer out of you, because you know I can? I’m going to ask you one more time, Mac. What the hell does it mean and what does it have to do with the case?”
“It means he’s left-handed.”
The elevators doors opened to the garage. “Damn, you’re good,” said Mayes.
“Of course I am.”
MAC DROPPED MAYS OFF at his home located at the corner of Moraga and 28 th street, across from the Sunset Recreation Center tennis courts where Mayes liked to work on his backhand. Buddy and Holly sprinted out the front door and wrapped their tiny bodies around their super-sized father. Pamela walked outside, welcomed her husband home, and waved to Mac as he drove away.
Partnering with Mayes was a hundred and eighty degrees from working with Larry Kelso. Mac and Larry were like two college fraternity brothers. They worked hard when they had to, and played even harder when they didn’t. Forty-eight hour shifts were not uncommon, and neither were spontaneous trips to Reno. Kelso had been more than just Mac’s partner. He was also his best friend. And he still was.
Mac peered into The Sub’s rear view mirror. Mayes looked like Gulliver fighting off the Lilliputians. The rambunctious kids had their gargantuan dad pinned to the ground and were tickling him while Pamela caught the frolicking action on a video camera. Daddy’s suit was getting dirty, and no one cared.
Mac never had a brother or sister. Despite being told often by his mother that he was a bundle of joy and the love of her life, Mac grew up blaming himself for the lack of a sibling. Maybe he was such a difficult child his parents couldn’t bear the thought of having another. Why else, he figured, would his father abandon his five-year old son for a life with Miss Lap Dance?
The way Mac saw it, as a child, he was a failure.
SHEYLA NEVER CALLED MAC as promised. He tried calling again several times, none of them successful. So he decided to take another shot at finding her at work. After guiding The Sub back to Pearls of Asia, Mac flashed his police badge at Mr. Ponytail, who then ushered him
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