No Country Club For Old Men (Part 2)

In Part One, retired Sheriff Tom Ackerman found his country club retirement shattered when groundskeeper Curtis Parkman discovered a bullet-riddled smuggler at Cielo Verde's Ghost Hole - along with an empty boat that should have held half a million dollars. When assistant superintendent Danny Gopnik died in a suspicious car accident after buying a new truck he couldn't afford, Tom started connecting dots. A mysterious new member named Grimsrud had arrived, flipping coins and asking pointed questions about what people had seen. Late-night tire tracks at the maintenance shed revealed the truth: the Ghost Hole had been a smuggling waystation for years. Someone had stolen from the wrong people, and now a cold-eyed accountant was balancing the books in blood. [READ PART 1 HERE]

Curtis Parkman vanished on Tuesday. His wife called the club Wednesday morning, hysterical. He'd gone to work at 4 AM like always. Never came home. His truck was in the employee lot, keys in the ignition, coffee still warm in the cupholder.

Sheriff Gutierrez organized search parties. They found Curtis's hat near the 13th tee. Found his wallet in a drainage ditch by the highway. Never found Curtis.

"Man doesn't just evaporate," Gutierrez told Tom over beers at the VFW.

"No. But sometimes they dissolve."

Tom had liked Curtis. Good worker, quiet, the kind of man who showed up early and kept his head down. The kind who'd call in a body at dawn and wish he hadn't.

Three days later, the FBI set up shop in the Comfort Inn off Highway 83. Agent Sally Birdwell ran the investigation with the efficiency of someone who'd seen too many border towns pretend blindness was a virtue.

"Mr. Ackerman," she said, finding Tom on the driving range. "I understand you used to run things here."

"I kept the peace. That's different than running things."

"Is it?" She had the kind of smile that made you check your wallet. "Tell me about Danny Gopnik."

"Good kid. Dead kid."

"Dead kid with forty-seven thousand in his checking account. Recent deposit."

Tom addressed another ball, slicing it toward the 150-marker. "Maybe he saved real good."

"On a groundskeeper's salary?" She pulled out a notebook. "Several members mentioned seeing truck lights by the 12th hole. Late nights, going back months."

"Maintenance works all hours. Grass doesn't care about your sleep schedule."

"No. But smugglers do."

Tom hit another ball, straighter this time. "If you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting, you better have more than truck lights and suspicious bank accounts."

"I'm suggesting," Birdwell said carefully, "that someone at this club has been using that maintenance shed as a waystation. And someone else got greedy. Curtis Parkman saw something he shouldn't have. Now he's gone."

She left him there with a bucket of balls and the growing certainty that Cielo Verde's problems were just beginning.

Members started resigning the following Monday. Jim Treehorn first, claiming business opportunities in Dallas. Then Dr. Nagel, suddenly remembering a sick sister in Vermont. By Friday, nine more had submitted letters, all variations on the theme of elsewhere.

"We're bleeding out," Frank Harman told the emergency board meeting. "Thirty percent of our membership gone in five days."

"People get nervous," Judge Oswalt said. "FBI starts sniffing around, everyone remembers they have somewhere else to be."

Tom sat in his usual back corner, watching Ernesto Lundegaard pour coffee with shaking hands. The night maintenance supervisor looked like he'd aged a decade in three weeks. Whatever he knew was eating him from the inside.

That evening, Tom noticed Grimsrud at the bar, wearing a new watch. Expensive, gold, with a band that caught the light. Tom recognized it - Miguel Caspar had been flashing the same model around the clubhouse for months.

"Nice watch," Tom said.

Grimsrud glanced at it like he'd forgotten it was there. "Found it. Amazing what people leave lying around." He pulled out his quarter, let it spin on the mahogany. "You ever notice how careless people get with their valuables?"

"Haven't noticed that, no."

"You will." The coin landed. Heads. Always heads. "Everyone's careless about something."

After the meeting, Tom found Ernie in the cart barn, reorganizing tools that didn't need reorganizing.

"How long?" Tom asked.

Ernie didn't pretend not to understand. "Six years. Maybe seven."

