Blackwell Ops 13: Chapters 3 & 4
Chapter 3: Researching BFSP and AA(A) Little Dicky Sayers
The next morning, after I showered, dressed in my sweats again and ate breakfast, I pulled out my laptop and dropped into my recliner again. I’d like to find one of those old antique secretaries. I don’t mean Ms. Hathaway on The Beverly Hillbillies. Not that she was an antique, at least not back then.
A secretary is like a writing desk where the writing platform folds down and there are all kinds of drawers and cubbyholes behind it. If I had one of those, that’s where I’d do my research. I’ll find one someday.
Anyway, I looked at a map of Lawton first. I wouldn’t even have to drive I-40 east to get there. I could take US Highways 287 and then 62. Highways are a little slower than the Interstate—well, everywhere but Texas—but I’d get there quicker if I went that way. Plus I’d get to see some of the countryside, flat as it is.
After I decided on my route, I looked over Lawton itself and eventually found the Lawton Country Club. It was three miles from the city center, and it had two golf courses. Apparently the regular course was for members, but the Back Course was reserved for special members, made special because they paid an extra premium.
Good. Extra premiums meant fewer people around, and fewer people meant fewer witnesses.
I’ve never played a round of golf. I’m happy for those who find it fun, but to me personally it doesn’t make sense to whack the snot out of a ball, then follow it to wherever it went. If you can find it. I tend to agree with Mark Twain, who once said, “Golf is a good walk spoiled.”
I don’t walk that much either though unless it’s for a good reason. And I never walk for any significant distance. Our desire to go places is why the good lord invented cars.
Okay, so I’d need to try to find out when he played. I mean more specifically than Wednesday and Saturday and whenever else.
I checked out the other recommended site for the hit.
The Presto Magic Bakery Restaurant was located smack in the city center. It was rated four-point nine out of five stars.
So not only would the Magic Bakery probably be full of customers, but there would be people all over the place outside too.
I’m not big on people, especially when I’m conducting business with a target. I decided I’d pass on that one and focus on hitting the guy while he’s on the golf course playing with his balls or his club or whatever. Maybe I’d even drive over a day early and see what I could see.
And finally to the all-important Richard L. Sayers himself. For my own use, I had nicknamed him Little Dicky. Yes, I know how I spelled it. I like to keep the job fun when I can. Want to annoy a guy and have some fun? Insult the organ around which all his self-esteem is centered.
Most guys will laugh and blow it off (no pun intended). But it’ll also keep most men up at night (again, no pun intended). He’ll wonder what his woman has been saying about him on social media or wherever. He might even attempt to punish her by—you know—showing her.
But the truth is guys, that ain’t punishment. Hell, we hardly notice you’re there. While you’re focused on what you’re doing, we’re considering painting the ceiling a new color or figuring out how much we’ll get back on our taxes that year.
Anyway, I keyed Richard L. Sayers into the same search engine, then watched the stories pop up.
There were several. Most were bland things, Lawton business profiles about him and his company, Blue Tick Hound Industries. The guy must originally be from Kentucky. Or maybe Tennessee or southern Indiana.
I was intrigued, but I soon learned they don’t make the actual dogs.
I’m only joking. I’m not stupid. I never thought they made dogs.
What they do make according to their ad is “All Things the Upscale Dog Might Enjoy.” I’m not kidding.
Now that’s stupid.
For one thing, show me a dog that’s tall enough to drink from the toilet but won’t, and maybe you’ll convince me you’ve found an upscale dog.
But okay, fine. Whatever.
I suspect the catch-phrase actually meant the company sold what the low-brow owners might think their dog would enjoy: You know, like food bowls with cutesy little bones or mangled cats or raccoons printed on them. Water bowls shaped like toilets. (Sorry.)
And every size and type of collar, from those nasty, powdery flea and tick things to those horrible choke collars and the equally horrible electric things that are connected through Wi-Fi or radar or something to an “invisible fence.” Those deliver a shock if the dog tries to pass over it. And halters and harnesses and leashes and all sorts of other gadgets.
The kind of things those same kinds of men would love to slap on us women. Don’t wanna give it up? How about a shock there, little lady?
Maybe they should add Teflon leg casts to buckle over your jeans so when an “upscale” dog tries to hump your leg he’ll slide off and fall on his stupid, slathering jowls. Kidding, dog owners. Don’t send me hate mail. You don’t want on my bad side.
Anyway, it is what it is and you can’t argue with success. Apparently there are a lot of those masochistic low-brow customers out there. Blue Tick Hound Industries is traded on the New York Stock Exchange, and it’s worth tens of millions of dollars.
