No Country Club For Old Men (Part 1)

This is a true story. The events took place at Cielo Verde Country Club in 1986. Out of respect for the survivors, certain names have been changed. Out of respect for the dead, the rest has been told exactly as it occurred.

Curtis Parkman found the body at 5:41 on a Tuesday morning, though he'd tell everyone it was 5:45. Those four minutes belonged to him alone - standing at the edge of the 12th green, watching a bass boat bump against the bulkhead like a drunk trying to find his keys.

The Ghost Hole, they called it. The 12th had swallowed more Titleists than any other hole at Cielo Verde, the lake running the entire left side like a moat protecting par. Now it had given something back.

Curtis was checking irrigation heads when he spotted it. Twenty-two feet of faded fiberglass with a Mercury outboard tilted up like a broken nose. Inside: a cowboy hat floating in three inches of rainwater, a belt buckle the size of a salad plate, and a Cordura duffel bag dark with what wasn't rain.

The body was curled in the stern, face pushed into a leather scorecard holder from the pro shop. Cielo Verde Country Club stamped in gold, now decorated with a neat hole behind the left ear.

Curtis radioed the clubhouse. Then sat on the granite tee marker, watching the sun paint the fairway gold, thinking about his mortgage and his daughter's quinceañera and whether some money was too dirty to spend.

"Retirement treating you well?"

Tom Ackerman looked up from his coffee to find Deputy Ray Parkman standing at his table. The kid looked like he'd slept in his uniform, which meant something had happened worth losing sleep over.

"Can't complain." Tom had been sheriff for thirty years before hanging it up six months back. His wife Marge had money from her daddy's oil wells, enough to cover his membership at Cielo Verde. Enough to pretend he belonged here among the lawyers and ranchers and men who'd never worked nightshift.

"Sheriff Gutierrez wants you to take a look at something. Professional courtesy."

"I'm not professional anymore."

"No sir. But you know this town better than anyone."

Tom knew what that meant. Something had washed up that didn't fit the usual categories of border town problems.

The body belonged to Juan "El Cometa" Chavez, though they wouldn't confirm that for three days. Mid-level player out of Piedras Negras. Moved money, sometimes product, between Eagle Pass and wherever money needed moving.

"No drugs," Sheriff Gutierrez said. "No cash. No weapons. Just our friend here looking like he called in sick permanent."

Tom studied the scene. The boat had been there since 3 or 4 AM, based on how the dew had settled around it. The duffel bag sat in an evidence bag now, but Tom could see the dark stains on the deck.

"How much wasn't there?" Tom asked.

"What?"

"The money. How much are we not finding?"

Gutierrez smiled. "You always were sharp. Word is Chavez was moving five hundred thousand. Payment for something, or payment owed. Either way, it's not here."

Which meant someone had taken something that wasn't theirs. In border towns, that kind of theft came with interest rates measured in blood.

The emergency board meeting convened in the Champions Room at 2 PM. Judge Bill Oswalt presiding, trying to look judicial despite the golf shorts and RedWing boots.

"Gentlemen," Oswalt began, "we need to address this morning's unfortunate discovery."

General Manager Frank Harman stood at parade rest, twenty years of Army habits dying hard. "The authorities assure me this is an isolated incident. The lake connects to the Rio Grande watershed. Boat could have drifted from anywhere."

"But it didn't," said Dr. Richard Nagel. "It ended up here. On our course."

"Which is unfortunate but not our responsibility," Harman replied, but his eyes said otherwise.

Tom sat in the back, watching faces. In thirty years of law enforcement, he'd learned that people's eyes told you more than their mouths. Right now, the ground crew supervisor, Ernesto Lundegaard, was studying his shoes like they held the secrets of the universe.

After the meeting, Tom bellied up to the bar. Hector Gustafson had been pouring drinks at Cielo Verde since it opened, knew everyone's poison without asking.

"Usual?" Hector asked.

"Make it a double."

At the end of the bar sat a man Tom didn't recognize. Pressed khakis, white polo with no logo, the kind of bland face you forgot while looking at it. New member, Tom figured. They'd been getting more since the oil money started flowing again.

"Heads or tails?" the man asked Hector, a quarter spinning on the mahogany.

"Sir?"

"For my drink. Heads, iced tea. Tails, club soda with lime."

The quarter landed. Washington stared at the ceiling.

"Iced tea it is." The man slid the quarter back in his pocket. "Thank you, Hector."

Something about him made Tom's old cop instincts twitch. Maybe the way he'd memorized the bartender's name already. Maybe how his eyes swept the room while his face stayed perfectly still.

"Don't believe we've met," Tom said. "Tom Ackerman."

"Grimsrud." No first name offered. "I joined last month."

"Welcome to Cielo Verde. Hell of a morning to be here."

"Every morning's something." Grimsrud sipped his tea. "I heard you used to be sheriff."

"Used to be a lot of things."

"Retirement must be nice. All that time to think about what you've seen."