"Jesus. The whole operation?"

"Started small. Once a month, maybe. Boat comes in, we unload, stuff goes out before dawn. Management knew - had to know - but nobody asked questions. Good money for everyone."

"Until somebody got greedy."

Ernie's laugh had no humor in it. "Miguel and Carlos Caspar. Cousins. They ran the night shift, had the whole thing locked down. Been skimming for months, maybe a year. That last boat, the one with Chavez - it carried more than usual. Half a million."

"So they took it all?"

"Most of it. But Danny..." Ernie set down a wrench, his hands shaking. "Danny wasn't even supposed to be there that night. Came in early, trying to get overtime. His daughter needed surgery. Experimental treatment, insurance wouldn't cover it."

Tom felt pieces clicking into place. "He caught them."

"Found them loading the truck. Miguel felt bad for him - everyone knew about his daughter. Gave him enough for the surgery, told him to keep quiet."

"But Danny couldn't."

"Bought that truck. Started acting nervous. These people, they don't care about sick daughters or good intentions. They just know their money's gone."

"And Curtis?"

"Curtis was there checking irrigation when Chavez washed up. But he'd also seen Miguel and Carlos moving bags a few nights before. Never said anything, just wanted to keep his job." Ernie shook his head. "Grimsrud probably figured Curtis knew more than he did. These cleaners, they don't leave loose ends."

That night, another body washed up at the Ghost Hole. Miguel Caspar, face down in the shallows like he'd tried to swim to shore and forgotten how. The coroner ruled it drowning. Accidental. The kind of accident that happened to people who thought they could outswim their mistakes.

Tom stood at the yellow tape, watching crime scene techs photograph the same spot where Chavez had been found. Miguel's expensive watch was gone, along with the gold chain he'd worn every day for years.

"Tragic," said a voice behind him.

Tom turned to find Grimsrud, still in his golf clothes despite the late hour.

"You play today?" Tom asked.

"Every day. Seven-twelve. Consistency is important."

"Like collecting what's owed?"

Grimsrud smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. "Smart men see patterns. You are smart, Sheriff." He pulled out his quarter. This time Tom noticed both sides as it spun - both heads. "This one's special. Removes the uncertainty."

"Then it's not really a choice."

"No. It's judgment." He caught the coin, held it without looking. "Miguel understood that stealing comes with interest rates. His cousin Carlos, he's probably running south right about now. But they always think they can outrun mathematics."

He walked away, leaving Tom with the taste of copper in his mouth and the certainty that Carlos Caspar was already a dead man running.

Carlos lasted until Thursday. They found his car wrapped around a mesquite tree on Highway 83, twenty miles south of town. Brake failure, the state troopers said. Lines must have corroded. Nobody mentioned his missing boots or empty wallet.

Agent Birdwell found Tom at the club that afternoon, her FBI confidence notably dimmed.

"We're pulling out," she said. "Higher-ups want us focused elsewhere."

"Even with four bodies?"

"Officially? One smuggler, three accidents. Case closed." She paused at her car door. "You know what really happened here, don’t you?"

"I know enough to keep my mouth shut."

"Seems to be the best way to stay alive around here."

By November, Cielo Verde was a ghost town with a dress code. Forty members remained out of two hundred. The grounds crew consisted of new hires who didn't ask questions and Ernesto Lundegaard, who'd decided staying was safer than running.

"They watch the roads," Ernie told Tom one evening. "Anyone connected to this thing tries to leave, they don't make it far."

"So we're all sitting ducks."

"Pretty much. Though Grimsrud seems done with his collecting. Miguel and Carlos had most of the money stashed. He recovered nearly everything."

"Nearly?"

"Danny's forty-seven thousand went to his daughter's treatment. She's doing well, I heard. Maybe Grimsrud figured that debt was already paid."

Tom's answer came on a cold Tuesday morning. He'd shown up early, hoping to get nine holes in before the wind kicked up. Found Grimsrud on the first tee, setting up for his usual 7:12 start.

"Join me?" Grimsrud asked.

