Once Upon a Tee Time

Earlier in the day, the five department heads at Eagle Optics gathered in the conference room for the regular Monday morning meeting. The Arizona company was one of few still specializing in the production of rigid contact lenses. While awaiting the arrival of owner Herman Winston, the group speculated about an unusual centerpiece on the table, an ice bucket holding two bottles of champagne. Alcohol so early in the day? Why a celebration?

A sixth person in the room knew the answer. Karl Zimmer wore it on his right eye. Standing by a tinted window in his white lab coat, he squinted at the sunbaked parking lot outside, specifically at the remains of a crushed toad ten yards away. As lines of ants paraded to and from the carcass, he counted the tiny insects. Fifty-two. Fifty-three. They might as well have been marching across the window sill beneath his fingertips. That was the miracle of telescopic vision.

Advances in micro-fabrication technology had allowed Karl to embed a crystal lens within the acrylic material from which contact lenses were lathed to individual prescription – a lens within a lens. As an added benefit, the blanks for the new-age lenses were outwardly identical to conventional buttons. They could be lathed to individual prescription exactly like any others.

Given the benefit of his lens, Karl didn’t see its limitations as unreasonable. The range of clarity was only seventy feet, straight ahead, with no peripheral vision. The lens triggered eye irritation, requiring a remedy of frequent lubrication. Because it captured added light, eye protection was necessary for outdoor use. Most significantly, the interior lens inhibited passage of oxygen through the contact, meaning it could be worn for only brief intervals without risk of permanent eye damage. Use of the lens required single-eyed vision, but that was actually a blessing. By closing the gifted eye and opening the other, the broader spectrum of normal vision returned.

Karl’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud thump behind him. The Finance Director had rapped on the table. “This must have something to do with Zimmer,” he said. “He never comes to our meetings.” The director pulled one of the bottles from the ice, held it up, and looked squarely at Karl. “Is this a farewell party? Your contract is up in another month.”

Karl smirked and said nothing. The real answer was as clear as the tiny words, Contains Sulfates, at the bottom of the bottle’s label. Through his lens, he could read them from ten feet away.

The Manufacturing Director pointed to the bottle. “Look, that’s not champagne. It’s sparkling cider.” The others moaned. “Just kidding,” he added. “It’s Chateau Montenegro. That’s not even the cheapest stuff.”

“Not far from it,” the Personnel Director mumbled. “I think that goes for eleven dollars.”

Another suggested, “Maybe Herman made a hole-in-one or something. We all know he spends more time at his country club than he does here.”

“Well, I’ve seen him play,” another offered. “I’d bet a year’s salary against that.”

“He just pulled in,” the Personnel Director announced, pointing at the parking lot. “We’ll soon have our answer!”

Karl took a seat and pulled a vial of ophthalmic solution from one of his many pockets. Tilting back his head, he shook a few drops onto his right eye.

Slipping his left hand into another pocket, Karl grasped two acrylic buttons with embedded interior lenses. He planned to pass them around so the others could marvel at their overt similarity to the regular product. Shaking them like a pair of dice, he tossed them on the table in front of him. Had they been actual dice, he knew they would have totaled seven. When the Marketing Director looked at him curiously, Karl swept them up in his hand. He would show them off soon enough.

Martha Potter, Mr. Winston’s personal secretary, entered the room. She was followed by Herman and the company attorney.

The owner strutted to the head of the table and stood behind his chair. He looked solemnly around the room before speaking. “Remember the day. September thirtieth. It happened yesterday on the fourteenth hole at Desert Springs.”

Most eyes shifted to the director who apparently guessed correctly. “So, you finally made an ace,” he said, standing up to applaud. The other directors stood as well. “That’s the par three with the pond in front, right?”

Herman glared and shook his head. “If you must know, I put my drive in the water, hit the green in three, and took three putts for a triple bogey. That’s not the point. Walking off that green, I had a revelation. I turn fifty-seven this year. If I’m ever going to break ninety, I need to turn my full attention to golf. I’ve decided to sell the company.”

