With the practiced obedience of a professional, J Dub literally shook off the emotional distractions and surveyed the fifty-foot downhill putt. After all, this was the one-hundred-seventh hole of the demanding PGA Qualifying School Tournament. He was in the state of Texas for the first time. This was the last of six numbing days; each day had been crammed with eighteen pressure-packed holes. One bad swing or single mental collapse could signify disaster.

J Dub had reached deep and moved into contention for the sought-after Q-School card. The top twenty would make it. Staying focused for a few more minutes meant that all of the years of hard work, dedication and determination were about to pay off.

He squatted behind the ball to read the line of the putt. A very-pregnant Marcia wobbled to stand behind her husband. They conferred about the line and pointed to a shaded area of the green. J Dub shook his head in agreement.

“Hold your line,” Marcia yelled. Her eyes intently followed the path of the ball as she lifted the pin out of the cup.

“Keep your speed, sweetheart,” J Dub screamed as he tried to coax the ball into the cup.

While the ball inched toward the hole, the years and years of hard work came together in a single instant. The ball banged into the cup. As it rattled home, J Dub jumped with excitement. “ . . . Yeah! Thatta baby!” he shrieked.

George Pierce had the title work done before the sun went down. And Lew made the financial deal of his life. Of course it didn’t matter that it occurred at the expense of his sister. All that mattered was that Lew profited, courtesy of his ravenous appetite for wealth, regardless of the consequences. The deed was quit-claimed to reflect his sole ownership in the one-thousand acre tract.

Monty was a maverick attorney in his late-thirties, the fourth and last-minute member of the group to celebrate at The Treasure Chest that night. He had been over at Lew’s farm taking some target practice and tagged along when Lew said that it was time to go. He thought that if he played his cards right, then one of the other guys might buy him a woman.

It wasn’t surprising to see these four together on a night of celebration. In some form or another, they all had reason to be grateful. The men drank their liquor until their words became clumsy and thick.

The lap dances were grinding to a halt and the girls had to work too hard for their dollar bills. It was getting late. The booze had been fl owing and from the looks of their bloodshot eyes, it was time to go.

The four men staggered out of the strip club well past midnight. The fog on the river resembled a layer of pea soup resting on top of the warm waters of the Mississippi.  Nothing was stirring. The air was choking off the far side of the parking lot.

“That’s some racket,” Lew chimed.

“It’s a damn gold mine,” replied George.

“Yeah, the same guy owns the hookers around here,” Lew snorted. “They get you all worked up in there and want you to blow what’s left on a gal out here.” Lew waited for his cohorts to get into his car, pulled his station wagon out of the lot, and then drove out into the thick fog that hugged the road.

Walter jumped into the conversation. The Treasure Chest and the sexual innuendos had made a lasting impression on him. He could hardly contain his sexual intentions. “Wow, all they leave on is the four-inch heels.”

“Right here in the Bible Belt,” said George.

Lew strained his neck to see out the window. “I can’t see a damn thing.” The fog had reduced the visibility to a matter of feet. The heat from all of the bodies in the car had fogged up the windows to boot.

A loud thump was heard. The station wagon rocked from side to side. “Shit!” yelled Lew.

“What the hell was that?” asked Walter.

“Let’s go back,” whimpered George.

Mary Jean looked at George with a bewildered look. “What are we going to be doing?”

“You always wanted to live the good life, relax, and work on your tan on a tropical island, didn’t you?” George inquired.

Mary Jean flashed a devious smile. She had always known that she and George would eventually end up together. Yet, Mary Jean still looked a little confused. Even though they had been lovers for quite some time, George was still her boss and she wasn’t about to dispute what he was saying. After all, he was the expert.

“Just make sure that it’s a perfect match,” George continued, “and we’ll march a lot of closings through these doors. The estate has condos in Southern California, a ranch in western Nebraska, apartments in Tulsa, a hotel in downtown St. Louis, lots of acreage in Southern Illinois, and shopping centers in Louisville, Nashville, and Denver. All of it needs to be sold.”

