Once Upon a Tee Time

While entering his building on Monday morning, Herman Winston was counting down the days to retirement. In twenty-one days, he’d receive his fifteen million from Karl Zimmer. Soon thereafter, he’d sell his company to the highest bidder. He already made a deposit on his dream mansion and booked a world cruise.

Herman was happy to see Mark Roarke waiting outside his office. His Marketing Director conveyed nothing but good news recently. His projection of the company’s sale price kept growing by the day.

“Morning, Martha. Morning, Mark,” Herman smiled with uncustomary courtesy. “Did you see our boy Jingles all over the news? He’s wearing our name on his head like a halo!”

“You won’t believe the e-mail I got,” Roarke said, following the boss into his office. “We have two new players today. Are you ready for some irony? One of them is the German company, Fokus. That’s where Zimmer came from. They’re suddenly wanting a footprint in the United States!”

Herman snorted loudly. “Yes, that would be ironic.”

“It makes total sense,” Roarke continued. “They’d leap right into the game over here.”

“Tell them the same as everyone else. December twelfth is auction time. Jingles goes to the highest closed bid and brings the rest of the company with him.”

Martha Porter tapped on the door and opened it. “Manufacturing is here to see you,” she announced, referring to the head of that department. “He says it’s important.”

The Director of Manufacturing, Joe Cole, walked straight to Herman’s desk. He placed a single contact lens on it. “We have a problem. This lens was returned to us in the mail over the weekend. It came from a woman in Flagstaff.”

Herman glanced at the lens and then to the problem-bearer. “What is it?”

“It’s one of Karl Zimmer’s! How the hell did a lady in Flagstaff get one of his lenses?”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Absolutely.”

Herman wrapped his hands around his face. There hadn’t been a single damn cloud in the sky. “Well, if she returned the lens to us, she obviously got it from us. Was she harmed in any way? Are we in trouble?”

Cole shook his head. “No. We got a note saying it was no good and she wants a replacement. She thought it might have been damaged in shipping. When I inspected it, I realized what it was.”

“Dammit,” Herman shouted. “You’re the one who has the buttons Zimmer made. I thought they were under lock and key.”

“You’re right,” the director said sheepishly. “I was so shocked over this that I didn’t think to check. We’re supposed to have fifty-four of them. I’ll go make sure everything’s in order and be right back.” He rushed out of the office.

Herman and Roarke sat quietly, staring at the walls. Both understood the ramifications. If one of the unlicensed lenses somehow harmed someone, Herman could lose a ton of money. The option might not be exercised. The sale of the company could be delayed. And its value could plummet. This was no time for missteps or mistakes.

Cole returned in a few minutes, breathing hard and holding a piece of paper. “We have fifty-two now! Zimmer signed out two of them on September first at eight-fifteen a.m. The note says they were for the directors meeting that day.”

Roarke thought back to the meeting, when he sat right next to Zimmer. He remembered the two buttons! Zimmer had been playing around with them. “I saw Zimmer holding them. I’m positive. He dropped them on the table, then picked them up.”

“And they were never returned to us,” Cole said. “My secretary put the note in the bag of buttons and forgot about it.”

Herman was suddenly sweating. “You need to do two things immediately. Call Zimmer and ask what he did with those buttons!”

Cole cocked his head. “Are those two things, Mr. Winston, or just one? You said two things.”

“And fire your secretary!”

At her desk outside the office, Martha Porter was crying. She heard every word of the angry conversation on the other side of the door. She knew exactly how Karl Zimmer’s lens wound up in Flagstaff. Two of them had been right there on the floor after the meeting. She had picked them up herself and taken them to Manufacturing, where she tossed them in a bin with the regular buttons. They all looked the same! Why hadn’t she asked about them or just thrown them away? The mistake would cost her. She would get fired like Sally down the hall.

Steeling herself, Martha marched into Herman’s office and told her story. The men allowed her to leave before the screaming started.

Herman’s face was scarlet. “What kind of place am I running here? We need to find the second lens!”

“At least we know where we stand,” Cole said. “At the most, two of these lenses got out there. We already got one back. I’ll have Martha show me which bin she put them in. Maybe we still have the other one.”

Herman’s heart fluttered. He glanced at Roarke, who was already staring intently at him, nodding his head. They shouted the name at the same time. “Jingles!”

Roarke jumped from his chair. “Sweet Jesus! Jingles asked me if we could duplicate his contact lens, not lenses! I had no idea what he was really talking about. He’s scheduled to be here at three this afternoon. He’s hoping we can duplicate Zimmer’s lens for him!”