The news buckled knees, dropping everyone back into chairs. How might a sale affect their jobs? How were they supposed to enjoy champagne?

“We’re going into full cutback mode immediately. I want to show strong numbers for the final quarter. I’m going to begin by eliminating R and D.”

Karl’s body went limp. The special lens buttons dropped from his left hand, falling to the carpet. Ausgeschlossen! “That can’t be, sir! Didn’t you read my report? We’re about to make optical history. We have made history! I’ve given Eagle Optics a real eagle’s eye!”

That awful foreign accent, the owner thought, shaking his head. How have I put up with it for five years?

In truth, Herman knew that answer very well. R&D had paid for itself with a private foundation grant of nine million dollars. The company had pocketed twenty-seven percent of those funds for administrative overhead. He’d been able to charge other unrelated costs to the grant that added even more to the bottom line. His total profit from Zimmer’s venture was close to three million. Not bad. God bless America.

“Zimmer, I studied your report in detail,” Herman lied. He had cut his reading short after noting the potential hazards. Problems always outweighed benefits. In the modern world, liability was everything. “I’ve decided FDA approval is a longshot. I’m not willing to chase it, especially not now.”

In panic, Karl fumbled through his pockets until he found a spool of thread with a needle stuck in it. “Watch this, everyone! You have to see this!”

His audience watched him pull thread from the spool and wet the end with his tongue. Holding the thread and needle at full arm’s length, staring through a single open eye, he slipped the thread through the needle and stood up, smiling and nodding.

All but one of the others looked at Karl in bewilderment. Was he crazy? Why would he thread a needle at the conference table? Was he going to mend a hole in his damn pants?

Martha Potter, the secretary, was the only seamstress in the room. It often took her three or more tries to thread a needle - while wearing reading glasses and holding the needle inches in front of her nose. What Karl had done was impossible! She vowed to express admiration after the meeting.

Herman cleared his throat. “Sit down, Zimmer. You need to hear me out.”

“I’ve heard enough,” Karl said, refusing to sit. “I’ll take my lens to another company.”

“Sit!” Herman commanded. “You should know perfectly well that the lens is the property of Eagle Optics. That includes all the research you brought with you. It was all part of the contract you signed.”

The attorney sat at the far end of the table, watching the drama unfold. Zimmer was naïve. He should have paid more attention. Under the terms of the contract, he wouldn’t get a dime of compensation after the grant expired at the end of September. His income would disappear along with all rights to his invention.

Karl returned to his chair and slumped in it. What would he tell his wife? Moments ago, their future seemed beyond bright. He was ready to collect a Nobel Prize. How could he even face her now?

“I’m a reasonable man,” Herman continued. “I’m going to give you a two-month option to purchase all the rights to the lens for fifteen million. If it has one tenth the potential you say it does, you should have no problem finding a buyer. Go out and make yourself a wealthy man.” Fifteen million seemed like a good number to Herman; he came up with it on the fifteenth hole.

Karl sat up straight. “You want me to pay fifteen million for my own research?”

Herman shook his head. “By no means. I want you to find someone else who will pay whatever you think it’s worth. Everything over fifteen million is yours. Sell it to the Department of Defense. You said they needed it. Or maybe try some of the major players, like Bausch and Lomb or CooperVision.”

Karl reflected a moment, and was suddenly embarrassed by his initial reaction. The destiny of the lens was in his hands, at least for two months. The potential reward was enormous. There was no time to waste. “I gladly accept your offer,” Karl answered. “I’ll make us both lots of money.”

Herman nodded. “The exclusive rights are yours until the end of the workday on December first. I’ll excuse you and my attorney from the meeting. He can review the option in my office.”

Herman watched them leave. He would have a highly-motivated salesman working on his behalf for the next couple months. Zimmer did have a gift. He had convinced a foundation to give his company millions. Would someone pay $15 million for the rights to a contact lens that had to be watered more often than an Arizona lawn? Improbable. Would a company invest in a product that could be used on only a single eye? Highly doubtful. Would anyone pay big money for an opportunity to gamble still more on getting the lens tested and approved? Maybe one chance in a hundred - or a thousand. Still, he’d be getting those months of free advertising from Zimmer. Maybe it would lead to some sort of offer after the option expired. It was all gravy.