Mary Jean nearly spit out the sip of coffee she had just taken. “Can we get all of that property sold that quickly?” she stammered.

“If you can get her signature perfected we can.” George paused for a minute and reflected on his next admission. “You know, having a law license, the majority of the stock in a title company, and a faithful employee almost gives me a license to steal,” he commented with a smirk.

“ . . . Lookee there! Our first customer,” shouted J Dub. J Dub coaxed the puppy over to the group. The dog was in need of a drink of water and some serious tender, loving care. This dog is in about as good a shape as this golf course, thought J Dub as he obligingly scratched behind his ears.

Lew grabbed a blanket out of the back of the station wagon. “Let’s roll out the red carpet.”

J Dub responded, “He’s not quite par for the course. So we’ve got our first Bogey.”

With that statement, a name was born.

Marcia, J Dub, and Lew prepared a bed for Bogey in the cart barn. They poured a bowl of water for him. Bogey took to J Dub like they were long-lost friends. Bogey vigorously licked J Dub’s face. He rolled over on his back so that J Dub could scratch his distended belly.

Bogey had beautiful markings. The bridge of his snout had a patch of white.  Even one eye was surrounded by light-colored fur. His shoulders were firm. His chest was solid. His paws indicated that he would be adequately able to support an above average amount of weight. It was apparent that when he filled out and reached maturity he would be a strong dog.

Marcia could see how happy her husband had become. She knew that he needed this change and offered up words of encouragement. “It looks to me like there is only one way to go . . . and that’s up. I guess the future is bright after all.”

“We’ll have this place up and running in no time,” replied J Dub. Bogey lapped at his face.

J Dub was at a loss for words. Lew chastised J Dub some more and asked, “When are you going to win some of these battles?”

“It’s all about control with you, isn’t it?” J Dub retaliated. “Why did you get the cops? We could have handled this in-house.”

Lew’s matter-of-fact reply was menacing. “There comes a point in life where you need some back-up. Even Hitler needed the Nazi army.”

The comment caught J Dub off-guard. He was taken aback and dazed at the reference to Hitler. The remark scared J Dub. He had to pinch himself and wonder what motivated his business partner. “What are you talking about?” J Dub asked as he tried to redirect the conversation.

Lew’s eyes were in an icy stare as his lips curled slightly into a sinister smirk.  The moment was frozen in a surreal atmosphere. It was as if the comment about Hitler turned Lew on.

After a momentary pause, J Dub continued in a mild manner. “We need to keep customers around . . . and the first tee box still needs to be fixed.” He walked off as Bogey barked at Lew. J Dub continued to the pro shop and was immediately quizzed by Julie.

“What did he do this time?” Julie asked.

“He kicked those kids off the course for bringing their own beer. Not only that, it looks like they have to go down to the police station.”

“Is he pressing charges?”

“I guess. The cops wouldn’t bother coming out here unless he was serious about having them arrested.” J Dub shook his head. It was as if the business would take one step forward and two steps back. “But that’s only half of the problem.”

“What else did he do?” Julie inquired.

“He made some perverse reference to Hitler,” J Dub stated.

“Hitler? What did he say?” Julie pried.

“He said something about needing backup like Hitler had the Nazi army.”

“Does he think that he is some sort of power freak that is the reincarnation of Hitler?” Julie wondered out loud.

“I hope not . . . but the way that he controls and intimidates, he must think that way.”

“Hitler slaughtered hundreds of thousands of people,” Julie uttered. “That’s disgusting.”

“They’re everywhere,” Lew replied. He was not lying. He had a cache of guns in the dungeon. Several rifles were out in the barn. It was hard to guess where else Lew had weapons in his home. They were probably stashed in his office or bedroom. That was not taking into consideration the likelihood of a gun or two being in his pickup truck or motorcycle, both of which sat nearby.

Lew shifted his weight and let his arms drop to his side. “Keep your hands against the wall,” the FBI agent ordered. The ATF agent raised the rifle and took aim at Lew. One look down the muzzle of the rifle was a clear indication to Lew that they meant business.