The way he said it made Tom's neck hairs stand up. But Grimsrud was already heading to the dining room, leaving Tom with his whiskey and the feeling that someone had just measured him for something.

The grounds crew was different after the boat. Not obviously - they still showed up, mowed, raked, pretended everything was normal. But Curtis noticed things. Bobby Rinks started parking at the far end of the lot, like he might need to leave quick. Carlos Caspar, who'd worn the same boots for three years, showed up in new Red Wings that cost more than he made in a week.

Danny Gopnik was different too. The assistant superintendent had always been reliable, steady, the kind of guy who showed up early and stayed late because he loved grass the way some men loved women. Now he drove a new Ford pickup, burgundy with chrome that caught the light like accusations. But Danny also looked scared - kept checking his phone, startling at sudden noises, the kind of behavior Curtis recognized from his own nights spent counting money that wasn't his.

"Nice truck," Curtis said on Thursday.

"Got a good deal. Estate sale."

"Whose estate?"

"Nobody you'd know." Danny's hands shook as he lit a cigarette. "Listen, Curtis. You ever think about what happens when you take something that don't belong to you?"

"Depends what it is."

"Money. Lot of money."

Curtis felt something cold settle in his stomach. "You asking hypothetically?"

"Yeah. Hypothetically." Danny dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his new boot. "Hypothetically, what if you took it to help your kid? Your daughter needs surgery, insurance won't cover it, and there's all this cash just sitting there... you just took what you needed."

"Hypothetically," Curtis said carefully, "that money probably belongs to someone who don't take theft lightly."

Danny nodded, already walking away. "That's what I figured."

That night, Curtis saw lights by the maintenance shed near the 12th hole. Could have been security. Could have been crew doing late irrigation work. Could have been lots of things, in a world where boats full of blood showed up at dawn.

Danny Gopnik died on Saturday. His truck went off the road at Phantom Canyon, where Highway 83 carved through limestone like a snake with ambition. Single vehicle accident, they said. Must have taken the curve too fast.

Tom went to the funeral on Tuesday. Small crowd - Danny's family, some crew, a few members who probably felt obligated. Mr. Grimsrud sat in the back row, which seemed odd since Tom didn't think he'd known Danny.

After the service, Tom watched Grimsrud walk to his car. The man pulled out his quarter, flipped it, caught it, looked at it, put it away. Then drove off without talking to anyone.

"Shame about Danny," Harman said, appearing at Tom's elbow. "Good kid."

"Yeah. Good kid who suddenly had money for a twelve-thousand-dollar truck."

"Insurance settlement. His uncle died."

Tom had known Danny for five years, knew his family. Both uncles were alive and poor as church mice. But saying that would mean saying other things, and Tom was retired now. Retired men didn't stir pots that might boil over.

At 3 AM, Tom gave up trying to sleep and drove to the club. His member card still worked the gate - they hadn't changed the codes in years. The course lay silver under a half moon, peaceful as a cemetery.

Tom parked by the 11th green and walked toward the Ghost Hole. The lake whispered secrets in a language he was starting to understand. The maintenance shed squatted near the water, dark and quiet.

But there - in the dust by the door. Tire tracks. Fresh ones, maybe a few hours old. Leading from the shed to the service road that connected to Highway 83. Tom knelt, studying the treads. Wide, expensive. The kind that came on new trucks.

He stood there, retired sheriff in his pajamas and slippers, piecing together a puzzle he didn't want to solve. How long had boats been visiting the Ghost Hole at night? How many times had someone unloaded cargo while the members slept in their hill country homes?

And who'd been stupid enough to steal from the kind of people who settled debts with bullets?

A mockingbird called from the mesquite, practicing its stolen songs. Tom walked back to his truck, knowing what he knew, wishing he didn't.

Because in border towns, knowledge was like carrying someone else's money. Eventually, someone always came to collect.

Next week in Part Two: Federal agents arrive asking the wrong questions, members begin resigning in droves, and Tom Ackerman learns that some coins, once flipped, keep spinning long after they land.

Poll Question

Last Week's Poll Result

Which Precision Specialist Is Slowing Down Your Round with a Full-Blown Science Experiment?

⬜️⬜️⬜️⬜️⬜️⬜️ 🔵 The Striker – Footwork-heavy, overly dramatic, and somehow always injured… even on the putting green.

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩 🟢 The Baseliner – Demands silence, takes 14 minutes to tee off, and yells “OUT!” at her own ball.

🟨⬜️⬜️⬜️⬜️⬜️ 🟣 The Decathlete – Has a heart monitor, a hydration plan, and a laminated course map. And that’s just for the range.

🟨⬜️⬜️⬜️⬜️⬜️ 🟡 The Sweeper – Reads greens like an Olympic sheet of ice and shouts “HURRY HARD!” at his ball like it speaks English.

Looks like the other country club sport, tennis, takes the cake and apparently soccer players got a pass. Disagree? Then vote in our polls!

Lastly, if you are a newer subscriber don’t forget to catch up on past stories at ccconfidential.vip - and while you’re at it, tell a friend!