After the meeting, Martha Potter fussed in the conference room, putting everything back in order. She found an inch of champagne in a bottle and poured herself a toast. No point in wasting good bubbly.

In the process of realigning the chairs, she saw a contact lens button on the carpet, and then another. She was tempted to toss them in the wastebasket because Manufacturing already had thousands like them. On the other hand, Mr. Winston had just stressed the importance of keeping costs to a minimum. Upon leaving the conference room, she carried the buttons all the way down the long hall and stopped beside the last door on the left. She took a pair of safety glasses from a box on the wall and put them on before entering.

The precaution proved unnecessary. The “money factory,” as Mr. Winston called it, where hundreds of buttons were lathed to prescription daily, was deserted. Glancing at the clock, Martha realized it was already lunchtime. She walked to the closest of the twelve work stations and tossed the buttons into a hopper containing countless others. Each one would be cut to prescription and sent to customers throughout Arizona and other Western States.

The waiting room at Sturrock Optometry was nearly empty in mid-afternoon. Pat Plumlee squeezed her husband’s knee and said, “Isn’t this romantic?”

Ray wagged his head. Was his hearing as poor as his vision? “Did you say romantic? Why would you say something like that?”

“Because I think you look like Jimmy Stewart without your glasses. You’re going to be so handsome. You’re getting contacts just like mine!”

“You got that actor stuff from Lucy,” he mumbled.

Pat giggled. “I happen to agree with her.”

“Well, I only said I’d try contacts for you. I’m getting glasses too. It’s hard to teach an old frog new kicks.” Ray glanced at the assortment of magazines in front of him and picked up Time.

“You really are struggling with your vision,” she said. “You didn’t pick up Golf Digest or Golfer’s World.”

He could barely read the names on the covers, but the subconscious choice was significant. Golf had meant everything until recently. Now the game conveyed a clear message from Father Time: Life was winding down. He had glimpsed his own Grim Reaper in the form of Mrs. Beckerman. Appropriately, her scythe had been a golf club. It was time to think about more productive uses for the remaining years of his life.

Ray thumbed through the magazine, unable to read a word on the hazy pages, barely able to see the pictures. It didn’t matter. His thoughts were on Knickers and his unusual request. What would he and Pat do with their estate in a similar situation?

“Pat, if you had money to donate to charity, which would you choose?”

Pat dropped House Beautiful, wondering what triggered such an unusual question. “What are you reading about?” she asked.

“I’m not reading anything. I just want to know what charity you think is most important.”

“I guess they’re all important in their own way. I’m probably partial to charities for kids, maybe ones that help disabled children.”

Ray nodded. “Who could argue with that?”

“What’s to argue about? People support all kinds of causes. Some believe education is most important. For others, it’s environmental protection. Mary told me that one of our neighbors left her entire estate to the Humane Society because she loved her pets so much. I’m dying to know why you brought this up.”

Ray knew she’d ask. Always curious. “I’m thinking I ought to be a more charitable person. I should be doing more for other people.”

Pat stared at her husband, perplexed. The doctor said he suffered a mild concussion. Could that explain odd behavior?

She leaned close and kissed his cheek. “You’re the most charitable person I’ve ever known. It’s one of the reasons I love you so much. For over forty-five years, we ran our business and you never said no to a group that came looking for a donation. You sponsored teams in every youth sport. I’d say we donated five thousand a year to different things.

“And goodness sakes, what about the coaching? You coached a Little League team for thirty years! And you were the only coach that wasn’t there because your own child was on the team. You’ve paid your dues. You deserve to spend your retirement years enjoying life.”

With Knickers prepared to give up his life savings in the name of charity, Ray was unconvinced. “You know what? I’m going to cut back on golf, maybe play only a couple days a week.”