As I thought about appropriate solutions to people like Little Dicky Sayers, a few strains of the old Tammy Wynette song, “Stand By Your Man,” passed through my mind
Maybe I should start my own company: String Up Your Man. You know. Maybe I could sell nooses.
Ooh, or I could call the company Eunuch Solutions! Like Unique Solutions?
And my main product line would be a combo do-it-yourself kit!
The kit would be easy to put together. It would include a scalpel and two instruction pamphlets. One would be titled Eunuchation Nation. For the more sensitive ladies out there, I’d title the other one Victory Through Vasectomy. Maybe I should include a tiny pair of snips in the kit too.
Just sayin’, I’ll bet those kits would sell like hotcakes. I know I would have bought one if Greg and I hadn’t reached an amicable agreement.
After that fun diversion I went back to reading articles about Little Dicky.
I struggled through most of them, trying to keep from laughing or upchucking. Almost every article talked about him being a playboy or a ladies man.
Eventually I found a recent article in the Lawton newspaper under the overall heading of Social Profiles. Very recent. It had been published yesterday and hit the online version of the paper this very morning.
The author of the article was a woman, of course. No doubt delivering her editor’s version of late-breaking, hard-hitting news. And for all I knew, Sayers might have insisted she conduct the interview.
Mixed in with a lot of crap I only skimmed, the article mentioned that like most “avid golfers,” Little Dicky went to the links on most days. He was quoted as saying, “Of course, I play on an upscale course specifically for high-rollers. I go whenever I can get away from the stresses of corporate life.”
A hundred bucks says he flashed the little lady a smile and a wink.
“My handicap is quite low.”
So what? He’s got a broken ankle or something?
“And to sharpen my game, I actually play alone twice a week on the back course. And then afterward I stop off for a very quiet supper at the Magic Bakery.”
A very quiet supper?
What a sleaze bag.
I finished reading the article and felt like I should go wash my hands.
But I didn’t. I got up and went to the bedroom, stripped off my clothes and took a long, hot shower.
No doubt when the interview was over and Sayers was off the record he’d asked the woman who conducted the interviewed whether she’d like to meet him for a round of golf—or something. Wink wink.
I shook my head, spraying the shower walls with globs of sudsy shampoo.
Then I went wide-eyed.
Chapter 4: Lining Up a Shot on the Golf Course
Wait!
I grinned.
Ha! That TJ really knows what he’s doing.
Somewhere around here I’ve got another hundred bucks that says the days he plays alone and then has a “quiet supper” are Wednesday and Saturday.
I rinsed off, got out of the shower and dried myself, then wrapped the towel around my hair.
My plan was born.
Now if only he hadn’t enticed the author of the article into coming along.
I’d hate like hell to have to make the hit a two-fer.
* * *
I had everything I needed other than knowing exactly when Little Dicky would be on the Back Course.
On Tuesday morning, the day before the opening date of my personal hunting season on the guy, I prepped my Beretta PX4 Storm. It’s a .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol. There’s no selector switch for full-auto, but who needs that? Besides, I can fire up to three rounds in a second with it.
The thing is hyper-accurate, and it comes with a 20-round double-stack magazine. So more ammo. Not that I would need more than one shot. But where bullets are concerned, more is always better.
My PX4 is the SD Type F version, the one designed for special forces. It doesn’t screw around. Of course, I’d also had the barrel threaded for a sound suppressor. And that little piece of heaven was packed too. I threw some special clothing just for this assignment and some makeup into a small bag and drove over to Lawton.
Given Little Dicky’s obvious propensity for the ladies, I expected the hit would be up close and personal. Hey, I’m a lady, and I can pass for attractive in a bar fight. I only had to figure out the where and when.
I checked into a small, out of the way motel under an alias and told the clerk I would need it for only a few days.
He looked me up and down. “Of course, lady.”
When I’d dressed appropriate for the occasion—black pumps, a black skirt that hit high up on my thighs, and a white silk blouse with the top three buttons undone—I drove out to the Lawton Country Club.
The paired wrought-iron gates were standing open, and an older gentleman peered through a window from a little shack off to one side. When I pulled up to the entrance, he stepped out and held up one hand.
I looked him over as he passed by the front of the Land Rover.
He was clean-shaven and dressed in black shoes, grey trousers, and a red blazer with a logo on the left breast: LCC. On his head, a red baseball cap—or maybe a golf hat, I don’t know—had the same logo stitched in a white circle on the front.
I powered down the window.
He glanced at my cleavage, then said, “I’m sorry, miss, but this club is for members only.”
He appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties, so maybe he was still viable, if you know what I mean.