Booker and Hayden entered Lew’s home office. They looked around and started going through desk drawers and file cabinets. Lew turned his head to look over his shoulder at Booker. A look of spite and hatred enveloped his face.

Booker had a personal feeling of satisfaction. Years earlier Lew had run him off of the golf course because he was black. At that time, Booker had to bite his tongue and take every bit of discrimination that was directed his way. Now he could extract his revenge . . . on Lew’s own turf. He stared back at Lew.

The two IRS agents continued down the steps to the lower level of the residence.  They noticed the bar but walked right past it. Booker went straight to the Uncle Sam yard jockey. He and Hayden both forced a chuckle. They couldn’t keep a straight face. The irony of the attempted patriotism was more than they could handle.

That all changed a few seconds later when Booker took the set of keys off of the yard jockey and opened the bomb shelter. He and Hayden were shocked to see the stacks of bundled cash. The other items were equally as numbing. The piles of newspapers along with the chicken noodle soup, bottled water, tomato juice, and pork and beans were clear-cut indications that they were dealing with someone who did not think along the same lines as the vast amount of American citizens.

The cheap detective magazine photos and Tupperware collection inside the bunker were disturbing to Hayden. The Nazi uniform and KKK robe sent shivers up Booker’s spine. “What the hell is this guy into?” Booker questioned.

“It explains why he tried to intimidate you,” Hayden commented.

Booker picked up Mein Kampf. “He must think that he’s a little Hitler.”

“And by the looks of this fortress he might be . . . at least in his own small way,” Hayden added.

Booker picked up a bundle of fresh one hundred dollars bills. “How much cash would you say is there?” Booker asked.

“At least a million, maybe two,” Hayden guessed.

“Ellie is certainly going to be interested in this,” Booker declared.

“More than you can ever think,” Hayden replied.

“Why do you put it like that?” Booker inquired.

“She’s Jewish.”

J Dub was exasperated. “What’s new? It’s starting to sound like I’m calling out foursomes to start off the first tee.”

“Regina Blair at PERRY, MILBOURN & SIMPSON won’t touch it because they are booked up with divorce litigation,” Curt continued. J Dub stopped for a moment looking puzzled at the mention of the law firm.

“I’ve never heard of them . . . are they new?” J Dub inquired.

“No, but all the partners are female. Apparently, divorce litigation is their specialty. They represent ex-wives and gang up on men. How bad is that?” Curt responded nonchalantly.

J Dub started to smirk, “You mean to tell me you went into an all-female law firm with the initials of ‘PMS’?”

Curt began to choke on swallows of Coke. The laughter was causing the fizz to back up through his nose. “Maybe that was why they had complimentary candy dishes filled with Midol in the reception area. I did notice that a lot of the attorneys were wearing Birkenstocks now that you mention it.”

J Dub spit his coke back into his glass as the two laughed to relieve the stress that had been building. “That sounds to me like it is the perfect firm to take on Lew. We need some pit bulls to go after that slimeball.”

Curt was in hysterics as he finished his story. “J Dub, you should have seen the Midol. Each one was stamped with ‘PMS, LLC’.” The brothers laughed and laughed until it was out of their systems.

“Oh, Curt, thank you for that. I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard,” J Dub offered. “Okay, back to business. Who else did you see?”

Curt pulled out his notes and reviewed them. He wanted to make sure that he hadn’t left out any of the places that he had called on.  "AHERN, JOHNSON & GUNTHER represented Lew before. They have a conflict.”

“Is anybody left in town?” J Dub asked.

“The phone book is full of attorneys. There are seventy-nine pages in the yellow pages of the phone book,” Curt deadpanned.

“Are any of them any good?” J Dub inquired.

Curt was ready with an answer. “You’ve got the divorce attorneys, the ambulance chasers, the DUI specialists, the workmen’s comp guys . . .”

“ . . . and none of them have an accounting background,” J Dub groaned.

“It just appears that the good ones have a conflict with either, Lew, Walter or the Pierce brothers,” Curt quipped, “or just men in general.”

“The old saying is true,” J Dub conceded.

“What is that?”