Pat stiffened. “Excuse me?” On the two days her husband didn’t play, he paced around the house like a caged animal. On the other days, he golfed all morning, came home with beer breath, and took a long nap after lunch. His schedule for those days was comfortably set, just the way she liked it.

“I’m thinking about doing some community service stuff. There’s a homeless shelter not far from our place. Maybe I can get up early and cook breakfast there or something.”

Pat’s laugh came out like a snort. “Don’t you think the homeless have it rough enough already?”

Fair point, he thought. He wasn’t known for artistry in the kitchen. However, he was an expert at cleaning and maintenance. He had built a life around it. After high school, he worked for a janitorial service at night to save money for college. He had vacuumed and scrubbed his way through half a summer before his employer suddenly left town, leaving all the clients in a lurch. One of them asked Ray if he’d be interested in assuming the janitorial contract himself. He applied for a business license the next day. In filling out the paperwork, he had to think of a name for his undertaking. He was already dating Pat back then, and her parents owned a plant and flower business called The Greenery. She came up with The Cleanery.

Most of the other clients contracted with him soon thereafter. He hired all his high school friends who weren’t commercial fishing or doing something else that paid better. Before long, Ray wasn’t even doing much cleaning himself. He drove around town, visited with customers, and acquired additional contracts. In the meantime, Pat arranged work schedules, did the banking and payroll, and ordered supplies. When September brought the beginning of college classes, Ray and Pat weren’t on campus. They were doing too well to quit. The Cleanery grew and flourished. By the time the couple would have been graduating from college, they were married, lived in their own home, and had three white panel trucks parked in the driveway, all with the business name scripted in black and gold letters. That was four children, thirteen grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren ago.

“Maybe I can volunteer to clean the shelter every day,” Ray said, prodding her to agree.

She shook him off again. “I think they let the people who sleep and eat there do most of those things. It helps them feel like they’re giving something back. Let’s just think of you right now ... you and your eyes. You can’t read road signs until you’re right on top of them! And aren’t you tired of having drivers honk at you when the stoplight changes? How long have you been wearing those same glasses?”

Ray shrugged.

“I’ll bet you had them twenty years! Think back to when you lost that other pair.”

Ray warmed to the memory of losing the last ones. He was landing a king salmon on the Kenai River. His son tried to capture the fish with a long-handled net and accidentally poked him in the face with the end of the handle. In hindsight, he was struck on the bridge of his nose, same as today. The glasses dropped into the river and were swept away in the current. That was twenty-three years ago.

“Maybe your golf game will get back to normal if you can see better,” Pat suggested. And maybe you’ll stop complaining about it, she thought. Ray never complained about a thing his entire life, until recently. Higher golf scores were weighing him down.

“And if you want to think of others,” she added, “how about the rest of The Foursome? How would the other guys get by without you?” She had been reminded of the strength of their bond when Mulligan, Harvey and Knickers stormed the emergency room shortly after Ray arrived there. They wouldn’t leave until the doctor met with them personally and conveyed a favorable diagnosis.

Dr. Sturrock’s receptionist called Ray’s name. Patting his wife’s shoulder, he said, “I can do more with my life than just chase golf balls.”

Stanley Sturrock greeted him in the examination room. “I heard you had a little accident on the golf course,” he said, grinning at his new patient. “It can be a dangerous game!” He laughed loudly at his own humor.

Hmm, Ray thought, this Dr. Sturrock must be a comediologist or something. Maybe an opticometrician. Ray decided he liked him.

“Look at that eye chart across the room,” the doctor said. “Let’s start by having you read it to me with your left eye. Cover the right with your hand.”

Ray squinted at the letters. “Without my glasses, I can’t see much. Just the three letters on top. Can I use my glasses?”

“Hey, that would be cheating,” the doctor said sternly. “You don’t kick your ball out from behind a tree, do you?”

Ray wasn’t sure what to say.

Dr. Sturrock started laughing again. “I’m just messing with you! Of course, you can wear your glasses. That’ll tell us where you’ve been so we’ll know how much better we can get.”