I smiled broadly and put on a fake southern accent. “Oh, I am terribly sorry. May I explain my presence here?” I batted my eyelids at him a few times. My grey-green eyes stand out against my coral skin, which is framed by my long black hair.
He swallowed and nodded.
“The thing is, officer, I’ve just moved to this beautiful rural area from Atlanta? And I was thinkin’ about joinin’ your little club?” I put one hand on the deep V that revealed my cleavage. “You see, I’m recently divorced. You understand, of course. I simply had to get away from Atlanta.” Then I took that hand away from my breasts and wagged it at him.
His gaze went straight to my breasts.
“And well, now that I’m single again and newly wealthy an’ all, well, I have needs. You know what I mean I simply have to fill some of my spare time. I drove all the way out here. Could I please come in and have a look around?”
Grinning broadly, he gestured toward the clubhouse. “Oh, s-sure, miss.”
He actually stammered. I almost felt sorry for him.
“I think I can make an exception.”
I smiled. “Oh, thank you! So much!” I edged the Land Rover forward, then stopped again and looked back at him through the open window. “Oh, could you possibly tell me where I might buy some equipment?” I giggled and wagged that hand again. “Now I’m not as dumb as I probably look. I know I’ll need some golf balls and other thangs. And of course a bat. Or whatever you call that little dealy.”
The grin stretching his mouth to the limits, he pointed. “You’ll find the golf pro in a shop just past the clubhouse. It’s right up there on the left, little lady.” He tried on his own southern accent. “You take care now, y’hear?”
I laughed daintily and drove through the gate.
Little lady my ass.
But I curled my fingers out the window in a wave and said, “‘Bye now. I hope to see you later.”
Okay, so I lied a little. Or a little more. Whatever.
When I glanced at the rear-view mirror, he was still looking, his mouth hanging open. I still wonder whether he dripped saliva on his blazer.
The “pro” in the golf shop was much younger, with brown hair that just touched his collar and blue eyes. He was dressed in yellow slacks with a white belt, white shoes, and a red long-sleeved shirt with that same logo on the left breast. No ball cap. Not a bad-looking boy at all, but I wouldn’t want to make babies with him. His name was Roger, or “Rojah” in my new native tongue.
I gave him the same spiel I’d given the guy on the gate. When I finished and explained what I needed, he was tripping over his own feet to be helpful.
I bought a box of golf balls (I blushed and giggled), a small pink leather bag that he recommended, a packet of tees and the “necessary” clubs—a driver, a couple of irons, and a putter.
It was fine. I could sell all that crap later. Or maybe give it to Herman and let him sell it. Roger even carried them out to the car for me so I wouldn’t strain my dainty self.
He closed the rear of the Land Rover, and as he turned to go back inside, I said, “I’m sorry, Roger.”
He stopped and looked back.
“I’ve heard simply wonderful thangs about one golfer. A Mister Richard L. Sayers? I heard he plays here on Wednesdays and Saturdays.”
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am. In fact, he plays here most days.” He paused, leaned forward and quieted his voice. “But on Wednesdays and Saturdays he mostly plays alone on the Back Course.”
I put my hand on my chest again. “Really? Oh I would simply love to meet him! Is he here now?” I looked around as if I expected Little Dicky to come walking up from the clubhouse.
“Oh, no ma’am. He usually shows up later in the day.” He hesitated and his chest puffed out a little. “But y’know, sometimes he gives one-on-one lessons. But that’s usually on Wednesday. That’s tomorrow, so probably that would be too soon for you. I mean what with you moving and everything.”
I felt my smile fade slightly. What is he? Little Dicky’s pimp?
I refreshed the smile and grabbed his arm. “Oh no! Not at all, silly. Why, that would be simply perfect! What time? And where in the world would I go to meet Mister Sayers?”
He grinned. “I’ll set it up for you. Meet me back here tomorrow afternoon. Say 6 p.m.? He likes to start a little late when he has a special student. You’ll learn not only about the game but how to play after sundown.”
“Oh, Roger! Why that is simply perfect! But are you sure he’ll want to teach me?”
He nodded. “Trust me, ma’am. He’ll even teach you things you would never expect on a golf course.”
I jimmied my curled fists close to my chin as if I was giddy. “Oh, I can hardly wait! Just imagine! Being taught new things by a pro like Mister Sayers!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Still grinning, he raised one hand and turned to go inside. No doubt to make a phone call to Little Dicky.
This shot was in the bag.
Tomorrow I’d pack my crap in the motel and hang the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.
Then I’d meet Little Dicky, make a hole in one, and get the hell out of Dodge.
Well, Lawton.