Cole gripped the back of a chair. “You mean to tell me that Jingles’ golf is tied to Zimmer’s lens? Mr. Winston, how could you let Zimmer go? The man’s a genius!”

Roarke winced at Cole’s ill-timed words. He braced for another explosion from the boss. Luckily, Herman hadn’t heard him. He appeared to be lost in thought.

Behind closed eyes, Herman was watching Jingles play at Desert Springs, constantly applying eye drops. Always to his right eye only. He thought of the times Jingles talked on television over the last two weeks, always alluding to his excellent vision, how he couldn’t believe the improvement. Most of all, he knew Jingles made more putts than humanly possible. Telescopic vision! Mystery solved.

What was the true value of Zimmer’s invention? Certainly not $15 million. Probably more like billions. Did Zimmer know that Jingles was using his lens? Was that how he found an investor so readily? There was suddenly a lot to consider.

“Okay,” Herman finally said. “This is how things are going to go. If any of you say one word about this to anybody, and I mean anybody, I’ll fire all of you.

“Martha, come in here. I know you can hear me. You’re part of this.” Herman waited until his three employees were lined up in front of him. “If you all stay silent until the company is sold, I’ll give you each a bonus of a full year’s salary.

“Cole, I want you to go back to your department and cut another of those Zimmer lenses. Right eye only. The prescription is on file back there.”

Cole nodded. “Jingles might want more than one spare.”

Herman stood and shoved his chair aside. “It’s not for him, idiot! It’s for me! My prescription is on file.”

Roarke tried not to laugh. “Plumlee’s going to want more lenses. That’s why he’s coming.”

“Well, he’s certainly not going to get any more of these lenses,” Herman said, pointing at the one on his desk. “If we knowingly put an unlicensed lens on his eye, we could face all kinds of problems.”

“But we already know he has an unlicensed lens,” Roarke said.

“You know that?” Herman barked. “You’ve examined him? I didn’t even know you were trained in optometry. What we know is that two of our secured experimental lenses disappeared from storage. One of them is right here. We don’t know where the other one is.”

Roarke decided to stay quiet.

Cole stepped up to the plate. “How are we going to handle Jingles?”

“I’m going to have to think about that,” the owner mumbled. “Now off with you!”

Herman watched them leave before opening a drawer and taking out Zimmer’s report. He had dismissed the whole concept when Zimmer failed to produce binocular vision, as originally proposed. Single-eyed vision seemed absurd. On top of that, the lack of permeability registered as a deal-breaker; the damn thing was dangerous. Still, he should have had the report reviewed by experts. He had no real background in optical engineering himself, just knowledge he picked up along the way. He was merely a businessman who had a profitable enterprise drop in his lap when his stepfather, the founder, passed away. He’d read the report much more carefully this time.

Seventy miles from Eagle Optics, Jingles sat behind the wheel of the Cadillac, motoring north toward Prescott with the top down. With the temperature in the sixties, all three wore coats. The breeze made conversation difficult, so each enjoyed the view, lost in individual thoughts.

They were making the drive at Oliver’s request. For an undisclosed reason, he wanted to show the Plumlees the Prescott Hills Country Club complex. Jingles knew it might be a long time before he had another opportunity to make the trip, so he readily accepted. After a visit to Eagle Optics this afternoon, he was heading back to Los Angeles before travel to New York and Chicago.

When they reached the outskirts of Prescott, Oliver instructed Jingles to turn left toward hills to the west. A scattering of trees and low-lying vegetation gave way to majestic Ponderosa pines, oaks, and junipers. Just an hour north of Phoenix, they were in a different climate. The temperature ranged from seventies in summer to fifties in winter. The area even got a dusting of snow on occasion.

Riding in the back seat, Oliver leaned forward between the Plumlees. He explained that Prescott Hills, a “frontier golf paradise,” had been the dream of a man named Ivar Barthelson. He purchased the rolling, forested property to create a unique haven for his own retirement. Phoenix City Bank participated in the project because Barthelson matched its investment and offered the entire acreage as security.

Unfortunately, the high-end housing market plunged at just the wrong time. When buyers should have been making deposits and choosing floor plans, the sales office was deserted. Under severe financial stress, Barthelson passed away from a stroke. His company died with him. The property became the bank’s problem.

A large sign announced their arrival. After Oliver unlocked the gate, Jingles drove up a leaf-covered blacktop street. The banker explained that the road circled the entire property, with a half dozen streets dissecting it. Over two hundred lots already had driveways, cleared space for home construction, septic tanks, electricity, and Prescott city water.