Ray fished his broken glasses from his chest pocket. Pat and the hospital receptionist had attempted a repair job while the doctor was sewing up the divot in his forehead. The frames had snapped in the center and were both super glued and taped. The left lens was cracked diagonally.

He lifted them gingerly to his eyes. The next three rows of letters became identifiable. He could have tossed guesses at the next line, but saw little point. “All garbledygook,” Ray said, shaking his head.

“I should be able to help you quite a bit,” the doctor responded. “Even with your glasses, your vision isn’t close to normal. When’s the last time you had an exam?”

“It’s been a while,” Ray admitted. “It never occurred to me that I needed one.”

“And you’ve been driving a car all this time?”

“Sure.”

“That’s plain scary.”

Ray shook his head. Opticomediologist!

The doctor lifted the glasses from his patient’s nose. “Everyone needs an exam every year or two. Eyes are always changing. It’s especially important as you get older. Now, let’s get busy. Take a seat.”

Looking at images through the doctor’s diagnostic equipment, first with the left eye, and then the right, Ray was amazed at how readily gray blobs turned into razor sharp images. He suddenly felt better about returning to the golf course.

Pat peeked into the room. “I just wanted to see how everything’s going.”

“Just fine,” the doctor answered. “I’m going to dilate his pupils and make sure everything is okay structurally.”

“We’ll want two pairs of hard contacts and two pairs of glasses,” Pat said. “I want lots of spares.”

Dr. Sturrock was used to having seniors ask for old-fashioned rigid contacts. They were easier to put on and remove. Many had worn them a long time and didn’t want to change.

“How soon can I pick them up?” Ray asked.

The doctor often heard that too. Everybody wanted everything right now, the way of the world. “We should get the lenses for your glasses back here in a week. You can pick out frames in our showroom before you go. The contacts will come straight to your house by priority mail. That shouldn’t take more than a week either. They come from a company not far from here. Eagle Optics.”

In the car outside the optometrist’s office, Ray sat uncomfortably in the passenger seat. He was used to doing the driving. He cupped his right hand above his crooked glasses, shielding his pupils from the light. “We need to stop at a florist and get Mrs. Beckerman some flowers,” he said. “Seriously, I thought I was going to give her a heart attack with all my falling and bleeding and everything.”

“Yes,” Pat chuckled. “You can be very difficult. I ordered yellow roses while you were getting stitches. It’s all you talked about when you got home. She probably has them by now.”

“You sent a card with them, right?”

“As requested. It said: ‘Dear Gladys, Sorry to have given you such a scare. I’ve been meaning to get contact lenses for some time now, so you did me a favor. Best wishes, Ray Plumlee.’”

He leaned back on the headrest, closing his eyes. “Perfect.”

A moment later, he lifted his head. “Since when did you start going to the gas station to fill the car?” Getting gas had always been his job.

Pat shook her head. Was his concussion acting up? “You know I don’t get gas. You always keep the tank full.” She looked at the gas gauge. “And it’s full now.”

“Well, there’s something wrong with the gauge. I haven’t put a drop in this car and we’ve had it two weeks. Didn’t the Tanner widow say everything worked fine when she sold it to us?”

“As far as I know. I didn’t pay much attention.”

“Have you been driving every day?”

“Pretty much. I usually go shopping while you’re playing golf. I drove all the way to the Sun City mall this morning.”

Dang it, Ray thought. Was a fuel gauge easy to fix? How much would it cost?

The attendant at Leisureville’s front gate left his security station and walked to the Plumlee’s car. Pat lowered her window.

The man said, “I wanted to thank you for the birthday card and gift certificate. My wife and I used it at Outback last night.”

Ray leaned toward the driver’s side window, and patted his wife’s knee. The lady remembered everything. “Glad to hear it, Charlie. Happy birthday!”

Charlie grimaced at Ray’s appearance. “Sorry to hear about your accident. Are you going to be all right?”

“News travels quickly. I’ll be fine, just not as pretty for a while.”