It wasn't really a question. Tom recognized a final accounting when he saw one.

"Sure."

Grimsrud flipped his two-headed quarter. "Call it."

"Does it matter?"

"It always matters. The call tells me who you are."

Tom thought about it. A rigged game demanding an honest answer. "Tails."

The quarter spun, catching morning light like a promise of judgment. Grimsrud caught it, looked, smiled that empty smile.

"Heads. But you knew that." He pocketed the coin. "Your honor, Sheriff."

They played nine holes in near silence. Tom shot a 42, better than usual. Grimsrud played mechanically, efficiently, like a man checking items off a list. Tom noticed a car trailing them at a distance - two men, watching. Making sure their accountant stayed safe.

On the ninth green, after they'd both holed out, Grimsrud extended his hand.

"Good game. I don't think we'll play again."

"Why's that?"

"Because you're smart enough to know when a game is over." He pulled out his coin one last time, just rubbed it between his fingers. "The money's been recovered. The thieves have been sorted. Danny took only what his daughter needed - that's charity, not theft. Curtis..." He shrugged. "Wrong place, wrong time. Unfortunate, but necessary."

"And me?"

"You were a sheriff, but never dirty. Close enough to know the game, clean enough not to be a player. That's why you're still here." He pocketed the coin. "Stay retired, Mr. Ackerman. Stay quiet. Stay alive."

Tom watched him walk to the parking lot, understanding finally that he'd been evaluated and found acceptable. Not innocent - nobody was truly innocent - but clean enough to survive.

Cielo Verde Country Club closed in the spring of 1987, bled dry by scandal and ghosts. The property sold to developers who filled in the lake and built starter homes for young families who'd never know what had washed up beneath their foundations.

Curtis Parkman's body was found three years later by hikers in Big Bend. The medical examiner said he'd been dead since the day he disappeared. No one asked how he'd traveled two hundred miles after dying.

Ernesto Lundegaard made it to Corpus Christi after all, opened a landscaping business, lived quietly until a heart attack took him at seventy-one. His obituary didn't mention his years at Cielo Verde.

Frank Harman drank himself to death in 1991. Judge Oswalt retired to Florida. Agent Birdwell transferred to Denver and never worked another border case.

Tom Ackerman lived another twelve years, most of them in Austin near good hospitals and bad memories. He never played golf again. Sometimes, late at night, he'd flip a quarter and think about binary choices, about the difference between theft and charity, between guilt and bad timing.

Grimsrud vanished the day the club closed. Some said he went back to wherever fixers go between jobs. Others said he was never real at all, just a story the desert tells itself about justice and consequence.

But Tom knew better. Grimsrud was as real as that two-headed coin, as real as the mathematics of debt and payment. Somewhere, he was still flipping quarters, still sorting problems into categories: those who took too much, those who took just enough, and those smart enough not to take at all.

The Ghost Hole is gone now, paved over and forgotten. But on certain nights, when the wind carries memories across the border, you can still hear the sound of boats bumping against bulkheads that no longer exist. Still feel the weight of money that was never yours to take.

Still wonder if somewhere, a coin is spinning through the air, waiting to land, waiting to decide whether you're the kind of problem that needs solving.

In border towns, every flip is final.

Every landing is forever.

The events described in this account occurred nearly forty years ago. Some names have been changed, others forgotten. If you recognize yourself in these pages, we suggest you keep that knowledge private. Some coins, once flipped, never stop spinning.

Poll Question

Last Week's Poll Result

What do you think happened at Cielo Verde?

🟨⬜️⬜️⬜️⬜️⬜️ 🔘 The boat drifted in from the Rio Grande - wrong place, wrong time

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩 🔘 Somebody on the grounds crew got sticky fingers

🟨⬜️⬜️⬜️⬜️⬜️ 🔘 One of the members made a deal they couldn’t keep

🟨🟨🟨🟨⬜️⬜️ 🔘 Grimsrud’s not a golfer - he’s an accountant with a body count

Looks like our voting members are pretty good at reading between the lines - hopefully you’re all just as good at reading greens! As always, thanks for voting in our poll!

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