At the rear of the development, the land opened into a nine-hole golf course. Unlike conventional layouts, it was carved from the wilderness with minimal alteration to the terrain. Each tee was elevated on a grassy mound, with split log stairs leading up to it. Patches of landing area, surrounded by nature, served as fairways. It was no course for novices. Every shot would require precision.

Rounding a bend, they approached a magnificent log structure. Jingles pulled up to the entrance and parked. “It’s all pine logs from the property,” Oliver reported. “A local sawmill has two acres of cured logs and lumber that Barthelson intended to use for the homes.”

The clubhouse was all rustic elegance, especially the restaurant at the rear. Six picture windows showed off a view that was part natural, part landscaped, and all wonderful. A stream had been dammed with large boulders, creating a pond and a six-foot waterfall. A deck featured free-standing fireplaces to brighten and warm evenings for patrons who preferred to sit outside. Jingles imagined The Foursome sitting there together, enjoying a late morning beer.

A garage adjoining the pro shop housed a dozen new golf carts, lined up like soldiers, ready for action. Oliver explained that the bank had a caretaker to keep the fairways, tees and greens cut to a manageable level. A full crew would be hired when it was time to put the course in playing condition.

He suggested a drive around the course. Oliver led the way in one cart, while Jingles and Pat followed in another. The banker stopped briefly at each tee, allowing his guests to savor a postcard-worthy view of each hole. The course had been designed with loving attention.

At the seventh hole, Jingles left his cart and climbed four stairs to the tee. He looked out upon an island green, surrounded by a pond. In the trees to the left of it, he saw the only existing home in the development.

When the carts reached the bridge to the green, Oliver left his and motioned for the Plumlees to follow. They walked up a stone path toward the two-story log home.

“This was to be Ivar Barthelson’s retirement home,” the banker explained. “He built it as a model for prospective buyers. He also used it for an office and a place to feed his work crews every day. His employees always had a hot meal at noon and a cold beer after work, mostly here on this shady terrace.”

Jingles sat on a bench beside an outdoor fireplace. Growing old would be tolerable in such a setting, sitting by a crackling fire and looking down at the island green. The surroundings reminded him of Alaska in early September. He turned to ask if Pat agreed, but she had disappeared into the house with Oliver.

The home was bright and open, featuring large windows, oak floors, and beamed ceilings. A six-foot-wide staircase led up to four bedrooms, two with balconies overlooking the course. The main floor featured a vast stone fireplace in the center.

Oliver said, “Ivar named this house Ponderosa, after the Cartwright place on ‘Bonanza.’ What do you think of all this?”

Pat wrapped her arms around herself. “There’s a peace about it, a tranquility, that I really like. I feel like I’m back home in Eagle River.”

Interesting, Jingles thought, his sentiment exactly. “We love it. I’m going to feel good just remembering it.”

Oliver nodded and smiled. “Let’s talk then.”

The idea had come to him on the back nine at Raven’s Nest on Saturday. How could he make up for his mistake with the Eagle Optics contract? Whether the Plumlees begrudged him or not, his decision had cost them millions. He preferred not to live with the guilt, not if he could avoid it. Prescott Hills was a prospective answer. One builder said he could construct similar homes - not logs, but stick-built with log accents - for $380,000. With sales at $600,000 each, the project could yield a significant profit. The only problem was capturing the attention of buyers. Jingles would take care of that.

The banker addressed Pat. “I want to sell you this house.”

She took her husband’s hand. “We’ve been wondering why you brought us here. It’s a wonderful place. We like everything about Prescott Hills. Our problem is that we also like having neighbors. We love having friends close by. If it wasn’t so lonely out here, I’d be begging to buy it.”

Oliver shook his head in wonder. The Plumlees still didn’t understand the power of fame. It had all happened so quickly for them. “Here’s the way this could work: Phoenix City Bank sells you this house for a reasonable amount, say one dollar.” He smiled as they glanced at each other.

“With Jingles as the resident club pro, we’d draw publicity that would generate sales. I talked with a realtor in Prescott yesterday. She said this place would take off if Jingles was the face of it. She’s seen this house already.”

Pat tugged at her husband’s arm. “Think of all the people back home in Eagle River. This is exactly what some of them want for a retirement home, Alaska without the bitter cold. They’d love this.”

Jingles grinned at the banker. “What she’s saying is definitely true. I can think of a dozen friends up there who might be interested in a place like this.”

A fantastic idea, Oliver thought. He could recommend that to the real estate company. They could begin their marketing in Alaska. “Here’s what I’m proposing: You become the first owner here and the pre-build sales start right away. The payoff for you is this house and fifteen percent of the profit when the project is complete. That could be several million. As for the bank, we’ll recapture our investment and make a profit too.”