Once they were home, Ray slid behind the wheel. “I’m going to go fill up. We must be running on fumes. I’ll get the gas gauge checked too.” He was gone before Pat could object.

The closest gas station was a mile away. While driving, Ray considered how embarrassing it would’ve been to have his wife run out of gas. How could he have forgotten something so basic? Sure, the gauge said the tank was full, but two weeks? With the old Explorer, they routinely used three quarters of a tank in two weeks. The Lincoln figured to burn nearly as much. Was he getting so old he’d have to start carrying a list of basic chores? Would he forget to check the dang list?

After pulling up to a pump, Ray struggled to find the switch to open the tank cover. He looked at the dashboard to the left of the steering wheel, where the Explorer’s had been. Nothing. He found it on the floor to his left.

He stuck the nozzle in the tank and leaned on the car for the long wait. Before the meter read even three gallons, the pump kicked off. Knowing the car had to be near empty, Ray squeezed the handle and held it. Gas spewed from the intake like a geyser, soaking his pants.

The manager watched from inside the station, shaking his head at the old guy with the bandaged forehead. Reluctantly, he got out of his chair and walked outside.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked.

“I dropped my glasses,” Ray said, glancing around.

That’s not all you dropped, the manager thought. You dropped about a quart of gas on your clothes and another on my lot. I’m glad my shift is over soon. It’s been a long damn day.

The manager picked up part of Ray’s glasses. “Here’s half of them.”

Ray held the half with the cracked lens up to his left eye and read the name on the manager’s shirt. “Hello, Bob. I’m Ray. Sorry to have made a mess here, but something’s wrong with my car.”

Bob located the other part of the glasses and handed it to him. Ray held both halves in place with a hand at each temple.

“You see, we’ve been driving this car for a couple weeks, probably two hundred miles or more, and the gas gauge is broken. It reads full all the time.”

Bob looked at the meter and back to Ray. “They’ll generally read full when you’re only down a couple gallons. That means your gauge is working fine.” A lot better than your brain is working, he thought. He was ready to go home and enjoy a beer.

“Have you noticed me fueling this car here before?” Ray asked. “Like sometime in the last few days?”

Bob looked at his watch. Thirteen more minutes until freedom. “I don’t really notice the customers. I only pay attention when they spill gas … you know … because I have to clean it up. I don’t remember seeing you.” Most old people seemed alike to him, but this Ray seemed wackier than most. Probably Alzheimer’s.

Ray didn’t know what else to do. He lowered his glasses, held them out toward Bob, and asked if he could borrow some tape.

Back home in his garage, Ray removed his shirt, slacks, and underwear, put them in a plastic bag, and tossed it in the trash can. He didn’t want to stink up the house or have to explain their condition to Pat.

Pat was waiting for him when he entered the kitchen, wearing only a ball cap. She just stared.

“I took off my clothes in the garage. I had a little accident.”

Her jaw dropped. “Oh, no! In the new car? You couldn’t hold it until you got home?”

He shook his head, wondering how the day could get any worse. “I spilled gas on them at the service station.” He placed a receipt from the pump in a wicker basket on a small table near the door.

“Accidents happen. Is the gas gauge fixed?”

“Well,” Ray said, walking toward the bedroom to clean up, “there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with it. The car took less than three gallons.”

Pat followed. “That can’t be. I checked our records while you were gone. There were no receipts for gas for the last two weeks.”

After a lifetime of managing the finances of The Cleanery, Pat was well organized. Every receipt for every expenditure went into the basket by the door. The action was automatic. Pat emptied the basket every Sunday and updated their finances on QuickBooks.

“Well, you sure didn’t drive much.” Ray said.

“Lots of shopping,” she replied. “Same old thing.”

He understood the complex meaning of “same old thing.” Groceries were the least of it. There were gifts and cards for every occasion for a growing list of recipients: their children and their spouses; the many grandkids and seven more spouses attached to them; parents of spouses; and the great-grandkids. There were also Pat’s two sisters and their related family trees, life-long friends in Alaska, and new friends in Arizona, like Charlie at the gate. Every event was recorded on a calendar in her computer and she tried to stay a month ahead of things.

Pat tried to retrace her steps. “It seemed like an average couple of weeks. The Lincoln probably gets better mileage than the old car. I also like that it’s lower and I don’t have to step so high to get into it. The Explorer was getting too tall for me.”

Ray guessed that she hadn’t driven much, that maybe she was slowing down. “I think I’ll go next door and see Mrs. Tanner. I’ll ask what kind of mileage she got.”

“She’s out of town,” Pat said. “Visiting family in Montana.”

Out of options, Ray went to the garage and wrote down the current mileage. He folded the paper and put it behind the visor.

At 6:30 p.m., the Plumlees were watching the end of the local news when the doorbell chimed. Mulligan had arrived with a twelve-pack of Sam Adams.

“Knickers called a meeting for tonight,” he announced. “We knew you wouldn’t be doing anything.”

Ray eyed the beer. The sweat on the bottles shouted ice cold.

“Hi, Irvin,” Pat said from behind Ray, then nudged her husband. “He can’t even think about drinking while he’s taking medication, but we’re glad to see you.”

Ray smiled at his friend, rolled his eyes, and shrugged.

When the others arrived, the four men assembled in the den. Pat disappeared into her office to give the guys their space.

Knickers opened a beer. “Ray, why aren’t you wearin’ new glasses? You went to the optician, right?” He raised his bottle in a toast, and the other two guests followed suit. They swallowed together, then smacked their lips, while winking at their dry host.

Ray shook his head at the cold humor. “I won’t get them for a week. I ordered contact lenses too.”

“Ýou should have gone to my optometrist,” Harvey said. “You get your glasses the same day.”

Knickers stared at Ray. “Are you going to be able to play wearing those things?” He pointed to the crooked, taped glasses. “They look a little shaky.”

Ray was reluctant to turn his head quickly, fearing the glasses might come apart. “No golf for me for the next week, not until I get my new ones. I’m going to see much better then. You guys better watch out.”

“No golf for a week?” Mulligan asked. “Why not just put those lenses in new frames? You could get by.”

Pat’s voice came from the other room. “Forget it! He has a concussion. No golf for at least a week.” Advancing years hadn’t diminished her sharp sense of hearing.

Knickers whispered, “You’ve got to take one for the team, Ray. We’re not talkin’ about tackle football here.”

Pat strutted into the den. “You think I can’t hear you, Knickers Collins? It’s time you grow up and have a little compassion!” She shot him a glare, then looked at Harvey, who understood he was expected to support her.

“I Googled concussions this afternoon,” he said. “Ray needs to wait until the doctor clears him to play. You have to be cautious.”

Pat nodded. “There you have it, words from an educated man.” She spun and left the room.

Harvey looked apologetically at Knickers and cleared his throat. “I’ve done some thinking. We could use Ray’s average score for the last year, which is 75. I’ll fill in the scorecard with all pars except for bogeys on two, nine, and twelve, which are statistically his worst holes. That way we can still compete.”

Knickers scratched his chin. “But Ray still comes with us, right? He drives you around in Birdie Chaser. We have business to discuss on the course.” It was agreed.

Knickers got up, walked over to the pocket door that closed off the den, and slid it shut. Then he announced that the meeting would begin. “Like I told you earlier, we’re gonna make plans for my money. I plan on givin’ most of it away soon, so I can enjoy feelin’ good about it for the rest of my life ... and you fellas can too.”

Mulligan knew they couldn’t be talking about much. Knickers didn’t live like a man with a thick wallet. The only real exception was the money he blew on the sign at Harvey’s house. “Don’t you think you should keep your money until both you and Bess are gone? You never know what’s going to come up.” He had learned that lesson himself.

“I’m not as stupid as I look,” Knickers said, draining the rest of his beer. “I’m going to hold back a couple million, just in case.”

Ray stared in disbelief, then grabbed a bottle from the box on the floor. Hold back a couple million?