Jingles took out his wallet and withdrew a dollar bill. “Do you accept cash?”

Pat said, “Wait, Oliver. Doesn’t Quinn Group have to be involved? We signed a contract.”

“Your contract relates to endorsements. This is a personal investment. Before you part with your dollar, though, there are a couple more things you should know.”

He led the Plumlees to the back door, where he grabbed a fishing rod that was leaning on the wall. Down at the pond, he turned over a rock, found a worm, and strung it on a hook.

He handed the pole to Pat. “Just flip it underneath the bridge. Right around there.” He pointed to the spot.

The worm barely touched the water before being snapped up by a twelve-inch rainbow trout. The fish darted across the surface, tugging on the line, as Pat held on, elated.

“There’s one more building on the property,” Oliver said. “It’s a barn with stables for twenty horses. There are thousands of acres of park land all around us, ideal for enjoying on horseback. It’s another feature Ivar wanted to offer.”

“And another good reason to name his house Ponderosa,” Pat exclaimed, still watching her fish splash around.

Jingles folded his dollar bill, placed it in his right palm, and shook Oliver’s hand.

At 3:00 p.m., Martha Porter watched the Plumlees walk through the glass door entrance to Eagle Optics. They held hands as they strolled up the hall, giggling like teenaged lovebirds. She rose from her chair and greeted the famous golfer.

After a hug and a handshake, Martha offered hot tea. She passed the visitors cups, and began with an apology. “I tried to reach you, but got a message that your phone had been disconnected. Mr. Winston won’t be able to meet with you today … or for the next few weeks. He had to leave town for a family emergency.”

Jingles said, “Sorry to hear about Mr. Winston, but we’re here to see Mr. Roarke about getting more lenses made.”

Martha opened a drawer and took out a couple plastic lens cases. “Mr. Winston is the owner and didn’t authorized anyone else to speak with you, Mr. Plumlee. He did have two additional pairs of contacts prepared for you.” She pushed the cases across the desk.

Jingles looked at Pat, wondering if she was curious too. How could they copy his bubble lens if they didn’t even have it?

Pat suggested that he try out the new ones. Now proficient at exchanging lenses, Jingles had another right lens on his eye in seconds. He shook his head and tried out the other right one. Clear and normal. No bubbles.

Jingles turned to Martha. “This isn’t at all what I expected. I really need to see Mr. Roarke.”

The secretary frowned. “Mr. Plumlee, I’m really sorry. You’ll have to wait. That’s all I can tell you … and that Mr. Winston wishes you continued good fortune on the golf course. We all do.”

Jingles hung his head. Pat took the new lens cases, put them in her purse, and thanked Martha for the tea. Taking her husband by the hand, she led him out the way they entered.

Standing behind his flimsy office door, ten feet away, Herman had listened closely. His company, his entire financial future, was in a precarious position. The situation had to be handled with care. Jingles’ use of the unlicensed lens had to remain confidential for two reasons. From a legal perspective, government regulators would skewer his company if there was evidence that Eagle Optics knowingly put an uncertified product into circulation. As long as Jingles didn’t bring the lens to the company’s attention, which he had not to this point, Eagle Optics maintained what the attorney called plausible deniability. The second reason to maintain secrecy was financial as well. Herman was intent on finding a way to stop Zimmer from exercising his option. Public knowledge of the real key to Jingles’ success would make it impossible to stop Karl and his financial backers; the value of the lens would be all too obvious.

Amidst all the doubts and questions swirling in Herman’s mind, one certainty consoled him: Jingles would keep his mouth shut. Human nature was so predictable. Who would worship the golfer if they knew his putting was all a technological trick? He’d be booed and heckled like a lounge magician who dropped a card from up his sleeve. No, the old geezer wouldn’t talk. He’d taken the whole thing too far to stop being secretive now.

Earlier in the day, Herman had become the fourth person to wear the telescopic lens, joining the ranks of Karl Zimmer, Jingles, and the woman in Flagstaff. If not for Jingles, he would have rejected the lens as readily as the woman had. The view was just so radically different - like looking through a porthole from a foot away. He had to accept that the bulkhead blocked peripheral vision before he could focus on, and appreciate, the magnification of what was right in front of him. Based on self-examination with an eye chart, Herman documented Zimmer’s claim of 20/5 vision. It was truly remarkable.

If only he had recognized the value of Zimmer’s work in the first place, life would be so simple now. Fortunately, Zimmer’s financial backers had delayed payment until the deadline of December 1st. There was still a window of opportunity, a chance to somehow change their thinking. The fat lady hadn’t sung quite yet.