Mulligan slapped his armrest. “You need to stop your bullshitting. We know you too well. You’re yanking our damn chains.”

Knickers sat grinning, not saying a word.

Mulligan sputtered, “Stop it! You drive a car that’s older than me!”

Knickers laughed at the predictable response. “If you change the oil every six months, a Chevy will run forever. Mine has a hundred and forty thousand miles on it. You wouldn’t know. You sold Fords.”

Harvey pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Knickers knew we wouldn’t believe him, so he had me make a copy of his stock account off my computer when he came by.”

He handed the paper to Mulligan, whose eyes widened then narrowed. “Twenty-four million and change! Gotta hand it to you, Harvey and Knickers, this looks real. How did you fake this?” He passed the paper to Ray.

Knickers sighed. “Here you go, my simple story. Back in eighty-nine I was in Louisville, coachin’ the pen for the Triple A team. I got to know this guy that sat along the bullpen railin’ almost every game. He wasn’t your average fan. He could watch a pitcher throw for a few minutes and tell you exactly what he was doin’ wrong. He was a helluva lot sharper than me. Anyway, he was on the board of a company called Dell Computer. He said I should buy the stock; they were the comin’ thing.

“My father had just died and left me sixty grand. I had never owned a share of stock, but I really respected this fan. I bought fifty grand worth of Dell stock and got my car with the rest.

“After that season, I never saw the guy for like ten years. One day he pops up again in Memphis, where the team had moved. I didn’t even know what to say to him. My stock had gone crazy, and I still had every bit of it. I mean, what were Bess and I gonna do with millions of dollars? We lived the way we lived and we liked it. Anyway, he’s really impressed that I held the shares, but says he moved to the board of a new company called Amazon. He said to sell the Dell and buy that one, so I did. We had to pay so much in taxes that I wouldn’t even write the check ... made Bess do it. I think the taxes alone were more money than I made my entire life! As you can see on that paper, though, everything worked out.”

Mulligan decided the story was strangely believable. Why would Knickers kid about something like this? He knew full well he’d be expected to pay for all the beer after the disclosure.

“Just think a second,” Mulligan said. “What if you’d invested the whole sixty instead of buying that crappy car!” All the men laughed and regarded Knickers a little differently.

At five o’clock the next morning, a shadowy figure approached the side door of the Plumlee garage. He carried a Jerry Jug, a flashlight, and a roll of paper towels. Like Mulligan, Knickers had been entrusted with a key to Ray’s home long ago. Unlike Mulligan, he’d found a good use for it.

Ray had raved about his car purchase a couple of weeks back. He paid low Blue Book for a neighbor’s Lincoln that was four years old but had less than 12,000 miles on it. Even came with a full tank of gas!

During half a century in baseball clubhouses, Knickers had earned a reputation as a dedicated prankster. A recap of his stunts would fill a book. Unfortunately, he was starting to lose faith in this one.

Capping off the Lincoln’s tank had required only half a gallon some mornings. Once it took nearly three gallons to fill it. The car had taken a total of nine gallons during the first week, and another six since then. Why hadn’t Ray said anything yet?

Inside the garage, Knickers gently opened the door of the Lincoln and lifted the lever to access the fuel tank. He barely started adding gas and the tank spilled over. “Dammit!” he muttered. They barely drove the car yesterday! After replacing the cap, he went to work with the paper towels, drying the side of the car and absorbing drops that hit the floor.

Before leaving, he stood beside the open side door, allowing gas vapor to escape from the garage. Had Ray figured out what he was doing? Was the joke on the joker? The whole thing should have been over a week ago! Ray should have been bragging about his car’s miserly fuel consumption long before now.

Then again, how could Ray figure it out? Unless one of the Plumlees walked into the garage and caught him red-handed, Ray would never dream that someone might be filling the Lincoln’s gas tank every night. What kind of idiot would do such a thing?

Knickers decided to give the prank a few more days to play out. He’d come this far already, invested lots of time. Besides, what else did he have to do at such an early hour? He closed the door, picked up his heavy gas jug, and waddled off down the street.